I had no choice and so I finished the job. I had, on the garage shelves, an array of tools and equipment – saws, rope, acid and so forth. Enough, more than enough, to attend to matters properly. I have to be honest and say that I have always had something of a squeamish nature when it comes to bones and offal and the like, so I did not use the saws or acid on her body. I did not wish to see 20-odd feet of her innards spread out across the garage floor. I simply strangled her with her scarf and for quite some time to make sure, until I could not feel a heartbeat nor hear bubbling breath from her mouth. And so it was done.
(Now Adrian is up. I hear the living room door open carefully, clicking shut behind him. Two or three footsteps in the hall. The door of the bedroom opening, going straight in, no knocking, no forewarning. The girl stops her wailing. There is the sound of low voices talking, then silence. Long may it last.)
Putting my head outside the side door of the garage, all was peaceful in the moonlight. I walked slowly across to the air-raid shelter, pulling open the door at the bottom of the steps. The lower part of the door had largely rotted away and the rest was going that way. I looked down at the two benches on the floor to either side. I had not been in here for years and the smell of dirt and decay was strong.
We used the shelter for storage when we first moved into the bungalow but the damp soon got into everything and covered all of the items with mould. The shelter had been unused for more than a decade, maybe closer to two, and should have been filled in, flattened and have disappeared into the ground a long time ago. But it all cost money we could not afford and so it stayed there year after year untouched. Now I knew that it was the perfect resting place for her.
I pulled her dead weight from the garage across the garden and down the steps and onto the floor of the shelter. My goodness, she was a great big lump. As I closed the door behind me and followed my path back to the garage, I saw that one of her new red shoes had come off, so I picked it up and tucked it down inside of a bin. The floor of the garage, clicking on the light, had some smears and stains.
I made a mental note of what I would have to do the next morning when Adrian was out. I would need to clean thoroughly beneath the bin. And scrub the garage floor too. Most important of all, I must secure the shelter door with wood and nails so that Adrian would not accidentally stumble into it. And that would then be that.
This is how I did it.
Writing it down like this, in my matter-of-fact manner, makes it seem not so bad really.
I did what I did and that is all there is to it.
I hear noises from Adrian’s room. It is the child, who obviously has no idea of the concept of peace and quiet, silence and sleep. She is talking at the top of her voice as if no one else but her matters. The mother answers in a quieter voice. Then Adrian’s deeper rumble. I cannot make out the words. I hope they will go to sleep, giving me some peace in this endless hothouse.
Adrian’s door opens and closes. Footsteps to the bathroom. Opening the door. Closing the door. Clatterings. Other noises. The sound of the toilet roll spinning. Everything then repeated in reverse, doors opening and closing, voices and so on, until there is silence again. For the moment, at least.
As I lie here, with the sounds of the road and the rail line somehow sounding louder at the moment and all of these other bangs and unexpected noises so much closer, I consider how much longer I can stand all of this. Everything is closing in and suffocating me.
And I worry about Josie and the child being here. I think about what might happen. Adrian has never shown any inclination to sunbathe or potter about in the back garden. I rather fear this woman and child, in the ever-present heat, will spend all of their time there. If they do, it will not be long before the child mentions what she has seen in the air-raid shelter and they will then both go up to it and peer in through a crack in the shelter door. And what will happen then?
FRIDAY 28 JULY, 9.17AM
The banging on the front door begins again; it’s just after 9.15am. The four of us are in the living room, sitting here after breakfast, talking about what they will do next.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
We all fall silent except for the little girl, who looks at the young woman and makes another nonsensical “bbbrrring bbbrrring” noise like she did before. The woman hushes her and we sit here without speaking, hoping whoever it is will go away.
Knock.
Knock.
It goes again. A little louder but still respectful. Not a furious knocking, not an ‘answer-the-door-or-else’ sound. But someone is out there. And they want someone in here to respond, to come to the door. Now. Those of us in the bungalow are trapped, cannot do anything, dare not take a chance. Of answering the door. Even of being heard, if it’s this Leon.
Adrian has his head down, his back arched with tension. Not looking at anyone, just doing the left-right, right-left thing with his jaw. Josie has a calming hand on the little girl’s shoulder, close enough, I notice, to clamp over her mouth if she makes a noise, if she yells or shouts out. The woman’s head is down too, and she seems to be biting her lip.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I sit there impassively. If it is this Leon, if I know for sure it is him, I will go to the door. No, I’ll say, no one of that description here. I’m a widower, I’ll add, recently bereaved. Still grieving. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to what I was doing. Remembering and reflecting. He’ll shuffle away, shame-faced, never to return.
But it might not be. It could be something to do with him and his car, which is still there, parked over the way. I thought it was being taken away but it hasn’t. It might be someone who wants to come into the garden to look at the train tracks, to check if they are buckling and twisting in the sun, asking questions, being a nuisance, noticing the air-raid shelter and more, sticking their nose in where it is not wanted.
Now there is silence.
There are no sounds of voices or notes being put through.
