One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  Charlie comes to the door but stays well inside the hallway. As usual, Gus is surprised by how small and slight he is. The kid’s eyes are wary, full of mistrust. Maybe he’s been telling himself he’ll never see Gus again and now here he is, right on the doorstep.

  ‘Hey, Charlie. Just came to say goodbye.’ He gestures to the kid to come out and close the door. Charlie obliges but leaves the door only half shut.

  Gus keeps it light and friendly, but loud, in case Mrs Boss is listening. ‘It’s been a great summer. I’ve had a blast. All those things we did together. I’m never gonna forget them. Bet you’re the same?’

  Charlie nods.

  Gus leans towards the door and Charlie flinches.

  ‘Chill, Charlie. I was only going to close the door, to stop the draught annoying your mum. You do the honours.’

  Keeping his eyes fixed on Gus, Charlie reaches for the handle and the door clicks shut.

  ‘Thought I’d swing by before I go pick up my rucksack and head on out of here. Just to make sure, one last time, that we’re on the same page. Know what I mean?’

  Charlie continues to stare.

  ‘See, a little bird tells me you can talk now.’

  The shock shows in the kid’s face.

  ‘So it’s true? That’s very impressive.’ Gus gives a slow, muted hand clap. ‘Bet you’re not so scared of going to high school now you’ll no longer be a freak, eh?’

  Charlie looks as if he’d like to kill him, and he can’t blame the kid. But this is no time for Mr Nice Guy. ‘Anyway, Charlie. I’d like to give you a little test before I go. Don’t look so worried, it’s easy and it won’t take a moment. I know your mum’s in a rush.’

  Charlie breaks eye contact for the first time. He looks at his feet as if they’re suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

  ‘I want you to promise me, out loud, that you’ll keep our secret. That’s okay, isn’t it?’

  The boy’s head moves up and down, ever so slightly, but enough to show his agreement.

  ‘So, repeat after me. Cross my heart…’

  Charlie’s head shoots up and he looks into Gus’s eyes as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. ‘What’s the problem, Charlie? I’m sure you know that saying, cross my heart and hope to die. Kids say it all the time. Now I want you to say it to me, that’s all. But say it so I know you mean it.’

  He watches Charlie come to a decision, as clearly as if he can see inside the boy’s brain. He’s deciding on the quickest way to get rid of him, for good. ‘Right decision, Charlie. You say the words and I’m out of here. But don’t take too long. My taxi will be here any minute. Come on, cross my heart…’ He waits, waggling his fingers to hurry the kid up, not really believing he’ll speak but wanting to find out one way or another before he goes.

  Charlie takes a big deep breath, like a singer about to launch into a song. ‘Cross my heart,’ he says. Shit, Natalie was right. He can talk. Okay, his voice is a bit wavery and uncertain, but that’s to be expected after so many years of silence. Gus waggles his fingers again and raises his eyebrows.

  Another huge intake of breath. ‘Cross my heart and hope... you die!’

  60

  Why did I have to say that? Should have said nothing. Left him wondering if I really can talk. Or if I had to speak, I could have said what he wanted. What harm would that have done?

  Instead I said that and ran away and hid. Like a wee stupid kid. Bet he’s raging.

  Mum’s mad at me too. First because I disappeared when she was ready to go and then because I refused to go into town with her. I just stood with my arms crossed and my head down till she gave up and went away, muttering, ‘Well don’t blame me if you don’t like what I buy.’

  How could I go shopping with her? Even if I didn’t have all this other stuff going on, imagine if the other boys saw me. Why can’t she just give me money and let me go in on the bus and get my own stuff? Or buy it off the Internet.

  Dad came in for coffee in the middle of it. He just shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Up to you, Charlie.’ When Mum wasn’t looking, he whispered, ‘Sometimes it’s better to just do what she wants. Makes life easier.’ Mum caught him winking at me and another row started. Then she raced off in the car.

