One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  ‘I’m sure it sounds wonderful, Sebastien. But I’ve made my position perfectly clear. I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Sorry, but I’ve already accepted the job. I’ve got a two-week trial, starting on the twenty-eighth of May. I leave on Friday.’

  ‘Which Friday?’

  He flicked his hair out of his eyes but didn’t have the courage to look at her. His answer came out more like a question, as if he was still looking for her permission. Which, in a way, he was. ‘Err, next Friday?’

  ‘But that’s weeks before the job starts.’

  ‘I know. I plan to go walking, see a bit of the country first.’

  Mother didn’t make any response. In fact, she didn’t say another word, not even goodbye on the day Father took him to the airport.

  Now here he is, within touching distance of Brackenbrae, but not feeling as good as he’d expected.

  The clouds over Arran are gathering, dark and menacing, and all the warmth has gone out of the air. The sea, a dark bluey green earlier, has turned slate grey, to match the sky. It’s as if someone has adjusted the colour setting, fading the picture to monochrome.

  Seb takes his fleece from around his waist and pulls it over his head, glad of the extra layer. He doesn’t understand how a day that starts warm and sunny in the early morning can turn this cold. Maybe it will be different in high summer.

  A car pulls up alongside him and the passenger window rolls down. An elderly man leans across an equally elderly woman and says something entirely unintelligible. Seb says the first thing that comes into his mind. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Suit yersel,’ says the driver. ‘Ye’ll be soaked in five meenits.’ The car disappears in a cloud of blue fumes that leave Seb coughing. When the first cool raindrop hits his face, he understands that he has just refused the offer of a lift. The rain starts in earnest and Seb looks at the darkening sky, hoping his mother’s dire predictions about weather, and everything else, will prove wrong.

  5

  Ayrshire, Scotland

  Monday 28 May

  Gus slithers his way across the steep slope of the field, swearing first at the rain, then at his smart leather shoes. Even his rugby boots would have trouble gripping this wet, slippery grass. He struggles to stay on his feet and swears again, this time at Kirsty. She was adamant that crossing the Carrick Hills would be a shortcut – faster and safer than the road.

  His thin T-shirt is no match for rain and soon it’s sticking to his chest like a cold second skin. Last night, when he caught the bus that runs along the coast to Dunure, the last thing he expected was to be invited to a ‘sleepover’. All he had in mind was a decent meal and a few pints in the little pub, recommended online for its good food, warm, welcoming atmosphere and beautiful harbour-side setting. His steak was juicy, charred from the grill, and the chips were chunky, the way he likes them, but he’d felt uncomfortable eating alone in a restaurant full of couples. He’d refused dessert and settled the bill, keen to escape to the bar.

  The place was buzzing, full of young, farmery types, male and female. All downing pints like there was a world shortage of beer.

  If girls back in South Africa think they can keep up with the boys, they need to come here and see Scottish lassies in action. That Kirsty chick was matching the guys, pint for pint. Maybe that was why she was all over him? Gus prefers to think it was his accent, which he was exaggerating for her benefit. Hey, whatever turns them on! Usually it’s his physique that gives them the hots. He remembers pushing his sleeve up to show off his guns and ending up in competition with a local farmer dude that everyone in the pub seemed to know. Ian, or Ewan or maybe it was McEwan, Gus couldn’t recall, but Farmer Boy was doing his best to impress Kirsty – the two of them had history, no doubt about that. When the biceps were held side by side, fully pumped, the dude’s pale freckly skin was no match for Gus’s tanned, tattooed hide. An arm-wrestling contest was suggested, and Gus was happy to oblige. Not only that, he was so certain he’d win, he took Ewan McEwan’s bet and put every last penny on himself. Lost the lot. The regulars roared their delight, especially when McEwan picked up Gus’s money, held it in the air and said, ‘The Milky Bars are on me, boys!’

  Gus, raging at his own stupidity, turned his anger on Farmer Boy and charged him as if they were on a rugby field. It was an uneven contest, with the locals bailing in to protect their own.

