Fiona

by D Attrill

  She turned back to monitor the microwave.

  The seconds had almost ticked to below twenty.

  As Calton continued, Fiona put aside her bottle of HP sauce and swung round to admonish him affectionately.

  If only she could apply the same genuine affection to her nanny, Becky yearned privately.

  Fiona continued allowing him to slobber the groin of her jeans.

  She then seemed to change face.

  She’d slowly broken off from stroking the Doberman and was now sniffing her hand.

  Fiona began touching round his face, before lifting her fingers up again to smell them.

  Her own face went stone hard.

  She yanked Calton’s bowl up.

  Becky realised what had happened and attempted to feign excuses. She tried taking the bowl as if to look for herself.

  “Try forcing wee Calts to eat it?”

  Fiona was audibly beyond livid.

  “I’ll give you cheese on fucking toast.”

  Dragging the plate of cheese-on-toast from the microwave, she slammed it down on the table.

  “Look, a taste of your own medicine... coming to you, courtesy of Chez McGrogan.”

  Before Becky had chance to try it, she found her face pushed into the plate by Fiona. Upon eventual release she fell to the floor, vomiting the sludge she’d inhaled.

  Apparently not finished, Fiona had already come round her side to supplement the assault.

  As Becky lay crying, Fiona lifted her up by the hair. She punched and slapped her endlessly, then dragging her out to the stairs.

  “W…where are you taking me?” Becky asked, strained by her sadistic grip.

  “Out of my sight. And if you wannae see the light o' tomorrow, you will stay there.”

  She kicked the front bedroom door open and hurled Becky in, leaving her on the floor.

  “You so much as creak, ah will come right in here and crag ye. You got that? YE GOT IT?”

  “Y…Y…”

  Fiona didn’t seem bothered to wait for a response. She’d slammed the door and walked away, leaving Becky a lone and now totally forgotten prisoner in a world that effectively no longer cared for her or understood.

  (iv)

  PC Raylesthorpe was never the sort to object to overnight shifts, especially when the first shout of duty was a scarce three-minute drive from his own doorstep; doubly so when it involved visiting a fast food outlet.

  His short shoot along the Stocksbridge bypass was like a night time big dipper ride at Blackpool as he blasted up the steep incline over Wortley junction then down again. He opted to keep the siren switched off this time. Blue lights scared enough people around as it were, even if the Tankersley roundabout ahead drowned them out with its spectacular inferno of orange, white and red. The ‘McDonalds’ straight across at left had already become his almost-daily cop-out, without PC Stannings shouting the directions out loud. He was tempted to offer her a thickshake for later, but with the possibility of Leyton, or the ultra-strict PC Hall listening, he resigned to procedure.

  Leering off left, into the car park, he was pushed to appreciate the 11.pm start more, with having the pick of spaces.

  He stepped out, stuck his helmet on casually and clopped his way round to the door.

  Marching in, elbow-first, he saw an empty counter, and wondered if the olive/cream décor had at last taken its toll on their trendier clientele. Little else seemed out of place for late on Sunday night: scarcely a soul around at the counter, and only small, just audible voices a-chatter, somewhere.

  Raylesthorpe was ready to radio back to Stannings that the alarm might have been false.

  He was greeted by a staff assistant, just as he was setting to turn on his way.

  “You looking for a group of five kids?” The young man switched Raylesthorpe round “Just behind you, mate.”

  Four youths, aged about fourteen-fifteen to look at, and another who appeared young enough to be in bed sat making rude gestures across the tables they’d taken over, amidst snowball fights with screwed-up burger wrappers. Only two of them reacted in manner as Raylesthorpe made his move.

  “Is there a problem here?” he asked.

  “There seems to be one with our policy.” the assistant answered, ahead of them.

  “What’s that, then sir?”

  “Well, we only serve full meals after midnight.” he pointed out the rows of pre-packed meals ready on the shelves. “It looks like it’s led to a sit-in protest.”

