The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 24
And at the old woman.
And comes to a decision.
71
6.02pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I need to think through a new plan.
Give me a minute, why don’t you?
I have to get my thoughts straight.
I daren’t risk taking this car back on to the A12 to Thurrock and the coaches. That policewoman on the seafront could have been radioing the car details through to CID when I swung the car around. And the other policewoman in the car park – alive or dead now, I don’t know – may have done the same. And there’s Veitch; he knows what I’m driving.
All the coppers for miles around will have the car, the colour and the number plate. Could I tear off the plates? That’s an automatic police chase in my book. No, I need to be cleverer than that. I’ve got to out-think them.
I lean across and give William a playful shove with my elbow. He pulls away, looking up at me. He has a white-faced look about him that I hadn’t noticed until now, like he’s dead tired. I wink at him to be cheerful, so he knows we’re going to have some fun. It’s me and him now. All the way until we get to France.
“The wheels on the bus,” I sing, encouraging him to join in with me. I repeat it and then carry on the tune. “The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round, the wheels on the bus go round and round, all day long.” The little chap seems to be trying to focus on me.
He’s smiling now, a bit anyway I think. He loves his daddy.
Know what? I’ll do some special effects.
“Here we go again, William, come on, join in . . . the wheels on the bus go round and round (circular motion with my left arm), round and round (do it again), round and round (fuck me, it’s tiring), the wheels on the bus go round and round (I do it again), all day long.”
William tries to move an arm back and forth.
Not sure what that’s meant to be.
Will try something else.
“The dog on the bus goes woof woof woof, woof woof woof, woof woof woof, the dog on the bus goes woof woof woof, all day long . . . again, William, come on, join in.” We try it again . . . “The dog on the bus goes woof woof woof, woof woof woof, woof woof woof, the dog on the bus goes woof woof woof, all day long.”
“Woo . . .” goes William, eventually. A bit half-heartedly to be honest.
“Woof woof,” I go, leaning towards him and pretending to bite. He’s got it, even if he is a little sleepy. We’re off and singing.
As I sing different songs, my mind runs through the various options. I can try and drive the car all the way to Thurrock via the back lanes. We can drive to the nearest town, tuck the car out of the way somewhere and try to get hold of another. We can go to a big town, hide the car in a back street and maybe see if we can get a coach first thing to London where we’ll disappear into the crowds.
“Itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout.” God almighty, what’s next? (no idea).
“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.”
Can I take the back lanes all the way to the coaches at Thurrock? It has to be sixty or seventy miles, surely? An hour or so on the main roads, three to four hours at least, going round in circles, on these back ways. I doubt I could do it. I certainly couldn’t do it without getting lost. It’s south, I know that, but that’s about it. I don’t even know if it’s this side of the Thames or the other. Either way, I would have to go on a main road somewhere and the car would be picked up by the CCTV cameras straightaway. The coppers will be keeping watch, no doubt about that.
“I’m a little teapot, short and stout.
“Here’s my handle, here’s my spout.
“Lift me up and pour me out.
“I’m a little teapot, short and stout.”
Can I drive to the nearest town, park in the back of beyond and try to steal a car? It would be close to impossible to break into one without drawing attention to myself. But if I found one with the doors left unlocked? That’s unlikely.
Ainsley, back in the annexe, once told me – for what seemed like hours, on and on, as he twitched and gibbered and stumbled over his words – how to hotwire a car, firing it up if you didn’t have a key.
But I can barely remember what he said, much beyond ripping off the cover behind the steering wheel to get to the wiring. What then? How do you find the two wires to be stripped back and joined together from a tangled mass of wiring?
“Hickory dickory dock.
“The mouse ran up the clock.
“The clock struck one and . . .” (Bollocks, I’ve no idea.)
“William sing?” I say (I don’t know how these old songs go much beyond the first line or two). “What would you like to sing, William?” He’s quiet for a moment or two, thoughtful, like. I’m not sure if he heard me or whether he is going to do anything.
He looks car sick again so I give him a minute or two, gently encouraging, until eventually he starts moving his lips. He’s so quiet that I can barely hear him. I lean forward, trying to make out the words or the tune. I can’t hear what he’s singing to start with, the words don’t make sense, and there’s no tune that I can hear. Then he puts his finger carefully into his mouth and makes some sort of spluttering sound. He then says “pop”.
What the hell is that about?
I lean in closer.
He stops and looks at me.
“Go on, William, go on.” But he doesn’t, he looks instead down into his lap and it’s as if he is somehow disappointed in me. It’s as though I have let him down. I wrack my brain trying to think of a song that ends with children making a popping noise.
My mind – like I’ve nothing else to worry about right now, for fuck’s sake – runs through all the nursery rhymes I can remember from my childhood. We sit there for three or four minutes driving along quietly – another mile or two away from the coppers and closer to freedom – before it strikes me what it is. I’m not sure of the exact words but I sing it anyway for my little William.
“Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle.
