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

Maybe that was the trouble. OK, so we spent a fair bit of time apart, and we didn’t have sex that often any more. But wasn’t that like most marriages, when people had been together half their lives? Well, clearly it was more. I hadn’t realized the cracks were signs of serious stress until the marriage broke in two.

Oh damn it, here I go again. My eyes are leaking all on their own, without any warning that it was about to happen. Was this what Ian was like, privately, in that dark time? Maybe I’m having a breakdown too.

I picture Sam, my quiet, serious boy, lying in his unfamiliar bedroom. He had been quietly fretting in his usual way about the upcoming holiday. Even with the promise of access to a dog, he’d been worried. It had taken some gentle cajoling to get him to talk, then I’d been able to reassure him that the boat wouldn’t sink, and that Laura’s parents wouldn’t force him to eat frogs’ legs. He’s always been a worrier, ever since he was a tiny boy who would stand watchfully at the playground while others climbed like happy monkeys. For a hot, shameful moment, I hope he will be too upset to go tomorrow and that Ian will bring him home.

This feels like a new low.

My arms prickle now and I look up, aware suddenly I’ve been out here for some time. The air feels alive with the prospect of rain. The setting sun has disappeared behind a dark band of gathering cloud. For a moment, I contemplate stripping all my clothes off and standing in the coming rain to feel the cool freshness on my skin. It would be wonderful after all the nights I’ve spent lately, twisting in sweaty sheets.

I could do it if I wanted, too. The house next door has been empty and for sale since my elderly neighbour died. No one would see me. Isn’t this the sort of thing I should be relishing now I’m alone? Dancing naked in the rain? Not giving a shit?

But I’m already starting to feel a little cold, so I gather up my things.

I’m stepping through the back door as the first fat drops begin to fall, releasing the sharp smell of ozone, hot brick and parched earth.

Inside, I tip the last of the wine into my glass before curling onto the sofa and turning on Netflix on the telly. There’s a trashy American comedy I’ve become mildly addicted to.

We used to hoover up all the crime series and Scandinavian dramas but now, alone in the house, stories about murder are less appealing. There are enough shadows in real life.

It feels like this is yet another thing that has been taken from me. Ian is no doubt enjoying ‘educating’ Laura, whose tastes had previously, he once let slip, extended only to reality TV and soaps.

Without even knowing I’ve slept, I’m somehow being pulled awake. Groggy and confused, I squint at the clock on the mantelpiece and see it is two am.

For a moment, I think I’m hearing the sound of thunder.

Then I realize someone’s hammering on my front door.

Rain dashes into his eyes and mingles with tears and blood, stinging his cheeks and dripping off his chin. The burden he carries seems to be getting heavier by the minute. Sometimes, though, he imagines there isn’t anything there at all and his chest swells with panic. This doesn’t make any sense. But he stops and checks anyway, peering awkwardly inside the neck of the coat that’s sucking in water like a sponge and making him move twice as slowly as usual.

Reaching a brightly lit mini roundabout he stops, disorientated, and has a moment of confusion about which way to go. Right? No, left. It’s left here. He’s sure of it.

He hurries on but this place is not designed for pedestrians. He is forced to huddle at the side of the slip road, his stomach swooping as a car blares an angry horn, and then he reaches the narrow grass verge. Lucas stumbles along next to the main road, cars roaring past, so close he could stretch out his fingers and lose an arm.

But he welcomes the terror, the biting cold and the pains in his face and ribs. These sensations are too powerful to allow contemplation to creep in. He almost wants to keep moving forever but the tiredness is getting to him now. For a second he pictures himself taking two steps to the right and stopping it all, but he knows he can’t do it. And it’s not just about him, is it?

Not far now. But what will happen when he gets there? Lucas stops for a moment, breathing hard.

This whole thing is a terrible idea.

But it’s the only one he has right now so he stumbles onwards.

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.’