Night is Watching

by Lucy Cameron

  Rhys left not long after they went to bed. Anna’s stomach lurched as his mobile rang loud in the silent bedroom, the same lurch it always does. Nothing good ever came of that ring. She wanted to wish him luck, but she didn’t, instead she rolled further into the duvet, listened to him stumble around in the dark trying not to wake her. She wanted to get up and make him a coffee, or tea, something to take with him, a piece of toast in case he didn’t get a chance to eat. But she didn’t, instead she slowed her breathing so he wouldn’t know she was awake. She waited for the pressure on the bed, of him leaning in to kiss her cheek before leaving, but it never came, nor did the whisper of ‘I love you’. She shouldn’t be surprised, or disappointed, but by the time Rhys closed the bedroom door behind him her head hurt from clenching her teeth so tight. She sat up and listened for the clink of his keys as he picked them out of the bowl beside the front door. There was still time, she could get up and make him coffee. The keys clink. The front door closes.

  Anna stands now and pads to the kettle. Flicks the switch. Watches the steam build and pour out of the spout. She could’ve got up, laid out a fresh shirt and underwear ready for when he rushed back in. But she didn’t. She rattles the spoon in the mug.

  Above her the floorboards creak.

  Anna goes back to the table.

  Rhys came home about four. She was sitting as she is now. She’d risen ready to greet him. Whatever it was he’d been called to see would be bad; she’d been married to him long enough to know that.

  ‘Rhys?’ But she can’t have said it loud enough. He didn’t head to her, he headed straight upstairs. She’d drawn breath to call again but didn’t want to wake the children. ‘Rhys?’ Another loud whisper. But he was already in the bathroom, the pipes clunking as he turned on the shower. So she’d sat and waited. Made him the coffee she should’ve made hours earlier. Risen once again as he’d left the bathroom. But he hadn’t come to her. She’d listened as he’d gone to that room, the one they don’t talk about anymore as all the words have been used. He’d gone to that room and softly closed the door.

  Anna’s teeth grind. She could’ve gone back to bed, but knew she’d never sleep, so instead she’s sat all night like some pathetic impersonation of herself getting more and more pissed off while Rhys moved around above her in that room. That godforsaken room.

  ‘Mum?’ Hot coffee splashes on her hand as she jumps in surprise.

  ‘Ouch. Jesus. Harry, why are you up, it’s the middle of the night?’ Her hand feels like it’s on fire. Water. Run it under water.

  ‘It’s not the middle of the night, it’s six-o-eight, and you’re up, and so is Dad.’

  ‘What have I told you about sneaking up on people?’ Anna turns on the cold tap, holds her hand under the flow.

  ‘Thought you saw me.’

  ‘How could I see you with my back to the door, Harry?’ Anna takes a deep breath. Counts to ten in time with the throb in her hand. It’s not Harry’s fault. It’s Rhys’s, as per usual.

  ‘Mum?’ Anna looks at Harry over her shoulder. ‘Are the baddies back?’ The frown is etched across his brow.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘Because Dad’s in there.’ Harry’s eyes gesture up. Rhys and that bloody room. Anna turns off the tap, wraps her hand in a tea towel and crosses to crouch in front of her son.

  ‘I don’t think so, but if they are, it’s okay because Dad’s going to catch them before they do any more bad things.’ Harry’s brow is still furrowed. ‘Remember what I told you?’

  ‘That… ’ his eyes gesture up, ‘that is Dad’s special room where only he can go as it’s where he plans how to catch the baddies.’ Anna smiles, even though she doesn’t mean it.

  ‘Exactly, so there’s nothing for you to worry about, is there?’ Harry shakes his head, but he’s fooling no one. ‘Why are you up so early?’

  ‘Someone’s moved into the old witch’s house.’ New subject. New conversation.

  ‘Don’t call it that. We talked about that, remember? Witches don’t exist.’

  ‘Dad says they do.’ Anna rises. Why would Rhys say that? Bloody typical.

  ‘Dad’s a silly billy.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not a baby. I’m nearly nine.’

  ‘I know. You’re my big helper and I’d be lost without you. I need to have a shower, then you can help me make breakfast?’

