The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 8
I’d like to do that.
And why not? If I’m spotted, I’d have nothing to lose. I’ll never get away from the big house ever again. Not after what happened in the annexe. And that woman in Nottingham. And the sister-in-law. Because I sure as hell will kill her too.
Why not do it?
Well?
William, that’s why.
I’ve just got to sit here, and not be seen and wait until later when I can do this properly. Take William and get away. I dip my head down a touch, while still being able to see what’s going on.
She’s got William by the arm now, I can see if I bring my head up slightly. Not by the hand, all loving like a real mummy would have. By the arm, almost dragging him along, back out of the crowd. Her fingers pressed tight and hard and into his skin so that, when she takes her hand away, there’ll be an angry white imprint on it. Disgusting it is, really disgusting.
Of course, they’re all ignoring her. The crowd. Pretending nothing’s happening. They’re all watching the clowns again. As if there’s no hard-faced woman dragging a poor little boy away by the arm. Even the clowns are acting again now, pulling their silly faces and pretending to have an argument with each other. All in fucking silence of course.
And then, oh then, it happens. Just like a dream.
As they go by, little William – who has been staring fixedly ahead – turns his head slightly towards me.
Our eyes meet.
I smile at him. A soft and gentle smile.
As if it were meant to be.
And it is, you see. Because in three or four hours, when it’s dark and crowded on the seafront and people are pushing and shoving and the funfair noise is all around, I will come back for you my little boy. I will smile at you again and tell you I’m your daddy and then we’ll go away together hand in hand and we’ll live happily ever after. Just you see if we don’t.
16
2.35pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“You have to watch him all the time,” Nat says, sitting back down on the sofa and pulling the little boy close to her. “You can’t just leave him to do what he wants.”
The old woman, breathless but still standing, replies, “He should be old enough by now to know he shouldn’t run out like that. When Richard was young, they were taught the Green Cross Code.”
“No harm done,” says the old man. “The rascal only went because he saw the clowns. It’s not as though he was running away. He didn’t go into the car park and he wouldn’t have gone down to the sea. He can’t swim, can he? He’s too young, I suppose.”
Rick shakes his head. “There’s a swimming pool up by West Norwood station but we’ve not taken him there regularly enough to learn. We’re going to do it next summer.”
“That’s not the point,” answers Nat, her voice starting to rise. “About the Green Cross Code . . .” She hesitates, and her voice tails off.
The old woman looks across, “I suppose, as a diabetic, he’s not like other children.”
Rick speaks up, “He is like other children of this age, really . . . full of life and up to mischief . . . it’s just that with type one, we have to be extra careful. We have to do the blood glucose checks and some injections and just keep everything within the safe range.”
The little boy sits quietly, kicking his legs contentedly back and forth against the settee. He likes the thumping noise they make. He starts doing first one and then the other . . . boom boom . . . boom boom . . . boom boom. Then he does them together again . . . boom . . . boom . . . boom.
“Stop it, Will,” snaps Nat, reaching down to still his legs. She looks over at the older couple. “It’s not easy, it’s a full-time job. You have to be on your guard all the time.”
Rick interrupts her, “His levels have been all over the place lately. You have to watch for signs that he’s not well, so he doesn’t get hypoglycaemia, which can be fatal if it’s not treated. It’s not always simple to spot; sometimes he can be a bit lethargic. You have to try and work out whether any changes are just him being a growing child or him becoming ill.”
“Hypo . . . what?” asks the old man, standing up and leaning over to pat the little boy on the shoulder. He looks up and smiles. The old man smiles back.
“Hypoglycaemia . . . g-l-y-c-a-e-m-i-a. You can Google it. Well, you could if you had the internet here. There’s loads about it. It can be dangerous with small children, well, anyone really, I imagine. If it’s not dealt with quickly, it can lead to convulsions and even coma. That’s why we’re protective. We may seem overly protective but we just have to be so careful all of the time.”
For a moment or two, the four adults look at each other, none of them seeming to know what to say next.
Rick goes on talking, “And then there’s hyperglycaemia. Hypoglycaemia – ‘hypo’ – is to do with low blood sugar. Hyperglycaemia – ‘hyper’ – is to do with high blood sugar. If he’s not getting his insulin and has high blood sugar levels, it can be fatal. At the moment, that’s something of an issue for us.” The old woman makes a tutting noise, as if to herself.
The old man goes to say something but stops himself.
The little boy, noticing his mama has moved her hand away from his legs, starts the thumping again . . . boom boom . . . boom boom.
“Well,” says the older man finally, getting up and going out of the room, “maybe we should have some quiet time after all this excitement. We’ve some board games somewhere. What can he play? We’ve probably got a Ludo and a snakes and ladders in the loft from when the boys were small. Snakes and ladders can be fun.” Natalie goes to say something. But the older man has already gone and is now moving up the staircase.
17
4.35pm, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
I’m sitting on a bench on the front. It’s facing out to sea but perfectly placed so I can spot the Veitchs as they walk by on their way to the funfair in an hour or so’s time. They’ll come along the prom to the attractions. It’s the quickest way to the funfair.
