Killing Time

by Mark Roberts

  ‘How bizarre,’ said Lucy. ‘Is he still making music?’

  ‘He died in a plane crash aged twenty-three or thereabouts.’

  Lucy offered the biscuit barrel to Elsa, who shook her head. ‘Now that you’ve explained it to me, I can see that you have no choice, Elsa.’

  ‘Are you having another biscuit? You deserve it.’

  ‘My appetite’s suddenly vanished. For once in my life.’

  ‘Dominika likes you, Lucy. She always takes you to one side to talk. Have you noticed anything strange? Has she said anything odd?’

  The cricket rubbed his back legs together and the sound evoked the darkness of night and the loneliness of vast open spaces.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘I did notice. She started wearing a lot more make-up. And. And carrying her mobile phone around with her all the time, in her hand, like she was waiting for someone to call her.’ Lucy drew around the top circumference of the biscuit barrel with her right index finger. ‘I should have told you, but I didn’t want to cause trouble.’

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘I was walking past her room a few days ago. I can’t remember the day exactly. But she called me in, asked me if I wanted to see some new pictures of Luka on her phone. I was busy but I didn’t want to be rude. She showed me the pictures of him and then a picture came up on the screen of Dominika. Naked. I was really concerned but she just smiled and showed me another sexually provocative picture of herself. I said, Stop, Dominika. You must delete these pictures and stop taking any more. She told me she had a new boyfriend, and that she liked sending them to him and that he liked receiving them.’

  ‘She’s not going to attract the right kind of man with these antics,’ said Elsa.

  ‘Word for word, that’s exactly what I told her.’ Lucy sipped her tea. ‘Have the other mothers commented about her?’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘Then I believe you really have no choice, Elsa. Dominika simply has to go, or you’ll quickly lose control of a difficult environment. Do you need me here tomorrow for bath and bedtime?’

  The kitchen door opened slowly, with a long-time squeak. A little boy in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pyjamas rubbed his eyes as he walked towards Lucy. She picked him up and, stroking his head, spoke with the kindness she thought Jesus would offer to a little boy who couldn’t sleep.

  ‘Come on Luka, I’ll put you back in bed and stay with you until you fall asleep.’

  Day Two

  Friday, 2nd December 2020

  34

  7.15 am

  Eve Clay sat at the table in her morning room looking out at the ice-capped rose bushes, and the small lawn outside the window under the brick wall at the back of their garden, where the deep snow covered every single blade of grass.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Philip’s teacher called me yesterday in the surgery,’ said Thomas from the adjoining kitchen.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Anxiety that she had learned to hide so well beyond her front door marbled her voice.

  ‘No worries. They’re rehearsing the nativity play pretty much all morning. They’re going to make an exception for you in case you miss the full production next week. You can go along and watch the rehearsal. Will you be able to go?’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can. And unless another body shows up before twelve...’

  Upstairs, the water pipes rattled as Philip turned on the tap to brush his teeth.

  ‘So, Philip doesn’t need waking up in the morning anymore?’ Eve double-checked.

  ‘He’s become really independent in the past few days.’ Thomas came into the room with two mugs of tea. ‘He uses the toaster, butters his own toast, pours his own milk, goes upstairs, washes himself and gets dressed. He’s got a self-reliant streak this wide.’

  ‘He doesn’t use the kettle, does he?’

  ‘He wants to, but I’ve told him he needs to grow a few more inches.’

  Eve opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Don’t worry, Eve, when the time comes I will supervise him very closely.’

  The rattling stopped and moments later, Eve heard Philip bounding down the stairs. She picked up his reading bag and looked inside.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ she smiled, and felt a mixture of pride and dismay.

  ‘Hi, Mum, you’re still here?’

  ‘Of course I’m still here. Are you using gel on your hair now, Philip?

  ‘First time today. I’ve got to look smart for the rehearsal.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I forgot to run it past you, Eve.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  Philip climbed up and sat on his mother’s knee.

  ‘The last time I heard you read, Philip, you were on reading book Pink Band Level 1. I see you’re now on a Yellow Band Level 3. I missed out on a whole level, Red Level 2.’

  ‘I like reading. I read every night. With Dad, twenty minutes. Every letter has a sound. Ah, eh, i, oo, uh. I know a lot of words.’

  ‘Well, I’m very proud of you.’ She spoke with pride. And, she thought with dismay, I’m so sad I’m missing out on so much. ‘How about I take you to school today?’

  ‘That’d be great, Mum.’ He laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Your face yesterday when we were on the yard and you got that phone call.’ He pulled a deeply serious face, underpinned with the need to move swiftly, and in his features she saw her own.

  ‘I see why your teacher’s given you a lead role. Hey, how about we go and get the Christmas tree on my next day off? We can get a really big one from Woolton Village.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Have you written your letter to Father Christmas yet, Philip?’ He wriggled a little on her knee.

  ‘I will do. When the play’s done.’

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Well, I know I can’t have a dog because we’re all out most days. How about... half-season ticket for Everton, money, books, and games for my X-Box?’ Philip slid off his mother’s knee and she looked at the sharp parting in his hair and the slick brush strokes as his hair moved from right to left.

