Night is Watching

by Lucy Cameron

  ‘Who must have taken it Rhys?’ says Jenkins. He leans across the desk.

  ‘Kier Finnegan,’ says Rhys. The words are out before he can stop them. His mind races. A light comes on in his brain. It is Kier. Kier setting him up. It’s perfect if you think about it. A way to discredit him, ensure no one will believe a word he says. If they believe he’s capable of this, he’ll lose everything. Have nothing to protect. It makes perfect sense.

  ‘Is this the same Kier Finnegan that you had the fight with? The same Kier Finnegan who managed to find you out in the back of beyond?’ says Jenkins.

  ‘Yes.’ Rhys is hardly aware he speaks. Is Kier trying to get the finger of blame pointed at him for other reasons too? To cover his own tracks, cover the fact he’s the one responsible? ‘Don’t bother to look on the CCTV you won’t see him.’

  ‘Is that because he wasn’t here, Rhys? But then he couldn’t have been here if he was with you could he? Where were you really, Rhys?’

  This is some kind of interview. Do they think he’s stupid?

  Rhys snaps back into the here and now. He’ll figure out how the bastard has done it later. Now he needs to focus on proving he hasn’t beaten some poor thing to death with a hammer.

  It springs into his head.

  ‘Look, here, look at this.’

  The handkerchief.

  This time he digs in his jacket pockets.

  ‘He gave me this. Kier gave me this. This is his, see.’ He waves the handkerchief in Jenkins’s face. ‘Run the DNA on this handkerchief. His will be all over it. You’ll have to get a sample off him too of course. I bet he’s too clever to be on any database. I know where he lives. I have told you where he lives. You’ll see, you’ll see I’m telling the truth.’ Quinn’s eyes have dropped. ‘What? Why can’t you look at me? It’s because you know I’m right, isn’t it? You know I’m right, ha!’ Rhys throws the handkerchief onto the desk top in triumph. The wilting flower of blood folds in half; it looks like the petals are falling off. There’s the proof he didn’t kill the girl, that he was with Kier. They can get off his back and let him get back to figuring out how to stop all this. Kier has scuppered himself. Ruined his own set up. It’s funny in a way. Kier shows Rhys emotional attachment is a weakness. It’s proven to be just that.

  ‘That’s your handkerchief, Rhys.’ Quinn’s eyes seem sad.

  ‘Well it is now, yes, but he gave it to me. Last night. In my car. You can get forensic evidence off it.’ Rhys sits back, folds his arms across his chest.

  ‘No, it’s always been yours. You offered it to Tony when he came in after his parents were attacked. Remember?’

  ‘What? No!’ Rhys’s mind rewinds. The big rasping sobs. The sharp teeth of the tissue box. The handkerchief… ‘That’s… not that handkerchief.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ say Quinn.

  ‘No it isn’t.’

  ‘It still smells of that bloody awful vapour rub.’ Rhys snatches it up. Sniffs.

  ‘Well of course it does. They’ve been in the same pocket.’ Where’s that other hanky? Shit. Not that pocket. Where the hell is it? He always keeps his hanky in the same pocket. Always. He starts to empty his pockets.

  ‘Please,’ Jenkins holds up a hand, ‘I don’t need to waste anymore time watching you empty your pockets all over my desk… again. This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Shall we run the DNA test on the hanky before or after we run the authenticity test on your identification?’ Quinn’s voice is taught. ‘Or, how about I spend my time running tests that will actually solve the cases I have piling up on my desk?’ The redness from his neck has reached his face.

  Jenkins stares at the tiny blood flower on the handkerchief.

  ‘Whose blood is that on the handkerchief, Rhys?’ Jenkins looks at him as he speaks. ‘It that her blood? Is that your blood?’

  ‘No! It’s his blood.’

  ‘His blood? Your neighbour, Kier Finnegan? The one you had a fight with, who then somehow managed to find you in the middle of nowhere?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are you so obsessed with this man, Rhys?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘How did his blood get on your handkerchief?’

  ‘It’s a teardrop.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s a teardrop. He was crying.’

  ‘He was crying blood?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jenkins rubs his temples.

  ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this Rhys I really was.’

