The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 3
I step out, throw up my arms and wave frantically. He blasts the horn once and then twice. What’s that mean? Two blasts. Fuck off? I stop waving and step back. Is he stopping? For a second or two, I’m not sure. Then I hear the great whoosh of the brakes as the lorry starts to slow. It comes to a halt with the cabin door just up above me.
I reach for the handle, pulling the door open. I put my left foot on the step and lift myself up so I can see into the cabin. The driver looks across at me. Blank-faced – no welcoming smile, but no scowl neither. He’s a big man, heavy-set. Not fat, just solid. Six-two, I’d guess. Dark hair cut short. Thick stubble, all peppery. Trucker’s uniform of checked shirt and jeans. He looks tired, worn out.
“Are you going to Nottingham?” I ask. “The car’s packed up. I’m supposed to be picking up my daughter from the Roxy.” He nods, beckoning me in with a movement of his head.
I sit, reaching for the seatbelt and pulling it around me. The lorry driver turns from me, checking his mirrors as the brakes whoosh again and the lorry pulls slowly away.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Total fucking silence.
Should I have said the Roxy? It sounded stupid as I said it. But it was the first name that came into my head. And straight out through my big fat mouth. I’d no time to rehearse, see?
Is there a club in Nottingham called the Roxy? I’ve no idea. Do they even call clubs the Roxy these days? Did they ever? I don’t think so. Not in Nottingham anyhow. America maybe. Not here.
Would he realise, though? That there’s no Roxy. No club. No daughter. No concerned father sitting next to him in a dressing gown and stupid fucking slippers.
“Are you from Nottingham?” I say at last.
He sits quietly for a moment, concentrating on the road ahead. I’m not sure he heard me. Should I say it again? Maybe I didn’t say it loud enough. Maybe I’m mumbling.
Does he think I’m mad, just talking to myself? A madman, muttering and twitching like those stupid fuckers back in the annexe.
Then he shakes his head, says something in reply. I don’t catch all of it. Guess he’s not from Nottingham by the headshake. That he’s telling me where he’s from. Hessle-something? Up North by the accent. I can’t place it. Maybe the North-East. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know the Nottingham clubs. Doesn’t realise there’s no Roxy.
It’s silent again. And dark outside. The road through the trees half-lit by far-apart lights. It dips and weaves up and down so we can see some distance ahead.
I feel I should say something. Wouldn’t you? Just to keep the conversation moving. Make it all seem natural. I’m not good at niceties, though. That’s what comes from being in the annexe with Ainsley and Sprake sitting there twitching and jerking and pulling at themselves all day long. There’s no polite conversation there, I can tell you. It’s all grunts and moans and sudden cries.
“Do you have the time?” I ask finally.
He nods towards the front of the cabin. I’d not noticed. A couple of daily papers. A handful of sweets and wrappers. A small clock with illuminated hands. 1.31. It’s taken me longer than expected to get this far. Two hours? Must have been in that ditch longer than I thought. Walked farther too. No police cars now then. No roadblocks. They must have thought I’d gone the other way towards the M1.
Mugs.
“My daughter’s missed the last bus . . . I’ve got to pick her up.” I can’t think of a girl’s name. What are seventeen-year-old girls called now? Stupid American names they have these days. Britney. And made-up ones. Kay-Leigh and Chavney. Tabitha Rainbow Fucking Trout.
What if he asks her name? What if he turns and says, “Oh yes, and what’s your daughter called then?” Friendly like, not suspicious yet. What would I say?
Kelly. The name just came to me.
Just like that.
It popped into my head.
That Fat-Arsed Eileen has three daughters. One’s Kelly or Kelly-Marie? Kylie? I don’t know. I’ll stick with Kelly. Easy to remember.
“Kelly,” I say, nodding. “My daughter, Kelly. Got me out of bed, see?” I move my legs out from underneath me. Show him my slippers. Better to make a joke of them really. He looks down and smiles.
