The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 12
Just as busy.
That’s no good.
No good at all.
I look left along the prom to see if it might be easier to go along that way. It’s just as busy. But not so good.
In fact, it’s worse.
The sister-in-law is three feet away.
And she’s turning towards me . . .
Part Two
The House
7
6.46pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“Will! Will?”
I can hear her crying out as I push my way back through the crowds towards the funfair and beyond.
“Will?” Her voice, loud and querulous, almost cracking now with emotion. Above the noise and hubbub of the fair.
But she’s not one hundred per cent certain.
And she doesn’t want to make a scene.
Yet she’s calling out, frightened and unsure.
She must have seen him, must have. But she couldn’t believe it was him. Couldn’t credit what she was seeing. Could she be certain? I don’t know. I can’t take the chance.
She was turning, see? From the stall, holding bags of food. Turning towards the huts where Veitch and my dear sweetpea had gone. Was going to go back and meet them halfway, I reckon.
As she turned, I saw her just in time, like I told you. I swung round, my back towards her. Instinct it was. Pure instinct.
Whoever’s going to recognise someone when it’s dark and they’ve got their back to you? No one, that’s who. And they’d never expect to see you there anyway. Never given you a thought for ages. Even thought you were dead, maybe.
“Will?”
Trouble is, I was holding little William. As I turned, he came face-to-face with her. Must have done.
She would have looked straight into his eyes.
I didn’t hang about, I can tell you. Moved straight off and away from her, pushing hard and fast into the crowds and out of sight.
I brushed by a young couple, struggling with a pushchair. He made a snide comment as she was forced to stop to let us go through. Acting the big man for her.
I’d have given him a good slap if I’d time.
Then a group of teenagers, spiky-haired boys chatting up a couple of hard-faced girls. None of them took any notice of us.
And a couple of fairground workers, standing about with big mugs of tea. They looked up as the sister-in-law called out again.
“Will! Will? Is that you?” But they didn’t even notice me.
Not a single glance.
Just hesitated for a second or two, then got right back down to their conversation.
I’m moving quickly now, ever so fast, getting farther away. Leaving her standing there. Not sure what she saw. Imagined it, surely, she’ll be thinking. A child that looked like William. What you might call a body double.
A lot of them do look the same at this age, you know. Little boys. Blond hair, rosy-red cheeks. All dressed up nice and warm for the cold night air. Wrapped up tight so only their tiny faces are showing. She never saw his little face properly. Yes, easy to make a mistake. She’ll have second thoughts in a moment or two.
Will start to feel foolish.
She’s called out four, five times now.
And no one’s taken any notice of her.
Nobody’s given me a second glance, either way.
I just look like a daddy who’s in a hurry, maybe going to meet Mummy on the other side of the green, ready for the procession.
About halfway across now. Still lots of pushing and shoving. It helps a bit – carrying a small fellow. They give you some leeway, leastways some of them do.
I was holding the little chap up high – easier that way – but I’ve dropped him down now, carrying him on my chest.
Just in case the sister-in-law is looking this way. I don’t want his head up above my shoulders and looking back towards her. If she sees him again, she’ll know for sure. Bound to, given a second chance to see his face.
Then she would come after me, wouldn’t she? Yes, she’d have to.
I’m keeping going, nice and steady, with an “Excuse me” to the left and a “Sorry, in a hurry” to the right.
Little William doesn’t speak, doesn’t seem to have heard her, what with all the noise. But his head, pushed close to my chest now, twists first one way, then the other, trying to get a good look at the Ferris wheel lights.
He’s wriggling.
Now he’s struggling.
He’s calling out.
“Fair? Fair?” He attempts to free an arm, wanting to point at the Ferris wheel where he wants to go.
“Sssshh,” I say, “sssshh.” (I’m trying to listen.) I think the woman’s stopped now. I’m straining to hear as I’m moving along, hurrying away. Yes, she’s stopped. Definitely. She’s had second thoughts. Thought better of it.
Made a fool of herself and no mistake.
Stupid bitch.
Made a complete fool and now just wants to slink away, hoping nobody noticed.
She’s stopped and is now walking, trying not to hurry, attempting not to panic, back towards the fishermen’s huts, where she’ll expect to see Veitch and little William.
Of course, when she gets there, she’ll find Veitch lying unconscious in a pool of blood and no sign of William. Then she’ll know. She’ll realise then that she wasn’t mistaken. She’ll know that someone is running away with William – will she realise it’s me, though?
How long have I got?
Before the police are called?
Five minutes, ten?
Thing is, there are coppers. Dotted here and there among the crowd. I’ve got to hurry. Once the word’s got round, they’ll all be on the lookout for a man with a little boy.
I’ve got no more than ten minutes to get to the car and away.
Have to hurry, no time to lose. God be with me, please.
28
6.52pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Rick, helped by the St John Ambulance men, struggles to sit upright. He groans and touches his forehead, looking at the smear of blood on his hand.