“That’s the way the money goes.
“Pop goes the weasel.”
William tries to make a popping noise, his finger pulling at his cheek.
“Again?” I ask. I do it slower this time, singing the words – right or wrong – carefully and clearly so that he can join in. I’m not sure that he does; he just seems to be moving his lips.
“Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle.
“That’s the way the money goes.
“Pop goes the weasel.”
I shout “pop” to make him chuckle but he does not respond, tired again now. I show him how to make a proper popping noise with his mouth rather than saying “pop”. I mime hooking my finger into my cheek and pulling it out to make a “pop”. William tries, bless him, his fingers – at least two if not three – slipping wetly out of his mouth each time. I give up. “Pop,” I say.
I look at him and smile contentedly.
72
6.10pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
“Nat, oh Nat.” Rick sits in the driver’s seat of their car, cradling the young woman’s head in his hands. “He’s got away, Nat, can you hear me, my love? Orrey, with William. I couldn’t stop him. I tried. I did my best,” he whispers.
He brushes aside the hair that has fallen across her face. Then he dabs gently at the blood on her forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
He’d been driving too fast, too angry, trying to get close enough to push the bumper of the car in front, to nudge it again and again, harder and harder, forcing it to stop.
But Orrey never would; why should he?
He ought to have tailed him, just kept him in sight, made sure he didn’t get away.
Got Nat to call 999 while they followed him; could have got police cars in place, roadblocks, to force him to a halt.
That’s what he should have done. Left it to the professionals. Not tried to do it all himself. Wanting to be a hero for his wife and son.
He has failed them both.
Too late now.
Orrey has gone. Will too.
He has to hope that his mother is right, that letting them get away is best, rather than forcing Orrey into a corner. He is his biological father after all. He must hold on to that uneasy hope.
Just the two of them left now, for the time being anyway, him dazed and shaken, her unconscious.
He looks down at his wife.
Alive.
But bloodied and damaged somehow.
There is something about her. He is not sure what. He cannot tell. But it feels as though something is not quite right.
She is still and she is breathing. But it is laboured. He does not like the way her breaths make a rasping noise, as if reaching for something, then stopping and starting again, after a moment’s silence, as if straining for even more air.
He looks up, out of the car. The other car driver, now less aggressive, has retreated to his own vehicle. He sits there, fiddling with his mobile phone, waiting for the police and the ambulance he’s called to arrive. Where were they? He wants to be on his way.
Other people have gathered, half a dozen men and women, out of cars that were queuing, waiting to pass, at either end of the crashed cars.
“Just sit there and the ambulance will be here in a minute. We’ve moved our cars to the verges so they can get to you,” one woman offers reassurance.
“You should lay her flat, not hold her at an angle like that, give her a chance to breathe clearly.” says a man.
Another, older man, leans further in. “It’s been years since I did first aid training at work, but, if you don’t mind me saying, your wife’s head is at a very strange angle to her neck.”
Rick looks down at his wife again, beyond her cut and battered face.
He runs his hands over her neck and shoulders. Is it broken? Her neck?
Can you die from that, he wonders suddenly?
Rick tries to speak, to answer, but is choking on his words. “We . . . Nat and me . . . we . . . were chasing our son.” He stops.
He has a terrible sense of realisation. Is his beautiful, darling wife now dying in his arms?
“Nat . . .” he sobs, “oh, Nat . . .”
73
6.32pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
Me and sweetpea drive on in silence now, both of us exhausted. I don’t know how far we’ve driven, by fields and farmhouses in this flat and desolate place, but we’ve yet to see any cars driving towards or behind us.
Know what?
We’re safe, for sure.
Together at last.
Whenever the road splits in two or reaches a crossroads, I take the one that takes us southwards, towards Thurrock. All I know is we’ve got away and, if I’m careful, there is nothing to stop us now. Nothing at all. No police cars in these back roads. No helicopters flying above. All we have to do is keep going.
Five, ten minutes later, I can sense William is a little restless. He’s moving a bit. Wee? Poo? Not yet, little man, not just yet. I want to get as far as we can.
I distract him by singing. “The daddies on the bus (I’m thinking quickly alright?) go ho ho ho (I shake like Father Christmas), ho ho ho (I do it again), ho ho ho (why did I start this?). The daddies on the bus go ho ho ho (I do it again), all day long.” Next, I do mummies who chatter.
(I thought he might get upset at the mention of Mummy but he does not seem to have thought about that one.)
Then, and I have enough to keep us going for a while, we can do cats, birds and monkeys (well it’s not meant to be realistic is it?).
I have, while all this is going on, worked out what we are going to do.
Taking this car on a main road – with police cars, CCTV cameras and what have you – is too risky.
Trying to get another car – short of using violence, which I cannot bring myself to do again with my little lad beside me – is out of the question.
