2 barron devils spawn.., p.21
The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 21
I have to do something, and fast, rather than just standing here with the minutes passing, waiting to be discovered.
At last, so suddenly that I jump as if I was not expecting it, I hear one, two heavy footsteps on the patio. A long pause (as the man looks into the kitchen). The rattle of the handle (thank God I locked the back door). Pause again. Then the voice once more.
“Gerry, Gerry? Are you there?”
He’s puzzled, perhaps a little anxious, but there’s no sound of panic rising in his voice. He sees this as an inconvenience, a nuisance, not as anything untoward or sinister.
I hear him standing by the back door, scuffling his feet and coughing now, clearing his throat. What’s he doing, calling Gerald on a mobile phone? Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Wants to know where he is. Out to get supplies? But Gerald didn’t have a mobile phone on him. Did he? No, I checked each pocket in turn. Did he leave it in his car? If he had a phone on him and I had missed it, he’d not have been tapping SOS on the wall, would have reached for the phone, no matter how much pain he was in, and pressed 9 . . . 9 . . . 9. That’s for certain.
I strain, listening to hear sounds from upstairs.
An ever-fainter “Help” or, God help us, the beeping of a phone. Nothing, thank goodness.
A moment or two of silence; I suddenly realise I am holding my breath again. The man at the back door swears to himself – just annoyed now, not anxious at all – and I hear his footsteps, moving away. Now’s my chance. I have to time this just so. In my head, I count his footsteps to the back gate: six, seven, eight? The gate’s pulled open. Was that a click or am I imagining it?
Wait: two, three, four seconds. Not sure.
The gate is slammed shut. No mistaking that. As he goes back round to the front of the house, I have to slip out the back and disappear into the alleyways.
I listen, straining for any sound at the back of the house.
It’s over for us here; it’s time to leave. I nudge William and his eyes open wearily and he coughs and splutters, almost retching.
“We’re on our way, little William, come on – we’re on our way to a new life in the south of France!”
Part Three
The Departure
59
4.56pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
It’s dusk and a sea mist is rolling in, giving us cover to get away.
We’re in the back alleys, heads down and hurrying along.
Going back to the car park at the far end of the seafront.
With the man gone looking for Gerald, I reckon it will take thirty minutes, maybe more, before his anger turns to worry. He’ll walk to the shops, check out the nearest pub and call on any neighbours he knows first. Then someone will tell him what they’ve seen on the news, repeating what’s been put out about me.
Lies mostly, if not all of it.
But I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?
Remember?
Eventually, the man, troubled now, will stop a policeman and explain Gerald’s car was parked outside but the house was locked and dark, the back-door key was missing and Gerald was nowhere to be seen.
Him and the copper will knock on the front door.
They’ll check the back door, each pulling at the handle.
Then they’ll look at each other. The man will nod firmly and the copper will put his elbow to the glass, push hard, and in it goes.
Room to room they’ll move downstairs. The man will hurry upstairs, calling Gerald’s name. The policeman will be at his shoulder, pushing by to the bedroom, checking. Last of all, one of them will open the door to the box room.
That’s it then, now they’ll know.
Dead? Alive?
Either way, it doesn’t really matter. I’m fucked – no disguising what I’ve done.
We hurry on, as quickly as we can, through the alleyways. I think we have twenty-five minutes, tops.
Did I say? I’m sure I did.
Listen, why don’t you?
We’ve twenty-five minutes to get to the car and away, out of the town and on the road down to Thurrock. The back roads will be safest. The police may still have cars stationed, ready and waiting, along the main roads, perhaps even roadblocks, especially on the way out of town.
Not been seen yet.
Our luck holds.
For now anyway.
I carry William, his body turned towards me, so his face cannot be spotted easily. If no one sees his face – his angelic cherub face – and my head is down, I might just get away with it all the way to the car.
It’s darker now and I’m getting into my stride. These are dirty alleyways, full of bins and bottles and carrier bags overflowing with rubbish. I need to be careful not to stumble. I focus on walking briskly, one step firmly in front of the other.
I hear noises ahead and a gaggle of girls appears out of the mist, all laughing, each trying to out-talk the others. Coming towards me, I drop my gaze, my hand reaching up to stroke William’s head so he can’t turn and be seen.
There are four or five of them, teens, maybe fourteen or fifteen. None of them will look at me. A man of my age is invisible to them.
They move alongside. The smallest, a slight, dark-haired pixie dressed in black, is pushed towards me by one of the others. She bumps into me, stumbles back and the others erupt in laughter. I glance down as she hits the ground, a startled look on her face.
As she turns to glare up at me – seriously, as if it’s my fucking fault – I look away and hurry on. I really want to break into a run but know I dare not. I just keep walking, as steady as I can. I mustn’t look back, can’t risk them all seeing my face, recognising me.
There is another burst of laughter and I imagine the other girls reaching down to help her up. There’s an angry shout. “Hey, Hey,” one of them cries, the bravest of them all.
They’re lucky I don’t have time to stop, that’s all I’ll say.
They’d not be so happy then.
