Don’t You Cry: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood
to collect you?’
Angel holds up a hand to silence me and I now feel a thrill of anger pulse through me. I’m suddenly very tired. This is all too strange. I just want this young woman out of my house now. There is something decidedly off about her, even if she is running away from someone bad. The feeling of unease creeps back. Maybe this was a mistake.
‘Look, Angel,’ I say. ‘I need to know what you want from me. You’re going to have to—’
Angel gives a sort of rev of frustration in her throat and looks up, her eyes now dark and intense.
‘Shut the fuck up, will you?’ she says. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’ She dips her gaze back to her phone.
I buzz with outrage at this. I can almost see sparks.
‘Look, just because you helped me in the restaurant earlier, that does not mean you have any right to come to my house! I’m sorry, you’re going to have to go.’ I draw a steadying breath for my next salvo and remove my phone from my back pocket. ‘Or I’m going to have to call the police.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ The volume of her sudden shout stuns me like a slap to the face.
Giving me a dark look, she bends down and rummages in her rucksack. Thank God. She’s going to gather her things and leave.
What happens next is such a shock, my brain can’t seem to accept what I am seeing.
Angel is pointing a gun at me.
‘I’m going to need you to give me that fucking phone,’ she says.
Terror is a solid bolus in my throat. I throw the phone across the table and then lift my hands up, slowly, palms up in placation.
‘I don’t understand,’ I manage to squeeze out. ‘What is it you want?’
Angel continues to stare down at the mobile, ignoring me. She places the gun in the pocket on the front of the dress. I spend approximately one second contemplating whether I could wrestle it off her, but swiftly conclude that this would be pointless and ridiculous. This woman is taller than me, younger by at least fifteen years, and – crucially – clearly a bit unhinged.
‘We just want some space,’ says Angel when I had already given up on a reply.
We?
Then her expression softens slightly. ‘Look, you seem like a nice woman,’ she says. ‘I’m not coming here to bring you a load of grief. But you said you wanted to help me and that’s what I need right now. Help. From someone with no connection to us. Do you understand me?’
No, I don’t understand any of this. I can feel my knees knocking together and shivers running up and down my arms. I have to clench my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering with the shock.
Think.
‘The thing is,’ I say after a moment’s silence, ‘my husband is asleep upstairs. He was very tired after … working late. He’ll wake up soon.’ Shit. I’m a terrible liar. But I force myself to meet Angel’s gaze evenly. ‘He won’t be happy about this.’
Angel half smiles, almost sympathetically.
‘I know there’s no one else here,’ she says.
‘How?’ Anger rises, hotly, inside. ‘How can you possibly know that?’
Angel gestures towards the kitchen surfaces. ‘One plate, one cup. Ready meals in the recycling bin. I think you have a kid, judging by all the …’ she waves her hand at the fridge, where various school letters and pieces of art work are pinned with magnets, ‘… but the kid isn’t here. Or the father. Are you divorced?’ She pauses. ‘Was that your new bloke?’ She says this last bit with genuine curiosity, as though we are two women having a chat.
‘None of your business,’ I reply. I pull out the chair and sit down again. ‘And no,’ I add, despite myself. ‘He was … no one.’
Angel makes a face. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Because he was a tosser.’
A laugh almost slips out before I remind myself that this strange, probably unstable, young woman invading my house has threatened me with a gun. Having one aimed at me in my own kitchen doesn’t feel quite real. Yet it still manages to be horribly frightening.
‘Look,’ I say, going for calm and trustworthy. ‘What do you want from me? Do you want money? Is that it?’
Angel looks up from her phone, where her thumbs have been a blur of motion, and stares at me. She has extraordinary hazel eyes that are almost golden. Quite cat-like. But it is impossible to read what she’s thinking; her expression is as flat as a pool of still water again. She seems to slip in and out of this state. As though other conversations are buzzing in her head at the same time and she has to tune in to hear me.
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘I think so. And a car.’
I let out an exasperated sound.
‘My car is in the garage,’ I say. ‘And I’ve got about a tenner in my purse.’
‘Oh fuck, really?’ Angel’s dismay is palpable. ‘That’s a pisser about the car.’
She drags a hand through the bird’s nest of her hair and then an old-fashioned bell ringtone comes from her mobile. She snatches it up and holds it to her ear. Getting to her feet, she says, ‘I’m coming.’
Hope spasms in my chest as I hurry after her down the hallway. Maybe someone is here to pick her up. I can just shove her outside and lock the door.
But before I have time to do anything, Angel is pulling another stranger, a man, through the front door and into my home.
He is slightly built, shorter than Angel, with wet, black curls plastered to his face and dark eyes sunk in shadowed sockets. He’s enveloped in a long tweed coat that’s reminiscent of the sort me and my friends bought from charity shops in the eighties. He smells of wet dog, with another, staler smell underneath it. The coat seems to hang on his frame oddly, as though he is fat and thin all at the same time. He bulges around the middle, but his thin neck and narrow, white wrists protrude. It’s like a tall child wearing a grown-up’s clothes.
Angel touches his cheek, tenderly, and he visibly shivers.
‘Come on through,’ she says in a practical sort of tone. ‘You look freezing.’ She bolts the door then lifts the keys from the bowl on the hall table before locking the door and pocketing them.
I don’t even know where to start with this.
Angel almost drags the man by the sleeve down the hall towards the kitchen. I find myself following, mutely, torn between trying to escape and the dangers of leaving these two strangers here.
In the kitchen, Angel mutters something to the man, who is trembling so violently now that he looks as though he might collapse. He listens with his eyes closed as though receiving instruction. They stand over by the sink. I hover by the doorway, trying to work out what I can do.
I catch him say, ‘The blood. There was all this blood,’ which makes my stomach clamp like a clamshell, but then Angel shushes him and I don’t catch the rest.
‘Who are you?’ I say finally, in my boldest voice. ‘What do you