The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 25
William has not moved a muscle for ages now, and seems to be fast asleep.
I can feel the warmth of his body, which seems heavier with each passing minute, against my stomach.
On and on I walk, slower and slower. I cannot walk much farther. At some point soon, I need to stop.
75
8.35pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
The little boy is trying hard to remember when he last saw his mama and what it was she had said to him. He thought she had been laughing but he was not sure.
He feels so tired.
It was something nice, what she had said, but he cannot recall what it was at all.
He cannot really think.
He tries again, as hard as possible, to remember because he misses his mama very much.
But he cannot do it.
He thinks about his papa instead, but that is not a happy thought. Papa had had an argument with this man with the staring eyes and there was a fight.
He did not like that.
The fighting was not like it was in Kung Fu Panda.
But he liked thinking about Kung Fu Panda a lot. His papa always called it Kung Poo Panda and that made him chuckle.
And his mama would tell his papa off. But sometimes she would chuckle too. He liked it when they all laughed and they would then have a tickling fight. That was fun.
He wants to see his mama again.
And his papa, soon.
He hopes that when he wakes up they will be here and papa will throw him high in the air.
He knows he has to be mama’s brave soldier until then and he will be.
He will be a good boy for this man with the torn face.
He has been on his own before with other people so many times and he knows he just has to wait until his mama and papa come back.
It could be any moment.
He has to be good until then.
But he really misses his papa and his mama.
Sometimes his papa would be away for a little while for something called work and his mama would look after him on her own.
And his mama had been gone for some time not so very long ago when she had had to go to hospital.
He did not really want a baby brother or sister.
But he remembers his mama crying. And his papa too.
So he tried to look sad. And he hugged his mama. That had made her cry even more.
Yes, he wants to see them again very much.
Hopefully, when he wakes up they will be here for him and they will have a tickling fight and they will all laugh.
And this man with the staring eyes and torn face will go away and leave them alone.
76
8.57pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
As the road eases slightly to the left and straightens, I see a house at the side of the road, or at least, I can see a light from an upstairs room, like the beacon of a lighthouse.
I walk on.
Ever closer.
Five hundred yards now, maybe three hundred?
I do not have the strength to take us much farther on foot but dare not stop and rest. I would fall asleep and that would be the end of us. This house may have a car. Has to, surely, this far out. One way or the other, that could be just what we need.
Have to try to break in.
Jump-start the car.
Get away without the owners noticing until morning.
Our only chance.
It’s an old, run-down cottage, a single dormer window in the loft, alight as the owner gets ready for bed. The cottage looks unchanged since the nineteen-fifties. Most of it is bottle green, from the front door to the window frames to the driveway gate.
At the end of the driveway, adjacent to the cottage’s back gate, is a stand-alone garage, green-fronted too. If my luck’s in, there will be a car there that I can get into without being heard by whoever’s in that dormer-bedroom.
It’s an old woman, up there, I reckon. She lived here with her old man when they were first married, him cycling to work in sleepy old Ipswich, her at home keeping chickens in the back garden for eggs to sell by the roadside. He’s long dead, leaving her alone and in her eighties. She goes to bed early, huddled in blankets to keep herself warm.
This is going to be so, so easy. Don’t worry. Don’t even think about it. She’ll not come to any harm.
She won’t hear a thing and I’ll be long gone by the morning.
It’ll be an old relic of a car but it will get us from here to where we want to go.
Most people – stupid people – would wait for that light to go out, leave it a while until the old woman fell asleep, and would then make their move.
Not me.
I’m smart, see?
But you know that by now, don’t you?
Say she’s lying there and hears a noise. What’s she going to do? She’ll have a phone for sure, even in this out-of-the-way place. She’ll dial 999. “Hello,” she’ll say in a wobbly-chinned voice. “Is that the police? There’s someone in my house, come quickly.” Can’t have that. Far too risky.
No, what I’ll do is to make my move while that light is still on and she’s pottering about, getting ready for bed, folding back the sheets, winding up the clock and hanging up her clothes for the morning. She won’t hear anything outside then. She’ll be too preoccupied.
I lay William carefully down by the side of the road, taking off my jacket and rolling it up under his head. I move forward and undo the latch on the front gate.
Swinging the gate back, I wait for the scree-eech of unoiled hinges, but it makes no sound at all. The garage is ten yards in front of me. I look up. The light is still on, curtains yet to be drawn. There are net curtains at the window. I cannot see anyone moving about. I go back for William, carrying him up the driveway, just in case a police car drives by.
I lay William back down on the driveway and slip my jacket on again. He shifts restlessly in his sleep, close to the garage door, safely out of sight of the cottage window and any passing car.
With luck, the garage door will be unlocked and it will be a simple matter of opening and closing it behind me. I can then break into the car and get it started quietly. Any noises will be muffled by the garage doors pulled to behind me.
Shit.
I’m out of luck.
