The Child Next Door, Page 3

  I have to keep her safe. It’s my job. My duty. I rise to my feet, scoop Daisy up into my arms and check that the bifold doors are locked. I test the handle twice. It’s fine. It’s secure. I think about the way I’ve spent most of my mornings this summer, pottering about in the garden with the doors wide open, walking inside and out while Daisy was in her crib often out of my sight. How could I do that now?

  I move over to check the kitchen windows above the sink. There are three panes of glass, but only the middle one can be opened. It’s closed but unlocked, and the key isn’t on the sill where it should be. We never usually bother to lock any of the windows. Never again. I won’t be so lax in future.

  I head into the lounge and take the key from the front windowsill, using it to lock the kitchen window. With Daisy still in my arms, I check and lock all the other downstairs windows along with the front door. Then, I put the key in my dress pocket. I’ll have to think of a safe place to stash it. Next, I head upstairs. I won’t feel safe to put Daisy down until everything is secure. Maybe I’m going overboard, but she’s our miracle baby. It took us four years to conceive her and I suffered three miscarriages before finally carrying her to term.

  The first time I fell pregnant, I miscarried at eight weeks and the sense of loss was crushing, especially as I had excitedly told everyone I was pregnant as soon as I found out, so I then had to explain all about my loss, suffering everyone’s well-intentioned sympathy. The second time I fell pregnant, Dom and I were more cautious, keeping the news a secret. But at exactly eight weeks, the same thing happened. I spent months afterwards drifting around in a daze, convinced I would never be able to carry a baby to term.

  It took me a whole two years to fall pregnant again, and this time, I finally made it past the cursed eight-week mark. When I reached four months, we were cautiously optimistic and Dom wanted us to tell our parents, especially as I was starting to show. But I wouldn’t let him, and it was a good job we didn’t because, yet again, it wasn’t to be. At my twenty-week scan, they couldn’t find a heartbeat. I think, at that point, I decided that it was too painful to continue trying. The fear of hoping to have a child was too great.

  However, the following year I fell pregnant again. I spent the whole time in denial, convinced I would lose the baby. Even when my twenty-week scan showed me a healthy baby girl in the monitor, and I heard her heartbeat, strong and fast, I couldn’t let myself become attached or make plans, or buy any baby clothes or equipment. But my worries were unfounded. Our wish eventually came true and I gave birth to our daughter. I thought that once she was born, my fears would evaporate in a puff of smoke, but instead, they intensified.

  After Daisy was born, I got to meet her, to hold her in my arms and fall in love. And I realised that even though she was here – alive – she still wasn’t entirely safe. None of us are. So I consciously vowed that I would do everything in my power to protect her. And I remember my promise every day. I will not let anything or anyone threaten my little family.

  Finally, with the house locked up tight, I think I can probably allow myself to relax a little. On the upstairs landing, I yawn. Tiredness tugs at my eyelids and shoulders. I really do need to lie down. Daisy should be safe next to me in the Moses basket while I crawl back into bed for a couple more hours. The thought of closing my eyes is delicious. But before I get the chance, the doorbell rings.

  Maybe it’s the postman. I could ignore it, but it might be important. What if it’s the police back with more information? My heart begins to pound. I carry Daisy downstairs with me, starting to feel like she’s permanently attached, like a baby koala. I should think about getting a baby sling.

  With clammy hands and a racing pulse, I slide the chain back, turn the key and open the door.

  Five

  My bespectacled next-door neighbour, Martin, stands on the front path, his ashy blond hair curling below his ears like a seventies folk singer, hands clasped together in front of him like he’s about to give a sermon. He’s harmless enough, even if he is a bit of a fusspot, always worrying about something or other. When Dom and I first moved into the cul-de-sac, I made the mistake of asking Martin about the Neighbourhood Watch scheme, and he launched into this long rant about the lack of commitment from everyone in Magnolia Close. Not wanting to get into my new neighbour’s bad books, I agreed that Dom and I would attend the next meeting.