  Glad she’s gone. There’s no chance of her finding what I’ve done to her precious cushions. I unzip the spotty one and pull out my shirt and shorts. I zip it closed then bash it a few times with my fist till it looks the right shape. The blue stripy one’s been guarding the T-shirt and passport. I puff the cushion up and sit them both on the bed the way Mum likes them. From tomorrow I can go back to leaving them lying in the corner now they’ve got nothing to hide.

  I stuff everything into a carrier bag and head for the tower. I push open the old rickety door and dump all the stuff on the floor. Wish they’d left the tower the way it was. When the builders come back from holiday they’ll put the new fancy door on and I won’t even be able to get back in here.

  No time to think about that stuff. Got to get this done before Mum comes back.

  I kneel on the dirt floor and make a little pile of clothes. First his T-shirt, then my shorts and finally, on the top, the checked shirt Mum bought to match. She’d have a fit if she could see me setting fire to brand new things from Next. I break off bits of firelighter and stick them in amongst the clothes. Don’t like the smell on my hands. Pinched them and a bottle of lighter stuff from the shed where Dad keeps the barbecue. He’ll never notice it’s missing because we never have a barbecue these days, even when it’s nice weather. Mum says barbecues give you cancer but that’s just her excuse for never having one. Mackenzie McMullen’s always going on about having barbecues with all their neighbours and everybody getting drunk and lying down for a sleep and getting sunburnt.

  I’ve got a box of matches someone left by the campsite barbecue ages ago. Kept them here with my other private stuff but that’s all been moved now, to let the builders in.

  The builders have been here for weeks already but there’s not much difference that I can see. I’d like to climb up and take a last look out my spyholes, but the builders threw away my ladder and took theirs away with their tools. As if we’d steal them. Mum’s plans are for a spiral staircase up the middle but that’s not here yet. Apart from the woody smell of some bits of new timber, the old tower feels just the same. Bare walls made of rough stone with some chunks jutting out further than the others. Dad says that’s where the old stairs used to be. Don’t think I’ll risk it. Don’t fancy a broken leg for starting at my new school.

  Okay, time to do this. Wish I’d brought some newspaper to get the fire burning, but the firelighters should do the trick. If they light charcoal they’ll light a few clothes, easy-peasy.

  I take a match out of the box and close it again, to be safe. Draw it along the side of the box. Once, twice, nothing happens. On the third go, all the pink stuff comes off the end and I’m left with a tiny stick. Open the box, shut it again and have another go. Same thing. This is crap. How can I light a fire with no matches? Bet they were sitting out in the rain. Should have pinched that fancy thing Mum uses to light her candles. One more try then I’m going to get it. I choose one from the bottom of the box and it sparks and lights first time. I like the smell. I hold it to some bits of firelighter and start some white flames. Then the match burns my fingers and I drop it. Suck my fingers for a moment then take a bundle of matches from the box and hold them to the flames. The matches flare suddenly, and I throw them on the clothes. Some touch the lumps of white stuff and set them alight. Others just drop and go out. I do the same till all the firelighters are burning then sit back and wait.

  The flames start to die down before all the clothes are burned. This is no good. I’ve got to keep the fire going till everything burns away to nothing. I’m destroying evidence and that only works if you destroy it all, completely. Can’t leave half-burned rags. How suspicious will that look?

  Don’t know what to do. There
are bits of wood leaning against the wall. They’d make a great fire but they’re too big for me to break and I’ve nothing to cut them up with.

  Oh yes, the lighter stuff, fluid or gel or whatever it is. Dad just squirts it over the charcoal and it lights like magic.

  I undo the cap and pour a little on the sleeve of the shirt near the firelighter. It catches and burns. Perfect. I stand up, hold the bottle in both hands and squeeze hard. The liquid skooshes out and covers the fire and a bit of the floor. For a second I think I’ve put the fire out. Then a ball of flames inflates like a huge balloon and I know I’ve made a bad mistake. The heat balloon bursts and I smell burning on my face. I step back and watch as the fire spreads to the wood. It catches, and flames climb like some crazy plants, up and up. Smoke catches in the back of my throat and my eyes sting. I cover my nose with my hand and try to breathe through my fingers, but it feels like my nostrils are burning. I need to get out of here. I can see the door but I can’t get to it without stepping through the fire.