I move on as quickly as I can until all I can hear in the distance is a mix of shouts and obscenities as they watch me fading into the mist.
Did they realise who I am? I don’t think so – if they’d known anything, they’d not have been laughing and joking and pushing each other into me, would they?
I’m safe, still.
I press on. No time to waste.
Have to be quick.
A sharp right and I’m walking along the back of the buildings fronting the high street.
How far now? Half a mile maybe? Does this run the full length? Easy if it does.
No one about to see me until I come out of the other end by the car park.
I slip suddenly on the path, my left leg sliding away from me. I manage to stay upright. I need to slow a little, can’t risk falling over with the little ’un in my arms.
Now he’s awake, struggling upwards.
Hands to his eyes, rubbing them.
Here we go. God hope he doesn’t start retching again.
Like he has something stuck in his throat.
It’s a nervous thing I reckon, a tic.
I keep on moving. If I stop and try to soothe him, we’ll waste valuable minutes. I reckon we now have no more than twenty to get to the car.
As we move along, ever-slowing, with William heavy in my arms, I listen for the giveaway sounds of discovery: the police car sirens as they race to the house or the wail of the ambulance. Not long now.
Ahead of me.
One hundred yards or so.
A man steps out.
I stop dead in my tracks, taken by surprise. I’m not sure what to do. There’s a turning to my left, about thirty or so yards up, between us, which may take me out to the high street. I can use that if need be.
There’s a rattle of a bin lid.
I glance up.
The man has turned and gone.
I hurry on, past the turning, moving towards where the man dumped his rubbish in the bin. William’s making some sort of grumbling noise in his throat, almost a growl, with every step I take.
We move parallel to the man’s back gate. Left wide open.
Without thinking, I stop to close it.
He is standing there.
In silence, just inside the gate.
Our eyes meet.
“Hello,” I say, without thinking. He does not reply. Just looks back without acknowledgement. An old man, eighty, maybe even older. Bald, a fringe of white hair. Dark cardigan, white vest, dark trousers. He stands there expressionless.
Slowly, I turn away.
Hold William tighter.
Move on quickly.
Twenty yards on, I force myself to look back. The man has stepped out again. Turned towards us. I raise my hand as if I am a neighbour out and about with his little boy, maybe going for a fish and chips supper.
Does he know who I am?
Has he seen the television news?
If so, I am surely done for.
He will turn and go indoors, making for an old-fashioned telephone sitting on a table in the hallway. Dialling 9 . . . 9 . . . 9, he’ll say in a low mutter, clearing his throat of phlegm, “Hello . . . police? I’ve just seen that madman (I am not) and the boy, come quick.”
Ten minutes, then.
Is that what I’ve got left?
Ten minutes to get back to the car and away.
Forty yards farther on now.
There is another turning just ahead, ten yards or so, and that leads out to the high street and the car park.
A final glance back.
The man has gone.
How long do I have?
Five minutes? How long does it take to dial 999, be put through to the police and for them to arrive, cars, dogs, marksmen, the whole works? I have to get to the car and drive off down one of the lanes that lead out of the town. I daren’t try the main roads, not now.
I turn into the passageway to the high street and the car park. So heavy in my arms, I drop William to his feet. He trips and falls on his knees. Now he’s crying, slowly at first and then rising into what is close to an angry scream. I think he’s hungry, plain and simple.
I’m not giving him anything.
He’d only throw it up.
Probably over me.
I lift him, try wiping him down, but I don’t know what else to do – I can’t have him screaming like this; he’ll be heard and people will put two and two together.
I clamp my hand over his mouth again.
Leave his nose free this time. (I didn’t last time, okay?) He struggles, his face reddening.
I bend over, fearing he will twist and twitch in my arms and collapse into another fit. But I cannot risk everything – our freedom, our happiness, our new life together – by letting him go as he will scream and scream. We are so close to the high street that he could easily be heard.
“Be quiet,” I say, furiously. “Be quiet and I will put you down and you can walk.”
He takes no notice; it’s as if I am not here, as he struggles more and gets redder still. He’s about to black out, I can tell.
“Walk, William, walk,” I urge. “William, walk like a big boy.”
Something seems to get through to him as he stops, looks at me – through me, as though I am not here – and then takes a long, deep breath.
“That’s it, William, good boy,” I say. He’s come to his senses and is going to walk nicely for Daddy. I slip him down to the ground and, holding his hand, turn him round to walk on.
He is rigid.
White-faced and as stiff as a board.
Not moving at all.
He’s holding his breath, I think. Or so it seems. I can’t tell. It’s dark now and there is little light in this passageway. I’m not sure if he’s angry or if he has simply seized up, in another sort of fit. I drop to my knees and turn him round to see.
Jesus, I can’t tell in this light.
He is ramrod stiff, eyes rolled upwards.
He does not seem to be breathing.
I pull him down onto his back and crouch over him, my mouth moving to his. I don’t know what to do, but I have to get some air into him for sure. I blow, pause, blow again. I don’t think this is a fit, not this time. More like a temper tantrum. Blow, pause, blow. I have to get some oxygen in him fast.
