The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 26
The little boy feels hot.
And he feel sick all the time.
And what he really wants now, more than anything, even more than seeing his mama and his papa again, is to go back to sleep.
He feels a little better as he starts falling asleep. The ache in his stomach seems a bit less painful.
But then the man shakes him awake again. Or drops him to the ground. Makes him try to walk on hurting legs.
He likes it best when the man carries him, even though he does not like the smell of the man.
It is a nasty smell, like he smells on his papa when he has been out running on a hot day.
And there is another smell on the man.
He does not know what it is but he does not like it.
It is a sour and dirty smell.
He feels sleep coming on again, as the man carries him, walking steadily now, into a rhythm.
A falling-asleep pattern.
It would be nice to sleep.
Just sleep and sleep and sleep forever.
79
9.52pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I headed towards the bypass – two miles, or so the man said. Better than five or six across the fields to anywhere else.
Was he telling the truth?
I don’t know, I’d have thought we’ve walked more than two miles by now. Off the road, out of sight, and across fields and ditches and tracks.
Maybe the man said it was two miles just so I’d go that way. Then, when he called the coppers, he could tell them exactly which way I was heading. I should have gone the other way. Tried to outwit them. But I am tired now, too tired – dog-tired, in fact.
The bypass is safer anyway. I can hide in a ditch there. A lay-by. Like I did when I got out of the annexe, remember? It seems so long ago now. The annexe. Spink. The big house. Sprake and Ainsley and Tosser Gibson.
I was safe there.
In the annexe.
No one would hurt me.
If a car pulls over, we could hitch a ride. Leastways, I guess I could on my own. I reckon everyone everywhere, round here at least, will be on the lookout for a man and a boy together. Maybe we’d have to try something else.
Must have been a half-hour now since I left the old man at that cottage.
Longer probably. I’m tiring so much.
Not seen or heard anything yet.
I’d have expected to hear police cars by now. Sirens. Behind me. Going to the cottage to speak to the man with the shotgun. And then helicopters overhead, searchlights picking us out as we criss-cross our way through fields and over gates. Then dogs – like I had before – but not in the distance this time, right here and now and all around us.
William’s asleep again. He has a troubled look on his face, I think. He’s not warm, and that’s a fact; it seems to be getting colder step by step. My body heats up, though, breath and sweat almost creating a fog around me. Poor little lamb is having a bad dream. I think I should wake him but he’s probably better off asleep.
I stop, for no more than a second or two, exhausted.
Bent double almost, William squeezed tight between my chest and stomach.
He does not move, asleep in the land of nod.
We cross a field. Crops or livestock, I don’t know. Crops, I’d guess – I see no animals. There is a fence ahead of me and another gate – always another gate, one after the other – and, beyond that, some more trees.
God, it’s like hell, just walking the same empty and identical fields one after the other, over and over again. In this bleak and relentless landscape.
We may have to rest there, by those trees, for a while, out in the middle of nowhere. But it will give us a little shelter and some cover from the skies above.
Is that where it all ends?
I can’t go on much further.
Really I can’t. I’m close to giving up now.
I lift William over the gate, laying him down carefully on the ground. As I climb the gate, I look back automatically – still nothing and no one in sight. I listen again – no police sirens, barking dogs or the whirring of helicopters in the distance.
I’ve done well really.
To get this far.
Have ridden my luck for so long, it has to break some time.
Picking William up, we make for the trees. Two long neat rows of them. I walk through, almost at the point of exhaustion, and then, in the distance, close enough to see the cars and the lights, I spot that bypass.
At last.
Thank you.
God, bless you.
If we can just press on for half a mile more to get there, maybe slide into and hide in a ditch by a lay-by, we might still have a chance. If a car, any car, pulls in, we could do something, anything, to get away.
We go into the next field, me striding straight across as best I can rather than skirting round the edges as we have done with some of the muddier ones. My feet sink in places in the thick, squelchy ground.
I stumble once, then again, struggling to stay upright and keep my trainers on. I drop William as I stumble but he does not seem to notice. I cuddle him quickly, as we keep moving, licking the back of my hand and wiping a smear of mud from his cheek.
Closer now. To the bypass.
I can hear the roar of the cars.
Four, five minutes away, I’d say.
Is that a police siren? In the distance behind me? I’ve been expecting that. But I can’t tell – with the noise from the road in front of me – if it’s real or my imagination, waiting for the sound this past half-hour or more, and conjuring it up in my mind.
I stop for a second or two, drawing breath, and I hear it more clearly, carried on the wind first this way, a little weaker, and that way, a little stronger.
Not long now then. The old man with the shotgun will be telling them what happened, that I had a gun and saying he’d seen me head off towards the bypass.
I’d cut through the fields, though, thank God – not stayed on the road, where they’ll look first.
On we go, across the fields, towards that bypass, not so very far.
One step in front of the other, left then right, left then right. On and on.
We’re off the fields now, they are all behind us, and we are on a track that runs along the side of the bypass with trees – planted years ago for soundproofing I guess – between the track and the bypass.
