Page 35 of The Family Across the Street
He shouldn’t be here. He should be waiting at the airport, hoping to get on an earlier plane so he can be with his sister. This woman has nothing to do with him and he bears no responsibility for what is happening in that house. He bounces on the balls of his feet, desperate to run. He takes a deep breath, hoping to calm himself, but his heart rate speeds up and he can’t stop himself from turning around and bolting out of the police station, down the concrete stairs and across the road to where he has parked his van. His body moves without him forming a plan. He knows he needs to run.
‘Mr Clarkson,’ he hears as he climbs into his van. He starts the engine and drives off before he’s even put his seat belt on, panic making his hands shake.
Debbie was right. He should have just left it alone.
‘You’re such an idiot!’ he shouts as he slams his hand on the steering wheel. When he feels he’s put enough space between him and the police station, he pulls into a side road and, sitting in his seat, he rips open the long-sleeved shirt he is wearing, ignoring the buttons that go flying, hitting the floor and the window with light cracking sounds. He takes it off and throws it on the floor and pulls a T-shirt he keeps in the van over his head. His tattoos are clearly on display. It doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t matter how hard he’s trying to live a good life, how tightly he is clinging to the straight and narrow, or who he fundamentally is. He will always be a man with a criminal past first, last and every time.
He’s going to get on with the rest of his day, and when they come for him, he’ll lie like the criminal he is and say that he actually made a mistake and tried to deliver to the wrong house or some other rubbish. He hopes they send a car and knock on doors in the neighbourhood. It was Hogarth Street, he’s sure. They’ll probably go and check. They’ll find the house. He’s sure they will. They have her name as well. It will only take minutes to figure out the right address, although they may question why he gave them the wrong one.
‘Enough,’ he rebukes himself. ‘Enough, enough, enough.’
He is done being concerned about the woman. Debbie is right. It’s really not his problem.
He only has a few deliveries left and then he’s done – done with everything that has happened today.
She has his name now. That was stupid, but all his record will show is that he’s done his time. His fingerprints are on file too. Would they dust for fingerprints if nothing was taken? Moved but not taken. He caught himself just in time. But was it just in time, or has he now alerted the police so they will take the time to check?
He can’t go back to prison. There’s just no way. A ball bounces into the street in front of his van and he registers it but doesn’t think, and only when a small child races onto the road does he slam on the brakes, the tyres screeching to a stop and filling the air with a burning rubber smell that comes in despite the air conditioning being on high.
‘Get a grip, Logan!’ he shouts as a panicked mother darts into the street to retrieve the child and the ball, waving her apologies as she does. It could have gone another way. He’s not concentrating. Life changes in a split second. He doesn’t have the luxury of split seconds anymore.
18
Gladys
Gladys turns out the chocolate chip muffins, inhaling the sweet, dark smell of the cocoa and melted chocolate chips. She gently breaks off a corner piece, burning her fingers a little, and blows on it. When she feels it’s cool enough, she pops it into her mouth. It’s delicious, just the right amount of moist and chewy but with a little bit of crust around the edges. Chocolate muffins are one of her specialities.
She puts one of the muffins on a plate to give to Lou for his tea and keeps the broken one for herself. The rest she arranges on a green plate with a pretty white doily underneath. No matter what Katherine is going through, there’s no way she’ll refuse a plate of muffins. Gladys admires her work, loving the way the colours work together.
‘Just dropping these muffins off at Katherine’s,’ she calls to Lou.
She opens her kitchen back door before he has a chance to answer and walks out of the house and around the side to the front gate. The heat is a thick blanket, settling over her shoulders, as the cicadas scream. She immediately begins to perspire but she walks quickly, hoping that Katherine will invite her in.
At Katherine’s front door she rings the bell and takes a deep breath. She will just leave the muffins if they won’t let her in, but she’s sure this time the door will be opened.
She waits for a few minutes and, when nothing happens, she rings the bell again and then she calls through the door, ‘Yoo-hoo, just dropping off some of my famous chocolate chip muffins.’
Feeling somewhat silly, she steps up to the timber front door and puts her ear to it. She can’t make out any sound but it is a very thick door. She steps back and waits again. Next to her the marigolds in their large pots are wilting in the heat. Poor things, she thinks. They need some water.
She decides she will press the bell just one more time and then, if no one comes, she will give up and leave the muffins at the side of the door. She shakes her head a little, annoyed that she has not thought to cover them. If she leaves them on the floor, the ants will get them, and already large flies are buzzing around her head. It’s probably too hot to leave them anyway. She will just have to take them home and try again later. She reminds herself that the muffins are a ruse to get Katherine to open the door. If she does, Gladys tries to think of questions that she could ask that would allow Katherine to tell her she needs help without actually telling her.
Do you need to see a doctor? I can call one for you, is the best she has come up with so far.
She presses the bell and waits another minute. Just as she’s about to give up, she hears the sound of the safety chain moving and the lock turning, and the door opens.
19
Things are starting to unravel in my head because I’m getting tired. Control is slipping away but I clutch the gun tighter. I will not let go. I take in great big lungfuls of the stifling air coming in from outside and try to calm myself. I try to remember the plan that I had this morning, the plan to make her listen and understand. That’s what I need her to do, listen, understand and then acknowledge her part in all of this. Then we can move forward from there. But I’m not sure what forward would look like. Who will we be after today, the two of us, the four of us?
‘Why?’ she asks me, utter confusion in her voice. ‘Why are you doing this?’ She is cradling her wrist as it puffs up and her eyes scrunch with the effort of fighting the pain she is in.
I shove the gun into the waistband of my pants and clap my hands together, then wipe them on my jeans, getting rid of the sweat. It’s easier if I don’t look at her. I don’t want to see her pain because I know it will sway me. Even a monster has some feelings.
‘On with the story of my father dying,’ I say, and I see George watching me. He is too little to conceal his facial expressions and so his thoughts are obvious. He thinks that the gun is less accessible because it’s in the waistband of my pants. I reach behind me and pull it out and his little shoulders slump. ‘I’m not stupid,’ I tell him.
‘I didn’t say you were,’ he says, with more anger creeping into his tone than I like.
I take a step forwards and crouch down right in front of him, so close he can feel my breath. ‘I can hurt you like I hurt her, like I hurt Sophie and that stupid toy. I can, you know,’ I say, my voice low.