  Turns out, it was just the three of us at his house that evening. Our hearts sank when we realised that Martin had several sheets of paper listing items about neighbourhood security he wanted to discuss. It was, quite possibly, the most boring evening of our lives. When we finally managed to get out of there, two hours later, Dom wanted to throttle me for having agreed to go. I didn’t blame him. But the creepiest thing about the whole evening was that when we were in Martin’s lounge, Dom noticed a photo on his mantelpiece of a woman holding a baby – only it wasn’t a baby, it was quite clearly a doll.

  Dom asked Martin about the woman. Martin said it was his late wife. Dom then asked about the doll. Martin pursed his lips and said that he and his wife were unable to have children of their own and never adopted. He said that ‘Priddy’ was a comfort to his wife. Dom, not being one to beat around the bush, wanted Martin to clarify that ‘Priddy’ was in fact a doll. Martin said she may not have been a real baby, but Priddy was real enough to his wife.

  I felt sorry for the man, but Dom thought he was a fruitcake.

  Now, almost every time I leave the house, Martin tries to catch my attention so he can tell me his problems and list his complaints about this person or that person. I don’t mind really. I feel sorry for him. He’s recently retired, probably has far too much time on his hands. A bit like me at the moment. But I’m not in the mood to listen to his concerns. Not today.

  ‘Hi Martin. Everything okay?’

  ‘I’m all right. How about you and the little one?’ he asks through an abundance of teeth, crammed into his mouth like yellowing piano keys. I’d really like to give Martin the name of our dentist.

  ‘We’re okay,’ I reply.

  ‘The police came to see me yesterday. They asked me if I had a baby, of all things!’

  I immediately think about his wife’s doll-child. ‘Yes, they came here, too.’ I don’t have the energy to explain why they were knocking on doors. If I get into it, he’ll be here for ages quizzing me about everything.

  Martin huffs. ‘I told them you were the one with the baby, not me. She’s all right, isn’t she, little Daisy?’

  ‘She’s fine, thanks.’

  ‘Yes, because when they started talking about babies, I worried that something might have happened to her. But it was a bit too late to come round to your house, so I thought I’d wait until the morning. These individuals who call round in the evening when you’re relaxing or eating your dinner, well it’s not polite, is it?’

  ‘Thanks, Martin. It’s kind of you to pop round. But as you can see, Daisy and I are fine.’

  ‘Good, good. Glad to hear it. Now, while I’ve got you here…’My heart sinks. He’s about to launch into his latest woe, I know it. ‘I wondered if you wouldn’t mind just nipping next door with me and checking the boundary wall at number six.’ He pushes his gold-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

  ‘The boundary wall?’ He’s obviously talking about the building works going on at the house next door to him. ‘I’m a little busy at the moment. Can it wait until later?’

  ‘It won’t take a minute, Kirstie. I just need another set of eyes on it. Make sure I’m not imagining things. Five minutes, tops.’

  I sigh. May as well get it out of the way now. ‘Okay. Let me get some shoes on.’ As I transfer Daisy to my other arm, she reaches out, trying to make a grab for Martin’s glasses. He steps back and frowns.

  ‘Daisy’s hands look a little sticky, Kirstie. Maybe you could give them a wash before coming over. I’ll see you in a minute.’ He turns abruptly and leaves.

  I’m used to his unusu
al ways. I know he doesn’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help rolling my eyes as I watch him walk away back down the path. Dominic isn’t as tolerant of Martin, and calls him ‘Moaning Myrtle’ after the character from Harry Potter. Not to his face, of course.

  Ignoring Martin’s request to wash my daughter’s hands – which look perfectly fine to me – I slip on some flip-flops, grab the front door key and a sunhat for Daisy, and close the door behind me, wishing I hadn’t answered it in the first place.

  I stride up Martin’s immaculate path, his neat front lawn turning a coppery brown from the lack of rain. From the house next door to Martin, the builders’ radio spews out inane chatter and tinny chart music, sporadically drowned out by the jaw-rattling sound of a jackhammer. Martin’s door opens before I have a chance to knock.

