Page 2 of The Family Across the Street
It doesn’t seem long before the air is filled with sirens, drowning out the cicadas and every other sound. Margo waits on the floor with her son, her heartbeat drumming in her ear. Scott is not picking up but she keeps hitting his name on her screen, overwhelmed with the urge to tell him she loves him.
‘It’s fine, baby, it’s fine,’ she murmurs to Joseph, who is lying on his back beside her, trying to get his feet into his mouth. ‘It’s fine,’ she repeats as she waits for her suburb to return to the peaceful place she has grown to love, though she knows, somehow, that it will never be the same again.
1
Logan
Seven hours ago
Logan pulls his van to a stop outside a large house with an emerald-green front lawn, cut short and neat. The hedging in front of the black metal fence is precisely square. An arch over the front gate has ivy curled around it, white flowers dotted here and there in the green foliage.
The van’s temperature gauge reads twenty-four degrees and it’s only seven thirty in the morning. It’s going to be a scorcher of a summer’s day and he’s grateful that he only has to get in and out of the van to deliver his parcels, rather than actually working outside. He takes a deep breath and silently thanks his brother-in-law, Mack, for giving him this chance.
‘I’m doing this for Debbie, mate,’ Mack told him two months ago when he gave him the keys to one of his vans. ‘I’ve always liked you, you know that, but I can’t have anything out of order on your delivery runs. The first complaint I get and you’re out on your ear – okay?’ he said, pulling at the tufts of hair on his chin he insisted on calling a beard.
‘I understand,’ Logan answered, looking up at his tall, skinny brother-in-law and clenching his fists to control the anger he was feeling, knowing it was more humiliation than anger. He was too old to be begging for jobs. If Mack had spoken to him in such a condescending way five years ago, he would have felt the need to belt him one, brother-in-law or not. But that was then and this is now.
He gets out of his van and breathes in the morning heat, suffused with the scent of honeysuckle and something else that could be rotting fruit. The garbage bins line the street, waiting for collection, which explains it. He listens and can hear the hiss, whine and crash of a garbage truck doing its job a few streets away. Best if he gets this delivered and moves out of their way.
A text pings on his phone and he looks down.
Call me.
‘Not likely,’ he mutters and shoves the phone in his pocket, irritated that he can’t seem to get through a day without his past tapping him on the shoulder. His past is why he’s driving a van for Mack and nodding his head each time his brother-in-law tells him he needs to stay on the straight and narrow. His past and his hopes for the future with Debbie, who has the same high cheekbones, blonde hair and hazel eyes as her overprotective older brother but combined with full lips and a dimpled smile. Anna, Mack’s wife, is also tall and thin and blonde. In group photos with Debbie’s family, Logan – with his thick black hair, blue eyes and inked skin – looks like he must have wandered into the frame by mistake.
He slides open the side door of the van and locates the box containing what is clearly a new laptop. It needs to be signed for or he has to leave it at the local post office at the end of the day. He really hopes the owner is home. He hates driving around all day with expensive electronics in the back of the van. The fear of something being stolen and him getting the blame is always there.
Looking through the black metal gate at the front of the house, he admires the profusion of pink and purple in the summer garden and is relieved to see that there is no dog around. Two scooters lie on the grass, one blue and one neon-pink. They look about the same size; the kids who live here must be close in age.
He pushes open the gate and walks up the stone path to a timber front door with a large black handle and a small metal square that must be a peephole. He hits the button on an electronic pad next to the front door and listens as a bell chimes throughout the house – some tune he recognises but can’t place.
He waits, expecting to hear footsteps or kids shouting. It’s a bit early for them to have left for school already and he hopes they’re still home. There’s a school just one street away; he reminds himself to drive carefully through the area for the next couple of hours.
Logan looks around, admiring the large grey pots filled with marigolds by the front door. Their whole flat could fit into just the front garden of this house. The back garden must be even bigger, and he knows there will be a swimming pool and maybe even a tennis court. He feels no envy about this. Everyone has their life to live and their path to follow. He likes where he is right now, despite the boring job and his slightly condescending brother-in-law. He likes that he has a brother-in-law and a job.
He hears a scrape and realises that the peephole has been opened from the inside.
‘Yes?’ says a woman’s voice, hesitant and wary.
‘Yes, I have a delivery here for Katherine West.’ He leans forward a little but he can’t see anything except dark glass.
‘Thanks… thanks… can you just leave it by the door?’
‘Sorry, but it needs to be signed for.’
‘I can’t do that now,’ says the woman.
Logan sighs. If he leaves the computer by the front door and she calls to complain it never got to her, it will mean the end of his job.
‘I really can’t leave it here, ma’am. It has to be signed for. If you need to… get dressed or something, I can wait.’
‘No,’ says the woman. ‘I can’t open the door.’ Her voice is firm, as though she is explaining something to him that he should understand.
He feels his face flush. He is already sweating out here in the morning heat.
‘I can’t leave it here so I’ll have to take it back to your local post office, okay? You can pick it up there any time after five.’ He steps back, ready to go before he says anything stupid. He hates the way some of these people in their big houses look at him. He imagines her thought process as she peers at him through her peephole. She won’t be able to see much except the small skull and crossbones tattoo on his cheekbone but that’s enough for her to make a decision about who he is.
He gets it, but he’s in a uniform and he’s holding the box. He lifts it higher, almost covering his face. A trickle of sweat slides down his spine. The woman doesn’t say anything else, although he can sense she hasn’t moved away from the door. This is not worth it. He turns around.