“You must have been in a hurry,” he replies, “I’d have got dressed. At least put shoes on.”
He thinks it’s odd. Out of the ordinary. That I should be wearing slippers. Dressing gown’s okay. That’s normal. But slippers? Slippers are odd. Would anyone wear slippers to drive a car?
“I couldn’t find my shoes. I drive easier in these anyway. Bad toes,” I say, thinking fast.
Does that sound believable? Can you even drive with bad toes? I don’t know. What are ‘bad toes’ anyway? I hope he doesn’t ask me anything about my feet. Hope he doesn’t have corns and stuff he wants to talk about. I don’t want a conversation about cutting off bunions, that’s for fucking sure.
Will he notice I’ve no keys? I’d have keys, wouldn’t I, if I’d broken down? They’d be in my dressing-gown pocket. I’d have my hand on them now. Probably jangling them. And I’d maybe whistle too. They do that, don’t they? People. Men, really. They jangle keys and whistle at the same time. Smith used to do that. I don’t know why.
And I said she’d missed the last bus. But it’s gone one-thirty. What time’s a last bus round these parts? Eleven? So how come I’m driving to pick her up more than two hours later. Has he noticed that too?
I’m giving myself away at every turn.
He coughs. Clears his throat. I think he’s going to spit. Instead, he turns his head towards me and says, “How far you going? I’m turning back onto the M1 before Nottingham. I’ve just been and done a private drop-off.”
I look at him, expecting a nod and a wink. Say no more. On the fiddle. A bit of cash on the side. But he doesn’t add anything to it and I don’t really know what to say next. I would have winked if he had looked at me, but he didn’t.
“That’s fine,” I reply. “I can walk the last bit.” I don’t know how far the last bit is. A mile? Five? Does that sound strange? I’ll walk the last five miles? He’s not noticed anything, though. I’m sure of it. He’s too tired, too worn out. Probably doesn’t know or care anyway. I’m just someone to pass a few minutes with at the end of an eight-hour drive.
“You’ll get some queer looks dressed like that. I’ll take you in as far as I can go.”
A kindness, a thoughtful gesture. He didn’t have to offer. I’m touched. Really I am. Small kindnesses are rare. I’m not used to them. Not where I’ve come from. Not from Spink and her cronies, that’s for sure. No small kindnesses at the annexe and certainly not in the big house. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“There’s another of them,” he says suddenly. I lean forward and see a police car overtaking, pulling in front and accelerating away. No flashing lights, but it’s going at speed towards Nottingham.
“That must be the fifth that’s gone by me in the past twenty minutes.
Something’s happening in Nottingham. They’re all going that way.”
And then we see it in the distance. Just as we come over a hill following the police car.
A crossroads down by the River Trent. Two police cars – one to the left and the other to the right of this side of the road. Flashing lights. They’re stopping cars. It’s a roadblock. Just like I knew there would be. CID have acted pretty fast.
I said, didn’t I?
I fucking well told you.
Why don’t you just listen?
I can see two cars pulled into a queue on this side of the road. Looks like a Mini and some sort of estate. Coppers all around them. The police car in front of us is moving towards them. We’re following behind, moving down. It’s all half a mile away. A minute or so from being caught. I’ll end up back inside. They’ll lock me up good and proper this time. In prison. I’ll never get a second chance to get away.
I’ve got to be quick. We’ve got woodlands to the left, opening up to scrubland down to the river, not so very far away. All open scrubland as far as I can see to the right; no chance that way.
Have to act fast.
Now.
Do it right now.
“Stop,” I shout, turning to the lorry driver. I’m pleading, I know I am. I can hear it in my voice. “Stop, please. Pull over here. I’ve been drinking. Before I came out. They’re after me. The police. Quickly, stop here. Before they see.” He turns. Looks at me. Checks me over.
The dressing gown.
The stupid paisley slippers.
He looks at my face. Can see I’m desperate. Knows I’m lying. He thinks for a moment. The lorry keeps moving. Another second. One more long one. Another timeless, everlasting second.
