The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  “Hello,” he said and then stopped, searching for words, suddenly realising that for all his dreams and imaginings and thoughts of super-heroes saving children, he had not spoken to a little boy and a little girl for years.

  He could not remember when. If at all. So many years ago. He felt shy, unsure what to say.

  “What is your name, little boy?” he asked.

  There was silence.

  “What is your name, little boy?” he asked again, louder this time, wondering if the boy had heard him clearly.

  Again, the boy did not speak.

  The girl, sensing the slow brother’s hands were loosening, started wriggling and pulling.

  “You’re hurting my sister,” the boy shouted suddenly, “You’re hurting her. Get off!”

  The boy dashed forward and pushed at the slow brother who, off-balance, stumbled backwards, letting go of the girl.

  And the boy and girl were off and running towards the farmhouse.

  The slow brother shouted after them. “Stop, little children, stop. Come back!”

  He picked up his gun and, worried that he had frightened them, ran after them to tell them they had nothing to be scared of. That he was a good man and would do anything for them. That he loved children.

  This time, the children ran in a straight line.

  Towards the farmhouse.

  Both of them screaming, both of them terrified.

  As the slow brother broke through the trees and down along the path and on to the driveway, he saw his brother and the man with the bobble hat standing there. He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket as he approached them.

  The two children ran straight into the man’s arms, now squealing and babbling over each other, as he crouched down and hugged them, telling him their story of fear and terror.

  The slow brother stopped and looked at the smart brother, who glared at him and shook his head, say nothing, and then spoke to the man with the hat and his children.

  “I’m so sorry, Adam, my brother was up at the fields, shooting vermin. He must have scared your children, with the gunshots. He wouldn’t have realised. He’s not … you know … we don’t have any children.”

  The man with the bobble hat looked up from comforting his two children, their heads down tucked into either side of his shoulders.

  “No harm done,” he said, getting to his feet and holding his children’s hands. The children looked at the slow brother, almost reproachfully, the girl still sobbing slightly to herself.

  “I shouldn’t have let them run about … I forget this is a working farm. You’ve work to do … I’m sorry,” he added, turning to the slow brother. “My fault, I hope they didn’t bother you too much.”

  Bewildered, the slow brother smiled back uncertainly. “I was shooting a rabbit for supper.”

  The man with the hat pulled a slightly disgusted face, but then corrected himself as he spoke again. “I was telling Zoe and Luke that we were cutting Christmas trees … and I promised we’d have one of them for ourselves … I, we just came over so I could show them the trees and, I don’t know, pick one. Zoe, Luke, show the nice men what you’ve got.”

  Slowly, shyly, the two children reached into the pockets.

  The little girl pulled out a red ribbon, which she held up to the slow brother.

  The little boy took out a green ribbon, but hung back, not wanting to hold it outwards.

  The smart brother spoke, remembering how polite his father could be in company, “Well, come on then, Adam, Luke, Zoe … let’s go and pick you a Christmas tree. We’ll find you a nice one and you can put your ribbons round the branches and your father can chop it down himself on Monday.”

  They smiled at each other, the smart brother, the man with the hat and the two children, and then turned and went towards the trees. Excited now, the children, with the thought of their own tree to choose. And Christmas too. Not so very far away.

  The slow brother followed. A surge of something, he wasn’t sure what, he could not articulate it, inside of him. But he knew he did not like the man with the hat and what he did with these children behind closed doors.

  And he thought, maybe, that he loved these pretty children. That he would like to look after them and care for them. If only this horrible man, a nasty man just like Father, wasn’t around any more.

  The slow brother felt the gun in his pocket.

  Rallied himself, at what he knew he had to do. And be. A super-hero.

  And he followed the four of them up into the trees.

  * * *

  They had a nice time among the trees, the children, running back and forth, excited.

  Stopping to look at one tree. This one! And then another. No, this one – it’s bigger!

  The man with the bobble hat smiling to himself and the two brothers standing there awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. Both of them so unfamiliar with children.

  “It’s …” the man in the hat started to talk and then stopped, suddenly emotional. He gathered his thoughts. “It’s so nice to see them happy. They’ve had a tough old time since their mum died. It’s not been easy.”

  The smart brother nodded his agreement, not sure how to answer.

  The slow brother looked at the man in the hat, a still, almost resentful look.

  The man did not notice, his eyes transfixed on his children.

  At last, after a squabble and some shoving and some words muttered under their breath to each other, the two children had made their choice. Almost. This tree or that tree, they could not decide.

  The two trees, next to each other. Almost identical to an inexperienced eye.

  The smart brother moving in to suggest a choice. He ummed and aahed, looking them up and down, pretending to measure the height and spread of the branches with his hands.

  This one, he said finally, look at the shape, it’s perfect, that’s the best one. Well picked, children. Well picked!

  A sulky face from the girl, soon transformed as the man with the hat invited her to be the first to twist her ribbon around the branch closest to them. Then the boy’s, at the same height, not a centimetre higher, not a centimetre lower, on the branch next to hers.

  “Shake hands, children,” the man in the hat said. They moved towards each other and hugged reluctantly.