  The barman saved Gus’s hide by stepping in and calming his regulars. Gus could tell whose side he was on. He grabbed Gus by the arm and said, ‘This is a restaurant bar not a pub. Now please leave, while you still can.’

  Gus shook him off and stood his ground. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll go. Once I’ve finished my beer.’ He raised the almost full glass to his lips and downed the lot. McEwan, fight forgotten it seemed, slapped him on the back and said, ‘No hard feelings, mate. Let me buy you another pint.’

  ‘He’s just leaving, Ewan,’ said the barman.

  ‘Okay, John.’ Farmer Boy touched a hand to his temple in a mock salute. He turned to Gus and raised his eyebrows. ‘See you again, mate.’

  Gus was happy to go. He didn’t like to lose, ever, and he wasn’t going to stick around and be patronised by some country bumpkin. Beating him should have been easy. Throwing a rugby ball and tackling a hundred kilos of winger makes you fit. But it seems heaving straw bales and shoving cows around seven days a week does too.

  How long since he last did any serious training? Not since Toulouse, when he was playing full-time. Pity he blew that one. Nice set-up. Free accommodation. Not the fanciest but he had his own room to bring girls back to. French lessons thrown in, so players from abroad, like him, could integrate. He liked it down there. Nice weather, like South Africa, and cheap red wine. Too much cheap red wine, as it turned out. Still, it was good while it lasted, and he was lucky the team kept him on for the full term of his contract. Then let him go with a recommendation. One that left out any mention of his ‘roid rage’, as far as he knows. It’s no big deal anyway. Everybody takes steroids these days, if they’re serious. Although, it was kind of suspicious that Glasgow Warriors weren’t even prepared to give him a pre-season try-out. Bet the bastards discussed him on the phone. Why didn’t that occur to him before now? What if the Warriors guy has been in touch with the team in Ayr? Telling them, ‘Don’t touch the big South African. He’s mental.’ Charming turn of phrase the Scots have got.

  Ayr are a good rugby team, by all accounts, but way below his league. What is it they say about beggars and choosers? Plus, it’s nice round here. He didn’t fancy Glasgow, to be honest. Not a good place for a guy on a short fuse, from what he’s heard.

  Some of the drinkers last night were rugby followers. Seemed to think he’d have a good chance with Ayr next season. According to them, the team’s been lacking someone with speed and Gus’s build.

  What if Ayr don’t take him on? What if they’ve heard about his reputation for losing control, when the ‘red mist’ comes down? He might be back in the pub, looking for Ewan to see if he needs some extra brawn over the summer. Now he’s lost all his money, he’ll need to find work of some kind. Even if his mother could afford to pay for his ticket back to South Africa, she wouldn’t.

  Right now, his priority is finding his way back to his ‘hotel’ in Ayr in time for breakfast. He needs to get some food inside him and plenty of it. It might be a while till he can afford another meal. A few hours’ sleep would be good too. Kirsty used up all his energy last night. He couldn’t believe his luck when she followed him out of the pub.

  He’d heard someone shouting, ‘Hey, wait for me,’ but didn’t think the shout was for him.

  ‘Hey, Big Guy! Wait.’

  He stopped, half way up the steep narrow road, and looked back as if he was admiring the pretty little harbour and hadn’t noticed her.

  She half walked, half ran to catch up with him, saying, ‘Hang on a minute.’ He smiled, enjoying her wobbling towards him in strappy stilettos and skin-tight leggings.<
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  ‘Who, me?’ he said. ‘I’m not wanted around here.’

  ‘Don’t know who gave you that idea,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘Come on, I’ve got some beers in the fridge.’

  Pity she had to throw him out before five. Not even a goodbye kiss, far less a coffee. Claimed he had to leave before her husband got back in off the nightshift! Gus wasn’t convinced about the husband, but he jumped into his Calvins double-quick and got going. No point in sticking around to find out the hard way.

  When he asked her to lend him his bus fare, she said, ‘A bus? At this time of the morning? No chance. You’ll be quicker walking.’ She led him to the door and pointed towards a yellow hillside. ‘Up across the fields and over the Carrick Hills, then left along the road towards Culroy.’ As if she’d just had a brainwave, she added, ‘You’ll come in past Ayr Rugby Club at Millbrae. Ideal. You can check it out.’ With a tight smile and a terse, ‘Right, on ye go!’ she shoved him over the threshold and slammed the door.