The lorry moves closer still.
Another few seconds and it’ll be too late.
“Please . . .” I say again, and I’m really begging now.
And then I hear the whoosh of the brakes. He’s going to stop. Let me out. Thank Christ. He’s giving me a chance to get away.
The lorry shudders, slowly shaking itself down, and finally stops. I look ahead down the hill. I can see the coppers by the two cars in the queue. I can’t see any of them looking up this way.
I turn to the lorry driver, smile, tell him I’m drunk, a little bit tipsy. My voice cracks, I’m talking nonsense. He looks at me, disbelieving. Then says something I don’t catch. Something about not owing them any favours. What’s he mean? The coppers? Has he been in prison? Maybe. I’ve no time to ask.
I nod my thanks. Open the door, jump down. I move quickly into the woods. The whoosh of the brakes signals the lorry is moving away again. It’s going towards the roadblock – without me.
What now?
I wait in the woods, looking at the crossroads. I have a clear view from here. I can see three cop cars in all, including the one in front of the lorry. The Mini has been waved on its way. There are two coppers now, talking to the driver of the second car.
Another copper is peering through the windows. There may be another copper in one of the cop cars. Sitting by the radio, I guess. Makes four in all. Plus two more in the cop car that’s just arrived? That makes six. The estate driver gets out, opening the back of the car. They’re thorough, I’ll give them that. Spink must have laid it on real thick about me. Then again, me leaving like I did would have been enough to get the roadblocks up.
Should I run? Hold my breath and start running like I did when I got out of the annexe? In carpet slippers? I don’t know what to do. The coppers will get to the lorry driver in a minute. All he has to do is tell them about me. They’ll come racing up the hill in their cars. Stopping, spreading out, searching these woods.
They’ll find me, won’t they? Easily. I’m fucked if he says anything, well and truly.
Let me think. Just let me gather my thoughts.
All I need is a moment. A chance to work out a plan.
Just give me a fucking minute, why won’t you?
Will he say anything, though? The lorry driver? He mumbled something about not owing them any favours. If he doesn’t like the coppers, he’ll stay quiet. Won’t want to get involved anyway, will he? He’s not going to want to go to the copshop, give statements, shit like that.
Even if he says something, they’ve no dogs, have they? Not that I can see. Not yet anyhow. And they’ll expect me to be running. They’ll reckon I’ll be half a mile away by now. Sprinting like crazy in the opposite direction. Not standing here one hundred yards from where I got out of the lorry.
The estate’s been waved on its way. So has the cop car, once the fourth copper had come across from one of the parked cop cars for a bit of yakety-yak. Comparing notes, yawning, saying what a waste of time all of this is. I watch as the cop car that’s been waved on drives off to repeat the ‘nothing happening’ routine at the next roadblock down the road. There are now four coppers left standing there together, talking to each other.
One beckons the lorry forward. Two of the coppers move to the lorry. They’re out of sight, on the other side. Round by the driver’s door. Talking to the driver. The third copper is walking around the lorry. I can see him bending, looking underneath. He disappears out of sight too. Moving towards the driver. The fourth copper stands there looking up the hill, seeing if any other cars are coming down towards them.
It’s deathly quiet.
I reckon the three other coppers are round by the driver’s window, quizzing him, asking him if he’s seen anyone walking, maybe thumbing a ride. Has sir stopped for anyone? Given someone a lift? That’s what they’d be asking. And he’d just shake his head. No, no, he’s not seen anyone.
What a pile of shit.
A complete and utter waste of time and that’s a fact.
Let’s be on our way, please.
I yawn as the three coppers reappear from round the front of the lorry. They’re going back to speak to the fourth copper, who’s obviously in charge. I ignore them, looking back towards the lorry, which is about to pull away and continue on its journey. Thank Christ he didn’t say anything. He’ll be gone any moment, and then I reckon these coppers will pack up and piss off. I can settle down in these woods for an hour or two’s shut-eye and be on my way again before dawn.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Nice and easy, this is.