  “Stand by the tree, I’ll take a photo.”

  And he did, the two brothers quietly at the side.

  And then the man with the hat, standing there with the phone in his hand, smiling, gestured for the two brothers to join in. One to one side. One to the other. The children in between. They shook their heads, no not us, and the slow brother turned away, covering the damaged part of his face with his hand.

  But the man with the hat, jolly, laughing now, persisted. No, no, you must. A memento. A souvenir of the first Christmas tree cut by my own hand. A pause. Then, with further encouragement, the two brothers moved slowly into the photo.

  Come on, guys! One this side, one that! And so they moved into position and smiled as the man with the hat took his photo. The smart brother looking straight at the phone, a slight smile on his lips. The slow brother, instinctively, turned to the side to mask the burned part of his face.

  And then the man checked his phone, zoomed in on the children’s faces, declared himself happy and that it was time to go.

  They walked, the three men, back down through the trees, to the path and to the long driveway, the children hopping and skipping about in front of them.

  Like baby rabbits, thought the slow brother to himself. He felt again the gun in his pocket. The sudden surge of anger towards the man in the hat. What he would like to do. What he was going to do. When he got the chance. He would save these children and love them himself.

  “Well,” said the man in the hat as they got to the car. “Thank you.” He shook the smart brother’s hand. “Children, what do you say?”

  “Thank you,” said the little girl.

  “Thank you,” echoed the little boy.

/>   The man in the hat opened the car door for the children to climb in. “I’m not sure why we drove here, we could have walked it, really. We’re only just over there.”

  “You’re welcome,” the smart brother said, not sure what else to say. He was not good at small talk. The other man didn’t seem to be either.

  The man in the hat went to say goodbye to the slow brother, but saw that he had already turned and walked away into the farmhouse, the door shutting quietly behind him.

  “I … say thank you to your brother for me … for us.”

  “He’s …” The smart brother stopped, not sure what to say.

  “I know,” he paused and went on carefully. “When I was young, I had an aunt who had, they call it Down’s syndrome these days. She wasn’t quite … she was nice, lovely, really, but, well, I understand anyway. It must be hard for you.”

  The smart brother nodded, not wanting to say any more. That it wasn’t that. Down’s syndrome. Nothing like it at all.

  “I’ll see you Monday, first thing?”

  The smart brother nodded again, offering a handshake.

  Then smiled at the children and turned and made his way back into the farmhouse, where he stopped and gave one final wave as the man drove away.

  “That was rude,” the smart brother said to the slow brother as he walked across the kitchen to pick up a kettle.

  “He is a bad man, a very bad man. He hurts children.”

  “Keep your voice down, you’ll wake Mother. Is she still napping?”

  The slow brother nodded, watching as the smart brother filled the kettle and clicked a switch for it to boil.

  They both stood, neither speaking, as the kettle heated the water.

  The smart brother flicked the switch off as the kettle started to make its wailing noise. Reached for mugs, milk from the fridge, sugar from the side.

  “He doesn’t seem like a bad man to me … they aren’t scared of him.” He hesitated and then added in a quieter voice, “Not like we were of Father.”

  “He told me … things … things that he did,” the slow brother answered in an angry, raised voice. He took his gun from his pocket. “I want to kill him … and save the children … they can come and live with us … and Mother.”

  “Oh, listen to yourself. Don’t be so …”

  They both stopped and turned as they heard a knocking at the kitchen door. Loud and assertive.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  The slow brother looked across. A savage lopsided smile of excitement on his face. He whispered, “It is Where’s Wally. He has come back.”

  The smart brother moved by him, hushing him down. “I’ll get rid of him.” He could not risk the man coming in now. Alone. With his brother fired up and holding a gun.

  He opened the door and smiled, the word, ‘Adam’ forming on his lips.

  Stepped back, surprised.

  “Hello, my name’s Georgia Carrie, from the police, may I come in and have a word?”

  PART FOUR

  ANOTHER VICTIM

  19. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, LUNCHTIME

  The three of them stood awkwardly in the kitchen.

  Carrie, looking around, thinking this was the kitchen that time forgot.

  The smart brother edgy. The slow brother uncomfortable, his hand on the gun tucked back into his pocket.

  After a moment or two’s silence, Carrie turned and looked at the slow brother. He would not meet her eye, like a naughty child. There was something about him, his look, that bothered her, but she couldn’t quite think what it was. The burned face and the way he brought his hand up to it, as if brushing the hair away from his forehead. It reminded her of someone.

  “Hello,” he muttered.

  No more, no less.

  Keeping his head down, waiting for his brother to speak, to lead the conversation, to get her out and away.

  She turned towards the smart brother. It struck her that this could be The Scribbler standing before her. Lean. Whippet thin. Rangy. All the words used to describe The Scribbler were a perfect match for this man. And the lines drawn by Gayther on the Mr Potato Head picture, to the forehead, to the sides of the mouth, were all there, too. And the old-man hairs sprouting everywhere.

  “What can we do for you?” he said briskly.

  She smiled, hesitating suddenly.