  In the distance the skies are clearing and, like a phantom, a huge island appears on the horizon. It’s like a volcano sitting out there waiting to erupt. He can’t believe he didn’t notice it last night. Still, the weather looks like brightening up a bit and the rain’s not as heavy. Just as well because this so-called shortcut is turning into a cross-country challenge. She surely didn’t mean for him to drag his sorry ass through these thick gorse bushes. Yellow flowers and a nice smell that reminds him of the beaches at home. Pity about the thorns that are doing their best to tear his skin off. Gus advances, warily as a boxer, his fists protecting his face.

  6

  Ayrshire, Scotland

  Monday 28 May

  After the huge holiday park that Josie called Butlins, the directions, or perhaps Seb’s recollection of them, are increasingly vague. ‘Up on your left,’ said one guy, leaving a lot of options open. ‘On the side of the Carrick Hills,’ added his pal.

  Seb, hoping he’s got it right, decides he’ll take the first road on his left. A sign for the Carrick Hills convinces him he’s on the right track and even better, the rain slackens off. That’s bound to be a good omen.

  It feels good to be close to his goal at last. Surely his parents will be proud when they hear he made it all this way. Even Mother, however grudgingly, will have to admit it’s an achievement. Maybe she’ll be so glad to hear he’s safe, she’ll forgive him for going against her wishes.

  Poor Father. Bet his life’s been hell since Seb left. Dinner on his last night was excruciating. Mother hadn’t spoken to him for days.

  Seb watched her take a tiny sip of wine, then touch her lips to a pristine white napkin, leaving the faintest kiss of red lipstick on the linen. She’d barely touched her soup, but she rose and cleared Seb’s and Father’s plate without a word.

  He exchanged a look with Father, thinking they must look identical, mouths turned down in a clown’s parody of sadness. A sudden lifting of Father’s left eyebrow broke the tension and they burst out laughing, only to stop with a synchronicity so perfect, they sniggered like naughty schoolboys.

  Father wiped his eyes and whispered, ‘Shh, we mustn't laugh, Sebastien, your mother is really upset about this job thing.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but if I pull out now, I’ll be letting everyone down.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Father poured some Burgundy into a polished crystal glass and held it up to the light. ‘It’s just a pity your mother is so dead against it.’

  ‘Why is that? I’m not a kid.’

  ‘She just worries about you. Don’t all mothers?’ He spun his glass, swirling the wine right to the rim. ‘You know, Sebastien, it’s still not too late for me to arrange a few days a week at the firm for you.’ They both watched as the miniature whirlpool subsided. ‘I hear what you’re saying about Scotland, and I can understand the thrill of going off on your own. But you could stay here and keep your mother happy. Maybe we could all go to Edinburgh for a weekend?’ With his nose in the glass, he inhaled.

  Seb knew better than to interrupt this routine, part of a familiar ritual. Father took a drink, his cheeks billowing as the wine swished around his gums like mouthwash. Finally, he swallowed, and with a slight smack of his lips, put the goblet down, long fingers caressing the stem. ‘She may seem overprotective at times, and I can see why it drives you mad, but she can’t help it. When she was told she couldn’t have any more children, you became the centre of her universe.’

  Apparently satisfied with the wine’s quality, he half-filled Seb’s glass before topping up his own.

  ‘My life would have been easier if you’d had five more kids, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m not sure your life could be described as hard, Sebastien.’

  Seb picked up the subtle reprimand and nodded to acknowledge its fairness. ‘You’re right, and honestly, I’m not ungrateful.’

  Father swallowed a mouthful of wine, then asked, ‘So, what do you think of my suggestion? Have you made a decision?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘And?’

  Seb saw his mother approaching from the kitchen, a plate in each hand. He took a deep breath. ‘I’m going. In the morning. As planned.’

  He heard, almost felt, the smash of plates shattering. Shards of porcelain shot across the parquet.

