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

Several more people now join the queue.

Anxiety throbs in my veins. How long have I been gone? Glancing at my watch, I see it is now 3.35. The thought of the baby’s hunger and distress tears at me. It is literally unbearable to think about. I find I’m tapping my foot against the floor, unable to stay still.

The old woman is at the till now. She is clearly a regular because she is asking after the health of several people whose names I don’t catch as the man rings through her purchases. He still looks ruffled after his altercation with the girls but dutifully answers all her questions, finally managing a small smile.

The woman is about to pay when she says, ‘Oh, give me one of those Instant Lottos, Ajay. Bloody waste of money, but you never know. I quite fancy a little trip to the Bahamas, don’t you?’

Ajay joshes along with her now as he painstakingly selects the scratch card and rings it in. All this seems to take an agonizing amount of time. It takes everything I have not to scream, ‘Come on !’ until my throat aches.

Finally, the old woman is done. As she moves past on her way to the door, she shoots me a curious look. Is it obvious that something is going on with me? Can everyone tell? I feel as if my anxiety is leaking through me like visible steam. Maybe you’d get burned if you stood too close.

The man in front is served quickly and, finally, I’m able to place my purchases next to the till, sighing with a mixture of relief and impatience.

‘Any petrol for you today?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Just these things.’ There’s a clock just behind the man serving and, on seeing it, my heart speeds up again. I have exactly fifteen minutes to get back to meet Angel’s deadline. Flustered, I miss the man asking if I would like a carrier bag the first time. He repeats the question and, blushing, I accept, before handing over my debit card.

‘Contactless alright for you?’

‘Yes.’ God, yes! Just bloody hurry!

After what seems like half an hour in there, I am out of the door. I turn to cross the forecourt and go back to the main road when someone touches my arm.

‘Mrs Bailey?’

With a start, I turn to find myself looking into the fresh, smiling face of a teenage girl. Familiar, but her name is just out of reach.

‘It’s me,’ says the girl, ‘Hannah Bannerman? You taught me English last year?’

‘Hi Hannah,’ I force the words out, painfully. ‘Bit late to be out, isn’t it?’

My brain is turning over and over. Is bumping into someone a sign that I should tell someone what is happening to me?

Hannah, who is looking at me a little uncertainly now, says, ‘We’re going on holiday. Catching an early flight to Paris.’

She is now joined by an older woman, who looks like the horsier, wider, version of Hannah in about thirty years’ time. The blonde-haired, Barbour-jacketed woman is smiling broadly at me. I picture myself climbing into the back of some huge SUV and being cradled by it all the way to the police station. The decision is taken from my hands.

‘Oh, are you the famous Mrs Bailey?’ she says in a loud voice. ‘I believe we have you to thank for Hannah’s A star last year, don’t we, Hannah?’ Her voice seems to thunder in my ears.

Hannah grins and nods enthusiastically.

‘Hannah is at Warwick now,’ says her mother, ‘and she’s having a great time, aren’t you, darling?’

‘I’m having the best time,’ says Hannah, drawling the word ‘best’.

I’m nodding along and trying to smile but I can’t think of a single word in response. What can I say? ‘ Lovely to see you, only, I have a hostage situation back at my house and a tiny baby might be in danger. Bye then! ’ Normal etiquette seems to have entirely abandoned me. Being with two unhinged misfits all night has somehow robbed me of my own manners.

Both of the other women are looking at me oddly now, clearly expecting a response. Casting about inside myself, I finally find something to toss back at them.

‘That’s wonderful,’ I say. ‘That’s absolutely wonderful to hear. And a holiday! In Provence!’ I realize straight away I’ve said the wrong place, but they are too polite to correct me. When a sufficient number of seconds have passed, I say, ‘Well, I’d best …’ but Hannah is holding onto my arm again, blushing slightly.

‘I just want to say that I couldn’t have done it without you, Miss. You really helped me through … well, you know.’

I stare back blankly and a strange expression passes over Hannah’s face, a kind of disappointed horror. Then it comes to me and I feel sick for forgetting.

Hannah’s dad died at the beginning of Year Thirteen and for a while the talented student had, understandably, lost her focus. I lost my own mum in my teens and so I just got it. I spent a lot of time talking to Hannah after lessons and gently encouraging her not to throw away her opportunities.

‘God, yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry, I—’

From nowhere, tears bead my eyelids. I try to blink them away, but the two people in front of me fracture into a watery blur. The memory of Hannah’s distress, coupled with the heartfelt thanks, are more than my bruised emotions can handle right now.

‘Are you alright?’ says Hannah’s mother. She must now notice the nappies bulging in the thin carrier bag because she bursts out with, ‘You’ve not had … a baby ?’

This is it. This is the moment to tell them.

But I can’t do it. I can’t risk harm coming to that innocent child because I’m not brave or strong enough to help him. I’m all that little boy has right now. I take a small breath in before speaking again.

‘No, dear me, no!’ My attempt to sound chirpy and friendly comes across as shrill and deranged now. ‘But my, er … my … friend is staying. In fact, I’d better get back! It’s been so good to see you, Hannah! And you too, Mrs …’ but it’s no good, the surname has gone again, ‘and you too.’

I hurry across the forecourt before either of them have the chance to detain me any longer, feeling their curious eyes on me as I go. They must be wondering where the hell my car is too.

I know I’ve come across as a total fruitcake, but I have no time to worry about that now. Two damaged, possibly violent people are currently in charge of a tiny, innocent life. At their very best, they are rough and incompetent, even if they aren’t about to inflict any deliberate damage. Heaven knows how they are coping with the screaming, which must surely be getting worse as hunger bites deeper. All the very worst stories about child cruelty on the news tickertape through my mind now; babies with burns, babies with tiny broken limbs, babies in bins …

I start to run.

My breath is tight in my chest and my skin bathed in sweat in the muggy air as I get to the roundabout and negotiate my way back to Four Hays. Carl bobs into my head and I picture him running alongside me with precise, economic strides. It does not help.

And now my stupid, stupid brain is unhelpfully filing another thought: Ian jogging alongside Sam the first time Sam rode his bike without stabilizers at the bottom of this road. Why think of that now, for God’s sake? But I can see it so clearly; the pale pink blossom from the apple tree in our garden blowing in the breeze like confetti, Sam’s delighted shrieks of, ‘Look at me! Look at me, Daddy!’ The shared look of love between Ian and me. The memory has a honeyed, golden glow. It’s pleasure and pain all mixed together and I cling to it as I slow down.

My knees ache and I can’t get my breath, so I stop and walk; small, panicked sobs punctuating my gasps as I struggle to fill my unfit lungs with air.