  This is what I did to Robbie and his mum and their little baby. Everybody said they were all asleep, the firemen found them in their beds, that they inhaled stuff from the burning furniture and they didn’t know what was happening.

  But I know what’s happening to me. And I deserve it. Because I’ve said it again. So I’m going to die in a fire, just like them. I sit down and wait. Then I think of Mum and Dad.

  ‘Dad!’ My voice is too quiet. It’s not been used enough.

  ‘Dad! Help!’ The smoke gets down my throat. I cough then choke as if I’m going to be sick.

  It’s no good. He’ll never hear me.

  61

  Gus is almost at the gate when he hears someone shouting his name. The one he thought he’d never hear again. He signals to the taxi driver to let him know he’s coming then turns, expecting to see Natalie, waving him off. The courtyard is deserted. He feels a spike of disappointment. It was good being popular. Still, he’ll be glad to get away. Sure, there have been fun moments, most of them with Nat, but too many sleepless nights. Too much angst. Side-effects of the steroids or maybe coming off them too suddenly. Back on them when he gets home. He’s losing muscle mass by the day. No team will take him on unless he beefs up again and fast.

  There it is again. He stops walking and listens.

  ‘Seb! Help!’

  He drops his rucksack. Is that little bastard having one last go at winding him up? No, wait a minute. The kid’s gone off with his mother.

  The taxi driver winds down his window. ‘Any chance you gettin in, pal? I’ve other hires on.’

  ‘Yeah. Hang on a minute, buddy. Got to check something first. I’ll be right with you.

  As he walks back towards the courtyard he sees the smoke. Coming from the tower. Leaking through the tiny windows and rising, dirty against the sky. Gus breaks into a run.

  Without thinking, he leans his weight against the old door and shoves. It moves but doesn’t open. Something’s blocking it. He hopes it’s not the kid’s body. Smokes seeps out from underneath and round the edges. He steps back and prepares to shoulder charge. As if he were attempting to take out an opponent with the illegal move, Gus rams the door and feels it give. He stumbles into flames and smoke, seeing nothing and no one. Has Charlie tricked him into an ambush? Making his own wish come true, like a curse.

  ‘I’m up here.’

  He follows the sound and sees the kid, perched on the stone platform. For a second, he tells himself to walk away. This is the perfect solution. Mute kids can talk but dead ones can’t. He should get out of here, save himself, go jump in that taxi and don’t look back. He owes this kid nothing. In fact, meeting this kid was the worst thing that ever happened.

  ‘Help me, please.’

  Don’t do it. Help yourself. Run, get away while you still can.

  ‘Jump!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jump, you little bastard.’ Gus holds out his arms.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can. I’ll catch you. Now, jump!’

  The kid’s sobbing. No wonder he’s terrified. Gus feels more afraid than he’s ever been in his life. This is a danger more immediate than a murder charge. ‘Trust me. Please, Charlie, jump.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ll both burn to death. Is that what you want? More people dying in a fire because of you? I’ll count to three and you’d better jump on three. Ready? One, two, three.’

  The kid lands on him like a load of cement. Gus buckles under the sudden weight and they both collapse on the ground. The kid is first on his feet. Gus shouts at him, ‘Run, Charlie! Get out.’

  Charlie doesn’t move. He reaches for Gus’s hand and helps him to his feet then pulls on his arm and the two of them burst into the clear, fresh air.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ The boss gathers his son into his arms. ‘Charlie! What happened?’

  ‘A bit of fun gone wrong, Boss. He’s been messing about with matches. I should have told you – I noticed the last time I was in there.’

  ‘Yes, you should have told me. This is your fault. Your negligence caused this.’

  ‘What? I just saved the kid’s life.’

  The boss ignores him, peering into Charlie’s face to see if he’s okay, then hugging him again.

  Big Mark appears, and a few campers. ‘Shit, Boss. I just heard the commotion. Anything I can do?’

