The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 13
“If you’ll just wait a moment, sir, I can take a statement.”
“There isn’t time for that, really there isn’t. My wife and I, his aunt, adopted Will after his mother died . . . was killed by his father, actually. You see, his biological father, he’s dangerous. He’s been certified and sectioned because he’s a menace to the public. He’s just got him, Will, and he’s run away with him.”
Rick can hear the panic in his voice and knows what he is saying sounds nonsensical. He tries to appear calm and more rational, talking steadily, explaining himself.
“So this man – the biological father, you say – is he the one you’ve been fighting with?”
“No, I’ve not been fighting with anyone. I was behind the hut so my son could go to the toilet when his father came and knocked me down and these squaddies then started kicking me. It was only when these ladies here saw what was happening that they stopped and ran away.”
“And why would they do that, sir? These squaddies. Why would they set upon you like that?”
“Listen . . . because . . . his father told them I was, look, he said I was a paedophile and they believed him. My son’s a type one diabetic so we need to find him quickly. He needs help, constant checks . . . injections.”
“I’ll report it to the duty officer now sir and he’ll pass it straight on to the CID team on duty. Meantime, we need to get you down the station and take a proper statement from you. Get those cuts and bruises seen to as well.”
Rick lunges forward, his arms pushing at the policeman’s shoulders. The policeman steps back as the two St John Ambulance men hold on to Rick’s arms, pulling him away.
“You’re still not listening to me,” shouts Rick. “Will’s in terrible danger. You need to alert all the police round here, right here and now on the streets. Not some duty officer sitting miles away in some office. His father’s mad . . . and dangerous. I’m telling you. And Will could go into a coma if he’s not looked after. Why won’t you just do something to help? For God’s sake.”
The policeman reaches for his radio and turns away as he starts talking. Rick hears snatches of what he is saying,
“ . . . send a car . . . paedophile . . . seafront toilets.” Rick lets out a cry of anguish.
31
7.07pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
I drag William up into my arms, high against my shoulder. I swing him round to my left, so I’m between him and that woman down the high street.
I smile at him, pretending to be talking, acting natural.
All the time, I’m thinking, be calm. I can’t lose control, see? I can’t rush, break into a run, making it look like I’m trying to run from that screaming fucking woman. Someone will grab me, pull me to the ground, stop me getting away. I couldn’t bear it, not now. Not now I’ve got him.
“William!”
Christ, there she goes again. What’s she doing? Is she standing there pointing at me? Is she running? Is she racing towards me?
I daren’t look. Mustn’t turn around. I’ve got to act natural. Make it seem as though I haven’t heard her. That she’s nothing to do with me. A nut, that’s what she is. A drunk, maybe. Someone who’s not worth a second glance. Not by me anyhow. I’m just a normal dad out and about with his little fellow.
I’m out now, off the pavement, away from the crowds behind me, almost halfway across the high street.
“William!”
She’s done it again.
Mustn’t look to my right.
I just mustn’t.
I can’t lose him now, I really can’t.
Got to focus on the crowds in front of me, lining the other side of the street.
They’re now looking to my left, towards the procession.
They’re not looking the other way, towards the sister-in-law.
They must all think she’s some sort of drunken slapper, I’m sure of it.
William?
William?
It’s my imagination, an echo in my head, playing tricks. I’m waiting for it. Waiting for the next cry. But I can’t hear her, nothing at all, she’s gone quiet.
William?
William?
Imagination again.
I mustn’t turn.
I just mustn’t.
Really, I can’t.
What’s she doing? Right now? Is she coming ever closer, fifty yards away now?
Is she about to run at me?
Is this how it’s going to end?
Brawling in the street, fighting for the little lad?
Suddenly, making me jump, the noise of the procession starts. A band, some sort of fanfare. Oompah. Oompah. Oompah.
A great roar goes up from the crowd. They’ve all turned now, each and every one of them, to my left, watching the procession. They’ve forgotten about the stupid woman.
They’re taking no notice of me either. No fucking notice at all.
Something and nothing, that’s what they’re thinking.
Even so, I can hardly breathe. I daren’t look. Every nerve in my body is tensed, waiting for her to throw herself at me, bringing me down, wrestling with me for William, fighting for his life.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I cry out (I can’t help myself), pushing my way through the crowd on the other side of the street. People move, irritated and slow, far too slow, out of my way, their eyes fixed on the procession coming towards them.
I’m in the crowd.
I’m moving through.
I’m out the other side.
I’m walking quickly, half running, by the back of the crowd, along the pavement, up to the road that takes me – us, me and William – to the car and away.
I know she’s behind me.
Somewhere.
That she’s coming and she won’t give up.
But I’m ahead of her. Well ahead of her really.
And getting farther away every second.
I’m moving along at a fair old pace (William’s weight permitting).
And think about it.
Just think for a moment.
Work it through in your head, like I’m doing.