It’s all quiet and I assume they have gone away.
I am the first to get to my feet now I am sure whoever it was has left. I say to leave it 10 to 15 minutes and then it will be time to go home. For them to go home, I repeat. To their own home, to make myself absolutely clear. They just sit there, the young woman getting her phone out of her bag and giving it to the child to play with, Adrian looking up at me. I can see the fury in his face. He speaks, his voice cracking with emotion, on the brink of tears.
“If Josie and Lily go back… he’ll be waiting there… or he’ll break in when it’s dark…”
I soothe things, suggesting Adrian can go back with them, take his things, stay for a while, until everything has settled down, blown over. But this seems to anger Adrian even more. He shakes his head and pulls gurning faces as I speak my measured and calming words. And then he answers defiantly as he stands up.
“He’s too strong… (he lowers his voice suddenly as if mindful of the child)… he’s violent… on drugs… he could do anything… absolutely anything to any one of us.”
The young woman, who has been staring into space, speaks, looking across at me as she does so. “He forced himself on me… several times…” She nods towards the child, “… in front of…”
“Well,” I reply, taken aback by what she said but pressing on. “Anyway, I think the three of you should go back there, to your home, with Adrian and his things… I will call you a taxi and pay for it… and then you must call the police when you get there. Someone will soon come round, a policeman, two of them probably, one will be a policewoman, and they will take a statement and have a word with him… he won’t bother you if the police have had a quiet word, warn him off.”
At this, Adrian steps forward and laughs in my face. His breath smells of onions.
I think for a second that he is going to raise his hands and strike me in anger. His impotent rage.
I step back, arms down and at m
y side to calm the situation as I have been trained to do.
“Don’t you understand? Did you hear what Josie said?” (Josie gets to her feet and lifts up the child and moves towards the door.) “He could… kill me and (as they leave the room)… rape Josie… murder Lily.”
In spite of everything, it is hard not to laugh at him as he stands there, twitching and shaking, red-faced and tearful, full of indignation and self-righteous fury. Adey. The saviour of Josie and Lily! Mr Bloody Superman!
He follows them out of the living room – regardless of whether anyone might still be standing in the porch, looking through the little piece of glass in the front door and seeing him, all of them together, in the hallway.
I brace myself for the sound of shouts and kicks at the front door as it caves in and this Leon attacks them, pushing and punching, and slashing at Adrian with a knife. But there is silence except for the door of Adrian’s room clicking closed followed by the low murmur of their voices, talking quietly.
I sit here, dripping in sweat from the heat and feeling agitated, partly because they clearly do not want to take my advice and go but also because of the fear that if they don’t, this Leon will come back. He might break in when I am asleep.
I look out down the garden and notice, by the top of the steps by the air-raid shelter, a cat, a sleek black cat, that is looking towards the door of the shelter. After a few minutes, it moves down the steps out of sight and I wonder what has attracted its attention and what it will do next.
The smells from the pig farm and the fields full of cabbages and cauliflowers are so strong in this heat, especially when the wind is blowing this way. But beneath those, from the shelter, there are other smells too. Strong and awful smells that attract a hungry cat. Maybe rats have got in by now, made themselves a nest there; next to their source of rotting food.
I am scared of rats and cannot face having to deal with them. But it is something I will need to check. I will have to take a spade, just in case. I will sort it if I have to. I cannot have the neighbours calling the council about it, having those snooping busy-bodies round with their clipboards.
There is someone at the door again. I have been distracted by the heat and smells. It makes me jump.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I sit here, my nerves stretching close to snapping, waiting for them to go away.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
All is quiet in Adrian’s room, both of them holding their breath, Josie with her hand over the child’s mouth. I imagine the child struggling if she holds it there too long. Will this Leon go before the child cries out? Touch and go, I think.
Knock. Knock.
It must be him, this Leon. I ask myself if, with the three of them shut in Adrian’s bedroom, I can answer the door, bluff my way through, get him to go quietly, convinced they are not here. If not, if no one ever answers, he will keep coming back. By a process of elimination, other householders having answered the door, he will focus finally on this bungalow and, stepping inside the porch, he will see the splintered lock by the door and maybe put two and two together. I know I would. But then, perhaps I am so much cleverer than most people.
Knock. Knock.
One more time, if it goes just once more, I will get up and walk to the door. I cannot hide here, away and out of sight, like some cowering, beaten animal until he bursts in. I will open the door and I will say to him, this Leon, quite brusquely, “Hello, yes, what do you want?”… “No, no one here by that name.”… “No, no little girl.”… “Now, please… excuse me… I’m very busy.”
Knock.
I have to get up. Make him go away. Leave me alone. Let me be in peace here. On my own.
Knock, knock.
That’s it. I am up, wiping my face and hair and my glasses and pulling free the shirt that’s sticking to the small of my back, and I am out of the living room and into the hall. To sort this. To get him gone. Away from here, far away from the bungalow. So I can stay here in peace and quiet, to mind my own business, to see out my days without all this anger and fury at my doorstep.
