The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 10
“Yes, we’ll go to the funfair and you can go on all of the rides and we’ll watch the procession and do everything. If you’re really good, we can get a balloon and you can let it go over the sea.”
The little boy turns to his mama, “Mama? Balloon?”
“Yes,” she replies, “later, after tea. If you’re good. We can get you a red balloon if you like . . . or blue . . . or a bright yellow one. What would you like?”
The boy thinks for a moment as his papa busies about with the blood-testing equipment. “Tea?” he asks.
She laughs, lifting him up and moving quickly towards the kitchen. “Rick?”
He frowns, “Not so good. Still too high. Higher actually. We need to get this under control as soon as we can.”
21
5.21pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
She comes back into the room, all calm and mannered, and sits down over by the window. She smiles tightly – nervously, I reckon – as she rests her cup of tea on the table at her side.
The table is unsteady and she spills the tea into the saucer but doesn’t seem to notice.
I smile that big reassuring smile I’ve told you about. The one I give at a review. She doesn’t look at me though.
She leans back into her chair, moving to get comfortable among the propped-up cushions to either side.
I smile again. I’m not really sure what to say. This is all new to me, this is.
She looks at me at last and our eyes meet. She has a distant, way-off look about her as though she is thinking.
“That was my mother’s favourite chair,” she says eventually. “She liked to sit there and do her needlework.”
I smile once more, ready to make polite conversation while I’m thinking what to do next. “It’s nice,” I say. “Comfy.” Now what?
She reaches into a pocket, takes out a lighter and packet of cigarettes, gesturing towards me. I shake my head, no, I’ve never smoked. She takes a cigarette, struggling to get it out of the packet. I go to help, but she waves me back and I watch as she lights the cigarette, slipping the lighter and packet into her pocket.
She leans back again, her head turned to her left as she looks out of the window. She pulls on the cigarette. I can see she is thinking. After a moment or two, she turns to look at me again.
“So, what are you here for?”
I go to tell her about William, and how he’s been staying with his auntie for a little holiday and how I’ve come up to get him at six o’clock but she waves her hand to silence me.
“No,” she says, her voice with a sharper edge to it. “What are you here for?” and she points to the floor; here, this cottage, this room, this chair. What am I doing here right now, here in this cottage?
I smile at her, not sure what to say.
“I’ll tell you what you’re here for,” she says. “I’ll tell you why you’re here.” And she looks at me, nodding, with a knowing look on her face.
I wait for her to go on. To say, or maybe mouth, the words she’s thinking. But she doesn’t. She just sits there looking at me.
I smile back. Can feel myself blushing. And stirring again. I know what she means. And she knows I know what she means. Is this how it happens? How people do things these days? It’s all unfamiliar to me. I’m not sure what to say.
All I want, all I really want right now is to be gone from here, to get away and go for William. But I need those keys and some money. And maybe, just maybe, I need something else from her too.
But not that.
Not just the physical act.
I don’t know what to do.
She struggles, slightly unsteadily, out of the chair and onto her feet. I think she is going to slump back down, but she moves away, cigarette still in hand, towards the kitchen.
What do I do? You tell me. This has never happened to me before. I’ve imagined something like it, God knows. I’ve thought about it often, something like this, back in the big house. But it’s never been offered to me before, not like this. Not on a plate.
She comes back in. This time, she has an opened bottle of gin in one hand and two glasses clinking together in the other.
“We’re going to have a little drink,” she says, sitting herself back down.
And we do, sitting there opposite each other, sipping at the gin and looking at each other.
She goes to pour me a second one, but I shake my head, putting my hand over the top of the glass.
“Not for me, thank you. I’ve got to be driving later.”
She shrugs to herself, almost as if I’m not here, sits back and refills her own glass.
This time, she stops looking at me, sitting back in the chair and gazing out of the window.
Silence.
Utter fucking silence.
I still don’t know what to say.
At some point, I’ve got to be going. But I need her car and some money. And I don’t want to have to hurt her, really I don’t.
She tips her head back as she takes a long drag on her cigarette. Blows the smoke up in the air.
“I used to be able to blow rings,” she says, “when I was younger. My husband showed me how. Years ago. But I’ve lost the knack now.”
Really? Well fuck diddly me.
I mean, what do you say to that?
Silence again. Complete fucking silence.
So what next? I can’t just get up and go and ask for her car keys and some cash at the same time.
Can I?
What do you think?
I may just have to.
“You and me,” she says at last, stubbing out the cigarette in the saucer. “You and me are the same. We’ve both lost everything.” And she nods sadly, as though she is talking to herself now.
“I’ve lost my mother. My husband left me. Some girl at the office. Ver-on-ic-a. We couldn’t . . .” And she stops, as if she is about to cry. And she looks at me, her eyes full of tears. “At least, you’ve got your son.”