I glance back at the coppers. They’re all in a huddle, talking among themselves. They’re in a circle, three coppers with their backs to me. They’re lighting up, having a quick fag before they go home. There’s a big fucker in the middle with his back towards me. I reckon he may be some plain-clothes CID wanker from one of the cars bossing these bobbies about, telling them what to do. I can see him moving, looks like he’s lighting up each of their fags in turn. He stops, steps back, and moves to the side.
And I realise what’s really happening.
I see it’s the lorry driver standing in the middle of the circle of coppers. I watch him shaking and nodding his head, his hands rising and falling as if to emphasise what he’s saying. And then he raises his right arm. I expect all of the coppers to stand there listening to him. But they don’t. One by one, they turn, each of them now looking up the hill towards me. And the lorry driver jabs out the index finger of his right hand. He looks up and it’s as if, in that instant, he can see and is pointing straight at me . . .
6
1.36am, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
The little boy lays in bed, watching the light on the ceiling. He has been woken by the sound of the toilet being flushed in the bathroom.
Drowsy at first, he has struggled up and calls out faintly, “Mama . . . Drink?” but no one hears him or comes to his door as they sometimes do when he hears them moving about at night.
He calls again, “Drink . . . please?” and then lays back down and thinks for a moment or two about getting up to go to the bathroom himself.
But the light has caught his attention. It is a strong light that shines in through the crack in the curtains from the street outside his bedroom window. It puzzles the little boy, the light, because he has not noticed it before.
His favourite film, right now at least, is Mars Needs Moms – his Uncle Adam gave him a DVD of it the other week. He carries it round under his arm during the day, constantly looking at the cover. It excites him in a way. It frightens him a little too, although he would never say that to his mama or papa. The light on his bedroom ceiling is exactly the same, or so he suddenly thinks, as the one from the Martian spaceship on the front of the DVD.
He licks his lips, which feel cracked and dry, and turns his head slowly towards the curtains. The light stays the same, strong and unwavering. It does not shake nor move about like papa’s torch when they sometimes go outside to look at the stars at night.
The little boy knows, he just knows, that this is the spaceship from Mars outside his house.
“Go away,” he says out loud, using the same firm voice his mama does when the big slobbery dog next door jumps up to lick his face.
He knows it has come for his mama. The scary spaceship with the beam of light. He knows he needs to get up. Go and find her. Tell the Martians to leave his mama alone!
Very slowly, he turns his head away from the window and looks at his door, open just a crack so he could see the dim but reassuring light on the landing.
It might be dark, pitch black, beyond that.
But he is going to have to go to his mama. He has to save her. He listens carefully for the sound of the Martians moving across the landing towards his mama’s bedroom.
He is sure he can hear the slow but steady steps of the Martians outside his room.
He gets quietly out of bed and pads in his bare feet over to the chair in the corner.
He looks at his Spiderman costume, the one he wears whenever he plays action heroes.
He pulls down his pyjama bottoms and steps out of them.
He lifts up his top as best he can, over and above his head. Stumbling back and losing his balance, he falls to the floor with a thud.
He does not cry.
He is a brave little boy.
Getting to his feet, he pulls off his pyjama top and reaches for his Spiderman costume.
He does not hesitate.
He does not falter.
He is in his costume and he is going to save his mama.
He shouts “Go web!” at the top of his voice as he runs out onto the landing.
7
1.37am, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Everything freezes for ten to twenty seconds. The coppers stand and stare up the hill towards me. Not one of them moves. They are all perfectly still. Like they’re waiting for something to happen. As if I’m going to step out and wave at them. Maybe I’ll set off some fireworks to show them where I am.
Then all hell breaks out. It’s like watching the Keystone Cops. Two of the coppers turn and run into each other. Another looks like he’s shouting at the lorry driver. The fourth copper stands staring at the one who’s shouting.