On the other side is a housing estate. I glimpsed it as I came to the end of the field and passed half-walking, half-slipping, my arms tight around William, down a slope and onto the track.
I’ve seen something else too.
On the outskirts, not far away.
Some sort of tower, maybe for phone masts?
Somewhere I can hide, that is.
Think about it, why don’t you?
The coppers are behind me now, in their car at the cottage and, in five or ten minutes, there will be more coppers and cars and dogs and Heaven knows what flooding the roads, the bypass and that housing estate.
They won’t know where I’ve gone. But they’ll be sure of one thing – that I’ve kept going; up or down the bypass, or across into the housing estate to steal a car. Anywhere, but always ever on the move.
We need to hide and sit tight. If we can get to that tower and climb it and lie low there until morning – while the coppers, dogs and helicopters buzz angrily around us – we might still have a chance.
You just watch me.
Despite everything, we’re going to get away.
Just you see if we don’t. Just you wait and fucking well see.
All of this – the running, the hiding, the chasing – will end once we are at the tower. It will all be over.
A nice sleep.
Waking to a sunny day in the morning.
The end of this nightmare and the start of our new life.
80
9.59pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I move along the track, looking for a path through the trees that will lead me to a bridge over or a tunnel under the bypass and into the housing estate. All I can hear now is the sound of the traffic – if there are police cars, dogs and helicopters behind me, I cannot tell. Thing is, I don’t want to hear them. I want to press on and get to that tower and take cover for the night.
I’ve found it.
A tunnel, an underpass – just like I said.
We’re down it now and cutting through.
Out the other side and all clear, I walk up and on to the border of the housing estate. I need to be careful here; have to make sure no one spots us and recognises who we are.
I lift William again and lean him against my shoulder so that, if we see anyone, I can put my head down close to his as if we are talking. It will shield my face and his; we’ll just be like any other daddy and little boy going home from an evening at a neighbour’s house. Maybe a family party to celebrate a birthday.
A much-loved uncle perhaps.
Sweet William’s favourite.
Now it’s time to go home to bed.
From what I can make out, the housing estate is one long curving road.
Various avenues and closes come off it. Fancy names for a shit place like this.
I have to walk, so far as I can make out, along the curving road and somewhere ahead, a way to the left, there will be an avenue or a close that will take me to the tower.
Off I go, my head close to William’s, in case anyone sees us. I feel exposed here, on this housing estate. There are houses to my left and to my right, lights on, cars in the driveway, music and noises and the occasional shout or ripple of laughter breaking the night air.
Further up the road, to my left, I see a young girl, late teens maybe, coming out of the front door of a house. She turns, as I hang back, pretending to talk to little William, and says something, laughing, to whoever is still indoors. She teeters off on heels, her back to me, on her way out for an evening.
A car comes by me from behind, a silver Peugeot.
Full of boys, out on the piss. The car slows as it comes alongside the girl up ahead of me.
Raucous laughter this time, something shouted from the car window; she feigns deafness.
I carry on walking as the car roars away, keeping in step with the girl, but holding back, one hundred yards away, so that, if she looks round, she won’t think I’m following her. I look up, two or three minutes later, and see the girl has gone, must have turned into one of the avenues up ahead, maybe going to meet a friend, and share a taxi into town.
It’s busier now, the estate. Cars go by me both ways, ordinary cars but no police cars, thank God.
One car pulls up on a driveway ahead of me and a couple, holding bottles and takeaway bags, get out and disappear into the house.
Head down, I keep up my bizarre walk-stop-walk-stop pattern, striding out and then slowing and stopping and pretending to talk to my sleepy boy whenever anyone is in sight. On we go, as quickly as we can.
Halfway to the tower, I see a parade of shops and a children’s playground next to it with a slide and broken-down swings. Youths sprawl, two on the swings, another on the slide. Two more, on bikes, wheeling back and forth. Another, younger boy, by the look of it, has a skateboard that he’s pushing up and down with his foot.
Aimless, they are, and spoiling for trouble. I daren’t risk it. I have to cross the road before they see me, can’t have them looking too closely at me and William, dirty now and splattered with mud from the fields. It only takes one of them to pull out his mobile phone.
Over we go, before they look over and spot us approaching. God, please let them leave us be, let us be on our way around this endless road on this ghastly shithole of an estate.
We’re alongside them now, these yobs, on the other side of the road. Just keep looking ahead, daren’t glance across, attracting their attention. If they know they bother me, that I’m worried or frightened by them, they’ll call out, taunting and jeering. Any sign of weakness, that’s all they need to see.
Maybe the braver ones, the ones on bikes, will come over, following me, wanting to know who I am, where I’m going, demanding money to leave us alone. It’s that kind of a place.
I hold my breath, and keep going. I put my head down a little as if I am talking to William, fast asleep now in my arms. They’re almost behind me. We’ve nearly made it. And then one of them, I don’t know which, makes a meowing noise, like a cat. Quiet at first, then louder, howling on and on. Others laugh and one or two join in with the caterwauling.