  ‘What do you want for Christmas, Mum? I know dad wants a half-season ticket for Everton...’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘No, but when I mentioned it to you, there was this look on your face, like, That’s a good idea, I wouldn’t mind one of them myself.’

  Thomas looked at Eve and, behind Philip’s back, she smiled and nodded, raised an approving thumb.

  ‘I’ll sort that out today, Eve.’

  ‘What’ll you sort out today, Dad?’

  ‘Something your mother and I were talking about when you were getting dressed. Really boring grown-up stuff.’

  ‘Mum, you haven’t answered my question yet.’

  ‘Oh, right, yes. What do I want for Christmas? Well, this is like Christmas to me right here and now, the three of us sitting together and catching up. So I guess I’ve already got it, I just don’t get enough of it all the time.’

  ‘Is there anything you’d like before then?’

  ‘Yes, Philip. I’d like you to read to me and I’d like to fill in your reading diary. Is that OK?’

  ‘Not a problem.’ He reached inside his bag and took out the book and home reading diary and headed for the two-seater couch in the middle of the room.

  Eve sat next to him and placed her arm around his shoulders.

  ‘I’ll begin at the beginning.’

  ‘Always a good place to start.’ In her heart, where the weight of the world constantly dragged her down deeper and deeper, there was complete love and a peace that part of her had almost forgotten.

  ‘The title,’ said Philip, looking at the cover. ‘The Rainy Day.’ He turned to the opening page and read fluently.

  ‘Keep going, Philip, that’s great reading.’

  She planted a kiss on his head, felt the gel against her lips and stored the moment in her heart against whate
ver the future was going to throw at her, or what horror was around the next crooked corner.

  35

  10.15 am

  As Clay walked towards the school hall of St Swithin’s Infant School, she heard the opening notes of ‘Little Donkey’, her childhood favourite Christmas carol, drifting down the corridor from a slightly out-of-tune piano.

  A memory flashed through her mind. She was three or four years old. Sister Teresa’s back was hunched as she played the piano in St Claire’s. She looked down at her own thin legs dangling from Sister Philomena’s knee as her surrogate mother sang the song to her.

  The collective sound of barely more than baby-like voices singing in harmony threw Clay back in general to the Christmases of her later childhood in St Michael’s Catholic Care Home for Children and, in particular, to the one when she was ten years old and it was her turn to take on the role of Mary.

  As she came closer to the school hall, she felt a smile break out on her face, just as it had all those years ago when she carried a Tiny Tears doll wrapped up in a sky-blue crocheted blanket, and remembered the clarity of her child-like thought.

  I want to be a mother when I grow older.

  Clay stopped at the glass door, saw the boys and girls massed at the back of the stage, singing their hearts out to the piano played by a young teacher she didn’t recognise. In front of the infant choir were two children, one dressed as a donkey, the other as a cow. Between the donkey and the cow, a small blonde girl dressed as an angel with a tinsel halo stood on a podium and picked her nose.

  Clay’s focus drifted to the right of the stage, and her heart turned to ether.

  Philip, dressed in a Joseph costume, helped a classmate called Sarah towards the steps at the side of the stage. She was dressed from the head down in a lovingly made blue and white Mary costume, and was carrying a doll wrapped up in a lilac blanket.

  The choir and pianist stopped as Philip and Sarah reached the steps.

  Clay opened the door wide enough to hear the line Philip had practised hundreds of times at home.

  ‘This is the stable, Mary, where we will stay tonight and welcome our baby Jesus into the world!’

  Philip’s voice was loud and slow, each word audible and clear. As pride flooded Clay, she looked at the large empty space that would one afternoon be filled with adults come to watch the nativity play, and pride gave way to fear.

  What if, she thought, he is overwhelmed with nerves and forgets his line? What if he falls over and people laugh? What if the enormity of the occasion gets to him and he runs off in tears and gets teased forever about it?

  She blinked and in the micro-beat of darkness her mind was filled with the distorted and smoke-darkened geometric globe painted on the wall in Picton Road.

  The piano music started again and the children’s choir supplied the story as Philip led Sarah and her doll to the centre of the stage.

  ‘Ring out those bells tonight, Bethlehem, Bethlehem...’

  Philip helped Sarah to sit beneath the angel whose arms were now stretched up and out in the direction of heaven. As he settled next to Sarah on the stage, and the music and singing carried on, Clay realised that she had taken several steps inside the hall.

  Philip stared lovingly at the bundle in Sarah’s arms and Clay felt a tide of tears rising as the music and singing came to a close. She fought down the emotion, keenly aware that the last thing Philip needed was a weeping mother letting him down in front of his classmates.

  Silence, a room full of children and complete peace and quiet.

  Without warning, the bell rang for playtime, and beneath the sudden shrill din, Clay heard, ‘Mum?’

  Philip was on his feet. He jumped down from the stage and sprinted across the space towards her. Children’s voices built as the teacher called, ‘The sooner we quieten down, the sooner we can have our milk! The sooner we have our milk, the sooner we can get back to our nativity play.’