  “Used any language they shouldn’t?”

  “Only the usual effing-and-blinding business.”

  “He’s grassing us to that pig.” one youth was heard whispering.

  Large on the ear, Raylesthorpe romped straight over.

  “Right, you lot.” He pulled his pad out. “What will it be tonight? Down the nick with the lot of you or a warning here, followed by a word with your mum and dad for afters?”

  “We ain’t got no dad.” The smaller boy, wearing a black shell-suit jacket snapped back.

  “Might probably understand why.” Raylesthorpe got down to business, scribbling up on the situation. “What’s the story here then?”

  “The bloke wouldn’t let us have us ‘Mcflurries’.” One of the older boys stood up, as if the spokesman. “Fuckin’ gave him us money. We got us rights in’t we?”

  “You haven’t a right to speak to him like that, matey.”

  Looking at him with a stern expression he’d learned from Hall, he got the kids to back down and become a little more cooperative.

  “It’s just our normal policy at this time of night.” The assistant reiterated. He duly explained to both Raylesthorpe and the horde behind, that the skeleton staffing after 12 midnight meant they could cater for only the most basic orders.

  “I think that’s fair actually, lads.” Raylesthorpe sided half-heartedly with the assistant “Drive-in restaurants do cost a bob or two to run this late, so at quiet times… it’s like, best to save themselves some money, yeah?”

  “It were ten -past-eleven, we was in.” retorted the tallest youth. “Tha’s not put the clocks back or summat?”

  Guilt had swung the assistant’s face slightly. He was probably wondering whose side the officer would take.

  Raylesthorpe prepared his judgements carefully, and then commented.

  “We need to have it from both sides actually.” he broke it to the assistant “By law you’re supposed to advertise your policies, such as this, and what time they apply.”

  “We do switch round early, some nights, you know.” the assistant began to argue “Everyone we had working tonight were ready to knock off round half ten.”

  The youths started to make noise again in protest.

  “Do us a favour.” Raylesthorpe gave up getting deep into the battle. “Get me a Big Mac, and get them their ‘McFlurries’. Still means you’re shifting a full meal, some way.”

  As the assistant sighed a ‘whatever’ Raylesthorpe swirled sternly to the boys.

  “Sorted, strictly on the understanding you collect your ‘McFlurries’, then clear off out of the restaurant... and also my sight. Doesn’t mean you’re to go hanging around round them outside tables, either. You with me?”

  The youngsters reluctantly plumped for his terms. Surrendering their monies for ‘McFlurries’, they at last swarmed out of the doorway.

  Duly satisfied he’d now smoothed it over Raylesthorpe took his supper and shunted himself into the seats nearest the counter. He switched the radio low, to save having to lie to Stannings or Hall about what he was up to. Raylesthorpe was accustomed to dining alone most of the time, then again he knew ramming the end of his Mac into the minuscule ketchup pot didn’t appeal all that socially. He never thought it meant anything - girls seldom put an offer in for his sort. At just nineteen years –old though, he still saw plenty of time to improve on that.

  A massive crescendo of adolescent shouts sat him up from his second fistful of fries.

  “Sean, s
een this cunt round here?” was the first thing he caught as he charged outside.

  “Was our discussion back there all for nothing?”

  He saw five familiar young men knocking about on the car park wall.

  The taller one had just come running back from the roadside, pointing. His finger dropped as Raylesthorpe’s furious face stared into his.

  “You lot not think I’ve enough to deal, with this time of night?” The expletive he’d just heard described how he felt.

  “There’s a bloke wi’ a car up there.” The teenager was trying his excuses “Saw him chucking summat away. It were right over t’wall, he threw it!”

  “Alright then. Where were he?”

  “Under them trees: there on the left, by t’road.” The boy pointed up the dark, lightless road, past the restaurant.

  “Got something big, like lump-shaped out the back of his car and took it round behind the wall there. Didn’t have it wi’ him when he came back out.”

  “What sort of car were it?”