I look up, tense and expecting to see this thuggish Leon.
But it is a young policewoman standing there.
Before I can turn, retrace my steps and duck out of sight, she sees me.
FRIDAY 28 JULY, 10.06AM
I make eye contact with the policewoman, keep a steady gaze and smile as I have been trained to do in stressful situations when I need to look calm and at ease. I open the door.
Nothing to see here.
All very ordinary.
Move along please.
Act relaxed, speak a little louder than necessary so that Adrian hears me, so they know it is not this Leon. That it’s the police. Stay put. They’ll be on their way in a moment.
“Morning, constable,” I say, cheerfully enough to seem natural. “What can I do for you?”
She half-smiles back, busy, professional, perhaps irritated by my failure to answer the door before or quickly enough for her this time. Then turns away from me as she speaks.
“We’re making house-to-house enquiries about a car over the way.” She points at it and then, as if I am slow-witted, tells me the make and model of the car and its number plate. “And the owner, who has been reported as a missing person.”
“Yes,” I reply conversationally. “I had noticed it has been parked over there for a while now… I had not seen it before… I assumed someone had moved into the road.”
I stop speaking, knowing I am saying too much – the more you say, the more you give away, as any tax investigator will tell you. Keep quiet. Let them do the work. What I need to do is get her to the point where I can close the conversation down and see her on her way as quickly as I can.
“What can I do for you?” I add. “How can I help?”
She gives me, frankly, a slightly odd look before she speaks.
“We’re just asking everyone, door-to-door, if they have seen this man.” She shows me an A4 photo of him. The fancy man. “Or anything out of the ordinary over the past few days. Since Tuesday.”
I shake my head, as she carries on speaking her well-rehearsed words, repeated endlessly up and down the road at each door.
“He was reported missing on the 25th by his family, who say he’d driven off in his car at about midday to buy some cigarettes and hasn’t been seen since. One of my colleagues spotted the car late last night. We’re making enquiries.”
“Well,” I say, as confidently as I can, “I have seen the car but not the man.” Then, to distract her and send her away, I add, “Perhaps his car broke down or ran out of petrol and he walked into town? Maybe he was taken ill somewhere in the heat?”
Again, she gives me another odd look as she continues speaking without actually answering my question.
“You have the railway line running across the end of your garden, I believe? Can it be accessed easily from your garden?”
I see where she is going with this… the unspoken query… the suspicion of suicide. A body somewhere on the track.
“Yes, easily enough… a wire fence, that’s all… but he wouldn’t have come through here. I have the gate locked… bolted at the top… and I am here at home all day. He’d have had to get to the line further down, towards the roundabout. He could then have walked to Felixstowe along the track… or back into Ipswich.”
“Do you live here on your own?”
“Yes, pretty much. I have a son, Adrian, but he’s out and about most of the time. Adrian…”
She interrupts. “I… if I might have a…”
Before she can complete the sentence, “have a… word with him”, Adrian, who must have been listening intently, comes out of his room, shutting the door carefully behind him. She’d have been gone in a minute or two at most without a second thought or look back. If only he had stayed put.
And here he is, standing in front of her.
With his great gormless face and staring, vacant eyes, eager to please.
The stupid bastard.
Now we’re going to have to repeat the process with him gulping and twitching and rolling his eyes as he stutters his way through the same answers again. And I am going to have to stand next to him, and make sure he doesn’t say anything that might keep her here any longer than necessary. That he doesn’t, in his own ignorant, blundering way, drop me in it.
He looks awkward, sheepish even, as he smiles at the policewoman. I can’t help but think he seems shifty. Adrian stares, with his boggly eyes, down at the A4 paper that the policewoman still has in her hand. With a picture of him. And then Adrian looks back up at her.
He points at the paper and speaks.
With something close to excitement.
“That’s Mum’s friend…” he says louder than he needs to, as if this is the most wonderful moment of his wretched life. “That’s Philip Rennie!”
FRIDAY 28 JULY, 10.14AM
The policewoman sits in an armchair in the living room, opposite Adrian and me on the sofa. I sit quietly, calmly, in a relaxed, matter-of-fact kind of way. I saw her glancing round the living room, taking it all in, its run-down grubbiness, as she sat down. She then asked for our names and noted them carefully in a little notepad. She is now looking at the picture of him, composing herself and thinking what to say.
She’d radioed up to a colleague – telling him where she was and what she was doing.
Then invited herself in, near enough, to talk to Adrian.
And, I know it’s coming, to ask me why I did not say I recognised the man in the picture.
I think for a moment, looking at her, that she might not be a proper policewoman, but one of these volunteer specials. This matter, a missing middle-aged man, is a little practice for her. She looks young – younger than Adrian – and nervous, uncertain even. We need to get her up and out, satisfied with what’s been said, before one of her regular and more experienced colleagues up the road joins her and asks some awkward questions.
Mr Todd's Reckoning Page 14