The Family Across the Street by Nicole Trope

21

Logan

Thirty minutes ago

Logan rubs his face, feeling the stubbly growth that appears through the day. In the mirror he can see bags under his blue eyes, and his lips look cracked and dry. He doesn’t want to call Debbie again because he knows that she would tell him if there were any updates on Maddy. He is worn down by the day, by the early-morning delivery that went wrong, by his attempts to help when he should have just left things alone, but mostly by his fear and worry over his sister.

He cannot lose her. She is essentially the only family he has.

And now he has to worry about the police looking for him and what that might mean if they decide to take him in and question him. He’s exhausted by the heat, by everything. He needs to get to Melbourne and be with his sister; that’s all he wants right now.

He only has three more deliveries and then he’s finished, and that can’t happen soon enough.

‘Just bring them back here and I’ll do it,’ Mack said when he called again, worry in his voice over the fact that Logan is still working.

‘It’s fine. All the earlier flights are booked out.’

‘Don’t they keep some seats aside for compassionate reasons or something like that?’

‘Debbie’s looking into it, but even if I get there now, I can’t see her because she’s in a bad way. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll finish up and then go home.’

‘Whatever works, Logan, and if you need to talk to someone, I’m here.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

Driving, the act of watching the road, of checking street signs and of glancing at the GPS, allows his mind to run through his past. He lists those he once called friends and those he only regarded as acquaintances and even those who he may have threatened or who have threatened him. The person texting him may or may not be connected to what happened to Maddy. It may or may not be Patrick. There are some who he knows are in prison, some who he’s heard have been released. Nick keeps returning as a possibility but Logan knows he was serving his sentence somewhere in Sydney, although he had a girlfriend who lived in Melbourne. Logan brakes at a red traffic light. ‘Shit,’ he mutters. Nick had a girlfriend who lived in Melbourne. Are they still together?

As he turns a corner, he allows a nightmarish scenario to play out: Nick being released and moving to Melbourne, bent on revenge. You’re overthinking, he tells himself. The sender of the text must be Patrick.

Needing to distract himself, he turns on the radio to listen to the news, wondering if what happened to Maddy is something that could make it to the radio. A song about a broken heart irritates him and he switches stations listening to the weather report for a moment before switching stations again. He knows how hot it is. The news comes on and he turns it up.

‘Police are asking for help in locating the partner of a woman badly beaten in Melbourne two days ago. They are asking the public for help in finding Patrick Anderson. It has now been confirmed that Anderson left Melbourne two days ago, bound for Sydney.’

Logan pulls over the van, his heart racing. He touches his hand to his chest. He’s too young for a heart attack but there is a pain down one arm that makes him think it’s possible. He cracks his neck one way and then the other, wanting to climb out of his own body.

You’re next.

He turns the news up louder, trying to concentrate even as he cracks his knuckles, twisting his fingers for the relief of the pop.

‘Is he treating you okay?’he once asked his sister.

‘Yes, big brother, he’s fine – a little clingy but fine. He has some issues, but don’t we all? I told him that you’re watching him. I mean, it was a joke but he’s scared of you.’

‘Good. I don’t like him. He’s using you.’

‘But I like him and he knows how you feel about him. You made that clear last month when we visited you. He’s trying to get a job. He can be so sweet. You don’t get it. He tries to tidy the apartment and cook for me. It’s not his fault that finding work is this hard. He’s not good with authority, but then neither are you.’

‘And if he doesn’t get his act together? Then what?’

‘Then it may be time for me to move on.’

If Patrick Anderson hurt Maddy and now he’s here, Logan knows there’s only one reason for that. He doesn’t need to think about who sent the text anymore. He knows.

He curls his hands into fists, reading the word ‘HATE’ on one hand and ‘PAIN’ on the other. ‘Come find me,’ he mutters, fear being replaced with fury warming up his body. He relishes the man coming to find him. It would obviously be self-defence, and that’s allowed – isn’t it? He shouldn’t be thinking like this. That’s the thinking of a man he never wants to be again. But he cannot help the images flickering across his mind, a silent movie of violence.

He wonders when Patrick will show up, if he’ll accost him at work or out in the street. And then, as he imagines meeting the man in the street, sees how that would play out, he realises… Patrick knows where Logan and Debbie live. He winds down the window because he can’t seem to catch his breath. He knows where we live. He knows where we live. He scratches at his chest, where itchy sweat covers his skin. Fury is replaced by panic and for a moment he has no idea what to do.

Maddy brought him to Sydney for a visit last month and the four of them endured an uncomfortable dinner as Logan questioned the man dating his sister over roast chicken, asked him about his plans over chocolate mousse and suggested he get a job after they’d all had coffee.

‘You were rude,’ Debbie told him. But Logan hadn’t cared.

He knows where we live.

‘No, no, no,’ cries Logan. Debbie’s at home, alone, in bed with a cold, in bed and weak. Debbie is at home. Terror dances through Logan. If Patrick is looking for him, he will find Debbie first. Don’t just sit here, idiot.

Logan swears and picks up his phone. ‘Listen, Debbie,’ he says when she answers.

‘Oh, hey babes,’ says Debbie, ‘hang on a second, there’s someone at the door.’

‘Debbie, wait! No – wait!’ he shouts, starting the van and pulling off with a screech of tyres, the phone slipping in his clammy hand. He’s too late. He should have just gone home and he would have been there now. He’s too late.

‘What are you doing here?’ he hears her say and then, ‘Oh no, no…’

‘Debbie!’ he screams as he turns a corner, cutting off a Mercedes Benz and nearly hitting a car parked on the street.

‘Debbie, Debbie, Debbie!’ His voice fills the van, breaking with hysteria, his pulse pounding in his throat, his hands slick on the wheel. ‘Debbie,’ he moans.