The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 17
He’s a cute child.
I move a little down the bed, just getting myself comfortable, settled into place as close to him as I can get.
I’ll just sit here and mull things over for a while.
Know what? I love him. Truly I do.
43
11.10pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
The little boy is awake and restless. He is thinking about his mama. Sometimes at night he wakes up, just as he’s done now, and he sees her looking down at him.
He would pretend to be asleep.
And she would bend down close to him, her hair brushing against his forehead.
He could feel the sweet smell of her breath upon his face.
And he would open his eyes as she kissed him gently.
“Night night, Will.” . . . “Night night, Mama,” he would try to answer as he faded back into sleep.
The little boy wishes his mama was here now.
But he knows too that he has to be brave, what his mama calls her “brave little soldier”.
He has to be happy and smile and say “please” and “thank you” and not be naughty or a nuisance or anything like that to whoever is looking after him.
He has been looked after by other people many times while his mama was working and he knows it is never for very long. He does not know what it is that she does when she goes up into the attic. Work, she calls it. But he knows it is important and that he has to be good for whoever is with him.
He used to like Frances best. He could never quite say the name and it came out as “Fwances” and she would laugh and make him say it again and again. She lived over the road and would sometimes take him back there to her bedroom where she would put make-up on him and tickle him until it hurt. But she went away to a place called Cambridge and he had not seen her for ages.
There was an old lady who looked after him as well. He did not like her so much. Her house smelled funny and she would make a fuss of him and keep dabbing at his face with her handkerchief every time he ate, or sneezed or licked his lips. She could not leave him alone. Not for a single minute.
He has never been looked after by a man before. A stranger. His mama said he must always be kind and polite to strangers but that he should not talk to them. He does not really know what she meant by that. But this man – he has a scary face and a gruff voice – seems to know him and his mama and his papa and he is trying to be nice, or so the little boy thinks.
But he does miss his mama.
And he hopes, very hard, that she will be here soon.
So he shuts his eyes and tries to sleep. He imagines she is here, just outside the door, waiting to come in and look down at him as he sleeps.
That he will feel her hair on his face and smell her sweet breath.
Any moment now.
He just has to lie here and pretend to be asleep. And be a good boy.
44
11.42pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
It’s actually not that easy to sleep, I’ll tell you that for nothing.
My nerves are all on edge.
I’m constantly listening for noises outside, the opening of a gate. A key in the door. A footstep on the stairs.
But I have to sleep.
Must have been awake on and off for the best part of three hours, I reckon.
If I don’t sleep now, I’ll be no good in the morning.
I have to recharge my batteries, build myself up for whatever’s coming tomorrow.
He doesn’t help.
The boy.
Fidgety, he is.
Whenever I try to slip myself under the duvet, to keep myself warm, he wakes up and starts wriggling.
If I pull him close for a cuddle, he pulls away.
He’s not quite the sweet little boy he was a while ago.
Don’t get me wrong. I love him. I’m just saying he’s not the perfect child I thought he was.
At one point, he sat up and looked around. Never said anything, just looked across the room, first one way, then the other.
I didn’t say anything, just waited for him to settle.
He didn’t. He looked over the room once again and finally said something. I couldn’t make it out. So I ignored him, hoping he would go back down in a moment or two. He didn’t. He said the word again, louder this time. He said it once more, as I was about to tell him to be quiet, and I realised what it was, Water.
He wanted a glass of water.
He was thirsty.
I pushed him down on the bed and told him quietly but firmly to stay there and not to move. He pulled away from me quite angrily, almost nasty he was.
I crept downstairs and got a glass of water from the kitchen.
He drank it.
Wanted more.
I got one more small glass for him and he drank it down just as fast.
We had what you might call something of a stand-off at that point. He wanted another drink. I needed him to lie down and go to sleep. It took a while, but he did as I said in the end.
Let’s just leave it at that.
Say no more on the subject.
Just leave it be and let me get myself back to sleep as quickly as I can.
45
12.23pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I awake with a jolt, sitting up straight and looking around me, my mind working out where I am, how long I’ve been asleep.
And what it is that woke me.
I know where I am. I realise straightaway. And I guess it’s now halfway through the night, maybe more. I don’t know what woke me up, though. That’s the thing.
I tense, listening for noise downstairs. Someone at the front door again? A copper – or was it a key in the door that woke me? I strain to hear footsteps in the hallway, the creak of the stairs, footsteps coming along the landing to the bedroom. A hand on the door.
No, nothing.
Back door? Was that the noise of the kitchen door swinging slowly open? Someone standing in the hallway, breathing quietly and listening intently? Someone who thinks maybe I am in the house. Wants to listen for me breathing deeply as I sleep. Are they waiting to hear me turn over, ready to be taken by surprise?