  “Little one... a Peugeot or summat.”

  “Don’t you dare be pulling my chain.”

  Raylesthorpe reluctantly ushered the boys back inside, just as the rain began its torrential nightly tirade. He apologised to the assistant for his sudden change of plan, then pounded back to the car and pulled his torch out.

  “Tango Sierra-Five…” he tried the radio but the reception was horrendous. “Amy, you there? I’ve got a little more going off here than I thought there were... at least some bloody kids want to have me think so. Going to be stopping round here a couple of minutes longer. Over.”

  He tested the torch and trotted across the shiny, wetted verge. Only an orange glow from the industrial plant further ahead helped him along more than his own light.

  The ground turned suddenly rougher as he trod onward.

  He stopped and shone down.

  Straight away, he found a near-indecipherable tyre track. It came in from the road at a crescent. The entry point was marked by a dislodged kerbstone.

  At least those kids had only made up half a story, it seemed. He turned the torch up to full and waved it wildly about where he stood. Having looked back to make sure his new informants were out of sight, he followed the low-ish stone wall at his left.

  The far end was topped by a square-ish sandstone block. Raylesthorpe stopped to examine three engraved letters he could just see that read ‘GCR’, although he wasn’t bothered to read up on its meaning here.

  As he faced into the gaping space at the end, the pitch blackness put paid to just a casual peek.

  He angled his light low enough to make out a meagre ledge at his feet. As the weather entered its worst likely extreme, even the evergreens above him proved a useless umbrella, while the rainwater’s salty stench supplied him an idea of what snorkelling with a faulty mask might be like.

  Crackles came from his radio again, nearly making the same noise as the rippling raindrops. His waterproof radio pouch did its job worse than badly, as the elements sought their way in through the air holes.

  He was about to turn away from the whole idea; only then then noticed an elm branch extending close towards to his right, at waist height. It had been pulled horizontal, obviously intended as a handrail.

  Hoping that Stannings would find an officer somewhere drier to kill the night with, Raylesthorpe risked the forbidding gap.

  He placed one foot out in front.

  Letting go, he almost felt himself falling from beneath him. He leapt to get his weight onto an oak trunk, four feet in front. After applying a limb at a time against it, he eventually felt it safe to free his torch hand.

  He steadily rotated his feet. Little showed, in the lightly-yellowed midst. A moss-covered wall disappeared away to the left, while an impenetrable abundance of bushes and trees shadowed him at right.

  Raylesthorpe tested the floor round him. He singled out a branch lying in the mud. As he extended his foot along it only wobbled so slightly, although it could be his sole sliding on the wet. He concurred it was stable and tried a tightrope-like step.

  The second he took both legs away the ‘rope’ broke its position below. He felt the ground go like a trapdoor.

  Raylesthorpe plunged downwards like as if on some dark theme park ride. Tangling with brambles and sycamore remnants slowed his fall, just before he reached the floor.

  Something hard beneath almost broke his shoulder blade as he landed.

  He sat up to find the damage wasn’t as dreaded, although the radio seemed beyond redemption. He tried it twice to no avail - not even the red light showed. Five feet higher above, another whiter glow rested his tensions; at least his torch had survived. He shook the vegetation until it came downwards, straight into his clutch.

  Raylesthorpe stood painfully up on one knee. Turning slowly as to avoid sprain, he sought to deal with whatever had just nearly put his back out.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Raylesthorpe dropped the torch again, falling straight back down.

  He sensed his Big Mac making a swift change of direction within.

  Chapter 10

  (i)

  Leyton pulled up outside and pounded towards the door of the station. Both WPCs Stannings and Raymond were riding the reception saddle this morning. They spun their chairs to attention, as if greeting their captain below deck.

  “Ma'am!” Stannings exclaimed. She stood up.

  “If it’s about Abdullah looking for some pictures...” said Leyton, flustered “I’ve brought them back in. I had no idea I still had them.”