He’s still and breathing quietly.
Not sure if he is awake or asleep.
I stand here, for a second or two, listening for sounds behind me, to the sides, and to the pathway ahead. Nothing. I leave William on the ground, safe for a minute with no one about, as I stride the last few yards to the top and peer out; the high street is to my left, the car park down to the right.
There are street lights and parked cars dotted here and there, but, so far as I can see, there isn’t anyone on the street. All clear. For the moment.
Got to do it.
Take my chance.
Go right now.
I turn and race back to William, lifting him up again into my arms. He’s still semi-conscious and sinks easily into me. Seconds later, all still quiet, I am back at the high street. I check once again to my left. Once more to my right. Still clear. I have to go, while it stays like this.
I am walking purposefully. A glance around. I take a step onto the slight, grassy slope, over a low metal rail and I am on the shingle of the car park. I stand there for a moment.
Not sure what to expect.
Some sort of police presence?
Lights, guards, everyone waiting for me?
It’s just as it was, as if nothing out of place has happened here at all. I step out confidently, William snuggled close. Two, three, four steps towards the car. It’s hard not to break into a run, even though I know I can take my time now. Home and dry. Almost, anyway.
Five, six, seven steps.
Now halfway there.
I check back, just in case. No one there – obviously.
Eight, nine, ten steps and I am at the car, ready to open it and slip William onto the passenger seat so I can keep hold of him. Rummaging for the key, I glance up, towards the cottage, which I can now see clearly, top and bottom. It’s still dark and I’d say that it looks as if no one is inside.
Only thing, though, there is a policewoman on the doorstep.
I stand there gazing at her.
As she looks up and across at me.
60
5.16pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
“So, other than her,” Nat glances towards the front door where a female police officer is keeping watch outside, “the police have now all gone from here and we’re supposed to just sit, hour after hour, waiting for something to happen . . . for some news.” She puts her phone into her handbag. “There’s still nothing new on any of the news channels. Nothing at all,”
“There won’t be, Nat,” answers Rick, sitting back on the sofa. “That last officer said, didn’t he? They were sifting through the responses before they . . . or we . . . do an appeal. Sort what they’ve got, see if there are any good leads. And they’ve not all gone. It’s still their priority, but they have to change shifts and bring everyone up-to-date and compare notes. They’ll be back soon.”
“How long’s it going to take . . . Will wants help. He needs us, Rick. Now.” Nat drops her head forward.
The old woman, carrying two mugs of tea, comes back into the front room followed by the old man, who has a tray with two more mugs and a plate of biscuits. The old woman passes the drinks to the younger couple and sits down in a chair. The old man puts the tray on the coffee table and moves to the window.
“Let’s hope these leads are better than the CCTV one. Was the man an Asian, did you say?” The old woman purses her lips into the semblance of a smile.
“That’s not fair, mum,” answers Rick. “He did have a child of about Will’s age and was acting oddly. Hiding in the corner. It did look strange. He was an Eastern European, we think. Not that it matters.”
“Probably an illegal immigrant . . .” laughs the old man, sipping at his tea. “Trying to buy the cheapest train ticket to London for his whole family . . . one on the ticket in the compartment, Sixteen taking it in turns to hide in the toilet.”
Nat looks at Rick and raises her eyebrows.
He shakes his head.
“You can’t say that sort of thing these days, Dad. You shouldn’t even think it. Seriously.”
The old man continues, “You’re always going to get plenty of calls. Lots of sightings. One or two mischief-makers with nothing better to do. Trolls they call them. You just have to wait for the police to uncover the genuine lead and then they’ll act fast. You wait . . . you’ll get a call suddenly . . . out of the blue . . . any moment, to say they’ve got William back.”
The old woman finishes her tea and motions to the old man to sit down. “He’ll be long gone and it would be best to let him go. What do you think he will do if he is cornered? He will hold the boy as a hostage at best. At worst . . .” She lets her words tail away.
“For Christ’s sake, why can’t you be supportive for once,” Nat cries out. “We all know what could happen. Will could go into a coma if he’s not looked after. And he could be . . . we know what Orrey is like. He tormented Katie . . . near enough tortured her at times. But it doesn’t help . . . we know that Will could now be . . .” She stutters over her words, falling into an angry and resentful silence.
“It doesn’t help, Mum, really,” adds Rick. “Please. We know it’s frustrating and worrying. But we all want Will to be found safe and well. I’m sure if we can find Orrey before Will falls ill and reason with him, we can get Will back with no harm done.”
“And if not . . .” says the old woman.
“Well, once he knows Will is not well, he’ll take him somewhere; he’ll leave Will where he’ll be found easily. Outside a supermarket or somewhere like that.”
The old man watches the old woman pulling a face of disbelief. He turns away as he feels a sudden surge of anger, something close to hatred in that instant. There really is no talking to the dreadful old cow at times.
61
5.17pm, SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I blank her. The policewoman.
Well, what do you expect?
What else can I do? You tell me.