No, nothing.
I know what it was. I hear it again, awake this time, every nerve in my body strung out tight. The whoosh of brakes; just like the lorry I travelled in towards Nottingham in what now seems a lifetime ago. I slip out of bed, crawling on my knees across the floor towards the front window overlooking the street. Ever so carefully, I lift my head up, my eyes above the ledge, looking down.
It’s the TV people: Sky, BBC. Their lorries are here, moving in as close to the police cordon as they’re allowed, I reckon. They’ll be broadcasting the news to the whole world in the next few hours. All about what happened. Before I got put away. There will be pictures of me. William too, I expect. They’ll speculate about what I did when I escaped and at the woman’s house and tell the world I’ve snatched my little boy. All of it designed to shock and scare.
‘This man is dangerous (I’m not) and must not be approached by members of the public.’ ‘Madman on the loose’, that’s what the papers will put. ‘Child-snatcher’, possibly a child you-know-what, even though William is my own dear sweet little boy. And people will remember it all, see, especially round here and for miles about. Maybe right across the country.
I duck my head down from the windowsill, crawling back to the bed, slipping up next to William, who seems to be asleep at the moment. I have to think hard and fast, maybe act soon, if I have to. I need to work out what to do. Can I still sneak away as planned on Monday? Will the news people still be here? The police? A police cordon circling the whole fucking town by then?
I’m thinking, maybe this is actually a turn for the better.
Yes, really.
Work it through for yourself like I’m doing.
The coppers think I’ve gone. Face facts – they don’t let the TV people anywhere near a crime scene. That means they don’t think I am here. They think I have got away with the little lad. That’s why they’ve let the telly in; to let people farther away from here know what’s happening so that they will keep a lookout for me and sweet William.
But not round here, though.
Here, they think I’ve long gone.
And that’s not all.
The photo they’d have used of me would have been that old one. The one where I was all wild-eyed. With a beard and moustache. My hair swept back. Do I look like that now? No, you would not recognise me from that picture these days. Even less, if I can get this fuzz off my face before we leave.
And William? What photo will they use of him? There will be lots, I guess. The Veitchs would take pictures on birthdays, holidays and at Christmas. Yes, lots and lots to choose from. But a small lad like William? Well, their features are much of a muchness aren’t they, especially at this age?
Fact is, thinking about it.
And we are talking right here and now, after all.
This town is probably the safest place to be for the time being.
We can’t stay here, though. Not for ever. Not even for a few days. The longer we are in this house, the more likely it is we’ll be found out. The postman will deliver letters and maybe hear a little out-of-place giggle from William. A passer-by may glance up and see me walking by the front door. No, we can’t be here too long, safe though we are for a while.
We’re safe now.
But not for long.
Anything could happen at any time.
46
1.07am, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
The little boy is awake again and is thinking now about his papa. His papa would walk with him to see Frances or the old lady and would always say, “Be a good boy, Will.”
He has a deep, booming voice like the man in that cartoon on the telly.
Sometimes, William would pretend to be his papa and answer him with the same words and voice, “Be a good papa, Papa.”
And his papa would pretend to be cross, picking him up in his arms and swinging him round, high above his head and down below and he would squeal with laughter.
His papa could be stern with him at times.
But he makes him laugh too.
He thinks about his papa saying, “Be a good boy for this man,
Will.”
But he is not sure if his papa likes this man. He tries to remember exactly what it was that happened, but he is so tired he cannot think what it was for sure.
He thinks they shouted at each other and his papa fell over and banged his head and cut himself.
He has heard his papa arguing with someone before.
And his mama has been angry with people too.
It was when Frances and the old lady had not looked after him properly. He knows his mama had shouted at Frances about something. And his papa had been angry with the old lady because she had not given him the finger-tickle thing.
But this man has not made him have that.
And he has given him biscuits, lots and lots of biscuits.
So he thinks maybe he is a naughty man and that is why his papa would be unhappy.
He is not sure.
It is all so confusing.
He will have to think about it.
47
2.08am, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
Now he’s gone and wet himself.
William.
I knew he shouldn’t have had any water.
I was trying to be nice and kind. It’s what dads do with their little ’uns. But he’s had too much. Far too much. Gone straight through him it has.
I didn’t realise straightaway.
Been nodding on and off, see?
Half of me wants to sleep, the other half needs to stay on guard. He got up by himself, William did, all as quiet as you like.
Something woke me as he walked to the door. Instinct, I guess.
I was up and off that bed in seconds flat, I can tell you.
It’s not safe, is it? At night. When it’s dark. Anything could happen to him. He might fall down the stairs. Get out the front door. End up halfway down the street.
