The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  With Carrie.

  And The Scribbler. Brought to justice.

  He had to act fast.

  24. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, MID-EVENING

  The man with the latex gloves walked slowly through the forest. Exhausted now, but close to home.

  He had left the car deep among the trees and bushes. Four or five miles away was what he’d intended.

  But he had been walking for hours now. Six, seven, eight miles, maybe more, and getting ever slower with every mile.

  He had been lucky. Had turned left and driven along the side road. Waiting, any second, for the police car to come up behind him, flashing lights, siren wailing, the officers gesturing furiously at him to pull over and stop. He’d tug the gun from his pocket. A last, desperate act to escape. To get back to the farm.

  But the police car did not appear. As he turned left again, a mile or so down the road, he glanced back once more. There was nothing to be seen. And he found himself breathing again. Great big gulps of air. Had not realised he had been holding his breath for so long.

  He had buried the car down a slope in a saucer-shaped dip full of bushes surrounded by trees. Thought, if he were lucky, that it might not be discovered for years, maybe never. Had wiped it all clean, wheel, seat, floor, door handle, and then scouted round, making sure it could not be seen from the path, even from within the circle of trees. Maybe from above, a police helicopter, but he could do little about that.

  And then he started walking home. Through trees, row upon row of trees, going on forever.

  Feeling sick, not knowing what to expect when he arrived back.

  And tense, worried that he could not get there faster, help in some way with whatever was happening.

  He had thought of running off. Just taking the policewoman’s car and driving away. But he did not know where to go. He had no passport. No credit card. Nothing but the cash in his pocket. No change of clothes. No place to go. No idea how to disappear into thin air. No family or friends to help him. He was not of this world. This modern, unfamiliar world. He did not understand how it all worked.

  And he knew he could not leave his brother. Nor his mother. Could not desert them to deal with the police, who would come knocking some time soon, perhaps were there already, wanting to know where the policewoman was.

  Had she come to the farm, they’d ask. Have you seen her? Mother would shake her head, say no. But his slow brother would shuffle from one foot to the other. Head down. Shame-faced. Guilty. May we have a look around, they’d ask. Just to check. And they’d go into the outhouse and the barns and wherever she’d been hidden. And then. And then he needed to be there for that moment.

  He hurried on, as best he could.

  Not far now.

  A mile or two, maybe a little more.

  Whatever was happening at the farm when he returned, he had to deal with it. If the policewoman were still alive, he would have to dispose of her. He had thought things through. There was no other way. They could not keep her prisoner forever. He would do it cleanly and quickly. As soon as he saw her. Then they must sit and wait and see if or when the police came. Hold tight. Keep their nerve.

  If they came when he was there, he would keep his brother and his mother hidden away beyond the kitchen. Say no, he’d not seen anyone. Now please leave, my mother is seriously ill. She needs peace and quiet. He knew how to do that. Would then watch them leave. Breathe a sigh of relief.

  If they were there already, the police, he’d have to decide what to do when he arrived. One policeman or woman, just following up, looking around, opening doors to barns, and he would deal with them. He felt the gun in his pocket. Was ready to use it.

  More police? Swarming all over the farm with dogs and marksmen. He could not run away, leaving his brother and mother behind. He would fight his way through somehow. Get to them. End their lives together. How it should be. For a mother and her loving sons.

  The man with the gloves reached a plain. Looked out across the fields of a neighbouring farm. Beyond that was the farm. His home. All his life. His brother’s too. And Mother’s, of course. He stood and watched for a minute or two, getting his breath back.

  He blinked once, then twice. He would have sworn he could see the lights of a car coming down the lane towards the farm. Distant. Far away. But he wasn’t sure of what he was seeing.

  He took the gun out of his pocket. Checked it. He was ready to deal with whatever he was going to face. Kill or be killed. He started to run. Fast and hard.

  25. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, EVENING

  Carrie leaned back against the wall of the barn trying to look as calm and relaxed as she could. Like she’d been trained to do in tense and difficult situations.

  About as calm and relaxed as you can, she thought, when you’re gagged and bound to a wall. And a madman is standing over you about to kill you. Because his mother told him to.

  Most likely with his bare hands. Unless he had a knife in his pocket that he’d pull out and use to cut her throat. She felt a sudden, sobbing sense of despair. She’d never see Noah again, nor her mum. She tried to speak. Calm and rational words. Mumbled desperately through her gag.

  The man put down the lantern he was carrying and reached into his pocket.

  Pulled out a knife.

  Moved towards her. Carrie looked up, terrified.

  She was not going to let him see that, though. She met his gaze, her chin jutting out, her eyes steady, strong and defiant.

  She thought her final words. Noah. I love you with all my heart. Mum, Dad, I love you, too. Dad, I remember you always.

  The man lurched forward, cut at the gag at the side of her mouth. Opened her mouth. Removed the handkerchief. “Do not scream again,” he said quietly. “I will put it back on if you do.”

  “Please,” she said as calmly as she could. He must be able to hear the shaking in her voice, she thought. “Let me go … it’s not too late.”

  The man with the melted face shook his head.