She’s got to run down that high street, just as the procession is coming up it.
What’s she going to do?
She can’t exactly run headlong through the police, the oompah fucking band and three hundred or so mums and dads and kids, can she?
She’ll have to cut through to the side, come along the back of the pavement, like me.
But the crowds turn and follow behind the procession. I know, I’ve been here before. I’ve seen it happen.
So she’s going to have to fight her way through the oncoming crowd of hundreds; swimming against the tide, as it were. And a strong one at that. A tsunami, you might say.
Not easy at all.
Not when you’re panicking.
Not when half the town is lined up and moving against you.
And, I’ll tell you something else. (Christ, I’m slowing, this boy is heavy.)
She won’t know which way I’ve gone.
She saw me cross over, I’ll give you that.
She probably saw glimpses of me moving behind the crowds.
(I can’t keep up this pace, can’t carry him for too long.)
But she won’t know for sure which way I’ve gone off the high street. There are two alleyways along the high street, one at the start, another farther down, and these lead upwards to steps that take you to the road behind. And then there’s the little road I’m heading for at the far end of the high street, down near the town’s other fish and chip shop.
Perfect.
Just keep going.
Absolutely perfect.
I’m now in that little road at the end of the high street. I’m heading up the hill where we’ll reach the car and get away.
You know what? We’re safe. At last. I can feel it. Freedom. I can feel it in my bones.
I drop William down onto his feet again, taking his hand, and we start walking along together.
Briskly, mind. Just in case.
(And as briskly as you can when a cheeky chappie is doing that skipping-shuffling thing again.)
But walking, definitely walking fast.
(And now he’s humming and singing to himself as well, watching his shoes and making some sort of whooping noise in time with his footsteps.)
Still, he’s moving. And he’s forgotten about his sweets.
And somehow, he doesn’t seem to need a wee any more.
Magic, just magic.
It’s quieter now as we move steadily up the hill. It’s a different place, away from the mayhem of the high street and the seafront.
Me and Charlie Chuckles, we’re now walking in step and in time with each other. By one terraced house. Then another. Up the hill and away we go.
He’s humming and singing still and I’m trying to catch what it is, see if I know it, see if I can join in.
Wheels on the bus?
Round and round?
I know it. Bet you do too.
I join in, softly at first, shyly even – I don’t sing much, well, you don’t get much chance in the annexe, that’s for sure (and when we do, Sprake starts bellowing at the top of his tuneless fucking voice, which puts paid to it all almost straightaway). But, as we keep on walking, we’re singing together. Me and the little fellow. I keep trying to catch his eye, so I can smile at him encouragingly, but he’s in a world of his own, bless him, singing and skipping and shuffling along.
But we’re alright we are, proper alright. A real dad and his real son. That’s us.
Not far now.
We’re getting close and I stop walking, letting go of William’s hand to reach for the car keys in my pocket.
He stops too, still singing, then looks up at me and smiles.
A real butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, that’s what it is.
It certainly melts my heart, I can tell you.
“Disneyland,” I say, “how would you like to go to Disneyland? See Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck. And . . . (what the fuck’s the dog called?) . . . Goofy.” (Or is it Pluto?)
“Now?” he replies. “Now?”
“Yes,” I say, “come on, let’s go to Disneyland Paris right now. We’ll drive through the night.”
I sweep him back up into my arms, kiss him and pull him towards me, our faces brushing together. He struggles a little, pulling back, away from my face. Must be my beard, I reckon, maybe it tickles him.
I laugh, a little more loudly than I need to, just to reassure him. He looks alarmed, so I drop him back down to the ground. I’m not sure what to do next (well, I’m out of practice as a dad, aren’t I, be fair).
“Come on,” I say, finally, “let’s hold hands.” He seems happy enough to do that, so, with his little hand wrapped inside mine again, we approach the side road.
It’s quiet and there’s no one around.
And we – wait for it – come to the corner, almost skipping!
Well, I just start doing it on the spur of the moment really, knowing the little laddie won’t be far behind me when he realises what I’m up to.
But William stumbles and falls forward. I bend over, pulling him back onto his feet.
“There, there,” I go. “Come on, let’s skip to the car and go to Disneyland. We’ll be there by morning.”
He looks up at me again and smiles and I smile down at him.
Then we turn and start skipping.
On we go.
On we go.
We’re laughing now, the two of us, him and me.
Round the corner, we go.
Round the corner, we go.
It’s like a song, isn’t it, ‘Round the Corner, We Go’.
Round the corner, we go.
Round the corner, we go.
I stop, gripping William’s hand ever so tight.
I see up the length of the road stretched out ahead of me.
A police car at the far end.
And another police car closer to us.
Coppers on guard.
People in white suits and masks and white shoes going in and out.
The whole fucking shebang.
I knew I should have killed that nasty barking dog.