She leans forward in her chair with her body shaking. I suddenly find myself with my arms around her, encircling first her shoulders and then her body and my hands are at her breasts, pulling down her dress at the front.
For a moment, I think she’s going to struggle, put up a fight, but she seems to respond to me as I push her back against the chair.
As I kiss her, I can taste the alcohol and smoke on her breath.
I’m scrambling and tugging at her clothes until I eventually start moving back and forth, steadily at first and then with ever increasing urgency, the chair banging harder and quicker again and again against the wall.
And for a few, brief, desperate and beautiful moments I forget everything.
My wife.
The baby.
The trial.
The annexe.
Spink.
Even my dear, sweet, wonderful William.
As I come, thrusting up inside of her, I suddenly see how things could be.
For me and little William and also for Julia.
Julia’s got the car and the money. I’ve got little William and the south of France.
A pretty cottage somewhere hidden away in the woods by the sea. We – me and Julia – sitting by a pool in a year or two watching William playing quietly in the shallow end.
What a happy little family we’d be. Her and me together with William and maybe another little sweetheart on the way some time soon.
As I look down at Julia now, aroused again by the sight of her nakedness, I smile at her. She looks up at me, trying to focus on my face.
And, as I wait for her to smile back, I find myself talking.
About my wife and the baby and the trial.
About the annexe and Spink and my dear, sweet, wonderful William.
About what really happened.
At last, as I finish my words, she focuses and suddenly seems to be concentrating and hearing what I am saying.
She’s looking into my eyes.
She’s wide awake now.
And the expression on her face changes.
22
6.26pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
It’s dark now, proper dark. And I’m sitting quietly, minding my own business, back on the bench on the seafront.
Have been for more than half an hour, I reckon.
Maybe more.
Just waiting, always fucking waiting.
I’m waiting for Veitch and the sister-in-law and the old fuckers to go strolling by with William, my little William, in tow.
Any time now, really.
I’ll wait until they go by and give it a minute or two.
Keeping them within sight, of course.
I’ll follow them and, when no one is noticing and it’s all lights and noise and push and shove up by the funfair, I’ll sweep in, lead sweet William away by the hand and there we are.
Sorted.
Yes, indeed.
I’ll not be needing the old car now – the one I got from that woman back in Nottingham.
No, I don’t need that.
That’s right. No, not any more. That’s what I said.
It can stay just where it is.
Did I say? I’ve got myself one of those little Japanese cars. It’s not something the police will be looking for and that’s a fact.
And you can forget about a pocketful of loose change and how far that will take me (or not, as the case may be).
I’ve got one of those proper cash cards and I’ve even got myself a number for it too.
1.
1. 0.
6.
That’s a birthday, that is.
Not mine, no.
11 June. 11 06, see? Took some doing actually, getting that.
1.
1.
0.
6.
I’ve been to a cashpoint already and got myself a pocketful of cash.
Plenty more where that came from, I can tell you.
No need to worry about money for a long, long time. Yes, that’s a fact.
So I’m waiting. Just waiting to get my little boy and away to a new life.
But I’ve a cut on my hand. Did I tell you? It’s cut rather badly actually. Quite close to my wrist.
It could be nasty, you know.
Dangerous it is, by the wrist.
Tosser Gibson cut his wrists once. Somehow, he’d got hold of a metal fork, no one knows how, and he started hacking away at himself in front of everyone.
He did it when some busybody local officials came round as part of an inspection trip.
Sprake and Ainsley, snorting and giggling to themselves as ever, said afterwards that it was all done for show and that if he’d been serious, he’d have done it later, after lights out.
Maybe so, but it took four of them – Spink and her cronies – to bring him down and he ended up in the proper hospital for the rest of the month. And it was the better part of another month before we saw him in the annexe again.
I’ve wrapped some cloth around the cut. The first piece I used got soaked through. The next one seemed to slow it down and the one I’ve got on now, well you’d hardly notice the blood on it. I’ll keep it nice and tight, though, just in case.
And I’ve a bruise. Just to the side of my left eye. It’s the sort of bruise you’d get if you turned round fast and caught it on the side of a door. Maybe you weren’t quite paying attention to what you were doing. And a scratch, three or four of them to be honest, down my right cheek.
Yes.
Not so good.
I had a bit of trouble.
I’ve covered them all up, mind, as best I can anyway. Can’t have little William scared, can we? No, I’ve just touched everything over with a little face powder. I’m not sure it was quite my skin type – I didn’t really have time to check, okay? – but it will do the job for now for sure. I look fine, all things considered. No one would think anything was out of the ordinary. I’m just a regular guy having a little rest.
It’s busy now.
Really busy.
Here on the seafront.