  ‘Thanks, Mark. Charlie was in a fire but I think he’s okay.’

  ‘You should call an ambulance. Get him checked over. You too, mate. You okay?’ Mark clasps Gus’s shoulder. ‘Come and get a beer. You’re a hero.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m heading off. Got a plane to catch, remember. If my taxi’s still there.’

  ‘Seb!’ Natalie runs up, hugs him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Charlie set a fire in the tower. It got out of hand. I saw the smoke in time and he got out. No big deal.’

  ‘Oh my God! Are you hurt? Charlie, are you okay? Boss, what can I do?’

  ‘Take Charlie into the house while I call his mum, and an ambulance.’

  Ambulance. That likely means the police. ‘Guys, I’ve got to go. That plane won’t wait for me.’

  No one answers. The boss is on the phone. Nat is focused on Charlie, walking him to the house, telling him not to worry.

  Gus shouts, ‘Charlie!’

  When the kid turns around Gus says, ‘In future, be careful what you wish for, bud.’

  62

  Saturday 11 August

  ‘Charlie, are you awake?’ Mum’s voice is gentle, like it always used to be. Maybe I’m dreaming.

  ‘Can you open your eyes for me, sweetheart?’ Yep, must be a dream.

  I open them and she’s there, sitting on my bed, looking at me with her face all soft and loving.

  ‘Morning, my sweet boy,’ she says. ‘How do you feel?’

  Nod and smile to let her know I’m fine.

  ‘Dad and I have been so worried about you. I still can’t believe you’ve been in a fire.’ She puts her hand to her throat. ‘It must have been awful.’

  Actually, it wasn’t so awful. Once we got out of the smoke and smelt fresh air. The paramedics came racing into the courtyard with their blue light and siren going and everything. They took me into their van and put a mask on my face and made me breathe oxygen for a while. They attached wires to me and printed out wee skinny bits of paper and studied them. They kept asking over and over if I felt okay. I nodded every time. I did feel okay, just a bit shocked.

  ‘He doesn’t speak,’ said Dad.

  Decided to leave it that way. Look what happened when I finally did speak. The curse came back.

  ‘Looks like you’re one lucky young man,’ said the lady paramedic, who reminded me a bit of Lara Croft in her green jumpsuit thing. ‘You’re going to look a bit weird for a while with no eyebrows, but they’ll grow back. But you could have died, you know that, don’t you? The guy who saved your life, he could have died too.’


  Just like I hoped for. The terrible thing is, when I said it, I hoped he would die.

  Mum arrived and started to cry, as if she couldn’t stop. Last night she kept hugging me for no reason. It was nice for a while but then it got too much. I still let her do it, though.

  So far nobody has shouted at me for starting the fire, but it’s bound to happen. The minute they stop feeling sorry for me.

  Last night I listened from the stairs.

  ‘Why do you think he did it?’

  ‘He’s a boy,’ said Dad. ‘Boys like to play with fire. I know I did at his age.’

  ‘But I thought he knew better. I thought we’d taught him better. He could have died. Seb too.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Do you think it was a cry for help?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A cry for help, you know, when people do something crazy, like attempted suicide and all they want is for someone to pay attention.’

  At last. Why did it have to take them so long? Why couldn’t they have worked it out for themselves, before I took the gun?

  ‘Why would Charlie do something like that? We pay him attention.’

  ‘Do we?’

  There was silence and I imagined them both thinking about me and remembering all the ‘not now’ and ‘I’m busy’ and ‘ maybe later’. Mum realising she’d stopped hugging me and speaking kindly. Dad realising how long it’s been since he kicked a ball with me.

  ‘I feel so ashamed, Viv.’

  Hooray. Now Dad’s going to tell her how bad he feels about not spending any time with me this summer.

  ‘That poor guy’s a hero and I told him the fire was his fault.’

  ‘You were in shock.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. I blamed him for not telling me my son’s been playing with fire. As if that was his responsibility, not mine. Then I let him leave without even thanking him for saving our child’s life. We should have given him every penny we had, recognised his bravery and rewarded it.’