The woman’s house, our getaway car, everything, absolutely everything everywhere, is ablaze with lights.
It’s Wembley fucking Stadium on Cup Final day. And we’ve just walked out of the tunnel.
32
7.19pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
I turn instinctively, grabbing William as I do, ready to move back down the way we came, as fast as we can, before any copper or nosy neighbour looks round and sees us.
He struggles, not liking it, so I have to hold him firm and tight.
He has to be quiet. Dead quiet.
Else we’re fucked.
I put my hand over his mouth, pressing it as hard as I can against his lips.
God knows I don’t want to hurt him, he’s my little boy.
But he has to be quiet.
And he has to know he has to be quiet.
He looks at me, with tears in his eyes.
Or am I imagining it?
I can’t bear it.
I’m not imagining that.
“Ssshhh, ssshhh,” I go.
We have to be quick, making our way back down from where we came, hoping we can somehow cut our way through, away from the sister-in-law, and along towards the car park where I left that car from Nottingham. I have to hope no one’s put two and two together yet and I can use that to get away from here.
Fact is, it could work.
We still have a chance.
A good chance, I’d say.
I reckon they’d have found that Nottingham woman by now. They must have done. But maybe they’ve not yet joined up all the dots, so to speak, connecting me and her car with here and what’s happening now.
It’s quite a long line of dots, wouldn’t you say? Yes?
If we can get to that car and away, we can still make it to Disneyland, where dreams come true. I’ve got cash and I can get some petrol in an off-the-beaten-track petrol station. I reckon we can be at the Disney coaches in less than two hours from here, can lose the car by tucking it away at the back of the massive car parks there and be on a coach and off before the police have even pieced it all together.
We could do it.
For sure we could.
But we need to be fast.
And we need to act normal; that’s important, that is. You see, I don’t reckon the police and everyone around the house behind me will have worked any of it out yet. Not really. I think a neighbour must have heard the dog barking endlessly, would have knocked on the woman’s door, then looked through the window and called an ambulance. I should have moved her out of sight, I know that now. I didn’t think. A rare mistake.
So what?
So fucking what?
After all, what have they got?
They’ve the woman, that’s all. But she’s not talking, that’s for sure. I made certain of that. (Well, I had to, I had no choice. It wasn’t what I wanted.) There’s still nothing at this stage to link her with me and absolutely fuck all reason to think that a dad and his little ’un coming round the corner are anything but what they seem to be.
Out for some fun.
Just having a good time.
Enjoying a little chuckle together, as it were.
I’ve nothing to fear from this lot behind me. Police, forensics, neighbours? The whole fucking bunch of them wouldn’t even give us a second glance tonight. All we’ve got to do is just keep moving back down where we came from and start all over again.
It’s quiet.
It’s easy.
No trouble at all.
I slip William gently onto his feet and his head drops down. Okay, I know I hurt him. I know that better than anyone and maybe I was too hard. I have a heavy hand, everyone knows that. It’s common knowledge back in the annexe. “Issues”, that’s what that Fat-Arsed Eileen says I’ve got.
But I did what I did with William and I had no choice; you know why? You can’t have a child shouting and yelling, no matter what the reason, not when the police are around. The coppers will look up and, well, you can’t be too careful, can you? And, after all, that’s how I’ve got this far isn’t it – by being oh-so-very-careful.
Still, it gives me a moment or two to myself. You don’t get too much time to think when you’ve got children and that’s a fact. Any mum or dad knows that. I stop for a second, thinking. Coming down the hill, I now have several choices. Want to know what they are?
Think it through for yourself.
Go on.
Have a go for once, why don’t you?
There are three options. One, I can go back into the high street and along. That will be quiet now the procession has gone by and we can make our way quickly to the car; then again, the woman may be there. That could get very nasty. She’s not getting William back, I’ll tell you that for nothing. No matter what, he’s mine now. No one else will ever have him, I promise you that.
Two, we can push back on to the seafront and along by the Ferris wheel and funfair; that will be busier as everyone will be waiting for the fireworks to begin. We’ve less chance of being seen, but being so busy it will take us ages to get through.
And three? Our best bet is to cut down the alleyways behind the high street and near enough towards the car park; chances are, no one will see us along there and, if they do, we could say the little chap needed a wee. People don’t mind little boys doing that, do they? Down an alleyway?
The sister-in-law’s the thing, though. I can’t risk being seen by her. So the key question is this – where is she now?
Think it through again.
It’s not difficult.
Just apply some cold, hard logic.
Did she turn back when she lost me, making her way back through the crowds and back down to Veitch? Has she found him yet? All hell will break out when she does.
No.
Is she maybe wandering round the high street now that it’s empty, going from shop to shop asking if any of the shopkeepers have seen a sweet-faced, fair-haired little boy?
No.
Did she turn left off the high street, back towards the prom and the old fuckers’ cottage?
No.
She did none of those.