  ‘What?’ says Rhys.

  ‘There is obviously something going on here that neither myself nor Detective Inspector Quinn are qualified to help you with –’

  ‘What? Why would you say that? Interview Kier Finnegan, speak to Anna. You’ll see I didn’t do this thing you think I did.’ Jenkins pauses for a long time. He takes a deep breath.

  ‘Rhys, is this the same Kier Finnegan you think is a Nosferatu after your soul?’

  ‘No fucking way,’ says Quinn. His mouth drops open.

  Rhys’s world grinds to a halt.

  Anna’s betrayed him.

  She’s the only one he’s told, her and Elsie. Anna’s run to his boss, not even had the decency to tell him. It would’ve been last night, after they fought. She’d told tales to the teacher. Rhys would have told the boss himself, when the time was right. When he had enough evidence. But not yet. Not fucking yet.

  Now he looks like a nutter. A nutter without the support of his wife. Is that why they’ve all been laughing at him? Does everybody know?

  ‘I… we… what I think is… who would say that?’ says Rhys.

  ‘That’s not relevant. What’s relevant is do you believe it to be true?’

  ‘Run,’ her voice whispers in his ear. Everything starts to tilt.

  ‘I can’t,’ says Rhys. There’s a Constable in front of the door.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ says Jenkins. ‘You can’t what?’

  ‘I can’t… I don’t…’ The tilt rocks the room back the other way. Rhys holds onto the edge of the desk. ‘I do… I do.’ His voice cracks. He clenches his teeth tight. Drops his head. Breathes deeply.

  ‘Just to confirm.’ Jenkins’s voice is distant. ‘You do think there is a Nosferatu, sorry, hypothetical Nosferatu, after your soul?’ Rhys nods. The movement in the room subsides.

  ‘Jesus,’ says Quinn. ‘What the fuck are they putting in the water round here? First Andrews, now you?’

  ‘In that case I have no option other than to refer you to Occupational Health as a matter of urgency…’ Jenkins’s voice slips far away Rhys can hardly hear. Jenkins explains it’ll be best if Rhys takes a few days leave, stays at home until his appointment comes through. Thinks clearly about what he’s saying. Rhys hears someone laugh.

  ‘There really is no need.’ Rhys manages to say. ‘There is nothing wrong with me, I wish everyone would stop saying there was.’

  ‘Oh, I think there is.’ Jenkins’s tone is flat and cold. ‘And with regards to the other matter, your identification being found at a murder scene, I do expect your full and ongoing cooperation.’

  Rhys nods. Jenkins shuffles the papers. ‘We’ll be in touch again very soon.’ Rhys rises slowly. It’s as if he is watching himself from a distance as he leaves the room. As the door starts to swing shut behind him, he hears Jenkins voice, ‘Quinn, call the Divisional Superintendent, I want a full psych report of every single copper in this station before we become a bloody laughing stock.’

  Someone’s laughing alright, but in a way they are yet to hear.

  53.

  Rhys, Rhys, Rhys. Why is Rhys everywhere he turns?

  Here Rhys is, walking down the cul-de-sac, heading home as if nothing has happened. How can that be? He went to so much effort. He kicks at a stone.

  ‘Don’t kick the stones you vile little boy.’

  He’s cold. Wet. Stiff from standing in the same position hour after hour. Do they not realise what he’s done? What he’s done for them?

  �
�Done for them? Done for you more like. You disgust me. I told you this wouldn’t work, but then you are so stupid you don’t listen.’

  ‘Shut up,’ he mutters.

  They’ve let Rhys go. Interesting. Could it be they’ve not found his identification? It wasn’t well hidden.

  Could someone else have found it? Stolen it? Was he too impulsive?

  She made a terrible mess, his fiery princess. He’s sorry for that. Sorry they had so little time together. Sorry the time was spent in a dirty street surrounded by rubbish. The blood caked her hair, matted it together. Made it chewy when he placed a strand between his teeth. He shouldn’t have done that. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t resist. A naughty kid in a sweet shop. He giggles. He’d giggled then too.

  ‘A naughty boy, a naughty vile little boy.’