  “He’s on his way back to Scotland, him.” Raymond said, shifting aside her crossword. “What I were about to say was, there’d been a call for you last night...some place up Wincobank way.”

  “I needn’t guess...”

  “Sounded like an oldish gentleman.” The description surprised Leyton slightly. “A Mr Roundtree - gave his address as No.30 Primula Drive.”

  “Using somebody else to do her dirty work.” Leyton couldn’t help but think.

  “Are you still OK taking the call, ma’am?” Stannings asked.

  “Yes, go on...sorry about that.” Leyton came back down to earth.

  Raymond scooted behind the switchboard and touched various numbers. She’d gone a little hard of hearing over the last of her 54 years so she left it to Stannings to verify voices. The younger officer nodded then motioned Leyton to hear it.

  Leyton put it to her ear. The conversation came up just clearly enough, over the crackles. Someone sounded not to have owned a new phone in years.

  WPC RAYMOND: Where are you calling from, again duck?

  CALLER: Primula Drive. Number 30, Primula Drive.

  RAYMOND: 30, you say?

  CALLER: Yes, that’s correct.

  RAYMOND: And where, and what time did this incident take place?

  CALLER: It may be still ongoing.

  RAYMOND: I see. And where did you say it’s happening?

  CALLER: Next door to me. Number 28 Primula...

  RAYMOND: ...drive, right OK. Now please could you describe the events again as you understand took place.

  CALLER: For goodness sake I’ve already done so twice.

  RAYMOND: I know love, just your line’s a little bit crackly our end.

  CALLER: Right. Listen carefully, please. There was a youngish woman in the rear garden, adjacent to mine this afternoon. She appeared to be in a highly distressed state when I spoke to her.

  RAYMOND: And you say this incident is still continuing at current?

  CALLER: She was standing outside the neighbours wall crying for several minutes. When I tried to offer her some comfort, she seemed steadfastly reluctant to accept. I finally took the hint for the time being, but then heard my neighbour, quite aggressively ordering her back inside the h...

  There came an audible break in the caller’s communication.

  RAYMOND: Go on, Mr Roundtree, you were saying...

  CALLER: Could you forgive me a se
cond... there sounds to be someone on my property.

  RAYMOND: In your where? Love, you’re breaking up.

  CALLER: (addressing other) Hey, excuse me there - what do you think you’re doing in my house? Please get out....get ou....

  The call was cut after several further seconds.

  “Sounds like the gentleman’s had a break in.” Raymond was looking up at Leyton. “Do you want us to send Will and a couple of the boys over? Ma’am? Shall I?”

  Leyton was only just listening. She studied the recorded message very intently; she could have sworn she overheard some background noise nearby.

  “Could we shoot it from the start, again Dawn?” she insisted “Just a slight, tincy-wincy tad louder though?”

  Raymond sighed and dived for the relevant buttons. Leyton put her ear as close to the speaker as sensible. Stannings then offered her headpiece.

  As the playback began, Leyton let the caller introduce himself to PC Raymond and run through the address, and then started to focus. Somebody’s voice was just about audible in the distance.

  “Could we up the volume, ju-u-ust another slight whisker?” Leyton applied the strictest concentration known to her.

  The screaming she heard, had somewhat died. It was definitely closer, yet too muffled to be coming from the same room as the caller.

  She recalled chatting to her father on the phone whilst her parents and brother were having a homecoming party in the background. The wall between the hall and dining room was about 12 inches deep, at that old family home - more or less the same as one that separated two semi-detached dwellings.

  Someone next door was making that noise.

  She signalled Raymond to rise the pitch again, then returned to where the caller was reiterating his address as

  ‘30 Primula Drive.’

  A hysterical banshee-like voice was easily heard this time. Maybe not so distant, but still distorted by a wall or other obstruction of the kind.

  She paused it a second then started trying to listen round breaks in Mr Roundtree’s words.

  Screaming came again...and this time, something else. The voice she could hear was nothing like Becky’s, in fact boisterous, and also...distinctively Scottish.