  ‘Can I have eggs? Please?’ Harry adjusts the strap of the toy sword he’s taken to wearing. A current obsession with swords and knives. It’s her father’s fault. He bought round his knife collection to show Harry, even though Anna said he was too young, stored them away for when Harry’s older.

  ‘Yes, you may.’ Do they even have any eggs? God, her hand hurts.

  ‘For your information, witches do exist. I looked it up, and werewolves and goblins and vampires, or Nosferatu, that’s what some people call them.’

  ‘No, Harry, they don’t.’

  ‘Yes, they do. Google says so, and Dad says so, and Dad’s a policeman and policemen don’t lie, remember?’ What the hell can she say to that?

  On the kitchen table Anna’s mobile phone vibrates.

  ‘Your phone’s ringing,’ says Harry, casually turning the screen to read it. ‘It’s… Daisy.’ Except it isn’t Daisy, that’s the name Anna typed in when she thought she was being big and clever.

  ‘I’ll phone her back.’

  ‘What if it’s important?’

  ‘It won’t be,’ is all she can reply as she heads for the shower.

  6.

  Rhys pours an extra large coffee. Milk. Plenty of sugar. He sits at the kitchen table. Harry seems tiny as he stands next to him talking about witches. At the counter, Anna violently scrambles eggs. Her cardigan is a deep blood red.

  Blood splatters up kitchen kick-boards. Faces grin out of family photographs. A bead of sweat travels down the side of Detective Inspector Pat Quinn’s fat face. Cathy Reynolds face twists; her eyes snap open and she screams, a sound so loud it makes Rhys’s ears ring. Rhys blinks. Rubs his eyes.

  ‘Dad?’ The chair leg screeches on the tiled floor. Harry climbs up beside him. ‘Are you listening, Dad?’ A small round face with dimpled cheeks peers up at Rhys, distorted through the coffee steam.

  ‘Sorry, son. What was that?’ Harry sighs, shakes his head.

  ‘I said, someone’s moved into the old witch’s house.’

  ‘And I said, he wasn’t to keep calling it that.’ Anna places a plate of scrambled eggs and toast on the table. The hard sound of ceramic on wood.

  ‘And I said, you said, witches do exist and you’re a policeman and you’re not allowed to lie.’ The scrambled egg wobbles on the plate. Its creamy liquid soaks onto the edge of the toast. The coffee is bitter in spite of all the sugar. Rhys pulls the sugar bowl towards him. Anna’s scowl deepens. She shakes her head. She’s mad and Rhys has no idea why. He was so quiet when he came home from the crime scene, tiptoed up the stairs, used the family bathroom rather than the en suite so as not to disturb her. He didn’t even bother to make a coffee so the kettle wouldn’t wake her. May as well not have bothered it would appear.

  ‘Dad.’ Harry pulls his focus.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Witches?’ Harry upturns his hands copying a gesture of adult frustration. It makes him look like a tiny man. What are they talking about? Witches?

  ‘I said the existence of witches can’t be proven either way. Lots of the things it is claimed they can do can be explained.’ Anna bangs another plate of scrambled egg onto the table.

  ‘Like through science?’ asks Harry.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But some of the things can’t be explained?’ Harry glances at Anna as he speaks, ‘like through science?’

  ‘Indeed. But then people believe in many things that science can’t explain. Gods, miracles, so why not witches?’

  Louise comes into the room. Anna’s scowl is razor sharp.

  ‘Oh, god, he’s not still going on about witches, i
s he?’ asks Louise. She shakes her head. Sits down. Plays with her mobile phone.

  ‘Not at the table,’ says Anna, pushing the egg towards her.

  ‘Dad says they’re real,’ says Harry.

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ says Anna.

  ‘Yeah right, and so are werewolves and vampires and Bigfoot,’ says Louise without looking up from the mobile’s screen. Rhys studies her. She is fourteen, caught between being a little girl and a woman. His sister had been the same at that age.

  ‘What’s Bigfoot?’ Harry’s face creases.

  ‘You’re such a baby,’ says Louise. The headache starts across Rhys’s forehead. He rubs his temples, pushes thoughts of his sister from his mind.

  ‘Children, please,’ says Anna. Louise’s face twists.