  “Let me go now, just untie my arms and legs and let me walk away. You don’t have to do this.”

  The man shook his head again, more emphatically this time.

  “It’s not too late. We can sort this out. I’ll speak up for you and help you. Just let me go now.”

  The man with the melted face reached into his pocket and took out a hip flask.

  He held it up to her lips.

  “It is water,” he said. “You are thirsty.”

  She drank from it, once, then twice, and nodded her thanks.

  “I must take you somewhere else. Before my brother gets back. He will know you are here.” He spoke so slowly, almost methodically.

  “Why? What will your brother do? Where’s he gone?” She tried not to let him hear the panic she was feeling.

  The man crouched down next to her. Then sat down, reaching for his tin of tobacco.

  “He is hiding your car in the forest,” he said slowly, opening the tin. “He will be back soon.”

  “What will he do then? To me?” Again, she could hear her voice wavering. Wished she hadn’t said it. Knew she shouldn’t sound like a victim. Should sound calm and measured. And she had to take charge of this situation somehow. Be in control. Act fast too.

  He was just sitting there. Calm as you like.

  The brother on the way back.

  Here at any moment. God knows what then.

  The man took out a cigarette and a matchbox from his tin. With thick and clumsy fingers, he tried to light the cigarette. He dropped the burning match. Pressed it out with his foot.

  “Here,” she said, “untie my hands. I can do it for you. Let me help you.” She smiled as best she could.

  He shook his head as he had another go. The match burned down to his fingers before he dropped it and trod on it. Once more, and the cigarette was finally lit.

  There was a moment’s silence. She wondered whether a lit match might set fire to the straw, the barn going up in flames. Her and him with it. Whether he w
ould untie her then or walk away and let her burn to death.

  He smoked his cigarette carefully. He held it like a child smoking for the first time, she thought.

  She wanted him to hurry, before the brother returned. To do whatever it was he could not bring himself to tell her about. But she also knew this was her chance to engage with him, to somehow win him over.

  “Please may I have a cigarette?” She had not smoked a cigarette for years. Not since she was at school. Even then, only the once. She had coughed and spluttered and thought she was going to throw up. But she had to bond with him somehow. This was her only chance. All she could think of to say.

  He stopped smoking. Held his roll-up cigarette away from his mouth. Thought and then mumbled his reply.

  “I do not have proper cigarettes. Only these.” He gestured the roll-up towards her.

  She smiled. “I’m like you. I smoke those.”

  He looked at her curiously, thought again for a moment, and then answered, “Ladies do not smoke roll-ups. They are for men … working men,” he added with emphasis.

  She went to say, “I’m no lady.”

  Thought better of it.

  Asked his name instead.

  The man with the melted face dragged on his cigarette. He thought for a while. So long that she thought he was not going to answer. But then he did.

  “Dennis,” he said. “My name is Dennis. D. E. N. N. I. S. Dennis with two n’s not one n.”

  “Georgia,” she replied. “Georgy to my friends.” She smiled at him. And then added, “You can call me Georgy if you like … We should shake hands. Now we’ve been introduced properly.”

  He looked at her for a second, no more than that. He turned away as she looked back at him as steady and as encouraging as she could.

  “I am going to move you to another place. You will be safe there.”

  “Safe from your brother?” she asked quietly.

  He nodded.

  “The Scribbler?” she asked carefully.

  The man looked blank-faced.

  “The Scribbler,” she repeated, watching him closely.

  “My brother,” he answered finally.

  Carrie wanted to have this conversation before he finished his cigarette and moved her. This was her best chance of understanding. Making a connection. Getting this child-like man on her side. Surviving and getting away. She had to be quick – but careful as well.

  “Your brother … the man who hit me …”

  He nodded slightly, glancing at her and away.

  “He …” she searched for what to say. She wasn’t trained for this. “He kills … he takes the lives of gay … homosexual men.”

  He looked at her for a long time and then answered quietly, almost a whisper. She had to lean forward to hear him.

  “Bad men … bad men who hurt children.” He stopped. As if he shouldn’t have spoken.

  “Gays or paedophiles?” she pressed. “They’re not the same at all.”

  He seemed uncertain, as if he had not quite heard what she’d said.

  “Paedophiles. Small boys and girls?” The thought made her feel sick. She had to blank out thoughts of Noah.

  He nodded again, then looked down, dragging on his cigarette.

  “Do you help him? Do you kill the bad men who hurt children?” She spoke softly, as conversationally as she could. As if she were talking about going shopping or some other humdrum matter.

  “I did once …” he answered before touching his scarred face. He sighed suddenly, unexpectedly, long and hard. “Now I bury them. The bad men. The baddest of bad men.”

  Carrie was not sure what to say to that, thought perhaps she should ask where he buried them. But guessed it was somewhere on the farm. Maybe even the place he had talked about moving her to. She struggled to quell a rising sense of panic again. Knew she must not show it.

  He finished his cigarette, stubbing it into the ground with his boot as he stood up.

  “We are good boys. We are Mother’s best boys. We are superheroes,” he said firmly, as if he were proud.