So we are going to drive to the nearest big town, leave the car in a tucked-away street and get a coach to London. I still have cash and a card, remember – 1106, that’s the number. It will be easier to disappear into the crowds in the city and I think there may well be coaches from Victoria station that take us all the way to Disneyland in Paris.
Ipswich, Woodbridge or Felixstowe?
I slow to read a sign.
Not much more than thirty minutes now, I reckon.
We’ll hole up somewhere for the night; sleeping in the car is too risky. Then we’ll make our way to the nearest bus station for six or seven. That’s about the time they’ll run buses down to London. Arriving by eight-thirty for people to get to work or have a day out doing some shopping and a trip to the theatre before getting the return coach at half-ten or eleven.
“The donkeys on the bus . . .”
(Yes, I know, but we’ve covered most farm and zoo animals now.)
“ . . .eee-aaw, eee-aaw.”
On and on we go.
Down long and endless lanes.
By mile upon mile of fields.
Another crossroads, almost identical to the last. I’ve the same three choices again. Ipswich. Woodbridge. Felixstowe. All sound like big towns to me, big enough to run a daily coach service to London anyway. I slow to check the distances. Ipswich is the closest. We’ll head for that. I check all ways are clear – again, no people, no traffic, nothing overhead – and accelerate smoothly away.
Ten miles, that’s all.
Not long now.
And then the car, moving slowly, starts to cough and judder.
I look at the dashboard, leaning forward to see it clearly between the spokes of the steering wheel. Shit, I’d forgotten all about that. The car has fuck-all petrol left. The gauge now sits stubborn and unyielding below zero.
The car jerks and judders a little way further as I press my foot down on the accelerator to try to get as far along the road in it as I can.
Not far.
Maybe I should have eased off the accelerator instead.
No matter now.
The car comes to a halt. We’re stuck – in the middle of fucking nowhere.
74
8.27pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking now.
Nor how far.
Two hours? I’ve near enough carried William the whole fucking way.
Not much longer.
To a town.
I left it where it was, the car, on that back road between endless rolling fields. Nowhere to hide it. We – me walking, my little boy in my arms – doubled back as quickly as we could to the crossroads to take a new road towards one of the other towns. If the car is seen – when the car is seen – the coppers will put two and two together and move off towards Ipswich. We, in the meantime, are now moving in another direction.
At first, I tried to make William walk alongside me. I started singing the wheels on the bus again, but the little fellow stumbled and fell almost straightaway. I swooped and picked him up in my arms for a cuddle but he pulled away from me.
After a brief struggle, we sat at the side of the road and I tried to feed him the last of the biscuits. But he didn’t want them. Before we set off again, he did a wee and a little bit of a poo and I cleaned him up as best I could.
I’ve been walking ever since, up and down the dark lanes, cutting through the fields now and then, heading ever south, but staying to the road when it seemed the straightest route.
I carried William with his head resting on my shoulder for a while. He seemed restless, though, not wanting me to hold him that way. I tried making him walk side by side again, but he didn’t seem to be able to manage it, and slipped over two or three times; every time I tried to make him walk, really.
I’d carry him again and we repeated this up-down, on-off process for what seemed like miles until eventually he fell asleep. I then alternated between carrying him upright against my shoulder and horizontally across my chest.
I stopped twice, taking cover the first time behind a spread of trees when I saw car lights in the distance some way ahead of us. I watched as they seemed to flicker and dart to and fro as they came towards us.
I held my breath as the lights dipped down out of sight into a valley and waited for them to come back up and reappear in the road right in front of us. I stood, five, maybe ten minutes out of sight, my darling boy stretched out tired and exhausted behind me, but the lights did not appear again.
I assumed the car stopped off at one of the farmhouses that I see now and again at the far end of the fields, accessed by single-lane tracks.
The second time, an hour or so later, was when I saw a small deer, not much more than a fawn on spindly legs, appear from a copse and run out into the road in front of us. I stopped and slipped William down onto his feet, shaking him gently awake. He struggled to come round, but then, as he stood there, his hand in mine, with both of us no more than twenty yards away, the deer stood equally still, watching us.
It seemed as though minutes passed, me holding my breath in this magical moment, until I foolishly pulled William’s hand and took a single step forward. In that instant, the deer raised its head, hot, misty breath steaming from its nostrils, and slipped silently away into the trees to our right.
After that, we sat a while, by a tree at the side of the road, waiting and hoping that the deer might return or that we might see others. Maybe a herd, led by a majestic stag. William, his weight against me, then seemed to roll forward until he was asleep with his head on my lap.
I could have stayed all night – I could have stopped here forever, died here together – with William asleep, with my arm around him and me leaning against the tree. It was if we were the only people in the world.
But I knew, deep down, we could not stay long, no more than a few minutes at most. If we were to fall asleep and wake up in the morning, it would give the police another eight or nine hours to find us. It is only a matter of time before they come down this road.
If we stayed there a while, we would not have time to get into the nearest town and get on an early morning bus into London. So we stopped for maybe ten or fifteen minutes more and then carried on our way.
