The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 15
It occurs to him suddenly, for the first time, that the place really is a dump. She has said it is, one way or the other, several times that day in an increasingly tetchy voice that gets on his nerves. He has never really seen it until now. And that, for some reason, angers him. He wonders how it could have got into such a state. How everything, his whole life really, has got as bad as it is. He wonders why he has not realised it until now.
“We’ll need to get the place warmed through a bit more by the time Richard gets back,” he adds, trying to ignore his sudden and unexpected surge of anger. “You can’t let a kiddie sleep somewhere damp. The cold’s not so bad that you can’t wrap up against it, but the damp will get on his chest. You can’t have that if he’s a diabetic, it could kill him. The damp.”
She looks at him scornfully.
“He’s diabetic because she’s not fed him properly. You only have to look at him to see how thin and scrawny he is. All this modern food and fuss and nonsense with injections. It’s all self-indulgence. Like all parents these days. They wrap them in cotton wool. She just likes the attention. They should throw that lot on the fire and start looking after him properly. Three square meals a day. Proper meat and vegetables. That’s what he needs.”
He shakes his head, exasperated. “It’s nothing to do with that at all,” he answers, his voice rising with anger. “Richard told you that, not her. He said it was just pot luck. Nothing to do with what they feed him or don’t feed him. It’s to do with insulin and blood sugar levels and all of that.”
He gets to his feet, swinging the axe in his left hand. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to chop some more wood.”
“If you can manage it,” she shouts, struggling to her feet to confront him. “I’ve a good mind to do it myself.”
“Do what?” He replies. “Chop some wood? That would be a first, wouldn’t it, you doing something useful for once? Sit down and drink yourself silly, leave me to sort things out for them.” He hesitates for a moment.
“Why don’t you take the bottle upstairs with you? Get out of the way before they come back. Richard said they’d be back by eight, for William’s checks. Go up now; I’ll say you have a migraine.”
“Not the wood,” she spits at him. “You chop wood and you don’t even do that properly, do you? The diabetic things. I’ve a good mind to throw them on the fire myself. It’s about time someone stood up to her, made her sort herself out.”
She looks across the room at the holdall in the corner. She has seen Nat take testing equipment from there and putting it back.
“Don’t you dare. Leave it alone. It’s nothing to do with us. Type one is a serious condition, that’s what Richard told us.”
She moves towards it, unsteady on her feet.
He switches the axe from his left hand to his right one.
“I said leave it.”
As he moves towards her, he hears a car, approaching the cottage at what sounds like high speed, spraying up gravel as it comes to a halt close to the front door.
38
7.40pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Neighbour?
Copper?
William!
It’s the little fellow himself – he’s sitting up and twitching and spluttering back to life.
Know what?
He blacked out.
That’s all.
His hands go up to his face and he rubs his eyes like he’s coming round.
I race across, sweeping him up in my arms and smothering him with kisses. I can’t help myself. I make lots and lots of “mwah mwah” noises each time I kiss him just like an ever-loving daddy would do.
He pulls his face back, focusing on me, uncertain, not sure where he is.
He’s just woken up, after all!
Most children would cry; but not my fine little lad.
“Hello, William, hello,” I whisper softly, and as lovingly as I can. “Do you want some sweets? Some really nice sweets?”
He takes a moment or two but then seems to know what I’m saying, nodding and smiling slowly as he comes to. It’s that magic word, ‘sweets’, you see. The hands go up in the air again, his little fingers closing triumphantly into fists like he’s won that World Cup.
That’s my boy!
“Come on, William,” I say quietly (I daren’t shout, after all). “Come on!” We move to the kitchen door, me ready with the key.
Opening it.
Moving inside.
Shutting it.
We’re safe, at last – at least for the time being. I need to look over these kitchen shelves and the fridge – I’ll open that for a moment for a little light - and the cupboards. There’s an old-fashioned larder too. I must find something to feed William. Keep him quiet and happy. I can’t risk him crying out with hunger – he might be heard. There’s a gap, thanks to the alleyway, between us and the house to one side, but the house to the other may be occupied.
The next-door house is dark and there were no signs of life when I looked up at it when I was outside. But who’s to say there’s not an old dear lying in bed who’d hear the little fellow crying? She’d soon be up against the wall, straining to hear if she’d imagined it or not. How are we going to spend the next forty-eight hours in this tiny terraced house without making any noise?
Not easy. No, not easy at all.
And then it hits me. What if there isn’t an old dear lying in the dark next door?
But what if there is in this one?
What if she’s here, in this house, upstairs right now?
Say she looked out and saw me in the garden, heard me opening the back door and, while I am standing here deciding what to do, she is pressing 9 . . . 9 . . . 9 on the mobile phone her son bought her, which she keeps by the side of the bed at night just in case?
I’ve no more than seconds.
