“When Mother comes home, we will sleep then. Up the stairs to Bedfordshire.”
She smiled again, not sure how to reply to that.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“I do not know,” he replied. “It will be a while. Before sunrise.”
“Do you have a watch?” Carrie pressed.
He shook his head.
She saw a possible opportunity.
“Can you tell the time?” she asked quietly.
He seemed awkward, looking down, thinking for a moment or two before answering. A stuttered answer.
“I know all the hours … the big hand. One o’clock,” he said, moving his right arm to the one o’clock position and then moving it to two, three, four o’clock as he gave the times.
She nodded, smiling and pretending to laugh as he went through to twelve o’clock and said, “Midday.”
“Or midnight,” she replied.
He thought about that. “Midday in the day … midnight at night.” Then added, for emphasis, “Mid … day. Mid … night.”
She laughed, properly this time, at his serious, childlike expression. And he laughed too.
“Noah’s birthday party starts at two o’clock. You must remember that. You don’t want to miss the fun and games or the tea or the take-home goody bag.”
The slow brother put his arm into the two o’clock position.
“Not at quarter to two,” she said.
He sensed oh-so slowly that Carrie was joking, having a little bit of fun.
Thought a while. Moved his arm back a touch, to where quarter to two might be. Give or take.
She laughed.
“Nor at quarter past two,” she added.
Thought again. Then moved his arm forward, quicker this time, in on the fun. But still not quite where it should be.
She laughed again, almost delightedly.
“Not at five o’clock,” he said, laughing loudly as he moved his arm sharply to the five o’clock position.
They laughed together.
Then fell back into silence.
She knew her moment was coming.
She listened, for a while, until she heard the smart brother zip himself up downstairs. She hesitated, expecting to hear his footsteps on the staircase. But, after a pause, she could hear him moving about down below, checking this and that and making certain the barn door was secure.
“Do you have a watch?” she asked again.
He shook his head.
“I have one you can have … if you’d like it … and I can teach you to tell the time … the big hand and the little hand. Not just the hours, but all of the minutes, too. You can show people how clever you are, knowing all the different times of the day.”
He looked at her, a sudden glimpse of pleasure on his shattered face.
“Would you like that?” she whispered urgently, hearing the smart brother coming to the bottom of the stairs.
A slight nod, shy, not wanting to seem too keen. Yes, yes, he would. As much for her attention than the exact telling of the time, she suspected. He’d not had much, after all.
“I have a watch in my car … just outside … it’s in the glove compartment … you can have that … if you let me go and get it.”
He looked at her, and she could see the excitement on his face.
“It’s nice. It’s a Walt Disney one. A blue strap with Mickey Mouse on the watch face. His hands are the big and small hands.”
He looked back at her, thinking, taking it all in, making sense of her words. He seemed confused. The talk of hands.
“Mickey Mouse,” she said. “You know Mickey Mouse?”
“Yes,” he nodded, “Mickey Mouse lives with his dog Pluto in a nice house. His …” he smiled shyly, “… girlfriend is Minnie Mouse. She’s pretty.”
“That’s right and his watch is yours if you’d like it. Just cut me loose and I can go and get it for you later … when your brother falls asleep.”
A long silence. She was sure he was about to move forward to untie her hands. He was that close.
But then she saw the slow brother’s face cloud over with sudden uncertainty and doubt.
She knew it was too late, and why, before she heard the harsh voice.
“No one’s going to any birthday party … not him anyway … and you’re not getting yourself untied. You’re staying put,” the smart brother said brusquely, taking the stairs two at a time.
“And he doesn’t need to know the time,” he added, checking the back window. “He gets up at seven and has breakfast. Dinner’s at one o’clock, tea at six and supper at nine. He goes to bed at ten o’clock. That’s all he needs to know.”
He went to the front window, “We’re all just going to sit here nice and quiet and wait for Mother. Until it’s light. He doesn’t need a Mickey Mouse watch to tell him when the sun’s coming up.”
Carrie glanced at the smart brother and then away from this hard and dismissive man. Unfeeling.
Then she saw the look on the slow brother’s face. Anger, plain and simple anger. That he couldn’t go to the party nor have the watch or be taught all of the different times.
She wondered what might happen if this simple man worked himself into a rage. And whether that might be enough for him to turn on his brother. She knew she had to try before daybreak.
* * *
It seemed to be on the hour and half-hour. Over and again. As regular as clockwork.
That the woman with the megaphone shouted out. To be shown Carrie. To check she was okay.
The smart brother dragging her up. Shouted exchanges. Carrie was safe. All was well. Mother was coming. Not long now. And then sat back down again until next time.
These insistent checks.
And ragged sleeps.
In between each round of shouting.
“So,” Carrie asked, looking at the smart brother and thinking what to say, how to begin, “your mother comes here when the sun comes up. You exchange her for me and then the three of you are left here in the barn together?”
