Don’t You Cry: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood
kind of draw, that he hadn’t had the same sort of schooling as her – had any kind of schooling, probably. Once she teased him about his lack of education and he hadn’t liked it one bit.
She rubs her wrist and winces, thinking about earlier.
She didn’t know why she always did it. Picked fights. She simply couldn’t help it sometimes. Had always been that way. When she was small and The Bastard was in one of those volcanic moods, when you could see the fury building up heat inside him, she hadn’t made herself smaller and quieter, like her brother had. No, she had made herself even more of an irritant, added more friction to the situation, even though she knew what would follow.
They’d had a perfectly decent evening, by any normal person’s standards. But maybe that was the issue.
Time was, they’d party until six am then sleep into the afternoon, only waking to eat, fuck and smoke. Lately though, Leon had been saying stuff like ‘Maybe we should stay in and have a quiet night’ or complaining about being tired all the time, or too broke to go out.
Last night they’d spent the whole evening watching telly with ready meals on their laps. Angel could feel something bitter fermenting inside her. She’d barely spoken all evening and Leon had kept asking her if she was alright. Eventually, getting no real response, he’d gone into a sulk and slunk off to bed early. Angel had finished another bottle of wine, alone, barely taking in what she was watching on the television.
This morning she had woken with a feeling of clarity, despite her clanging head.
She’d looked around at the bedroom, and suddenly hated the smelly sheets and lack of proper curtains. The overflowing ashtray next to the bed and the sticky glasses and mugs crowding the bedside table. It had turned the dial on her hangover, making it more technicolour and nauseating.
Angel had watched Leon slide out of bed and pat his naked belly in a self-satisfied way. She’d hated him then. So, she’d picked a fight – hard to even remember what it was about, but it didn’t really matter because it had quickly escalated. She’d thrown some stuff and tried to scratch his face. He’d twisted her arm behind her back and called her a mad bitch. He’d looked like he wanted to cry as he said it. Idiot. Then he had stormed off to work.
She feels strangely cleansed now. It’s over. He can go ahead and burn her stuff if he wants to. She’s got what she needs right now in her rucksack.
Before she had left though, some strange impulse had driven her to do one last thing.
Leon was vain about his looks. He spent a lot of money on shirts, lining them up in the wardrobe by colour, so they ranged from white through the pinks and purples to blues and patterned varieties at the other end. Before she left the flat for good, she found herself with a pair of scissors in her hand.
Snip, snip, snip.
It felt good.
For a little while, anyway.
Angel pushes the memory away.
She’ll get to the end of this shift, pick up her pay for the week and then Ron, with his manure breath and his clammy little roving hands, can go fuck himself. He won’t even know until Saturday, because she has a day off tomorrow. And then she’ll get on a bus and go away for a bit.
Scotland, she thinks, picturing the landscape of watery green mountains and lacy mist. The air is cleaner there. It will sort of scour her on the inside. She can start again, and leave all her mistakes behind her. A fresh start.
Lucas comes into her mind then; a cloud across her positive thoughts. She’d like to see him properly before she leaves. Make things right.
She never really meant what she’d said to him. There was no need for him to cut her off like this. She’s been trying to catch up with him for weeks and he never responds to her texts, WhatsApps or calls.
Well, if he’s going to be like that, she doesn’t have time for it.
This, rather than anything else, is what drags at her now. He doesn’t really need her any more. When they were small they’d clung to each other like the inhabitants of a sinking lifeboat but maybe those days have gone.
That’s a good thing.
It is.
Angel idly watches the choking woman fussing about getting her stuff together, flashing small grateful smiles her way. She’s glad she could help. Learned how to do the Heimlich Manoeuvre years ago, when she’d thought about being a nurse. Never had to do it before though. The woman looks beleaguered, and almost blurry at the edges, like she is trying not to take up any room in the world. She’s actually really pretty, with those big brown eyes and curly auburn hair. Bit frumpy, maybe. She definitely has potential, but it’s her expression that’s off-putting. Mouth turned down. Sad eyes. It’s depressing, looking at her.
Angel doesn’t want to end up like that.
It’s definitely time to make some changes.
People say two things about where I live: ‘What a great house’ and, ‘How do you stand living next to that?’ Not necessarily in that order.
I live at the far end of a country road that runs parallel to a stretch of dual carriageway on the outskirts of the city of Redholt. The road has an unusual name, Four Hays, which often confuses people because it sounds like a house, not a street name. There are only two properties – mine and my immediate neighbour’s, which has been empty and for sale since my elderly neighbour died six months ago. The main road makes it feel less isolated, but we still don’t let Sam walk home alone.
When we first moved in, I thought I might never get used to the constant traffic, which throbs and pulses all day and all night. Now, I barely register the sound of the cars and lorries that thunder past twenty-four hours a day.
Proximity to the road was one of the reasons we could afford to buy this in the first place, one of a pair of red-brick semi-detached cottages, originally designed for railway workers. The railway line running towards the back of the property is now defunct, only a small portion remaining at the bottom of the steep bank that borders our back garden.
Inside the house I gratefully kick off the offensive shoes and peel off the dress, pulling on a shapeless vest top and a loose skirt. I examine the sore, red patches on my heels glumly and for a moment contemplate what it would have been like if I had taken Carl up on his offer. It hadn’t felt like much of a compliment, considering he hadn’t shown the slightest sign of being attracted to me before this outburst. Maybe he thought I looked desperate.
Grimacing at the prospect of revealing my overweight forty-five-year-old body to a fitness evangelist like him, I go into the kitchen, hesitating only a moment before opening the fridge and eyeing the bottle of white wine in there.
When Sam is around and I’m ferrying him to swimming, judo and Scouts, I barely touch a drop of alcohol on weeknights. But on these evenings when I’m alone in the house, it’s too easy to numb myself with a glass of something. I’ll stop next week. Designate week-nights as alcohol-free nights. Maybe I’ll even invest in a Fitbit like Carl and try not to be a boring git about it.
I take the wine and my laptop outside to the patio chairs and make myself comfortable there.
The evening sun is kinder now, the brutal intensity of the day finally having burned itself out. I breathe in the sweet air, scented with the jasmine creeper that Ian had diligently trained up a trellis on the back wall. The low droning mumble of bees in the plant is soothing.
Then I turn on my laptop.
It’s impossible to resist. In seconds, I’m back on Laura’s Facebook page, looking at the smiling couple. I almost relish the pain it brings. This