Don’t You Cry: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood. Cass Green
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Sam. It’s the only thought in my head as I run from the room, punishment for my earlier, wicked wish.
I wrench open the front door so fast I almost fall over and am too stunned to react when the cold, wet figure pushes past me.
‘Sorry, sorry. I need to come in.’
I rummage in my brain but somehow can’t locate the necessary words as I take in the bedraggled woman standing there, dripping onto the wooden floor of my hallway.
It’s the waitress from earlier. Angel?
She’s wearing a thin raincoat over a short turquoise dress made from towelling-like material. Her long pale legs – knees reddened and scuffed looking – disappear into battered grey ankle boots. She’s holding a massive leather handbag – the sort that is like a sack with handles at the top – and a bulging rucksack, which she lowers with a grateful little ‘Oof’ sound.
‘Why are you here?’ I say. It’s the only thing to say, I realize.
But Angel is off, stalking down the hallway with long strides. She disappears into the kitchen so fast I almost have to run to catch up.
When I get to the kitchen, I see she has picked up a damp tea towel and is now rubbing her face and hair vigorously with it. Pausing to give it a smell, she grimaces. This finally switches me from numbness and shock to the correct response – outrage.
‘That’s a tea towel!’ I say. ‘Why are you here? What do you want?’
Angel regards me; thick, dark eyebrows raised as though this question is wholly unexpected. She throws the towel onto the table and chafes her arms.
‘You said you wished you could do something to thank me?’ she says. ‘After the whole …’ she makes an almost comical choking gesture, hand at her throat, eyes boggling.
I can only stare back at her. It seems like the sort of thing Sam did when he was in single digits. I find I’m colouring in shame all over again, despite the bizarreness of this situation.
‘But I didn’t mean … this!’ I manage to squawk. ‘I meant …’ I fumble for words. ‘I don’t know what I meant. How did you know where I live?’
Angel hesitates and I realize.
‘Oh.’ I’d told her the address myself, earlier, when she ordered the taxi.
Angel moves smoothly to the kettle on the side and starts filling it with water as though this is the most natural thing in the world. My head is still muzzy with wine and sleep. The right, obvious way to handle this is just out of reach.
I must take control of the situation. Right now.
‘Look, Angel.’ I try to keep my voice steady. ‘It’s two o’clock in the morning. I don’t know you. You can’t just walk into my house and start making tea. Do you understand?’
Angel is suddenly very still. Her face is without expression as she looks back at me. But although she isn’t moving, a strange energy seems to crackle around her. I have the uncomfortable thought that she is somehow coiled. Waiting. Belatedly, I experience a real sense of unease.
She points a long, pale forefinger at me, its nail bitten. When she speaks again, her voice is low and quiet.
‘I saved your life. You said so. You said you wished you could thank me.’
‘Yes, but …’ I manage a short bark of laughter at the absurdity of this logic. ‘I didn’t expect you to turn up at my house in the middle of the night!’
‘I know. But … fuck it.’ Her shoulders round.
My maternal instincts must kick in because I suddenly feel aware of how pathetic she looks. She is shivering all over, soaked from the rain I can hear flinging itself at the windows.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘are you in trouble? Should I call the police?’
‘No,’ she says, eyes widening. ‘Not the police. Please.’ She swallows. ‘I just need help.’
I let out a long, slow breath as I remember the bracelet of bruises I thought I saw earlier. Her arms are now covered by the tattered sleeves of the raincoat, sleeves scrunched over her hands like makeshift gloves. What if Angel is running away from someone who has been hitting her? I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I chucked her out into the night and then something bad happened.
‘OK,’ I say, resignedly. ‘Wait here a minute and let me get you some dry things. Help yourself to tea, as you already … well, help yourself.’
I hurry out of the room but, in the hallway, I grab my mobile from my handbag under the hall table, and stuff my purse at the back of the drawer in the table. There’s something about her that feels … off. Not least the way she has come barging into my house like we are old friends. But didn’t she save my life? Don’t I owe her something if she is in trouble?
Ian would be furious. He would have kicked Angel straight out the front door again. But Ian isn’t here, is he? And there’s no Sam at any potential risk. It’s just me. I used to be a kind person, who gave money to homeless people before Ian got into my head with his talk of how I was ‘only helping them to an early grave’. I’m always saying I ought to do some voluntary work now I have all these weekends with hours tumbleweeding through them. This can be a start. I will let this obviously vulnerable young woman get dry, give her some tea and send her on her way. It’s the least I can do after what happened earlier, however strange the circumstances.
When I come back into the kitchen, Angel is sitting at the table.
There’s a coffee cup from earlier there, plus some newspapers. Sam’s school bag, not yet stowed away since the end of term, takes up the chair at the end. Angel stares down at her phone, a deep groove between her eyebrows that makes her look older. In the café, I thought she was early twenties but now I think maybe she is older, twenty-six or twenty-seven.
I hand her a bath towel and some dry clothes, warm from the airing cupboard. It was hard to decide what to give her, especially in a hurry. But after a quick search through piles of clothes that would never fit, I opted for a soft stretchy dress that’s a bit tight on me, one of my hoodies and some thick woollen socks. Angel accepts the pile of clothes with a short nod of thanks.
‘I’m so much shorter and fatter than you,’ I say. ‘But I hope this will do?’
Angel stares down at the clothes for a moment and then begins to undress on the spot, shucking off the dress in one fluid movement. I look away quickly, but can’t help noticing that she wears no bra. Her small breasts have large, chocolate-brown nipples that are stark against her pale ribcage. She pulls on the dress, which is more like a baggy top on her long frame, then the hoodie. Removing thin, bony feet from the boots, she hops on one foot at a time as she puts on the socks.
I can only wait politely, not knowing where I should place my gaze.
‘Thanks,’ says Angel and dumps her wet things on the kitchen table. She pulls her hair from the collar of the hoodie and rubs it with the towel. ‘Do you have a dryer you can stick those in?’
‘Um, no. Sorry, I don’t.’ I fold my arms in an attempt to appear more assertive but evidently this doesn’t work. I’m aware that I’m doing that thing – that Carmen picks me up on so often. Saying sorry for something that doesn’t require an apology.
‘Hang them up for me then,’ says Angel. ‘Just to get the worst of the wet out.’
I hesitate. How long is she thinking of staying?
I somehow find myself scooping up the clothes anyway and taking them to the short corridor that runs along the side of the house. We use it as a cloakroom and utility room in one and it is filled with boots and trainers, raincoats and household stuff. I hang up her stuff on a clothes horse and hurry back into the kitchen.