  Stumbling to say anything.

  She had come here, for the second of the four vans she was checking, all alone. She had been quite breezy about it all. It was as if she were doing something of little consequence, neither here nor there. Something academic. A university project. Ignoring Gayther’s advice to simply sit nearby and look and listen. And then, if it seemed like a possible line of enquiry, they’d follow procedures, fill in forms and go back together later and do an interview. “Do it properly,” he’d stressed. But she’d ignored him.

  Instead, she’d walked up to the first door, knocked on it, realised the man who answered it and owned the van looked nothing like The Scribbler and, to be sure, checked he had an alibi for the night in question. The man was chatty, friendly even. Trevor. A lonely widower. She had a cup of tea. Two, then three biscuits. Decided this was easy enough. And so she did the same here, arriving at this rundown farmhouse in the back of beyond, looking over the van, taking a couple of photos, and then rat-a-tat-tatting on the door.

  But now, right now, as the smart brother asked her what she wanted, first once and then again, the tension clear in his strained voice, she realised why the slow brother, his head bowed and face covered, bothered her. It was his melted face. The talk from Thomas and Cotton of Quasimodo being seen with The Scribbler at one pub. The lurking presence of Frankenstein’s monster at another. The sense that maybe there were two people working together on the killings. Now here they both were in front of her.

  The Scribbler to one side. Ready to act the moment she said the wrong thing.

  The monster to the other. A lurking, threatening presence.

  She felt as though she were going to be sick. From her foolishness and fear.

  “What can we do for you?” the smart brother repeated a third time, glancing first at the struck-dumb woman and then at his slow brother. He shook his head slightly as if to say to him, ‘don’t say anything, don’t do anything, just wait’. He then looked again at the woman and added suddenly, “Do you feel all right?”

  That Suffolk accent.

  Gayther had drawn attention to The Scribbler’s voice. Sloightly on th’ huh, witnesses has said.

  They were right. It was.

  “Come, over here.” He really wanted her gone, but he gestured her towards a chair at the kitchen table instead. It would seem odd otherwise. Not to show sympathy. Cause unnecessary suspicion. “Sit yourself down, catch your breath.” He looked up at the slow brother and pointed him towards the sink, go on, get a glass of water.

  The smart brother and Carrie both watched as the slow brother went to the sink and picked up an empty glass standing upside-down on the draining board. He hesitated, holding the glass to the light momentarily to see if it was clean. It was, or clean enough, anyway. He filled the glass half-full from the tap and walked slowly back towards Carrie. She smiled at him, teeth stuck to gums, as she took the glass and sipped at the water. She hoped they did not see her hand tremble. She then looked again at the smart brother.

  He wondered what she wanted. Something and nothing most likely.

  Perhaps he’d forgotten the tax on the van. MOT maybe. He wracked his brains, wondering if he’d insured the van again this year.

  But still, that sudden stab of fear was there. Couldn’t help but think this was something more serious. About that boy and the dog. Maybe this was the beginning of the end.

  “I’m ever so sorry,” Carrie said, as she put down the half-drunk glass of water. “I suddenly felt faint.” She paused and then added, “I’m just going to call my colleague to come and collect me. He’s waiting for me with the dog. Down your dri
veway.” She reached slowly, painfully slowly, into her pocket and took out her phone, then stopped, the phone in her hands, as she heard a sudden noise and saw the door into the main part of the farmhouse being pushed open.

  Carrie half-smiled automatically at the old woman who was standing there, thin as a stick, and looking confused, as if she had fallen asleep and woken up in a panic, not knowing where she was. Carrie felt, suddenly, as though all the pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place. The Scribbler. His mad brother. The old lady they were looking to put into a care home. The Kings Court care home. Where The Scribbler had stumbled into Edwin Lodge. And gone back later to kill him. Everything Gayther had guessed at was correct. Give or take. More or less. As he would say.

  Carrie watched as the old woman used a stick to move slowly, painfully, across the room, towards her and the two brothers. Carrie wondered what babbling, dementia-driven nonsense was about to be said as the woman moved close to her, closer than was necessary. Carrie thought the old woman was about to take her arm for support, to stop herself falling over.

  The old woman raised her stick and brought it crashing down on the phone in Carrie’s hands. Carrie recoiled in pain.

  “I’ve been sitting upstairs watching her. She’s been snooping round like a thief … looking at the van … taking photographs. She’s trouble.”

  She turned to the two brothers, standing there looking shocked. “Exodus 22: ‘If a thief is struck so that he dies, there shall be no bloodguilt’ … deal with her.”

  * * *

  As Carrie struggled up from her chair, the smart brother stepped forward instinctively and hit her across her face with the back of his hand. She tumbled backwards, hitting her head on the floor.

  Dazed, she tried to sit up, but the smart brother was upon her, banging her head against the floor, one, two, three times, until she was still.

  The smart brother stood there breathing heavily, wiping his mouth with his hand. The slow brother held his hands to his open mouth, stunned by the sudden, unexpected savagery. The old woman stepped forward and put her heel on the mobile phone, crushing it into the floor.