Yes, it’s very nice and quiet and peaceful for sure.
I’m going to have a little snooze for half an hour. Recharge the batteries, so to speak. I’ll be awake and ready for them by six o’clock.
I’ll wait for them to go by. And when I spot them I will put my head down. Let them walk past. Give them a minute or two. Then get up and follow them.
After that?
Well, you know what happens next. I’ve told you.
I’ve told you that several times already.
You need to keep up for once, don’t you?
It must be moving towards five now. And it’s just starting to get dark.
And I’m waiting.
Still waiting.
Always fucking waiting.
Then, just as I hear a clock striking five, this woman comes and sits down on the bench just as cool as you please. No “Excuse me” or “Do you mind?”. Just plonks her backside down to my right. Like she owns the place.
She’s got a dog with her, the woman. One of them German sausages. I don’t like Germans as a rule, nor anything to do with them, to tell the truth. And I don’t like dogs either, smelly, dirty things. And small dogs can be nasty, yappy little fuckers.
This one’s alright though.
The dog.
As dogs go, that is.
When the woman sat down, the dog sat obediently by her feet, without prompting. That shows it’s been taught proper. Trained. She’s then rummaging in a little brown bag and feeding titbits from it to the dog.
I’m just going to sit here and ignore her. I can’t have any distractions, not now, not so close to getting little William back.
Any other time, well, you know - but not at the moment. There’s no time. No time at all for any of that sort of thing.
She’s okay, though, I can tell you. I don’t turn and look at her. Not full on, like. But I can see her quite clearly if I move my head a little and make out I’m watching the sparkly lights that are coming on all along the seafront.
I feel myself stirring.
Down there.
Just like I did with that woman in Nottingham.
Can’t think about that now. Daren’t. Not now. No time for any of that. It will get me into trouble, that will. An awful lot. It’s what got me into trouble in the first place. That and the other. But you don’t really want to know about any of it.
I’m guessing she’s about my age, mid-thirties I’d say, maybe a bit older. (Well, I can’t be fussy, can I?) She’s wearing a sea green coloured dress, plain and simple. Classy like. And she’s got some sort of creamy-green coat on too.
Not too much meat on her. But nice, if you know what I mean.
What you’d call top-heavy.
Not that I’ve time for any of that. Not really.
I’ve just got to sit here and keep my head down and wait for the Veitchs to go by. With the cheeky chappie. My little William.
The dog sits patiently, waiting for another treat as, out of the corner of my eye, I see her fold the bag away and put it in a coat pocket. She takes a packet of cigarettes out of the other pocket and then rummages for a lighter. She sighs. I know what’s coming next. I can just tell.
“Excuse me, do you have a light?”
But I don’t smoke, never have. It’s a filthy habit and makes you smell. The wife, Katie, she smoked all the time. And, as I used to tell her, she had caramel-coloured teeth because of it. My teeth, according to a dentist, are B1, whatever that means. Film-star teeth, I reckon. To go with my perfect smile.
I shake my head, no, I don’t have a light.
She sighs again as she puts the packet of cigarettes away. We sit in silence, although I can tell she is about to say something else. I’ve got a sense for that sort of thing. With the women.
“Are you here for the festival?” she asks. Nice voice. Controlled and measured. A think-before-you-speak type. And rather posh, I’d say. She’s not some rough old sort, that’s for sure.
I nod, keep staring ahead; it’s been ages since I’ve spoken to a proper woman. One that’s not wearing rubber gloves anyway.
I feel sixteen again, all tongue-tied. In fact, my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. That shows I’m nervous, that does. It used to get like that at the reviews back in the big house.
I smile, can feel my lips pulling back over my teeth in a rictus grin.
I don’t know what to say, don’t want her to think I’m being rude, like. She’s a tidy sort, after all.
I nod again, more firmly this time to make sure she can see.
Then I lean forward and touch the dog on its head as it turns towards me. For one horrible moment, I think it’s going to pull back, bare its teeth and snarl at me.
That would fuck me up with the woman, that’s for sure.
But it doesn’t. It cowers ever so slightly back as my hand comes towards its head – so as you’d hardly notice - and it sort of licks its lips nervously (if dogs have lips, that is). And then it lets me stroke its head. I do it for a minute, still not knowing what to say.
“She likes you,” the woman says, “she doesn’t like everyone.” Then she smiles.
I nod, not sure what to say or do. I clear my throat. It makes it worse, harder to speak. I need to cough now. But I clear my throat again, a bit louder this time.
“What’s her name?” I say.
“Mia,” the woman replies.
“Nice name,” I say (although, and I don’t say this out loud mind, it’s a stupid fucking name for a dog).
I stop stroking. Well, you can’t keep doing it over and over again. It makes you look odd, that does. Like you’re simple or something.
