Father drinks from his beer, then hurls the nearly full can at Justin.
‘YOU’RE NOTHING BUT AN EMBARRASSMENT! A SNIVELLING, WORTHLESS, USELESS LITTLE BABY!’
Justin doesn’t move as the beer soaks into his jumper.
‘No wonder no one ever loved you.’
He does not move and he does not cry. Because crying only ever makes it worse. Doesn’t matter how much the words hurt, the beating will hurt even more.
Father curls his lip, then spits on the carpet. ‘Get out of my sight: you make me sick.’
Justin gets as far as the kitchen, before Father’s voice bellows out from the living room again. ‘AND GET ME ANOTHER BEER!’
Another beer.
He opens the fridge and does as he’s told.
Father’s spade leans against the wall, leaving little blobs of dirt on the floor.
It doesn’t matter how much the words hurt. It doesn’t.
It doesn’t.
He’s seven years old now, a big boy.
And Father’s wrong. New Mummy loves him. She said so. She loves him, even if Father doesn’t. Because he’s a good boy.
‘WHAT THE HELL IS TAKING YOU SO LONG?’
A good boy.
Justin goes to the kitchen drawer and pulls out the biggest sharpest knife that’ll fit in his hand.
Then walks back into the living room.
The lightbulb flickers, making the basement shadows jump and dance as Justin creeps down the stairs.
He bites his bottom lip. Wipes his eyes on his sticky sleeve.
New Mummy is curled up on the floor by the bed, arms wrapped around her tummy, sobbing.
She’s not the smiley pretty lady they picked up at the sweetie shop any more. The one who gave Justin sherbet lemons and sang a song about Santa and the Christmas Mice. The smiley pretty lady who laughed and skipped and smelled of sunshine.
Father’s seen to that.
Her nose is twisted and bent, flakey with blood. Both eyes all swelled up and purple. Missing teeth like broken windows when she opens her mouth to wail out another scream. All those bruises. All that pain.
He stops in the middle of the basement. ‘Mummy?’
Justin’s hands are wet and sticky, his jumper hot where it clings to his arms.
She shrinks back against the wall. ‘Please …’ The word is all soft and mushy, because her lips are puffy and split.
‘It’s all right, Mummy. It’s all right.’ He spreads his sticky red hands so she won’t be scared. ‘Shh …’
Every finger on her left hand is pointing in a different direction, the joints all swollen and horrid. ‘Please …’
He kneels in front of her, reaches out and strokes her hair.
She flinches back.
‘It’s all right. He can’t hurt us now. He can’t.’ Justin’s fingers leave dark smears on her yellow hair.
She squints at him with her puffy eyes. At his face, at his dirty hands, at all the blood on his jumper. ‘What did … you … do?’
‘He won’t hurt anyone.’
Her battered eyes flick to the ceiling. Then widen. Then she stares at him. ‘Let me go. Please. Please let me go unlock me let me go unlock me unlock me unlock me let me go!’
‘I—’
‘Let me go, let me go now!’
Justin nods. Then digs in his pocket and pulls out the little leather pouch he’s not allowed to even look at, never mind touch. ‘I’ve got Father’s keys.’
‘LET ME GO!’
‘I’m doing it.’ But his fingers are all red and slippy and the keys fall to the ground and he has to pick them up.
‘Unlock me, unlock me, unlock me!’
He flicks through the keys, till he gets to a big brass Yale one. Slips it into the lock and twists. Click.
Justin grins at her. ‘We can go away and we can be free and he’ll never hit us again.’
New Mummy slumps forward, shrugging off the slithery chain. Crawling away from the wall she’s been fixed to for months and months. ‘Oh God …’
‘Come on, Mummy. You can do it.’ He helps her to her knees, then up onto her feet. Only one of them doesn’t work properly because there’s a big lump on her right ankle and her foot’s all dangly.
She hisses and groans every time she tries to stand on it.
So Justin takes as much of her weight as he can. A big brave boy as she hobbles and hops and cries and swears her way up the stairs. Slow and painful. Till they’re standing in the hall.
