Haven't They Grown(17)

Nothing.

‘Fuck,’ I say. ‘They’re out.’

‘Then we wait,’ says Dom.

‘How long?’ Please say, ‘All day.’

‘Half an hour?’

It’s not long enough. I want to wait until these gates open, however long it takes.

‘Maybe an hour,’ Dom concedes. ‘Not longer, surely? They might have set off on a family holiday last night and not be due back for a week. Why don’t we go for a walk and come back in a bit? It’s better than just standing here.’

‘No. If we go anywhere, we might miss them. What about the neighbours? We could try them. The people at numbers 14 and 18 will know the name of the family at number 16. I bet everyone knows everyone on this street. It’s a private road, so the council don’t deal with it – and yet look how well maintained it is.’

‘Tarmac smoother than a baby’s arse,’ Dom agrees.

‘That means the neighbours will have regular meetings, and a residents’ committee, coffee mornings … It’s that kind of street.’

‘I know some of our neighbours’ names, but I wouldn’t give them out to a pair of strangers who turned up unannounced and said, “Please tell me who lives next door”. I’d say something bland like, “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly divulge …” or words to that effect. Which is what numbers 14 and 18 will say if we ask them.’

‘It’s worth a try. We’ve come all this way. I’m not going home with nothing.’

‘Beth, we might have to.’

I shake my head.

‘All right, if you want to do it, let’s do it,’ Dom says wearily. ‘I suppose the worst they can say is no. Or they might not be home.’

I don’t care. I’m waiting here on Wyddial Lane until I find someone who can answer my questions. I don’t care if I’m being obsessive. Something inexplicable has happened, and I want to know why. Dom would be exactly the same if it had happened to him, if he knew he’d seen something he couldn’t possibly have seen.

‘I’m going to tell the truth,’ I say.

‘To?’

‘Any neighbours I talk to. Everyone. Until we got here, I was thinking I’d invent some story, but it’s better to be upfront. Don’t say anything, okay? Let me do the talking.’

I head for number 14 and press the buzzer on the intercom next to the wrought-iron gates. Immediately, there’s movement.

‘Dom, look.’

‘At what?’

I point through the gates’ metal bars. ‘The front door’s opening.’





5


‘No, it isn’t,’ says Dom.

‘It is. Just very slowly. Wait. Now it’s stopped. It opened a tiny bit. Look, now it’s moving again.’

The door edges further open but I can’t see anybody, and no one comes out of the house.

Number 14 is a completely different kind of house from number 16: mock-Tudor, black and white lines all over it in a diamonds-within-squares pattern that would make my eyes ache if I looked at it for too long. There’s a round pond in the middle of a turning circle in front of the house, with a squat little water fountain at the centre of it.

‘The door looks closed to me,’ Dom says.

‘It’s opening. I think someone’s spying on us from inside.’

As I say this, the front door of 14 Wyddial Lane closes with a click.

‘Did you hear that?’ I say. ‘Whoever’s in there decided they didn’t want to talk to us.’

Dom nods. ‘You were right. Come on, let’s try number 18.’

‘Wait. Look.’ Number 14’s door is opening again. Slowly, it moves until it’s all the way open. A woman emerges from the house: mid-sixties, short grey hair, large pearl earrings, beige trousers with sharp creases ironed into them. A white blouse with a fussy, flouncy bit at the top that looks like an attached scarf. Pinned to this is a coral-pink and white cameo brooch.

She approaches slowly, as if hoping to work out who Dominic and I are before she reaches us. Eventually she arrives at the gate, which she doesn’t open.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asks me sharply.

This throws me. ‘Yes, thanks.’

‘I heard an argument. Raised voices.’

It was hardly an argument, but I’m not going to quibble. ‘Yes, that was us, but we’re fine, thank you. I wanted to—’

‘If this gentleman’s bothering you, I can summon help.’ Keeping her eyes on me, she nods at Dominic.

‘Everything’s fine, honestly. He’s my husband.’

‘That, I’m afraid, is no guarantee of anything,’ the woman says sternly.

I’m not sure how to reply. ‘There’s no problem, really.’

‘What can I do for you, then, if you don’t need help?’

‘My name’s Beth Leeson,’ I tell her. ‘This is going to sound a bit weird. I was here yesterday, and—’

‘I know you were.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. You parked your car over there, as you have today, except it was a different car. You had a boy with you. Then you drove away, and returned a short while later without the boy.’