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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      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—’

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