Dropping William to the floor, I’m racing out along the narrow hallway, turning back and up the stairs, onto the landing. I open one door. A small bathroom. Another, a spare room stacked full of boxes and half-open bags of household items. Third and final door, the front bedroom. A double bed.
No one here, thank Christ.
I sit down on it.
Fuck, he’s yelled out. William, the little ’un, back downstairs. A sudden yelp of pain. Something’s happening and if there’s anyone next door, awake or asleep, or someone passing by on the street, they’ll hear him. Sure to if he does it again.
I’m up off the bed and back down the stairs.
Doubling back into the kitchen.
Hands over his mouth, he has to be quiet, no matter what.
Somehow, he’s opened the fridge and the door’s swung back and trapped his hand. He’s struggling, determined to free himself. I pull his hand out, holding him tight, one hand over his mouth again as I stand there, straining to listen for sounds next door or outside on the street.
“Be quiet,” I whisper urgently as he wriggles in my arms. “Stop it, William.”
He wriggles harder now as if he’s fighting me, desperate to be free; if I let go, I know he will shout out long and hard and everyone, next door and outdoors, the whole fucking world, will hear. Then we’re well and truly shafted. That will be the end of it. I’ll go down all guns blazing, though, I’ll tell you that now. Listen to me. Heed my words.
Holding William as tightly as I dare with my right arm, hand over his mouth, I pull the fridge door open again with my left. Sweet FA in it; no one’s living here at the moment. At least, not on a day-to-day basis. There are just leftover bits and pieces in the fridge.
A tub of margarine and yoghurts.
“Look, William,” I say, “Yoghurt, strawberry yoghurt!” I reach for a tub, pushing it in front of his face so he can see. He focuses, thank God, and smiles. I loosen my grip on him, ever so gently at first, ready to clamp my hand back tight again if he makes the slightest sign of calling out.
“Spoon?” he says. “Spoon, please.”
I fumble around as fast as I can, find one in a drawer and sit down next to him. Handing the spoon to him, I get a chance to listen.
No sound from next door.
Nothing from the back.
Will check the front in a minute, I need to get my breath.
Know what this is? I reckon it’s a second home and a couple from London has bought it recently and is now starting to move some bits and pieces in. That would account for the bed – it’s got pillows, a sheet and a duvet on it – and the snacks and stuff in the kitchen. And the boxes and bags in the spare room; those might be full of bric-a-brac and household knick-knacks but could be useful for spare clothes, maybe a shaver and even some things I can change into as well.
William stretches up, holding the pot towards me. He has a puzzled look on his face. What’s the fucking matter, William? (I think this, of course, I don’t say it – nice dads like me don’t say that sort of thing, not to little ones anyway.)
“What?” I say, nicely. “What’s the matter?” I try one of my cheeky grins; that should do the trick. Is it sweets he wants, is that it? I’m not going to say “sweets” and that’s a fact. If I say that word and there aren’t any in the house – and there won’t be, I don’t think – it might make things tricky. He might get restless and noisy.
And then what will I do?
You tell me.
He has to be quiet. No matter what.
It’s the lid, stupid. The yoghurt pot still has the lid on it. I didn’t peel it back and he can’t do it himself with his little fingers. Clever boy though he is – like father, like son – I guess he doesn’t know the word ‘lid’ yet either.
I open his yoghurt for him, make some soothing noises and then start rummaging through the cupboards, just to see what’s in them. I’m feeling rather hungry myself now and, if we can find sweets, or anything like them, maybe a banana or something, that will come in handy later for keeping William quiet.
What we need to do, thinking about it carefully – rationally, if you like – is simple. We gather up whatever we can find to eat, take it upstairs to the front bedroom, and sit quietly in bed together and eat it all up. Once we’ve done that – and I know the little fellow will probably need a wee and a whatsit too – we settle down for the night and have a good sleep.
Tomorrow?
We’ll worry about that in the morning.
I’ll think of something for sure.
Two nights here should do it, to let things blow over, with us leaving when it gets dark on Monday evening.
William has finished eating and has what looks like a big blob of strawberry yoghurt on his chin.
I crouch down, “William, you’ve missed a bit”, and I point to my chin and then to his. He touches his face, somehow smearing the blob all over his cheek. He then pulls his hand away and looks at it.
Little tinker.
It’s all over his chin, his face and his hand now.
Messy devil.
“Wait, William, wait,” I say, turning to the larder that’s behind me, just by the back door. I open that – nothing to drink, not even orange squash, so we’ll have to have tap water when we get thirsty. Not much to eat either. Two packets of biscuits, a big bag of crisps and a pack of cream crackers won’t keep us going for long. Down below, there are some cleaning items, including a roll of kitchen paper, in a bucket.
“Fingers,” I say, pulling him up and onto his feet, “give us your fingers, William, I’ll wipe them.” Again, I make soothing noises. That’s what you have to do with little people, you know – the ‘kiss it better’ routine as you clean them up.
