Cass Green - No Good Deed - The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood

The siblings stare at each other across the kitchen while in the background Little Mix sing about shouting out to exes.

‘Right,’ says Angel, turning away. ‘Sure you have.’ She wants to slap him. ‘Why don’t you go and lie down or something,’ she adds as she goes to hunt for bread in the cupboards. ‘This could be a long night and you look like shit.’

Lucas hesitates for a moment and then silently leaves the room.

The air is pleasantly warm outside, but shock must be catching up with me. I start to shake, so hard my knees almost give way, and I’m forced to stop, panting lightly, hands resting on my thighs.

I can’t believe this is happening. It’s all so surreal. Her barging into my home like that. Then him arriving, covered in blood. And that tiny baby … Oh, the baby.

As the shivering becomes less violent, I start to walk, glancing over at the cars on the bypass, which are present even at this time. I wish I could get into any one of them and be carried far away from this situation.

I could do it. Or at least flag down a car and ask for help. But what if the police go storming in there and the baby gets caught up in it all?

I picture again the blood riming Lucas’s nails and think about his reaction when I’d asked about the mother. What has he done ? And what might he be capable still of doing? That’s not even taking Angel into account. She feels utterly unreadable to me.

It’s a strange sensation, to be walking away, ostensibly free, but yet trapped all the same. I hurry on, reaching the dark part of the road, and then follow the bobbing light of the torch. The road feels so long in the dark. Like it is never-ending. I would usually be scared, walking here at night. But I only feel frightened of the dangers currently in my home. What an irony it would be, if I was attacked tonight, of all nights.

When I finally reach the end of the road, I turn left at the roundabout there and start walking along the side of the bypass. Obviously, it isn’t designed for pedestrians, so I am forced to walk in a semi-ditch at the side. Cars thunder past now and then, so close I feel the gusting force blowing into me. I’ve never walked along here before; never had any reason to. My heart leaps every time a car passes. I’m intensely conscious of my breakable body, so close to speeding weapons of steel and rubber.

The long, wet grass whips and clings at my lower legs and my shoes are soon soaked through.

I wonder whether a police car would stop if I was seen walking along such a dangerous road. It might even be an offence. I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from blurting out the whole sorry story, if they did pull over.

I turn my ankle in a hidden dip in the grass and swear. Sweating from both effort and stress, I finally see the welcoming lights of the garage ahead. It seems no distance in a car but it’s much further than I realized. I look at my watch and hasten my pace.

Thank goodness, the garage is on this side. Hopefully I can get in and out, quickly.

It’s surprisingly busy, for the middle of the night. But this road is a main artery leading, ultimately, to London, so I guess the traffic never stops.

There are two cars and one van filling up as I emerge onto the forecourt, blinking at the sudden harsh lighting. The normality of it, white light reflecting off wet car roofs, a man yawning widely as he walks briskly from the pumps, a snatch of grime music drifting from an open car window, brings sudden tears to my eyes. I have a fervent longing to go back to my life before tonight. It seemed so complicated, but it was so simple, really. Why did I complain? Things weren’t so bad, were they?

I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a hot urge to run into the centre of the forecourt and yell at the top of my lungs, ‘I’m a hostage! I need help!’

But even as I picture myself doing it, another image comes to mind: the outline of the gun in Angel’s pocket. Even if she wouldn’t actively hurt the baby, I picture her panicking and dropping him onto the stone floor, his unfinished skull cracking like an eggshell. This thought makes me shudder and I hurry to the cashpoint first, which is located outside the shop. But my hands shake and I fumble the PIN number. There’s a second of total panic that I can’t remember it. The thought of going back with no cash makes the world spin for a moment until the four digits float, blessedly, into my mind. I tap them in and opt for three hundred and fifty pounds in cash.

This done, I enter the shop and scan the shelves for baby products. The section is small and there are only nappies for ages three to six months and toddlers. Even the smallest packet is going to swamp that tiny body. But they will have to do.

When I spy the small selection of ready-prepared formula milks, including two cartons for new-borns, I feel quite weak with relief. A thought floats into my head from nowhere and I pause, then realize how ridiculous it was. For a moment there, I had worried about giving the baby formula when he may be conditioned to his mother’s breast. As if that was important, now.

Who is his mother? This question keeps coming to me, over and over again. What happened to her? Why did Lucas have blood on his hands?

Have to focus. I place both cartons in my basket, then grab a Snickers bar, suddenly craving a hit of sugar. Maybe it will stop me from shaking. I look around, anxiously, sure I am conspicuous, that eyes are roaming and picking over me, even though I know logically that people are just going about their business, bleary with fatigue and their own problems.

When I join the short queue, I become aware of a commotion.

There is only one till, where two girls are arguing with a middle-aged man in a Sikh turban.

The white girl has blonde hair in a ponytail so tight that her thickly mascaraed eyes almost bulge from her face. She is in a skimpy dress, stretched tight over rounded hips and thighs. Her black friend is almost bursting out of jeans and a crop top that finishes above a roll of flesh. Her hair is dyed a brassy ginger with a heavy fringe almost meeting her eyelids.

‘Yeah but what’s your problem?’ says the white girl. ‘There’s no need to give us all this fucking grief, is there?’

‘You get out of here with your filthy mouth,’ says the garage attendant in a raised voice. ‘I’m not selling you cigarettes without ID.’

‘Didn’t we just give you that, towel-head?’ says the black girl and she and her friend dissolve into giggles that make them sound five years younger than they look.

The man behind the counter is shouting now.

‘You give me your fake bloody ID and I give you a trip in a police car! You think you like that, hn ? Get out of here, you little sluts, before I call the police. And stop doing that!’

‘You sexually harassing us?’ says the white girl, who is now holding up a mobile phone in a silver sparkly case. ‘I need evidence.’

I shift from foot to foot, uneasily. Please don’t call the police. Please let this nightmare end so I can get out of here.

There are three other people in the queue: a young man who is studiously avoiding getting involved by staring into his phone screen, an elderly woman clutching a loaf of bread and some beans, and a suited man about my age, sighing with irritation. The old lady casts her eyes around and tuts at intervals. She throws a few disgruntled looks at the man behind her but this obviously doesn’t satisfy her because she then manages to snag my gaze before I can avoid it.

‘Disgusting way for girls to behave,’ she says. I nod briskly and look away, out at the forecourt, which now has a queue of cars forming at the pumps.

‘Shut your mouth, you old cow,’ says one of the girls as they barrel past, laughing hysterically.