  ‘Come in, Kirstie. But please do take your shoes off first. I don’t like to have the outside brought inside.’

  I do as he asks, noting that he’s now wearing a pair of tartan slippers which look odd with his shorts and shirt.

  ‘Bring your footwear with you,’ he says. ‘We’re going into the back garden and the ground out there is hot and very dusty from all the building works next door.’

  Daisy tries to reach for Martin’s glasses once more and he backs away with a look of distaste. I stifle a smile, wondering what he would do if she actually managed to grab hold of them.

  ‘Have you seen number three’s lawn?’ Martin says as I follow him through his pristine hallway, my bare feet sinking into deep-pile dark-blue carpet. The stink of pine air freshener pervades every square inch, forcing me to hold my breath.

  ‘Their lawn?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘Yes, you can’t fail to notice that it’s green and healthy. They’re clearly ignoring the hosepipe ban. And he’s a headmaster, too. It’s not responsible behaviour. Not a good example to set.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed, no.’

  We’re now in Martin’s kitchen, a shrine to the seventies with avocado units and green and white patterned tiles on the walls. Our own back rooms were knocked through by the previous owners to open them up into one big space, enhanced by an extension. But Martin’s house has the original layout, with a small kitchen and a separate dining room at the back.

  ‘You know,’ Martin persists, ‘I’m in two minds whether or not to ring the Parkfields’ doorbell and point out that they could be fined if they don’t adhere to the hosepipe ban. Do you think I should report them? Would I have to call the council, or the police?’

  ‘Um… what’s this boundary you want me to look at?’ I ask, changing the subject.

  ‘Ah, yes. You can put your shoes back on now. I always find it handy to keep a pair of slip-on sandals by the back door.’

  We step out onto the patio and I’m hit again by the racket from the builders. ‘I thought the noise was bad enough at our house,’ I say, raising my voice, ‘but it’s deafening out here. Seems like it’s been going on forever.’

  ‘Seven weeks and four days, to be precise. Now, you see that two-storey extension they’re building there on the side of the house.’ Martin points next door.

  I try to concentrate on what he’s telling me, but Daisy’s not looking happy, her bottom lip is quivering. I think the drilling noise is freaking her out. I bounce her up and down, making funny faces and kissing her cheeks, trying to distract her.

  ‘It looks like they’ve built the extension too close to the boundary fence. What do you think, Kirstie?’

  The extension does look quite close to the fence, but I know nothing about boundaries and building regulations. ‘Why don’t you check with the Land Registry or the council? They’ll have the plans, won’t they? Then you can see what’s been agreed.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I was going to do that, but I wanted a second opinion before I make my complaint. I’m sure they’re damaging the foundations of my property. I tried to speak to that building chappie who’s supposed to be managing the site – Rob Carson, not a very forthcoming man – but he was quite rude to me. I’m not happy. Not happy at all.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Martin, but, well, Daisy isn’t happy either. This noise is making her cranky. I’d better get back.’

  ‘Really?’ Martin’s face falls. ‘I had a few other issues to discuss with you about the neighbours and about how we could—’

  ‘It will have to be another time, Martin.’ Daisy has started wailing and I feel like joining her. What am I doing in my neighbour’s garden when all I want to do is curl up on my bed and fall asleep? I step back into Martin’s kitchen, eager to be on my way.

  ‘Shoes!’ he calls out behind me.

  I bite my tongue and slip off my flip-flops, finding it hard to bend down to retrieve them while Daisy is flailing around in my arms. As I walk back into the hall, I notice the door to the cupboard under the stairs is slightly ajar, and I’m surprised to see stairs leading downwards. Martin must have a basement in his house, which is strange because as far as I’m aware none of the other houses in our road have one. But I’m not going to ask about it now. If I do, I’ll never get out of here.