The smart brother looked up and nodded, yes, that’s about it.
“And then the police go away and leave you to live happily ever after,” Carrie sighed dramatically. She knew she was playing a difficult game. But it was one she had to try.
“No,” the smart brother answered. “We just want to be together again, that’s all.”
“Mother and her best boys,” the slow brother chipped in. “Together forever, never to—”
“The three of us together here in our home,” the smart brother interrupted. “Mother loves her home. She has lived here all her life. She wants to die here. And she will. Because we love her.”
Carrie nodded, working through possibilities in her mind.
Deciding which way to go.
To pitch brother against brother.
“If your mother loves her home so much, why did you want to put her away in a care home?”
She looked at the smart brother. He held her gaze and then looked aside, thinking how to answer. The slow brother looked at him, too, a worried expression on his face.
The smart brother sighed suddenly, unexpectedly. A vulnerability. A weakness. Something Carrie could maybe exploit.
“We thought it was for the best. It was a mistake,” he said, starting slowly, before clearing his throat and carrying on. “Mother has not been well for a while. She has had falls when we have been out. She hurt her arm. And her face was bruised another time. Like Father had …” he stumbled to a halt.
“And she burned herself,” the slow brother added carefully. “On the oven.”
“Have you called the doctor … an ambulance?”
The smart brother turned his head. “No. We take care of ourselves. We don’t want people here in the farmhouse … snooping about. Mother would not like that. But she cannot really manage on her own unless one of us is here to watch her. Not for long anyway.”
Carrie nodded. She pressed on.
“So, y
ou went to the care home to see about putting her away.”
The smart brother breathed in deeply. Searched for words, explanations.
“Mother has … times of confusion and she had … has … become incontinent on occasion. We did not think she would want her best boys to—”
“We are Mother’s best boys,” the slow brother interrupted, “and we would do anything for Mother and Mother would do anything for us. Say it, Ronnie, say it.”
“We love Mother and …”
They joined in together, “… Mother loves us.”
A second’s silence.
Carrie sensed emotions, something akin to love, from the two brothers as they stopped and did not seem to know what else to say. She recognised that two late-middle-aged men changing their elderly mother’s soiled underwear and clothes would be difficult for them all; probably unbearable for the mother.
She waited. And then the smart brother went on.
“So, I went to, all over the place, it must have been four or five care homes. Just to talk. Get help. There are different sorts. I did not know. And they are expensive. We could not afford any of them. Not one.”
“Mother was angry,” the slow brother said. “She said to us, how dare you, she said, how dare you.” He spoke the words as if he had learned them word-by-word, like they were somehow deep in his heart. “This is my home and you are my boys, my best boys, and we will all live here together until the day we die.”
“And so we said we were wrong and that we were sorry, and we have been looking after Mother and nursing her ever since,” the smart brother spoke. “We have changed and cleaned her and she has accepted that, for there is no other choice for us and we have promised we will live here together …”
The slow brother suddenly joined in and they chanted the final words together.
“For ever.”
“Never to part.”
“Until death do us part.”
And with those words it came to Carrie suddenly. What the smart brother intended to do.
Exchange her for Mother. And then shoot first his mother, then his slow brother and finally himself.
The only way out.
* * *
They sat there for a while after that. Each of them with their own thoughts and tiring slowly as they approached the dawn, snatching now and then at restless sleep.
Another half-hour passing. More shouting. Carrie calling that all was well. A shout back that the mother would be there soon.
The brothers then getting up, checking front and back. Edgy again, ever restless, at each round of shouting and as the time of Mother’s arrival drew near.
Eventually they sat back down. Settled. Waiting for the time to pass.
A sense of something between them. If not camaraderie or kinship, at least acceptance then. Of their shared circumstances.
“So,” Carrie said, looking at the smart brother, “tell me about Edwin Lodge at the care home, the vicar.”
The smart brother paused, thinking for what seemed an age. Carrie had the feeling that, with Mother coming, he was close to a confession. And she was correct.
“We both saw … and recognised each other … at the same time at an open day. He was much older, of course, but looked much the same. He seemed terrified and went to call out but could not. I think he was too frightened. I left straightaway without looking back.”
“But you went back … later … and killed him?”
“I did not intend to. I was going to leave it. But … it worried me. It nagged away. I kept thinking of what I had done, who I had spoken to there, what I had said, whether I had given my name to anyone … my van may have been seen … so he might somehow uncover …” The smart brother stopped, trying to find the words to describe his fears.
“So, I went back at visiting time, the next night I think it was, perhaps the one after. I held on for a long as I could, but I could not bear it any longer, not knowing what might happen. I found his room and went in … he knew who I was … what I had to do.”
“‘Have you told anyone?’ I asked him, but he would not speak. ‘Who have you told?’ I said. Still he did not answer. I gave him every chance. He did not take one of them. So I dealt with him. I had no choice. I have been waiting for that knock on the door ever since.”