Then New Mummy stops, her good hand against the wall, holding herself up, swollen eyes fixed on the open living-room door.
One of Father’s legs pokes out from behind the door, trousers matted with dirt and blood. Not moving.
Justin reaches up to take her hand. ‘I told you, he won’t hurt us ever again.’
‘Oh my God …’
‘We can be free.’
‘Where’s the phone? There has to be a phone. Where’s the bloody phone?’
He points at the living room and she hobbles forwards. Peers around the door.
‘We can be free and we can live happily ever after, like in the stories!’
New Mummy limps inside.
The phone is on a little wooden table beside the television. All big and black and forbidden. She stumbles over and grabs the handset from its cradle. Works a shaky finger into the dial.
‘We can get a nice house at the seaside and go for walks and eat ice-cream and get a dog! Can we get a dog, Mummy? Can we get a great big—’
The slap sends him crashing against the wallpaper. He leaves a dark red smear of Father’s blood behind. Stands there, bottom lip trembling. ‘Mummy?’
‘I’M NOT YOUR MOTHER!’ Little bits of spit land on Justin’s cheeks.
‘Mummy?’
‘You helped him. YOU HELPED HIM KIDNAP ME!’
‘But I was scared and—’
‘You could’ve gone for help anytime, you could’ve called someone, YOU HELPED HIM!’
Justin shrinks back. ‘But … But we’re supposed to be together.’
‘GET AWAY FROM ME!’
Justin bites his bottom lip. Blinks back the tears.
Doesn’t matter how much the words hurt, the beating will hurt even more. Remember?
Only how could any beating hurt as much as this?
She goes back to the phone, sending the dial clicking around. Nine … Nine …
‘Mummy?’ He reaches for her. ‘Mummy, I—’
‘I SAID, GET AWAY FROM ME!’ She shoves him away with her good hand, hard enough to send him tumbling across the bloodstained carpet.
The knife is right there. Right at his slippy-sticky red fingertips.
Justin picks it up.
The sun peeks over the hills, turning the sky to blood.
The birds are singing, making sure everyone knows they’re awake and ready to do whatever it is birds do.
Sweat drips off the end of Justin’s nose as he heaves another shovel of soil into the hole.
It took a long time, dragging New Mummy out to the garden and into the hole Father dug for her. Then shovelling in some earth. Then hauling Father out and dumping him in there too. Then more dirt, till the hole is full up to the top again.
Probably should’ve dug another hole for Father. New Mummy wouldn’t like him sleeping on top of her for ever and ever. And maybe if she’d loved Justin, he’d have dug a new one for Father and she could’ve been all alone in the ground. But she didn’t. So he hadn’t.
If she’d loved him, they could’ve had a house by the seaside and a doggie and ice-cream and everything would be nice and happy and they’d sing songs and walk on the beach …
But she didn’t.
He wipes his soggy face on his dirty jumper.
Father’s lawn is all scuffed and flattened, with nasty red scrapes from here to the kitchen door. He’d have hated that.
And now Justin is
all alone.
So in the end, nobody gets what they wanted.
He leaves the spade and trudges back into the house. Locks the kitchen door behind him. Tomorrow he’ll have to decide what to do, but for now he’s going to curl up in the Naughty Cupboard and sleep and sleep and sleep.
It’s been a busy day.
63
Callum jumped back into the car. ‘Nothing doing.’
Franklin scored address number seventeen off the list. ‘Three more to go.’
‘Two thirty-six Banks Road. Next right, then on to the roundabout and left.’ It was the same in every direction: bland grey houses for bland grey people living bland grey lives. Callum let out a sigh. Checked the list again. ‘Fancy some music, or something?’
‘Yeah, OK.’
They both reached for the knob at the same time: their fingers touching. Then flinching back as if they’d been burned.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, it was me.’ Franklin’s cheeks darkened.