  The noise of the children’s voices softened as Philip reached her. She crouched down to his height and he threw his arms around her neck and planted a kiss on her cheek. As she held him, she imagined that she could feel his heart beating inside his body and into hers.

  ‘Mum, will you be coming with Dad to watch the nativity play?’

  ‘When is it happening?’

  ‘Not this week – next week, on Friday in the afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can to be here, Philip. You do know if I don’t make it...’

  ‘It’s because something very important cropped up.’

  She felt a knife straight beneath the place where her ribs met.

  ‘Mum, you’re giving me the sad eyes.’

  ‘The sad eyes?’

  ‘Yes, the sad eyes.’

  ‘I didn’t know I had sad eyes.’

  ‘When you can’t do something for me because of work. It’s OK. Don’t have sad eyes. I understand. Dad’s job as a GP doctor gives him...’ He searched for the right word.

  ‘Flexibility?’ suggested Eve.

  ‘Flexibility. Catching bad men and women doesn’t give you that flexibility. I like those eyes better. Happy eyes.’

  ‘Philip!’ The teacher’s voice rose above the noise of the children’s and she waved a carton of milk above her head.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Carter! Who are you trying to catch today?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you pass your driving test.’

  ‘That’s ages away, mum.’

  She felt the ping of an incoming message on her iPhone.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Mum, and get my milk. Miss Carter’s mad keen to get started on the rehearsal.’

  She gave him a hug, drew him as closely to her as she could and smelled the freshness of his skin.

  ‘Mum, other kids are watching.’

  Clay let go of him and, watching him walk away, knew there would come a day when she would wake up and mourn all the moments of his life that she had missed because of the demands of her job.

  Philip looked over his shoulder and his parting smile made the back of her eyes prickle.

  She took out her iPhone and saw the message was from Mason: Eve – Please come back to Picton Road immediately.

  As she walked out of the hall, she called him. ‘Terry, what is it?’

  ‘I want you to see it.’

  ‘One to ten, how big is it?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible!’

  36

  10.15 am

  Sergeant Carol White drained the last mouthful of coffee from the fifth mug she had consumed in as many hours and, adjusting her glasses on her nose, returned to the CCTV footage from Picton Road. With the exception of a dog and a man on a bicycle, the stretch of road she was watching had been like a ghost town.

  She pressed play and watched, resisting the temptation to check her phone for messages, reminding herself that this task was infinitely easier than the two years she had spent watching child pornography.

  A car approached from the junction of the Picton Clock Tower and took a right turn into Frederick Grove. As she tracked the vehicle’s progress and disappearance, in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen a door opened next door to Mr Zięba’s Polish deli, and a snowflake landed on the CCTV camera lens.

  She banged pause and looked across at Barney Cole. He was watching twilight footage from 6.30 pm, looking for someone or some people entering the Adamczaks’ front door, just as she was looking for those same people leaving. White rewound the footage and focused on the door.

  A black figure emerged, looking like a moving matchstick man on the pavement. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or woman.

  She focused on the doorway and thought she could make out two more figures, but the snow was falling faster and she couldn’t say for sure there were three. She rewound and paused just where the figure emerged from the doorway, fixed on the best shot and noted the time on the screen in the lower left-hand corner: 3:02:13 am. />
  She imagined the scene that the figure had left behind, and knew that as this sequence was being recorded, in a room above and to the right of the front door, a fire was raging and two men were being partially cremated.

  The definitive figure had one of two ways to go: into what was probably the CCTV oblivion of residential Grove Street, or towards the general direction of the city centre and the eye of the CCTV camera above the mini-market.

  ‘Thank you, God...’ she said, as she watched the figure start its journey.

  ‘Why are you getting your rosary beads out, Whitey?’

  ‘Give me a minute, Barney.’ She could hear in her own voice a smile breaking out.

  The figure walked in the direction of the CCTV camera. She paused and rewound to the beginning of the passage.

  ‘It could have been three coming out of the flat. But there was clearly one person who walked away from it.’

  Barney stood up and walked over.

  ‘Look at this, please,’ said White. ‘I’ll narrate it for you. Ready?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Keep your eye on the door, bottom right-hand corner. Ignore the car coming towards the camera. One figure emerges, then maybe two more. Snow on the lens. What shit timing was that? Then the one perpetrator we’re sure of comes out and walks in the direction of the nearest CCTV camera. He’s dressed head to foot in black with a black hood up. He’s carrying a black bag. The snow on the lens melted and, as the suspect comes closer, his form becomes clearer.’

  ‘I agree with everything,’ said Cole. ‘Look at the way he’s walking. Women don’t walk like that. It’s a male. He’s walking like he’s got something hard and metallic stuck up his arse. Closer and closer he swaggers towards the camera and he looks up, directly into the lens, but he’s wearing a balaclava with holes cut out for his eyes. And then he’s gone. Play it back for me again, please, Whitey.’

  They watched together in silence and, when the sequence finished, Cole said, ‘That’s a gangsta stroll. Yo! Look ata me, I looka like I need seriuz spinal surgery, bruv...’