  Six

  I’m lying on my back in a dark place. I reach out to feel the space around me, and my fingertips come into contact with warm metal, rough and ridged like corrugated iron. Where the hell am I? Wherever it is, it’s so hot I can barely breathe. My body is slippery with sweat. I try to sit up but my head bashes into the metal casing above me. I’m trapped inside some kind of container. Terror bubbles up inside me, but I don’t have enough air in my lungs to scream. How did I get here? How will I get out? Am I going to die? Beyond my confines I hear a thin sound in the distance. The sound of crying. Screaming. It’s Daisy!

  My eyes fly open and I instantly close them again against the brightness flooding into my bedroom. I was dreaming. A nightmare. It was dark and hot in my dream. I’m still hot now, the bedsheets sticking to my body. Air. I need air. I slide out of bed and stagger over to the window but it’s closed. Locked. I can’t remember where I put the key.

  In my dream, Daisy was crying, but she’s not crying now. She’s silent. I rush back to her basket in a panic, convinced she will be gone. But my baby is there. Sleeping peacefully, her cheeks a little flushed, but her forehead cool to the touch. I stretch out my fingers to stop them shaking.

  The clock by my bed says 11.35 a.m. and the events of this morning rush back to me as my dream fades. I was at Martin’s place, then I came back home. I soothed Daisy, checked the windows and doors, and had a nap. My head is throbbing. That bloody jackhammer is still going strong out there. Even with the windows closed I can hear it. Just when I think it’s stopped, it starts up again, an instrument of torture.

  I sit heavily on the side of the bed and retrieve my phone from the nightstand, trying to slow my racing brain, my speeding pulse. Trying to get a sense of where I am. That dream has thrown me off kilter. I have to keep telling myself that I’m safe. I’m home. I’m with my baby. Nothing has changed. So why do I feel like I’m in some sinister alternate universe?

  I’m really not in any state to go out tonight so I tap in a quick text to my best friend, Melinda Clark, to tell her I’m not up to it. She lives over the way at number one with her two young children, James who’s almost four, and Katie who’s two.

  My phone pings instantaneously with a reply:

  Don’t you dare bail on me. You’re coming and that’s that.

  Despite my grinding headache, I can’t help smiling at her bulldozer attitude. I text back:

  Sorry Mel, but you’ll have to manage without me.

  * * *

  You can’t leave me to fend for myself with ‘the perfect ones’.

  ‘The perfect ones’ is the name we gave to our school friends who all seem to live these untouchable, wonderful lives in sprawling houses with super-rich husbands. Saying that, they’re all down-to-earth women who we still have a laugh with. Mel used to be one of the ‘perfect ones’ herself, until her rich and perfect husband, Chris, left
her two years ago for a twenty-year-old dance student. Now she’s bringing up their children on her own. Chris bought her the house and gives her a generous monthly allowance, but he rarely visits her or the children, which is sad for all of them. She could have had a much swankier house if she’d wanted it, but she said she would rather live near me than on her own in a palace.

  Sometimes, in my more uncharitable moments, I’m convinced the only reason Mel moved here was so that I’d be on hand to babysit. I love her to pieces, but our relationship has always been a bit of a one-way street, with me rushing to bail her out or look after her children when disaster strikes. It’s difficult to say no to her, though. Her parents died in a car crash when she was a teenager and Dominic and I are the closest thing she has to family.

  I feel bad for bailing on her tonight, but not bad enough to go.

  I’ll come to the next one. Promise.

  * * *

  I’m coming over. See you in a minute.

  Shit. I quickly text her back

  Don’t ring the bell. Daisy’s asleep.

  I rush to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. By the time I get downstairs and open the door, Mel is already striding up the drive. She’s gorgeous, with green eyes, glossy hair that falls in tawny waves and an hour-glass figure that most women wouldn’t know what to do with. Not Mel. She celebrates her curves in style, with a wardrobe that includes figure-hugging pencil skirts, belted fifties-style dresses and Capri pants. And we’ve nicknamed her boobs the eighth wonder of the world.