It’s locked.
I pull at it. The wood and the lock are old and it would be easy enough to force the door open. But the crack and tear of breaking wood would be too noisy. I look around to see if there are any gardening tools at the side of the garage that I can use to maybe pop open the lock. Nothing.
I open the garden gate, quickly and without thinking.
It makes a sharp screech, loud but lasting only a few seconds. I stop, standing still, listening and looking up at the cottage.
Nothing, no downstairs lights going on, no sounds of movement, it’s as still as the night. I move into the garden – a nice old picture postcard of apple trees, bird baths and hedgehogs.
Another fucking world, this is.
A gardening fork is stuck in the ground next to my feet. I hold it in one hand, testing the prongs with the other. It’s strong, tough enough for me to push it into the side of the door and force open that lock.
I move back, leaving the screeching garden gate open – no point in pushing my luck – and check William is okay. He’s sleeping. I move to the garage door, forcing the gardening fork in by the lock. I apply pressure, as carefully as I can.
I’m straining as hard as I can now, using all of my strength.
Something’s going to give: the door or the fork.
Can’t tell which, just push the fork further in, leveraging it again.
With a loud splintering noise, deafening in the silence, the garage door gives way under the force. It’s open. I stand here for a moment or two, listening and looking for signs of life from the cottage. Nothing.
Know what? I reckon the old woman will be tucked up nice and warm in bed by now, teeth in a glass, hot water bottle by her feet, drifting away into sleep.
I wait a moment or two, then notice I’m panting, my breath like white smoke in the cold air. I decide to leave William on the driveway while I sort out the car. It’s going to be cramped in the garage and I don’t want him waking up and struggling and calling out in the quiet of the night.
I swing open the garage door, the lock now hanging loose from the wood.
It opens silently. I’m charmed, me. Told you that, didn’t I?
I expect to see an old car, a relic of a bygone age.
It’s a newish car, though. Three, four years old. Yellow, another of those Japanese ones. The old woman must have a son, maybe a daughter, who told her she had to sell her old Morris Minor. “Mum,” they’d have said, “you can’t be living out there with that old car of dad’s. We’ve got you a new one, from the two of us.” And they’d all beam with pride and happiness and love for one another.
Seems a shame to damage it, forcing it open.
Maybe the old dear has left it unlocked – it doesn’t need to be kept locked in a secure garage, does it?
I try the door handle – shit, it’s locked.
It’s dark in here, hard to see much, and I check the floor and the shelves at the back of the garage, shuffling into darkness, for a torch and, if I’m really lucky, a spare key hanging up on a hook or a nail banged into a shelf.
I run my fingers along the shelf, by a row of paint pots and other half-used, might-be-useful-one-day bits and bobs. My finger catches what feels like an empty tin and it tumbles off the shelf, bouncing onto the car bonnet and down to the floor, its lid coming off and spinning against the wall.
Going to have to force the car door.
Don’t want to; but I have no choice.
I force the fork into the gap by the side of the door.
There’s no give in the car door at all. I push the fork in as far as I can into the gap and pull at it with all my strength. Something’s happening, I can tell – there is movement; not much, but I can feel something giving, reluctantly and oh-so-slowly.
I pull harder, my head now beaded with sweat, a tight feeling in my chest, and then, suddenly, as I was about to give up, the prongs of the fork bend so that they are now almost at right angles to the handle.
Nothing else for it.
Will have to break a car window.
I need to find something big and heavy.
I move quickly out of the garage, no time to waste, but stop as I get to William. He is awake and sitting up, his hands to his head. He can only just have come to, maybe wakened by my attempts to break into the car.
I bend over to whisper some warm and comforting words and, as I do so, he reaches his arms up, wanting me to lift him and give him a cuddle.
I do, but I have to be fast – there is no time to waste. He’s blurry-eyed and not really awake anyway. I kiss him on the cheek and make gentle murmuring noises.
“Stand right where you are.”
A voice from behind me. Deep and authoritative, a man’s voice.
“Move and I’ll shoot you dead.”
77
9.17pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
There is a long silence.
No one moves for what seems like minutes.
I say, finally, into the silence, “Don’t shoot . . . my little boy.”
I shift William so that his head, which he struggles to keep upright, is just above my shoulder. I want the man behind me – whoever he is – to see I have a small child in my arms.
“Put him down and walk away.”
If I put William down, the man could simply shoot me where I stand. I think quickly, not sure what to say. What can I say? I hesitate. And then it comes to me suddenly. An excuse.
“Our car packed up . . . we need some petrol to get home.”
“I know who you are; you’ve been on the telly. You killed your wife.”
“No,” I say, still thinking fast. “No, I didn’t.” He knows who I am. My words tail off, I’m not sure what else to add. “Not really . . .”
“You’re violent, it said so on the telly. A danger to the public, the BBC said.”
“I just want to leave with my little boy.”