  Carrie looked up at his slow, simple face, still not sure what to say to this man who spoke in such a measured, child-like way.

  He moved towards her, taking out the knife and then a cloth of some kind from his pocket.

  Gagged her again. Cut her arms free from the post. Retied her wrists, a little tighter this time. Pulled her up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. Bent down again to pick up the lantern with his right hand. And then headed out of the small barn.

  She wondered if he was now carrying her to her grave.

  Had a terrible vision of being buried alive. By The Scribbler when he returned at any moment.

  Made to dig her own grave. Climb down into it and lie still as he shovelled the soil on top of her.

  * * *

  “What is this place?” Carrie asked, after the man with the melted face had put the lantern on the ground, sat her down gently against a wall and removed the gag from her mouth.

  He did not bind her to the wall this time. That was good, she thought. She could take advantage.

  She could move about a little. On her bottom. And she could roll over. She could probably stand up if she used the wall behind her for balance.

  Even though her arms and legs were tied tight, it gave her a chance, she thought.

  He shrugged. “Father used it.” He looked round the now-derelict structure, maybe twelve foot by fifteen foot. A rickety wooden staircase led to an upstairs area. Carrie could see moonlight, assumed there were windows up there, or maybe the roof had just rotted away. It stank of dirt and decay.

  “No one comes here. Except me. I come to smoke and think. My brother will not know you are here.”

  “What do you think about … when you’re here?” said Carrie. The light from the lamp shone on the undamaged side of his face. She thought, seeing mostly that side, that he had a surprisingly kind face.

  He looked shy suddenly, dipping his head down.

  “When you come here for a smoke, what do you think about?” she pressed, making herself look as interested as she could. Knowing she had to win him over, gain his trust.

  “Things,” he said eventually, still shy. Carrie sensed he wanted to talk, to say more.

  “What sort of things?” she pressed.

  He did not answer. Would not meet her eye.

  “Nice things?” she added.

  Still he did not say.

  “I’m going to think about nice things when I sit here,” she said. “Sit down next to me. I’m going to think about my little boy. He’s called Noah. He’s five.”

  The man with the melted face sat down next to her. “Noah,” he said. “That is a nice name. A Bible name. He is five.” He repeated Carrie’s comment, as if to himself. “Five,” he said once more.

  “Yes,” Carrie replied, hesitating for a moment, deciding what to say next. Which way to go. How hard to push.

  “Is he handsome?” the man said unexpectedly.

  “Yes,” Carrie answered, looking at the simplicity, the innocence, in the man’s face.

  “I like children,” the man said.

  “You’d like Noah,” Carrie continued. “And he’d like you.”

  “Would he?” the man looked surprised and then pleased.

  “Yes. Do you know why?”

  “Why?” the man asked eagerly.

  “Because you are a kind man who is being nice to his mummy. He’d love you for that.”

  The man looks beside himself, thought Carrie. She was not sure how to handle this. Make him feel guilty? Get him on her side?

  “He’s having a birthday party soon. Perhaps you can come to it.”

  “Will there be cakes?” he asked.

  “Yes, cakes and crisps and sausage rolls and sandwiches and orange squash and Ribena.”

  “And games? Will there be games?” he asked eagerly.

  “Yes, all sorts of games. Hide and seek. And the one with chairs and music. Um
, you stop and start the—”

  “Musical chairs!” the man interrupted, “That is what it is called. Musical chairs. I played it once.” He laughed suddenly and Carrie joined in.

  He stopped laughing. So did she. They fell silent for a second or two.

  Carrie was not sure what way to go with this next.

  The man then looked at her excitedly, struggling to find the words to say. And then he spoke, in something close to a whisper.

  “Will there be a party bag to take home?”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied. “There will be a piece of birthday cake in it and a drawing pad and some crayons and some stickers and a toot-toot whistle.”

  He looked at her, plainly puzzled. “A toot …”

  “Toot-toot whistle. That’s what my mum calls them anyway. It’s like a boiled fruit sweet shaped like a whistle so you can blow it … toot, toot … and suck it as a sweet, too.”

  He stared at her in amazement. It was hard, even now, in such terrible circumstances, not to laugh. She pressed on.

  “Let me go,” she said suddenly, trying not to show her feelings in her voice. She spoke firmly suddenly. Like a mother to a naughty child. “Now. Dennis. We’ll say no more about this silly nonsense and you can come to Noah’s party … as a special guest. I’ll do you a badge with Dennis on it. Dennis with two n’s.”

  He said nothing, his head dipped down.

  “You can sing happy birthday … with the other children.”

  Still he did not speak.

  “And join in all of the games … I bet you’ll win some of them and get prizes.”

  He did not look at her.

  “If you’re really good, Noah might let you blow the candles out on the cake.”

  He was silent.

  “You’re such a good boy, Dennis, such a sweetheart,” she said, and then wished she hadn’t. She’d pushed too far. Got it wrong. She knew that.

  He roared, a sudden angry sound, as he clambered to his feet.

  She looked at him in his inarticulate fury. Feared that he would lash out.