  When he looked up, the doorway was empty.

  Yeah, in fairness, he owes it to them to call tonight. Even if Mother refuses to speak to him, and he doesn’t think she will, Father can reassure her that he’s made it safely to Brackenbrae. All is well.

  All is well except this bloody road. It doesn’t feel right. Single track and climbing at an alarming rate. You’d have to be mad to bring a caravan up here. If you stopped to let another vehicle pass-by you’d never get started again.

  Ignoring his rasping breath and screaming calf muscles, he ploughs on, aiming for a large, white house and its outbuildings that seem to straddle the road. From the distance they looked like they might be the entrance to Brackenbrae. Unfortunately, the closer he gets, the more convinced he is that this is no campsite. When he gets near enough to make out the name ‘Carwinshoch’ wrought in iron against the white wall, he knows he’s lost.

  He needs his phone. Google Maps has seen him through the whole journey. Well, as far as Dumfries. Google Maps and a few drivers who were kind enough to pick him up from the side of the road and take him to whatever place he had scrawled on his cardboard sign.

  All those kilometres and he gets lost on the very last stretch. Well, not lost exactly, just on the wrong road. He should have taken the next turn on the left, not this one. He dumps his backpack on the ground at his feet and swears loudly. In French and then once more in English, for good measure. He tries out a few new expletives he learned in the pub last night. One guy seemed to use the word fuck as a hyphen. Weirdly, it sounded quite cool. ‘Un-fucking-believable,’ he says, to try it out, then shouts for full effect, startling a few sparrows who were chirping innocently in the hedge. Hyphen Man would be proud of him.

  It doesn’t help much. He’s still lost. With a heart as heavy as his rucksack, Seb looks down the hill he’s just trudged up. Nothing for it but to traipse back down to the main road. Maybe by the time he gets there, he’ll have walked off his hangover. Right now his throat feels like it’s been sand-fucking-papered.

  7

  Brackenbrae Holiday Park, Ayrshire, Scotland

  Monday 28 May

  I wrap the gun in the blanket thing that lies at the bottom of my bed. Mum calls it a throw but gets mad when I throw it on the floor. It’s bright red. Not a good colour for hiding, but I can dump it in the bracken and pick it up on the way back.

  That’s if I ever make it past Mum and Dad’s bedroom door. I kind of wish one of them would come out and catch me.

  I wait, half hoping, but the door stays closed. Dad’s snoring. Or maybe it’s Mum. She snores too but always blames it on Dad. They used to have a laugh about it.

  I
tiptoe by, thinking maybe I should drop the gun. Deliberately. But I’m scared I’ll damage Mum’s wooden floor that she’s so proud of. Funny how she moans about money all the time when they spent so much of it getting the house all done up. New floors, stone walls, fancy kitchen, cool bathrooms with walk-in showers. Plenty of money for the things Mum wanted. Silly things like curtains and cushions. Who cares about that stuff? Now there seems to be no money left to start clearing Phase Five or to renovate the old tower.

  It’s a pity they’ve run out of money. But I’m glad about the tower. Where will I go if I can’t get in there?

  I step over the squeaky stair, number six from the top, so it won’t give me away. Halfway to the back door, I hear a noise from upstairs. I’m frightened then relieved then frightened. I stand very still, trying to get my face ready so I look guilty and sorry. Just in case my plan doesn’t work out.

  Dad will be surprised to see the gun. Then angry. Then he’ll calm down and look worried. If it’s Mum, she’ll likely scream. Then start crying.

  Maybe seeing me with the gun will be enough of a shock to make them realise they need to think about me sometimes instead of Brackenbrae. It’s been ages since I’ve heard my name from the top of the stairs. They used to talk about me all the time. Wondering what happened. Working out ways to help me. Looking for experts who work with kids like me. Now it seems as if they’ve given up, as if they don’t care.

  I’d love to tell them how scared I am of going to secondary school. In my primary school it’s okay because everyone knows me. It will be different at the Academy. We’ve already been kind of warned we might get bullied by the bigger kids You get a talk about it in P7. The teachers always go, ‘Tell someone.’ As if.