  The giggle stops abruptly. He can feel it now, that strand of hair. He plays with it in his pocket. It’s not a trophy. Trophies are for the weak, remember? It’s a necessity, after she distracted him so.

  She made him so angry. Refused to play, to fight. On reflection, the first blow was a bit hard. He was excited. Got carried away at the thought of his plans coming together.

  But here he is, Rhys. Large as life. He strolls down the cul-de-sac without a care in the world. Don’t they realise what his auburn-haired girl has sacrificed for them? Could they be any more ungrateful? Disrespectful? The anger starts to bubble. That will not do.

  There will be an explanation. Give it time. Wait. Be patient. That’s something he’s very good at.

  He snuggles further back into the thick foliage. The owner of this house doesn’t care about the front garden. The trees are massive, overgrown. Branches bend down to the ground behind the low stone wall. The bushes that wind around them knot together – their branches create a thatching. It was easy for him to push inside. The perfect spot to watch for her. His Anna. The perfect spot to ensure Rhys is out of the way. The perfect spot to wait and watch. There’s even an old for sale sign abandoned just behind the wall. He flattens it to stand on, to stop his feet getting wet.

  54.

  Usually Elsie loves it when the children come to stay. It makes her feel alive, gives her purpose. Today it fills her with a deep foreboding. A dark feeling in the pit of her stomach. Not for the first time since the children arrived she goes to look out of the window.

  ‘What are you looking for, Nana?’ asks Harry. Louise rolls her eyes. It irritates Louise that Harry calls Elsie Nana. She states only babies refer to non-family members as things like Aunty or Nana. Elsie isn’t related to them so she should be called Elsie. Harry is adamant she’s his nana, says it doesn’t matter that she didn’t give birth to Mummy or Daddy. It’s what he’ll call her. Louise says only babies used the term Mummy and Daddy. Harry looks close to tears.

  ‘Nothing darling.’ Elsie turns. The nets drop. She shuffles back to her chair. Pats the top of Harry’s head. He smiles up at her.

  ‘Were you checking for the Nosferatu?’

  ‘More likely checking Dad isn’t freaking out again.’ Louise doesn’t look up from her mobile as she speaks. ‘Having another crazy turn and embarrassing us all.’

  ‘Don’t say such things about your father.’ Elsie is a little too quick. A little too defensive.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Dad,’ says Harry. Louise looks up.

  ‘Is there something wrong with Dad?’ She looks at Elsie. ‘Is that why we’re here, because there’s something wrong with Dad?’ Concern fleets across her face. Then she remembers concern is not cool, especially for your parents.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your dad.’ Elsie wills her face to stay expressionless. ‘Nothing a quiet, relaxing night in with your mum won’t solve.’

  Elsie told Rhys he needed Anna’s help. Needed to make her understand, to believe. She told him that they, he, could not deal with Kier alone. She could see Rhys’s mind race. Race for ways to convince Anna. Race with more unanswered questions.

  ‘They, he, did not take Jenny.’ Elsie said it several times. Grabbed hold of his wrists, made him look at her until she was sure he’s taken it in. ‘It’s mind tricks, that’s all. Jenny’s gone. Focus on the children you still have with you, on keeping them safe. If there’s a way to beat him, you’ll need Anna’s help.’ She was lying. Cursed herself for it but did it nonetheless.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Dad. Nana’s right. We’re here because he’s going to kill the Nosferatu.’

  ‘You’re such a baby believing in all that, isn’t he, Na… Elsie?’ Louise laughs uncertainly. ‘There’s no such thing as Nosferatu, isn’t that right?’ They both look to Elsie. Slowly she rises, goes back to the window. ‘I mean, I know what Dad was saying last night, but Mum said he’s just tired from work and confused. Isn’t that right?’ The eyes bore into Elsie. Search for reassurance. ‘Only babies believe in Nosferatu.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say,’ says Elsie quietly.

  ‘See,’ says Harry.

  ‘Just because you can’t comprehend something doesn’t mean it isn’t real,’ Elsie continues, forgetting herself for a moment. The street is still.

  ‘I’m worried about Dad,’ says Harry.

  ‘Me too,’ says Louise. Cool forgotten, she moves to sit close to Harry, takes his small hand in hers. Elsie does not turn from the window.