“How many have you … killed … over the years?” Carrie looked him in the eyes.
He drew in his breath slowly. Held it for a moment. Breathed out. Then spoke. “Thirty,” he said. “The last one was thirty.”
“Bad men,” the slow brother said, “only bad men.”
“We used to go out together at the start, but it got too dangerous … Dennis … stood out … so I went on my own and then brought them back here. We put them in the cesspit in the main outbuilding, mostly,” the smart brother added.
“Where the bad men belong,” the slow brother said, and then added, almost proudly, “I put them there.”
“Philip Taylor,” Carrie replied, pressing on, “the last one … a married man, happily married, a loving wife who missed him, no children. He had no children. Loved his wife. Never hurt anyone in his life. Would not hurt a fly. He may have been gay but he wasn’t a paedophile. The two aren’t linked at all. You do know that, don’t you?”
The smart brother stared at her. She felt, perhaps for the first time, a sense of doubt in him. Perhaps even sorrow. Or maybe that was just what she wanted to see. Remorse.
The slow brother seemed uncertain, trying to remember what his brother had said about the man.
Knew that the man had been with children. That his brother had stopped him. Had saved the little children. That’s what super-heroes did. And that’s what they were. Super-heroes.
The smart brother twitched his shoulders. “He was with a man, making the beast, in a public toilet. He was a bad man.”
The slow brother nodded, agreeing, “He was the baddest of men.”
“That doesn’t mean he deserves to die, does it?” Carrie stopped, full of angry frustration, before finally going on. “… You were seen by a boy with his dog, putting Philip Taylor into your van.”
The smart brother nodded. “I saw him. He was a handsome fellow. He had a dog like we used to have.”
“My brother saved the little boy, yes, he saved him,” the slow brother explained.
“He gave us part of the number plate on your van … that’s how we traced you … how I came knocking on your door.”
The smart brother shrugged. “I know. I knew it would happen like that. But I could not bring myself to do anything with him. I would not hurt a little boy. I am not a bad man. I am a good man.”
The slow brother spoke. “We protect and save children. We are super-heroes.” He looked from his brother to Carrie and back again, nodding as if to say, ‘yes, there, we have agreed’.
“It’s my downfall,” said the smart brother.
“Yes,” Carrie said.
And then, before she could say any more, the police called out again, another check and another step closer to the end.
32. SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER, 6.53AM
They waited there.
The three of them.
As the sky turned slowly from night towards day.
The smart brother woke, barely sleeping anyway, just nodding on and off with tiredness.
He nudged the slow brother, leaning against him. “Mother’s here soon,” he said quietly.
The slow brother sat up, looked around him, remembering where he was, and smiled across at Carrie.
Carrie, already awake, smiled back, her hands, raw and torn, holding the shard of glass as she tore steadily at the material round her wrists.
It snapped.
She looked across at the smart brother, who had his fingers resting lightly on the gun on his lap.
Always ready.
“I meant to ask,” she said to the smart brother, “the papers called you The Scribbler … why do you draw a likeness on the chests … the stomachs?”
He sat there, looking back at her for a while. Then put the gun carefully to one side and pulled at his jumper and the vest beneath.
Lifted them up so she could see the white lines of ridged skin across his chest; age-old scars of a rough-hewn face.
He shrugged and said hesitantly, “Father … we both have them.”
The slow brother moved his gun away from the side of his leg. Reached and pulled up his jumper and vest too.
Carrie felt a sudden pang of sadness.
The two of them like awkward children, lifting their tops, showing their matching, etched-in scars, all these years later.
“Why?” she said simply, not trusting herself to say more.
The smart brother pulled down his vest and jumper.
“Father was … an angry man … frustrated.”
“Ronnie wanted to be an artist,” the slow brother said.
“I told him one day,” the smart brother continued, “when we were in the small barn, that I wanted to draw. That it would be my job when I grew up. Mother had given me a pad and pencils at Christmas … Caran d’Ache they were called … I was good at it. I enjoyed it. It made me happy.”
“You drew everything,” the slow brother said. “The farmhouse. The dog. Charlie.” He pulled his clothes down too and reached into his pocket and took out the teddy bear. “You were very good.”
“Father flew into a rage. Said it was stupid. I was needed on the farm. There was no living to be made from drawing … I defied him … said I was going to be an artist when I was older. And then …” The smart brother stopped speaking, struggling for words.
“He taught us a lesson.” The slow brother reached out and put his hand on his brother’s arm. “So that we would remember his words … Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit.” He paused, remembering. “In humility value others above yourselves.”
“So, he did this … to both of you … because …” Carrie stumbled over her sentence.
And as they sat there, lost for words, they heard the police calling again, not asking to see Carrie this time, but shouting that Mother was on the way.
The smart brother grabbed his gun and went to the front window to answer.
The slow brother picked up his gun and went downstairs. Emptying his bladder against the barn wall.
The Scribbler Page 31