  ‘Your mum is right about one thing: no more calling it the old witch’s house,’ says Rhys. He rises, rustles Harry’s hair. ‘They were definitely not witches, just people who were stupid and drank too much.’ Rhys pours the rest of the coffee down the sink. A light stain on the cream enamel.

  ‘Like that man you worked with?’ asks Harry.

  ‘Like lots of men I work with.’ Harry shrugs and folds back the crinkled corner of his comic.

  ‘Do you have to go already?’ asks Anna. Her eyes flick sideways towards Harry. Rhys looks at his watch even though he knows the time.

  ‘I don’t want to be late.’

  ‘They didn’t mind calling you in the middle of the night.’

  ‘You know how it works. I was lucky to be able to get home for a few hours, I don’t want to take the piss on my first day.’

  ‘Dad!’ says Louise. Harry giggles. Anna stands with her hands on her hips and glares.

  ‘It’s my job, Anna.’

  ‘A job you don’t even want.’

  ‘It’s a temporary move.’ Stalemate. Anna shakes her head, piles more egg onto Harry’s plate.

  ‘Mum, stop. I’ve got enough already.’

  ‘You’re the one that said you wanted eggs.’

  Rhys looks at Anna’s back, the curve of her spine rises like little clots.

  ‘I was thinking, as we have new neighbours,’ Anna shoots a silencing look at Harry, ‘we could be neighbourly and invite them over for drinks?’ What? Why is she saying this now?

  ‘Yeah,’ says Harry, ‘then we can cast a spell on them and get rid of their witchy badness!’ His face beams.

  ‘Harry! Please!’ Anna’s voice is loud. ‘Then we can all see what nice normal people they are.’ She holds Rhys’s eye. He will not admit to the pleading look he sees.

  ‘Okay, fine, whatever.’ Anna shakes her head and starts clattering things into the sink. Does this head shake mean something different from the last? He hasn’t time for this.

  Rhys picks up a piece of toast. It’s like sandpaper in his mouth. He kisses Harry on the cheek. He kisses Louise on the cheek. She doesn’t even try and hide the rubbing off with her sleeve.

  ‘Be good for your mum.’ He kisses Anna on the ear. Did she turn her cheek away? ‘Have a good day.’

  The front door closes behind him to silence.

  The press are out in force. Rhys swears he hears someone shout his name as he takes the front steps to King’s Mill Station. The facade of the building is dark grey and covered in pigeon shit. It looks like the type of place adulterers would come to be stoned, liars to have their tongues cut out.

  A Constable is on guard at the entrance. He’s to ensure no camera crews gain access. He demands to see Rhys’s identification even though Rhys has been here many times before. It takes a moment for Rhys to find it in the small box of things he’s moving in. The Constable stands and stares. He taps his foot as if he has a hundred more important things to do. Rhys finds his identification. The Constable scrutinises it, grumbles something inaudible about the incompetence of management, and allows Rhys access to the small reception area.

  King’s Mill is the poor relation to Quarry Road, the two main stations that make up the area’s Division. Quarry Road knows it has had all of the funds spent on it and doesn’t give a shit. It sits in warmth and comfort while King’s Mill sinks back into the squalor it came from. The teams based at King’s Mill have an underdog status. This makes them proud, like the poor who fight all the harder to achieve. It always makes Rhys smile to see this disappear instantly if they are given the chance to work at Quarry Road, their glee, like rats deserting a sinking ship. Refurbishment lead to expansion, departments were split between the two sites. No one has ever bothered to stick them back together.

  A short, silent Constable leads Rhys down an equally short, turquoise corridor, past a row of vending machines dispensing fizzy drinks and chocolate bars. Then they are there. At the heart of the case. The ‘Couples Killer’ operation room. There is no drum roll or fanfare just a bland middle-sized room with a small back office. Through the window that looks into the back office Detective Inspector Pat Quinn and a short, fat man are in deep, heated conversation. The short, fat man thrusts a newspaper inches from Quinn’s face. Quinn’s head bows. Expletives are the only words that can be clearly heard.

  A line of desks runs along the left hand wall. Each has a computer and telephone. In the centre of the room several tables are pushed together, an area for briefings. At the very back of the room, central to the window, is an empty desk. Next to it, a coffee machine and a wire-thin man waiting for a drink to dispense.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Morgan?’ asks the wire-thin man. Rhys nods. ‘We thought you might like this desk, sir.’ The man points to the window seat.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Rhys outstretching his hand.