  ‘And perhaps you should be.’ The truth escapes on an out breath. She’s distracted – sure she’s seen something move in the bushes in front of Kier Finnegan’s house.

  55.

  Rhys has asked Elsie to look after the kids. Anna prays this is a good sign. That she hasn’t made things worse blabbing to Dan, but then she wasn’t blabbing, not really, she was asking for help, right?

  Rhys comes home from work early. Says he has something to tell her. Her mind fleets once more to the notion of another woman. An internal laugh as she remembers Rhys’s issues are nothing as simple as that.

  They stand in the kitchen. Rhys’s words rain down on her. He’s been referred to Occupational Health. Instructed to take a few days off. Why could this be? Because someone has told the Chief Inspector he believes he’s being chased by a Nosferatu. Anna feels her cheeks burn with shame.

  Dan has done what she hoped he would. She sent out a distress flare and he answered it. Now Rhys can get professional help. Talk to people who can figure out what’s wrong and make him better.

  She draws breath to say as much but he cuts her off.

  He tells her the person that informed the Chief Inspector will think they’ve done him a favour. She will think she’s done him a favour, but she hasn’t. He tells her he spent the night in his car in the old lanes. Kier found him there. How is that possible if he’s just a man? He will leave that with her. She can come back to him when she has an answer.

  At this time, a young girl was beaten to death in the city, his police identification placed at the scene. Kier is his alibi. Kier, the same one his boss has just been told Rhys believes is a Nosferatu after his soul. Doesn’t do much for his chances, does it? He feels it’s obvious; Kier is framing him. How can he prove that now? Kier’s trying to take his whole life, make it so he has no choice but to join him. Anna has helped him along. He stares hard at her for a long time.

  ‘How could Kier have framed you if he was with you?’ The words he has said are ridiculous. The alternative is far worse.

  ‘What? I don’t know. I haven’t had time to figure it out fully yet with all this other shit going on, but I will, if you give me a moment.’ Rhys paces as he speaks, back and forth, back and forth.

  ‘Maybe he followed you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe he followed you when you left here and that’s how he found you?’

  ‘Why would he want to do that? He doesn’t need to do that. He can always find me, that’s the point.’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t understand. I don’t understand you anymore.’ Anna pours herself a glass of wine.

  ‘And drinki
ng won’t help, you need to stay alert.’ He leaves the room. He’s full of shit. He drinks several large gins every night. Just because the bottle is in Jenny’s room doesn’t mean she doesn’t know.

  One thing from his tirade stands out above all else. His police identification found at a murder scene? She follows him into the hall.

  ‘How was your police identification found at a murder scene, Rhys?’ The words echo up the stairs. Her only answer is the slamming of a door.

  He must have dropped it, right? Or someone else must have dropped it. The wine sloshes as she refills her glass. Yeah, that will be it. Someone else must have picked it up in all the chaos of leaving the station, then they must have dropped it… The words are lame.

  This is serious. Not actually accused of murder though or he would be being held in the station? They don’t let people wander off home if they really believe they have committed a heinous crime, do they? What’s the name for it, circumstantial something? She runs her hands through her hair. What the fuck is going on? Her fingers twitch. She could text Dan? Just one small text. Just to find out what is really going on. There’s nothing wrong with that.

  Anna sits at the table.

  Rhys’s father served a five-year prison sentence for grievous bodily harm just after Jenny disappeared. Another nail in the coffin of both his marriage and his relationship with his son. His temper is still wild.

  It’s there, in the genes.

  Rhys has never been a violent man. Anna knows it isn’t possible. You can’t live with someone for all these years and for them to suddenly kill another human being and you not to have seen it coming.

  There would have been a change in his behaviour…

  Dan has tried to help. Maybe it’s not enough. She should call his boss. What’s his name again? Has Rhys even told her? She still has Chief Inspector Wallace’s number somewhere. She could call him, he’d know what to do.

  Above her the floorboards creak.

  What the hell is Rhys doing up there?

  56.

  He came home to make her understand, to make her see but she wasn’t even prepared to listen, his own wife. Rhys is so angry, so betrayed. The look in her eyes says she will never be on his side. Will not even try to understand.