People are going by in both directions, mostly towards the funfair, and the promenade is packed full of them. Five, six, seven people spreading out right across its full width.
I’ve got to stay sharp. I’ve got to keep my wits about me.
I have to spot William and then duck back out of sight before any of them see me.
If they do, I’m fucked, plain and simple.
Veitch and the sister-in-law will turn on me, for sure. They’ll not give me a chance to say anything.
And the grandparents, the old woman most likely, will sweep up little William and, well, there’ll be a scene.
I’d have no choice.
No other choice.
What else could I do?
I’d never get another chance to get hold of little William and get away. I’d have to, well, I’d have to somehow see to Veitch and the sister-in-law.
And to the grandparents.
But there are the crowds. Dozens and dozens of people moving about. Hundreds of them. Someone would intervene. They’d have to, pinning me down, taking William away. Holding me until the police arrived in their cars, sirens wailing. And then it would be all over.
So I’ve got to do this carefully.
And cleverly.
Got to take him when it’s crowded, when they’ve split up and I can get away with William in the confusion.
Christ almighty.
I see him.
William.
He just goes trotting by. I don’t react as quickly as I’d expected. The little chap takes me by surprise. I pull back, dropping my head down as though fixing my shoelaces.
I sit, holding my breath.
Waiting for them to see me.
But they don’t; they just keep on walking, no more than two or three feet from my bowed head. William out in front, a yard or two ahead of Veitch and his wife. I daren’t look up but I can just see – sense almost – the two of them walking by.
Still I keep my head down, making a pretence of tightening my laces, because I know the old folks will be a little way behind.
I’m clever, see? Anyone else would sit up at this point and watch their little boy walking away, all full of himself and excited about the funfair (it’s a big night out at that age, after all).
Not me, though – I stay cool – I’m not going to sit up straight until the grandparents have walked on by.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
Ninety seconds.
At one hundred and twenty, I move my head slowly to the left, still keeping it down, but turning it enough to see Veitch and the sister-in-law moving away into the distance and disappearing back into the crowds.
They don’t stop and wait or even slow down – they don’t even glance back.
Then I do the same the other way, moving my head to the right, keeping it down, but turning it just enough to see back down where they’d come from. To see where the old folks are.
No sign of them. No sign at all.
They’re not coming. The old folks are not coming.
That’s not good, not good at all.
I was going to take the little chick-a-dee when the four of them wandered apart.
I’ve no chance now.
No chance at all.
There’s no way that Veitch and the sister-in-law are going to split up and let my William out of their sight.
I’m fucked.
Well and truly.
Unless.
Unless.
I’ve one chance. One chance only. But I’ll need to be quick.
And lucky.
Very, very lucky.
I’m up, on my feet, following them now, weaving in and out of the crowds to keep them in sight.
Come on, hurry up, we’ve a little man to catch before the night is through.
23
6.32pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
It had taken ages and ages before the excited little boy could set off down the prom towards the funfair with his mama and papa.
First the old man and woman were coming.
Then they weren’t.
His mama was cross with them.
Then his papa had wanted him to have a cycle along the prom.
He had put his helmet on and was all ready to go.
Then his mama had said it was too crowded.
Now his papa was cross as well.
Eventually, the three of them started walking along the prom and the little boy is now trying very hard not to wet himself as he trots along as quickly as he can.
He can see the lights in the distance and hear the jingly-jangly music from the fairground.
He has been to a funfair before and had won a bright yellow duck.
He remembers waving a long stick around as he tried to hook the duck in the water.
People were smiling and laughing – even the man with the funny eye who gave him the stick and looked a little scary.
But then, as he struggled to work out what he was meant to do, his papa had taken the stick and had won the duck for him.
He loves that duck, but he does not know where it is. Duckie. He tries hard to think where it might be.
He will get another one now, he thinks.
He will do it all by himself.
He is a big boy after all, his mama has said.
But he knows he must not wet himself. If he does, his mama and papa will take him back to the cottage and make him change his pants and trousers.
If they do that, he might miss the funfair altogether.
And that makes him more anxious.
Even though mama had told him to have a wee before they came out, and he had done so in the toilet with the chain that was too high for him to reach, he still needs to go again now. It is always like this when he feels excited.
The closer he gets to the funfair, the more he wants to wee.
The faster he walks, the more he needs to go to the toilet.
When he walks slower, as slow as he can, he thinks he might not get there in time to get his duck and that makes him want to have a wee even more.
The little boy breaks into a hop and a skip, moving in and out of the crowds, and that seems to help a little.
If he concentrates on skipping between the people in front, he will not think about the funfair or the duck or needing to have a wee so badly.
“Will!” cries out his papa behind him, “Will, stay in sight.” The little boy giggles.