Suddenly, I hear the sudden revving of a car out in the street; sounds like it’s down to the right and coming up the hill, towards the woman’s house. Another police car? More CID? Beat bobbies? I can’t help thinking that the police are starting to pull things together at last.
No time to waste.
“Here, hold these,” I say to William, tearing open a packet of biscuits and handing it to him with the crackers from the cupboard. He drops one packet, reaches for it and then drops the other as well.
Do I have to do everything myself?
I pick up the biscuits, pulling two out and pushing them into his hands, then turn and shut the larder door.
“This way,” I whisper to William, “follow me.” I shuffle to the door and out into the hall.
“Come on, William, hurry up.”
He’s not following me. He’s still in the kitchen.
I turn back, standing in the doorway.
He’s sat back down on the floor, cross-legged, with the biscuits in his lap. He looks up at me with a big beaming smile, his mouth full of chewed-up, mushy biscuit. He’s pushing the mush through his teeth with his tongue, like he knows he’s being cute.
It’s hard not to laugh, despite everything.
What a sweetheart.
As cute as a button, he is.
I put what I’m carrying down on the floor, neatly as I can, just outside the kitchen door – I’ll come back downstairs for them later, when William is settled. I take a step forward and pick William up in my arms. He holds on tight to the biscuits.
Letting go of those, little William?
No fear!
I’ll have trouble getting one of them for myself, and that’s a fact.
We step into the hall. It’s long and narrow, with the stairs in front of me to my left, doubling back above my head towards the bathroom.
Living room door to my right – we’ll leave that for now as the front window will overlook the street. Too risky. Too dangerous by far.
The front door is at the other end of the hallway. Wooden, old-fashioned and with two strips of coloured glass at either side. You can make out all sorts of patterns in it. When I was small, we had something similar, but religious-looking. Fire and brimstone it was. Mother said the devil was moving about in it and watching me.
This glass is exactly the same. Like it has a life of its own. As I turn my head to one side, it kind of changes shape, shifts a little. As if it mirrors my movements. I bring my head up straight. The glass stays the same. I move my head to the right this time. Again, the glass stays as it was. Odd. I must have imagined it. I bring my head back up straight again. This time, the glass moves on its own, to the left and back up.
I realise what it is.
A man on the doorstep, shuffling about. A copper. I can see the dark outline of his helmet. He’s ten feet away from me and William.
He moves again.
Rings the doorbell.
“Anyone in?”
39
7.49pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
I freeze, facing the front door, little William in my arms, his back to it.
Whatever I do, I cannot move. If I can see the copper’s outline swaying from side to side, he will see me and William if we make the slightest movement.
There’s a second or two of silence.
The copper waits for a reply.
Nothing. Well, what do you expect?
William has his head down, is focusing on chewing his biscuit. He has both hands holding tightly onto the packet. I look at him, willing him not to move.
He’s humming happily.
William.
Wheels on the bus.
He starts to move, ever so slightly. He’s sitting on my crossed arms, rocking his bottom back and forth in time with what he’s humming.
Can the copper see William moving?
Hear him?
I can’t move a muscle.
I have to just stand here and hope. If I were religious, this is the moment I’d start praying.
Another second or two’s silence.
Other than William’s gentle rocking and humming.
If the copper pushes his face up against the glass, peering through, we’re certainly fucked.
If he crouches down and opens the letterbox to look in, we’re definitely fucked.
If the copper does anything but move away, now, right now, we’re well and truly fucked.
You see, William’s finished his biscuit. He lifts his head. Looks at me. Opens his mouth to show me. The mush, leastways most of it, seems to have gone.
William makes an “urr” noise, at the back of his throat. Like he’s just realised he’s finished it and really, really wants another.
I daren’t say anything.
Can’t even nod.
What do I do?
All I can do is look at him eye-to-eye, then drop my gaze down to the packet of biscuits in his hands. I do it again. Eye-to-eye. Drop gaze to biscuits. Once more. Eye-to-eye. Drop gaze to biscuits. Got it, William? (Take another fucking biscuit for yourself, why don’t you?)
No use. He makes another noise at the back of his throat, and wiggles his bottom.
He’s about to make a louder noise now, one that will be heard.
And all I can do is stand here.
Just like the copper is doing on the doorstep.
A second passes.
William stops moving, looking at me as if he expects me to do something and do it now.
Another second.
The copper stands, no movement at all, on the doorstep waiting for a reply.
One more second.
William opens his mouth again, wider this time, showing me he’s eaten his biscuit.
And a further second.
Still the copper stands there, waiting, listening, for someone, maybe in bed, to get up and answer the doorbell.
A final second.
William shuts his mouth and opens it again.
The last second.
The copper moves, I can see the outline of his arm reaching up to ring the doorbell again.
William’s face contorts.
The copper is pushing at the front door, checking it’s secure.
William jumps, turning towards the noise.
I clamp a hand over his mouth, gripping him tightly with the other arm.