“Just stay still for a minute. Gather your thoughts,” says the older of the two ambulance men. “We’ve called for help and someone’s gone to find a policeman. Just sit quietly and get your breath back.”
Rick feels on the ground around him, searching instinctively for something. He winces in pain, feeling as though part of him, at least on the left side, is broken.
One of the ambulance men hands Rick his glasses. “Smashed, I’m afraid. Do you have a spare pair? Just hold on now, someone will be coming very soon.”
Rick takes the glasses and tries to focus on the broken lenses and twisted frame. One of the lenses has a small but perfectly formed blob of blood in the middle of it. He touches his forehead again, puzzling about the blood and how it has got on his head from the glasses.
He looks up at the crowd that is gathering around him, making sympathetic sounds and noises.
“They made off that way,” says an elderly woman. She points. “Along the beach towards Thorpeness.”
“I didn’t see them,” says a burly man, “ . . . they’ve left him in a terrible state.”
“It’s what comes of letting them drink all day long,” adds a third voice from within the crowd.
Rick knows he has to think of something. It is important, but he does not know what it is. He thinks it is a bad thing that he has to deal with straightaway. Something terribly urgent. He wonders for a moment if the thing is to do with the sharp pain in his side and up towards his chest when he moves.
“My heart?” He says suddenly, looking at the two St John Ambulance men. “Is it my heart?”
“You just hold on, old son. The ambulance is coming. You’ve been in a fight. Came off the worse for wear. Just you wait.”
A fight? Why would he fight? He has never fought, not since his schooldays anyway. Playground scraps, that’s all. He tries to make sense of what they are saying to him. Needs to understand why people are standing around, staring at him with a mix of curiosity and pity. He has to remember.
“We’ve called for an ambulance, but it may take a while to get here through the crowds,” echoes the younger of the St John Ambulance men. “So you just sit and wait until it does. And the police are coming as well. Someone’s gone to fetch a policeman.”
The men are talking to him, but slowly. As if he is ill or something. He struggles to remember what it is he needs to think about. What it is he has to do. There is definitely something that he must do, and right now.
He tries to stand on his feet and gets as far as going onto his knees. He reaches for the ambulance men’s arms as they move across to support him.
“Will you sit down please,” asks one.
“Will you wait a minute,” echoes the other.
Will.
Will.
Oh dear God, it is Will that he is meant to remember. That madman coming out of the night and punching him. The other men kicking him on the ground. The madman – that old familiar crazed face – turning to laugh as he hurried away with Will in his arms.
Rick pushes himself to his feet and screams, “Will . . .”
29
6.58pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“Sweeties?” he asks suddenly, “sweeties for Will?”
The little devil kicked off when we were about halfway across the green, just as we went by the Ferris wheel. He started up as he realised he wasn’t going to get a go on it.
(Well be sensible, how could I?)
We just kept on going, though, the little tinker getting more and more upset.
It began with a yell, almost indignant it was.
Still I kept moving, going faster and faster. I ended up barging my way through, pushing people aside in my haste to get away.
Then, God almighty, it turned into a high-pitched screech.
On and on it went, getting louder and louder the farther away we got from that fucking wheel.
Know what? He was causing a scene.
Something of a stink, you might say. People were turning and looking at us. Angry looks, from some of those I’d pushed aside. One or two shouted at us. One old man flailed his arms in our direction, gesticulating wildly because I’d banged into his stupid wife.
Still the little ’un kept wailing, with more and more people turning as we went on by. And not just looking but seeing and remembering us, that’s the thing.
(Well you would, wouldn’t you?)
“Ssshhh,” I kept saying, as loud as I could, “later, we’ll do it later.”
(Well I couldn’t think what else to say.)
Almost there, almost there, almost there to the high street.
“Sweets,” I tell him at last, pulling him up and bringing his head close towards mine so he can hear me clearly, “let’s get some sweets. What sweets do you like?”
What sweets do children eat these days? In my day, it was all blackjacks and fruit salads and pink shrimps. Those are what I ate.
“Smarties?” he answers, his hands going up in the air again in triumph. “Smarties?”
“Yes,” I say, “Smarties for William. I’ll give you some money to buy Smarties.”
Into the high street. It’s busy, but not as manic because people are standing and waiting for the parade. It’s where families march down the high street with lanterns and torches, down towards the funfair. I told you, didn’t I? Remember? Seven, maybe? They’re starting to move in now, away from the seafront and the funfair, lining the pavements to either side of the street, waiting expectantly.
“Here,” I say, turning and looking at William, “hold on to this. For sweets.”
His eyes light up, as he reaches and grabs the ten-pound note, squeezing it in his tightly closed fist.
“For sweeties? Sweeties for William?”
“Yes,” I say, “Now come on, we’ve got to go to the car, then we’ll get as many sweets as you can eat.”