They used to bring a golden retriever into the annexe and we all had to take turns petting and going “aah” over it as it stuck its big fat nose into your crotch. Personally, I’d have preferred to have wrung its fucking neck. But they’ve got big necks, retrievers. And you can’t really get your hands round one. Not that I’ve tried, mind you. I’ve thought about it. But not tried. Not really, anyway. Not properly. It was only a joke. Just a bit of horseplay to impress Sprake and Ainsley. Got me into a bit of trouble actually. I never did it again.
“Would you like to feed her some biscuits?” says the woman, turning towards me now and offering up the brown paper bag.
I peer in the bag and then reach into it and take out a couple of small biscuits, one orange and one black (not that it really matters).
I lean forward and put out my hand, offering them to the dog. It moves forward, snuffles, and I can feel it taking the biscuits, its tongue licking the palm of my hand.
I lean back, trying to smile and resisting the urge to wipe the dog’s slime off the palm of my hand. Dirty, filthy thing.
“My name’s Julia,” the woman says, smiling at me again. She has a nice face, actually. Very nice. Small and round. A bit like one of those monkeys at the zoo. I had one of them on my shoulder once, a monkey. And she has brown hair and lots of it. A nice smile if a bit lop-sided. I wonder, just for a second, whether she might have had some sort of stroke. Not that I’d ask.
I think for a minute, smiling back. I give her one of my shy smiles and then look down again at the dog that’s now snuffling by my feet.
“John,” I say, after a moment or two. “My name’s John” (well you can’t be too careful can you?). I don’t know what I look like really. Years ago at college, this girl I knew kept calling me Edgar, although that wasn’t my proper name either.
So I must look like an Edgar.
But that’s a shit name. Imagine being called that.
So I said John.
I’m not sure I like that either, even though it’s my middle name, actually. It’s an older man’s name really. But it’s better than Edgar. And I can’t tell her my real name. She’d remember it, for sure. And later, maybe when she hears the news or reads the papers, she’ll tell the police. But does it matter?
I’ll be long gone by then.
It doesn’t matter at all. Not really.
By the time she hears it on the news or reads it in the papers, me and the little man will be well away. It really doesn’t matter. For a moment, just for a few brief minutes, here and now, I can be myself for once.
“It’s Raymond. My name. Raymond.”
She turns and looks at me. She thinks I’m mad, I can tell. Our eyes meet and she’s laughing. But it’s a nice laugh. Not like one of Spink’s sneering laughs. An amused, happy laugh, this one.
“So which is it? John or Raymond?”
“My friends call me John,” I say quickly, because I can think fast, see, think on my feet, that’s me. “It’s a sort of nickname.”
She smiles and nods thoughtfully and turns to look out at sea.
“I’ll call you John then . . . Honest John,” she says, and again I catch the little smile she makes to herself.
We sit for a while just looking out to sea. Me and her and the little dog beneath our feet. Just like an old married couple, really. Nice it is. Real nice.
Out at sea we can see one or two little boats, their lights flickering, mirroring the fairy lights strung all the way along the seafront.
People pass by, going to and fro, back and forth to and from the main part of town.
It feels normal. You don’t get a lot of normal, not where I’ve come from.
I can see her hands resting gently in her lap. It’s all I can do to stop myself reaching across to take one of her hands in mine.
It’s been years, years and years, since I did anything like this. Long time back it was. Back before, well, you know. I don’t need to say, do I?
I want to hold her hand so very much. But it’s too fast, too soon. You can’t just reach out and take someone’s hand like that. Not after four or five minutes. She’d pull back, recoil, think I was weird. And that would spoil it all. That would ruin the moment for sure.
So we just sit there, side by side. Alone with our thoughts and I get to wondering what she’s thinking. And whether she’s alone. Like me. Two ships in the night as they say, know what I mean?
And I wonder what it must be like to be, well, just as we are now, not just for a few minutes but all the time, day in and day out, week after week.
I look down and see she’s not wearing a wedding ring on her left hand.
“You’re not married,” I say suddenly, almost before I’d even thought it. The question up and out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
That’s done it.
That’s fucked me up.
But then she speaks.
“No,” she replies, as calm and relaxed as you like, or so it seems to me. “Divorced. And you?”
“I’m widowed.”
“Oh,” she says, and I can hear the surprise in that one single word. She says “oh” but what she really means is “how sad”.
I just nod my head, not sure what else to say. I can sense her thinking as she sits there not moving, unsure how to respond. Perhaps she’s feeling embarrassed now? Awkward, maybe? Wishing she hadn’t started this conversation? She only sat down to feed her dog, after all.
Is she going to get up and walk off, not knowing what else to do?
She leans forward to stroke the dog and, despite that, she just seems so terribly still, almost as if she’s holding her breath.
I’m not sure what to do. Should I start talking or hold on and see what she says? Or does?
I pause and then, finally, she speaks. Or, to be more accurate, she breathes out loudly and almost slumps back on the bench. It’s not very ladylike, that’s for sure. The dog jumps a little nervously, and then ducks under the bench out of sight.
“I’ve just lost my mother,” she says. “She was only sixty-two. Cancer. That’s why I’m here. To sort her things out.”
“Dear me.” (Fuck, is that the best I can do? It makes me sound like a vicar or a maiden aunt.)