Callum cleared his throat. Buzzed his window down a crack. Definitely getting hot in here. ‘Do you want me to …?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Cos we don’t have to, if you …?’
‘Yes. It’s OK.’ She kept her eyes fixed on the road.
‘Right.’ He reached out and clicked the radio on, getting a raucous banjo-and-bagpipe rendition of Pink Floyd’s ‘Wish You Were Here’ in return.
More grey houses went by.
The rain rained.
Franklin made a noise.
‘Did you say something?’
‘No. I was just … humming along.’
‘Right. Yes.’
And then Callum’s phone went off.
Oh thank God.
He pulled it out. ‘Hello?’
It was Mother: ‘Please tell me you’ve got good news.’
‘Sorry. SEB are hammering six Creel Lane now, but going by the brining tank, Monaghan hadn’t been there for months. Maybe years.’
‘Damn it.’ A clicking noise, like someone drumming their nails on a desk. ‘Ashlee Gossard’s going to be dead by the time we find her, isn’t she?’
Of course she was. She was probably dead already. ‘There’s still houses to search.’
‘Gah …’ A sigh.
‘You OK?’
The street gave way to tiny detached houses with steep slate roofs, like a model village for gnomes. A miserable couple wheeled a pushchair through the rain. A bus sat at a bus stop: its driver had an OAP in a headlock, struggling with her in the gutter as the passengers looked on, cheering.
‘Anyway, there’s some good news: Gareth Pike has had a chance to think about the error of his ways, and he’s decided to identify the man he saw abducting your family. Isn’t that public spirited of him?’
A fire burst into life, right in the middle of Callum’s chest. ‘Who was it?’
‘He won’t say till I promise he’s definitely going to prison.’
‘So talk to the Sheriff again! Tell him Pike—’
‘Callum, Callum, Callum … Pike’s a paedophile, you caught him with a horrible video and got a confession. There’s no way he was ever not going to prison. Do you really think we’d let him walk free?’
‘But you had a thing from the Sheriff, at the prison, I saw—’
‘No, that was just a parking ticket. Should probably get round to paying that …’
More Noddy Toy-Town houses, then a community centre.
‘So …?’
‘None of the other teams have found anything, by the way. Andy’s running round like a mad thing – which is definitely not good for him – Dotty’s sulking, and God knows where John’s got to. Honestly, some days it’s like trying to get an angry ginger tom into a pair of Lycra cycling shorts.’
‘What about Gareth Pike?’
Franklin took a left at the roundabout, heading up towards the railway bridge. ‘Where now?’
‘Make a right, after the postbox.’ Back to the phone. ‘Boss?’
‘I’m sorry, Callum, but Gareth Pike will have to wait till we’ve done all we can for Ashlee Gossard. And don’t moan and whinge: you know as well as I do.’
He curled forward until the seatbelt cut across his chest. ‘We need to get it out of him tonight. Soon as he finds out he’s got what he wants – that he’s going to prison anyway – he’ll keep his mouth shut just to spite me. This is fun for him.’
‘We’ll get him, Callum. I promise. Now you get out there and you do your best. There’s a scared little girl hidden away somewhere, dying. Find her.’
The little old lady frowned out the back door as Franklin disappeared into the shed at the bottom of the garden. ‘Are you sure she’s all right in there? Unsupervised?’
‘It’s just procedure, ma’am.’ Callum stayed where he was, huddled inside the porch, out of the rain. ‘And you’re sure you haven’t seen either of these women?’ He held up the photos of Ashlee and her mum again.
‘Only, you know what these coloured people are like. It’s always them in those London riots, isn’t it? And shooting people.’
It took a lot of effort, but Callum managed a smile. ‘I can assure you, Detective Constable Franklin isn’t like that. And the majority of rioters were white, by the way.’
‘What if she steals my lawnmower?’ A sniff. ‘And they’re so touchy these days, aren’t they?’
‘You can’t say anything or it’s a “hate crime”.’
‘She’s not going to steal your lawnmower.’