We’ve got to walk along the high street almost to the other end to get to the road that takes us up towards the car. It’s late now, although some of the shops on either side of the road are still open.
And the streets are lined maybe two or three deep in places with people waiting for the procession to come by. It’s warming up, I can tell you. A definite buzz in the air, with lots of excitement for the coming procession.
I tuck my head down, hold William’s hand and start moving; got to be quick, no time to waste. No time at all. Won’t take us long, though, just to the end of the high street, cross over and up the hill to the car and away.
Keep my head down.
Moving quickly.
A dad in a hurry, on his way home for tea, that’s me.
It’s busy, but I’m going along nicely. Except the little one doesn’t walk in time with me; he isn’t hurrying at all. He’s doing some sort of skipping routine. And pulling his hand in and out of mine as he shuffles back and forth. Two steps forward, one step back. We’ve not got time for this, really we haven’t. Two steps forward, another one back. But he’s quiet and happy and he’s moving the right direction. So we’ll go with it. For now.
Not far, we’re moving well enough.
Two steps forward, one step back. Two steps forward, one step back.
And now he’s humming. God knows what. In fact, he’s singing to himself.
On we go. Not so far until we are off the high street, across and up that quiet side street and at the car and off and away. No one is looking at us. Nobody is taking any notice.
Piece of cake, this.
Easy-peasy.
Done and dusted.
So then he stands stock-still, the little man. And he’s staring ahead, with a look of concentration on his face. What the hell is he looking at? Is it her? I look up. The sister-in-law’s not there. No coppers. Nothing. Nobody at all. Just people, mums and dads and kids, all waiting for the procession to begin.
“Come on,” I say, chivvying him along. “Hurry up and we can get those sweets.”
“We?” he says.
“Yes, we.”
“We?” he says again.
We? We what?
“Come on,” I repeat, pulling his arm now, “we’ve got to get going, come on William, hurry.”
“We?” he says and then once more, this time more emphatically. “We!” And then I get it: not “we” but “wee”. He wants a wee right here and now, halfway up the high street. No time to waste, I lift him up.
“Come on,” I say again, moving forward into some sort of shuffling run as best I can with so many people now going back and forth across our path. “Nearly there, nearly there; we need to cross the road and then you can have a wee.” On we go.
On we go.
He’s quiet for a moment, as I move as quickly as I can behind the gathering crowds.
On we go.
On we go.
“Excuse me,” I say, dropping William to the ground and pushing my way through the crowd to cross the road. “Excuse me.”
They move, reluctantly, to let us through, not wanting to lose their position at the front of the pavement, the best view of all. William’s quiet, or at least I can’t hear him, as his head is down and it looks as though he is trying to keep on his feet.
Then we’re through the crowds and at the pavement and I can see, farther along and up to my left, ready to start, the long queue of the procession itself. A mix of mums and dads and children holding Chinese lanterns and torches that they’re waving about, lighting up the night sky.
The police are all down that end too. I can see three or four at the front of the procession, ready to lead it. And more, so far as I can see, to either side and stretching back, ready to contain the procession and stop it spreading and spilling onto the pavements as it moves along the route.
All we need to do is cross the high street – now – and get along and into the darkness of the side road. I step to the edge of the pavement, pulling William along behind me. Got to make this nice and calm and peaceful because, the thing is, the whole of the fucking high street, three or four deep to either side, is looking down towards the procession. Each and every one of those fuckers is going to see me and William cross the street. So it needs to look dead natural and ordinary, doesn’t it?
A normal dad just crossing the road with his lad, maybe nipping back home, just round the corner, so the tiddler can do his business. Then back out again to the procession and the fireworks.
Perfect. Who’d think anything else?
I pull William to his feet; I don’t want to snatch him up in my arms again as we cross just in case he cries or struggles and people look at us, and remember.
I take his hand in mine and he looks up at me and smiles. I look down at him and smile back. We’re okay, him and me. Big Dad and little lad, that’s us.
We step out into the open.
I turn my head to the left towards the procession, almost automatically, even though I know there’s no traffic there.
I turn my head to the right for a split-second, no traffic there either, of course.
I turn my head back automatically once more, look left again.
And then, above the chattering of the procession, the hubbub of the crowds and the noise of the funfair in the distance, I hear her again.
“William!”
That fucking woman.
Dear God.
I turn back to my right, I know she’s there, that she’s seen us, been following us, hunting us down, but I need to see how close she is to us. I need to know how long I’ve got.
One hundred yards away, that’s all.
And waving her arms in the air. The crowds turn to look at her.
“William!”
30
7.06pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
A small crowd stands watching as Rick, unsteady on his feet, is supported by the St John Ambulance men. He now faces the policeman who has come forward as the crowd shuffled to either side to make way.
“No, officer,” says Rick, his voice rising. “You’re not listening. My son, my adopted son, Will, has been taken by his biological father. Just now. He’s snatched him. You have to do something about it. Will’s in great danger.”