It’s clearly directed at me, this mocking, echoing noise. As if to say they’ve seen me and know I’m scared of them, that I’m chicken. Kids today, eh? Perhaps the ignorant fuckers think it’s chickens that meow.
On we go, not so far now; the tower is in sight.
I can see it down at the far end of this curving road.
On the home straight, and then to the left, at the end of an avenue.
As I walk, I am listening all the time, a sixth sense, hearing beyond the noises from the houses, the comings and goings of cars, the people moving about ahead and behind us, all taking little or no notice as they go about their business. I’m tuned into the sounds of pursuit – the sirens of police cars, the whirring of helicopters, the barking of dogs. But I don’t hear anything.
Thing is, they’ve gone the other way.
For sure. No doubt about it at all.
They’ve headed back out, down those country lanes and fields, back towards Ipswich or Woodbridge.
But not here. If they were coming this way, they’d be here by now. I’d have heard sirens, coming ever closer. I’d have seen the lights of the helicopters. As they drew nearer, I’d have had to drop off this road and get out of sight, maybe looked for a house that was dark, with the owners out, and broken into a back-garden shed, hiding there until daybreak.
But there’s been nothing, no sign at all, since I came to the bypass. Even then, thinking about it, I only heard a police car siren – thought I heard a police car siren – back towards that cottage.
Maybe I imagined it all. Easy to do when you’re under so much pressure. Thinking about it a little more, that man with the shotgun may not even have a telephone. It was just a bluff, that’s all, to make me give up the little ’un.
Yes, we’re almost home and dry.
Good job too – I have to say I’m exhausted and William is as well; he hasn’t moved a muscle for ages now.
We’ll hide in the tower until the morning.
We turn into the avenue that leads us to it. I can see it at the far end, behind a wall and a gate; simple to climb, and there may even be an easier way if I scout round the back. It’s dead quiet here; just four or five houses to either side. Some lit up, others dark and empty. I stand for a second, just listening again – no noise at all, not that I can hear, from any of the houses.
We move forward, by one house, all lit up.
Then the second, this one in darkness.
A third, all lit up, a woman at the kitchen window, washing up at the sink, I reckon.
She’s looking out towards me but she won’t see me. Lights on in the house, dark outside, see? Makes it impossible to see anyone. I should know. I spent hours at the annexe, planning my escape, watching what was happening outdoors, and working out exactly what I was going to do when I got the chance to get away.
I had to do all of that when the lights were out, though, that’s the thing. When the lights were on, I couldn’t see anything outside. But people could look in and see me and what I was doing. I didn’t realise that straightaway, to be honest. In fact, we had a bit of trouble about that in the early days when I first arrived, but that’s another story and not a very nice one actually. Let’s not talk about that. Don’t even think about it.
As I said, the woman in that house, looking out, cannot see us.
Know what? I’ll prove it to you.
I give her a little wave. Then a big one.
Nothing, not a glimmer. I can’t help but chuckle to myself. I could be stark naked for all she knew. But as I say, let’s not go there. Just forget I mentioned anything.
On we go, by the fourth and fifth houses, some sort of sensor lights switching on as I pass by, and on to the wall surrounding the tower. I walk slowly around it, so that I’m out of sight of the houses, just looking for a way in.
At the back, where youths have obviously been hanging out, judging by what’s on the ground (don’t ask), there’s been some damage to the wall; enough for me, holding William carefully, to climb over and in.
I take off my jacket, using it to wrap around little William, strapping him to my body, just in case. It’s a long way up, for sure.
We start climbing the steps, up and up we go to the platform near the top.
It’s cold.
And the steps are slippery.
But I need to do this.
We have to be safe.
And we will be.
At last, we’re here. We’re safe now. At the top. About time too. We can get some peace for once. We can settle down and get some rest until daybreak.
I unstrap William, still deep in sleep, and lay him down carefully, my jacket rolled up beneath his head. I move to the edge of the platform, peeking over.
It’s all quiet down below in the avenue, other than a woman walking quickly from one house to another. No more signs of life anywhere at all. I look up into the dark, clear sky and gaze around me three-hundred and sixty degrees. No signs of any helicopters.
I sit for a while and listen. No sounds of sirens. I look down again over the housing estate. All is just as it should be. Nice and quiet. The world is at peace. And so, I have to say, are we, me and my beautiful little boy.
He means more to me than anything, but then I have told you that, haven’t I?
Yes, I’m sure I did.
He means the world to me.
I settle back, am going to snooze gently for a little while. Not too long, mind, and not too deeply – I need to be alert, just in case.
After all, you never know, do you?
Better safe than sorry, that’s what I say.
I’m not home and dry yet. Not quite. Soon though.
I can’t tell you how exhausted I am. And we have a long day ahead of us again tomorrow, don’t we? Up at six, a coach to London, then, one way or the other, on to France and away to our new life together forever.