  ‘Detective Constable Spenser,’ says the thin man. His handshake is warm and damp. Spenser flinches every time a new expletive punches through the thin wall. It makes him look like he has a tick.

  The right-hand wall of the operations room holds a timeline to the case that stretches from its birth to its latest victims. Dozens of arrows link image after image. Some of people, some of places, some of medical equipment. There is a large map with fluorescent pins in it and strings stretching off to small cards of information. It’s a giant combined mind map. A cobweb with a spider poised just out of sight. Rhys hasn’t seen anything like it before, thought things like this only existed in the movies.

  The handle of the door to the small back office cracks against the wall as the short man exits.

  ‘Get it sorted, Quinn,’ the short man shoots back over his shoulder. ‘Don’t make me regret my decision.’ The man stops in front of Rhys.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Alec Jenkins.’ He extends a hand.

  ‘Rhys Morgan.’

  ‘Glad to have you on board.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure DI Quinn here will make you more than welcome, get you brought up to speed.’ Jenkins pivots towards Quinn. ‘Won’t you, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jenkins holds Quinn’s eye. On the back wall a clock ticks.

  ‘Excellent. Then there shouldn’t be any more problems.’ The DCI turns and heads to the door. He stops, his fingers on the doorframe. ‘Eight months and we are no nearer catching whoever this is.’ A gesture to the timeline on the right-hand wall, a damp mark on the doorframe where his fingers have been. ‘I don’t need to tell you gentlemen how imperative it is we get results, fast.’ Jenkins turns, holds Quinn’s eye once more. ‘There is no room for error, Quinn, not an inch.’

  ‘Sir.’ The DCI nods and is gone from the room. Behind them a cup drops out of the coffee machine, hot water hisses. Rhys turns to Quinn. Quinn stares at his shoes, draws a deep, ragged breath. As he exhales he rubs hard at his eyes, the kind of rub that will make him see stars.

  ‘Fuck,’ is all Quinn says. He runs his hands through his greasy hair, his face even paler than Rhys remembers. Quinn takes another deep breath, strides across the room to the back office and slams the door. The vibration knocks a hole-punch off the top of a filing cabinet. Rhys holds his breath, waits for a sc
ream from Quinn that never comes. Spenser laughs nervously.

  ‘He’s under a lot of pressure.’ Spenser flutters to the fallen hole-punch; starts to pinch up the small, round bits of paper. He makes Rhys think of a bird. ‘The DCI is right, eight months we’ve been at this and nothing, but I guess you know that already.’ Spenser laughs again. ‘Eight months and nothing. We all know what that means,’ Spenser stops pinching at the paper, uses his fingers to make speech marks as he speaks, ‘one DI out, that’s Andrews, another in,’ Spenser nods to the back office. ‘Although in this case there are other, you know, factors, what with Andrews being… Anyway, full review of the case, that’s a lot of pres–’

  The door to the back office opens. Quinn strides out, slaps a newspaper onto the desk.

  ‘Okay,’ says Quinn. The front page of the newspaper is dominated by a picture of Quinn wrestling Andrews into the standard-issue car. The headline reads ‘Policeman held in ongoing investigation.’

  ‘Now before we go getting all excited, Andrews, sadly, is not our killer, otherwise we could all go home and spend time with people we actually give a shit about.’ Quinn grinds his forefinger onto Andrews’s grainy black and white face. The print smudges and makes Andrews look like a ghoul.

  ‘He’s the one that has spent the last eight months fucking this investigation up. Now it’s our turn to make un-fucked. Whilst we have the deepest sympathy for Andrews, since it has been brought to our attention he’s suffering from, how can I put it politely, being a mad bastard, we have work to get on with. We were hoping he could go away and finish looping the loop quietly. Doesn’t look much like that is going to happen now. As if the shower of shit he’s already turned this case into isn’t enough.’ Quinn sighs deeply. A phone starts to ring. Spenser grabs it from its cradle.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’ll… someone will be right down.’ Spenser hangs up the phone. ‘That was the front desk, sir. Tony Reynolds, the son of last night’s victims is in reception.’