“I can’t let you do that. Put him down and you can walk away. Or else I’ll shoot you where you’re standing.”
I stand here, not knowing what to do. Christ help me, I cannot give William up. Not like this. And, if I put him down, I’ll be shot for sure. If the man shoots me while I’m holding William, the chances are the gunshot will kill both of us. What do I do?
“You’re a murderer, I can’t let you go with the boy.”
“I didn’t kill my wife . . . she was mentally ill . . . a depressive . . .
she threw herself in front of a car.”
“They said you killed her. And more. I’ve seen it all on the telly. I can’t let you go.”
There, he’s given himself away. His exact words, “I can’t let you go” – as soon as he has William, he’ll shoot me.
“If I put my boy down, you’ll shoot me.”
“Not in front of the boy. I’ll call the police when I take the boy indoors. You’ll get a sporting chance over the fields before the police get here. You’re two miles from the bypass that way; five or six miles from anywhere in any other direction. I’ll give you a sporting chance. Like we do with foxes.”
“I can’t give up my boy.”
“Then I’ll have to shoot you where you stand.”
“And you call me a murderer?” I can feel the anger rising; I have to control it. “You’d kill me and my son in cold blood, just shoot me in my back?”
“Put your boy down on the ground and walk away.” You know what? I won’t do it.
“Your boy’s ill. It said so on the BBC. He needs his medication every day. If he doesn’t have it, he could go into a coma. Did you know that?”
I shake my head, and don’t believe it’s true. Just a nasty, vicious trick, something to try and make me give up my little William.
“Look at his head, he can’t even keep it upright. Has he been sick? You need to let him go. I’ll call an ambulance for you, get help for him.”
“He’s just tired, that’s all. He’s only small. It’s past his bedtime.”
“Look at him, look at his face. He needs help. You’ll lose him otherwise.”
I’ll lose him anyway. I turn slowly, ever so slowly, so that I’m now facing the man, with William’s body cradled upright in my arms. He is older and shorter than I thought; well into his seventies and whippet-thin. He looks as scared as I feel. But he has one thing I don’t. A shotgun. It looks as ancient as him and I can’t help but wonder if it’s actually loaded. Maybe it is – he talked of foxes.
“That’s the ticket, just put the boy down there between us and you can go.” There’s a smile on his lips. Encouraging me? No. If that gun is loaded, he won’t be letting me go, I don’t reckon.
“No,” I say. “He’s coming with me.”
“Then I will shoot you as you walk off.”
Know what? I don’t think he will. As William moves, all sleepy and trying to get comfortable in my arms, I take a step back, not taking my eyes off the old man. He watches me.
“I’ve a gun myself,” I lie, to scare him. “In my pocket.”
“Put your boy down and take your chances with me then,” he answers.
I take another step backwards.
And another. He says nothing else, just watches me.
One more away from the man.
“I’m going to turn and walk with my boy. We’re no trouble to you. Leave us be.”
“I can’t let you leave. The boy needs help. And you’re dangerous. And you’ve just told me you’re armed.” Our eyes meet. It is a battle of wills. He lifts the gun higher, levels it towards my head.
I have to go, see what happens.
“You’ll have to shoot us both then.”
I turn, almost stumbling, and take a step farther away from the man. I do not know what he is going to do. Shoot me? With William in my arms? I adjust his position carefully. Can the man see William clearly now?
There is silence.
I wait to hear the cocking of the gun.
Or has he done that already; is he about to shoot?
I hold my breath, take one more step and another. Part of my brain is screaming at me to stop, look and see what he’s doing. Another tells me to keep going, to take one careful step after the other, to the gate and away.
It is now just a few steps to the gate.
Six, five, four.
Three, two, one.
I stop. My back to the man. William still in my arms. This is it. The moment. Make or break. Life or death. I have to know which. I turn my head slowly, looking back at the man. Will he shoot me? Me and William?
He has gone, I broke his nerve.
But he will be inside now, calling the police.
And I think, dear God, my time with William is almost up.
78
9.36pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
William does not feel very well. He wants to tell the man with the staring eyes and the torn face but does not seem able to do so.
He keeps falling asleep and, when he does, the angry man shakes him awake every time when all he wants to do is sleep; he cannot say anything though.
He does not like the angry man. He is scared of him.
His lips feel cracked and dry and he thinks he might be sick again.
He wants to say he feels ill so the man can fetch his mama and papa.
He does not want to be with the man any more. He does not want to be on his best behaviour. But he cannot seem to think of the words to say. They will not come to him.
When he feels unwell, usually his mama would somehow know and make him feel better.
Or his papa would.
He does not miss having the finger tickles and the injections. He does not like those. But he knows, somehow, that he has to have them.
He cannot remember when he last had anything like that. The angry man does not do them.
And he lets him have biscuits, as many as he wants. He likes biscuits but his mama and papa only let him have them very occasionally.