I’d be fucked then, wouldn’t I?
Someone would be sure to see him. A copper maybe, patrolling these back streets.
They’d know who he is immediately.
Would only have to walk a few yards down the street, see the open door and bingo. There I am stretched out all sleepy, ready for the taking.
I grabbed William, asked him what he thought he was doing. You have to be firm with children at times like this. You can’t have them wandering about willy-nilly at night just as they fancy. It’s not right.
He struggled and squawked a bit but I shook him a couple of times, maybe three or four, and that seemed to stop the noise. I asked him again what he thought he was doing and he finally said the word ‘wee’; almost defiant, he sounded.
I took him into the bathroom just so he could do a little wee into the toilet and it was when I was helping him up and down with his pants and trousers in the dark that I felt the wetness and knew what he’d done.
I wasn’t happy, I can tell you.
He should not be wetting himself at his age.
But I never said anything because we need to get back into bed and sleep as best we can so we are fresh and ready for tomorrow.
I put his wet pants over a radiator to dry out a little and, after something of a struggle, I got him back into his trousers. They are damp but they’re a little loose so they can’t be that uncomfortable for him. And we got back into bed, him inside, me on top again and settled down.
But I’m not very happy.
No, I am not happy at all.
I don’t think I’ll be sleeping much more tonight if at all.
48
3.09am, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
Fuck, I must have nodded off again.
What the hell is that?
How long have I been asleep for this time?
I struggle back up, sitting upright and rubbing my eyes as the bedroom fills with the brightest light.
The air is full of a loud noise; I can’t place it for the moment.
Humming? Droning? Whirring?
Oh God, help me please, they’ve gone and found us. A neighbour, maybe a passer-by, must have looked up and seen me peering out at the news vans and reporters.
My thoughts clear as the lights and noise move slowly by. Thank God. For a few seconds, maybe longer, I thought I was in a police spotlight, trained on this house. That we’d been found. It’s actually a helicopter, most likely two, and they are sweeping their way over and above and along the streets and towards, I think, the far end of the town. They’re searching for me and the little lad obviously.
That’s good news if you think about it.
Just like I said.
They think we’re on the streets, out and away from the town.
They think they’re going to track us down – with spotlights, sensors, God knows what they have these days – as we flee.
But, guess what, fuckers?
We’re here.
Hidden away, safe as can be in this dinky little house.
Come Monday, when it’s all nice and dark and the circus has ridden out of town, we’ll go, picking up the car from along the seafront and driving away down the side roads by the sea to the coaches near Dartford, and away to Shangri-fucking-la.
Until then? A little snooze I think.
Just me and the little fellow.
I’m so tired, so very tired. But I know I really should try and stay awake, just in case.
49
4.11am, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
William is thinking about his little bicycle and is wondering where it is.
He saw his papa take it out to the car when they left home.
And he remembers his papa carrying it into the house with the lion on the door.
But he does not know if this man next to him now has it and whether he will get to ride on it soon.
He hopes this man has it.
But the man is so angry with him.
He knows he will have to be a good boy if he is to get a go on it.
William likes to think about riding his bike in Brockwell Park.
Papa would put his stripy helmet carefully on his head and do up the straps.
His mama would check they were nice and tight.
Papa would then help him onto the bike and make sure he was steady.
His mama would ask if his feet could touch the ground.
Papa would stand behind and put his hands on his back and push him along as he went faster and faster. Sometimes, his papa would push so hard that he could not move his feet fast enough on the pedals. His mama would call out to be careful!
Papa would then push a little slower and they would all laugh as he pedalled off down the slope with his papa and mama running after him.
Sometimes, the little boy imagined that the pedals would go very, very fast on their own and his legs would be all of a blur and the bike would take off and swoop and soar into the sky.
He’d look down as he flew above the lido and the café and the trees and far, far away over Chestnut Road where Charlie lived and into Rosendale Road where he’d wave at Julie playing in her garden and on until eventually he’d reach the park at Crystal Palace where he’d see all the statues of the dinosaurs.
He imagined them moving about, roaring up at him, but he’d be too high, even as he dipped up and down just as close to them as he could get. Round and round he’d go with the dinosaurs chasing him over and again until they all bumped into each other and fell down into a big heap.
Then he’d wave goodbye to them as he turned and flew for home and tea with his mama and papa. If he had been good, he knew he’d get a treat.
He loves his little bike.
And his mama and papa.
But he does not like this man at all.
50
5.35am, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
It’s been an arsehole of a night.
I don’t know how much sleep I’ve had.
Fuck diddly-squit, frankly.
When I got under the duvet, William seemed to wake up and struggle. When I lay on top of the duvet, I didn’t seem to sleep. Too cold.