‘When I was a wee girl they were called “nig-nogs” and no one ever complained. If you ask me, that Enoch Powell had the right idea.’
He stared at her. ‘Yes. Well. These are more civilised times, aren’t they? We don’t just accept casual racism. And we don’t call people “nig-nogs”!’
Callum fingered the tin of pepper spray in his jacket pocket.
We do not live in a police state. We do not live in a police state …
‘Should send them all back where they came from.’
He pointed. ‘She’s from Glasgow.’
A nod. ‘There you are then.’ As if that ended the argument.
Franklin emerged from the shed and it didn’t look as if she’d stuck the old cow’s lawnmower under her jacket to make a clean getaway. Instead, she shook her head, brushing cobwebs from her jacket as she marched up the path to the back door. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’
Mrs Enoch Powell smiled at her. ‘Not a problem, dearie. I’m only too glad to help.’ She followed them through the kitchen, down the hall, and out the front door. Keeping both eyes fixed on Franklin. ‘Mind how you go now.’
Callum sank into the passenger seat and clicked on his seatbelt. ‘And that’s us.’ He drew a red line through their final address.
‘So what’s next?’ Franklin pulled away from the kerb, heading back towards the town centre.
The little old racist stood on her front step, watching as they drove away. Probably expecting Franklin to pull a handbrake turn and steal everyone’s lawn ornaments.
‘Chase up the Land Registry Office?’
‘Worth a go.’ He took out his phone and called control. ‘Brucie? Callum. I need you to light a fire under the Land Registry Office. Tell them there’s a little girl’s life on the line here.’
‘Your usual slave’s got a day off, has he?’
‘Don’t be a dick, Brucie. You know it’ll sound better coming from you. More official.’
‘Aye, right.’ A sigh. ‘I’ll give them a shoogle.’
‘Thanks, Brucie, you’re a star.’ He hung up. Tapped the phone against his chin. ‘There’s nothing else we can do for Ashlee right now, is there?’
Franklin shrugged. ‘Not till the Registry gets back to us.’
‘Exactly.’ He called Mother as the housing estate gave way to a short line of shops. ‘We’re nought for twenty-one. Anyone else?’
>
‘I should be so lucky.’
A voice in the background sounded like McAdams: ‘Watt, I’m not kidding about here: call me back soon as you get this!’
‘Trouble in paradise?’
‘None of the other teams found anything. Not so much as a smoked sausage.’
McAdams got louder: ‘I trusted you, you wee shite. I thought we had an understanding!’
The windscreen wipers squeaked and squonked their way back and forth. The gutters were overflowing at the bottom of the hill, making a loch that stretched all the way across the road and about twenty foot long.
‘We’re heading back to the shop now.’
Mother groaned. ‘I think we’ve blown this one, Callum.’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘It was always going to be a long shot.’
‘I know, I know. We—’
‘When I get my hands on you, Watt, I swear on my oncologist’s grave I’m going to—’
‘Andy! For goodness’ sake: enough.’
Franklin slowed for the water feature, sending arcs of dirty grey splashing up and out.
There was silence from the phone, then a sniff from McAdams. ‘Fine. Call me back, Watt.’
‘And don’t look at me like that, you know it’s not good for your blood pressure.’
Callum cleared his throat. ‘Boss? You know you said we had to do everything we could for Ashlee Gossard …?’
Her voice was flat as an ironing board. ‘You want to talk to Gareth Pike.’
‘Only, we’ve been through our list, we’ve got a request in with the Land Registry Office, and there’s nothing else we can actually do right now.’
‘Callum, I’ve got half a dozen of DCI Powel’s cases sitting here on my desk, just waiting for someone to—’
‘Boss, please. I need to know.’
A sigh. ‘All right. But if something comes up—’
‘Not a problem. You shout and we’ll come running.’
And with any luck, by then they’d be one step closer to catching his mother’s killer.
The interview room was every bit as depressing as last time. Callum sat at the table, left leg twitching and jumping away to itself, waiting.
A Dark So Deadly Page 49