Mr Todd's Reckoning

by Iain Maitland

  I shook my head. Not sure what to say to any of that. He pressed further.

  “Have you got your landline to hand?” he said, looking around and seeing it on the side by the fridge. “If we click back through the calls received up to the day she… disappeared, there should be a number we can call back.”

  “No,” I replied, “there isn’t, I’m afraid.”

  He stood up to walk over to the telephone. “No, no,” he said, “there will be a number.”

  “No, no,” I echoed, and then added quickly, “do you know… I remember thinking at the time… it was a number withheld… or unavailable… one or the other.”

  “That’s very strange,” he said as he reached for the phone. “Why would she withhold the number?”

  He stopped for a moment, his hand on the phone, thinking what to say or do. Then he spoke, “I’m really worried. Vanishing into thin air like this. It’s not like Dawnie. Anything could have happened to her. I think we need to call the…”

  I stabbed him. With my biggest kitchen knife.

  Just as his mouth framed the word ‘police’.

  In his back, as hard as I could. I twisted it too.

  He did not die instantly. In fact, he turned right round, the knife still stuck in his back, and looked at me with such an expression of utter shock on his face. It was all I could do not to laugh. Oops! Butterfingers! I stood there for a moment, looking back, waiting for him to fall down. Instead, he spoke, almost as if he were talking normally, “You… killed… her,” he said. “My God… you…”

  I reached for another knife and stabbed him again, twisting the blade once more. “And you fucked her,” I said. I don’t normally swear but my anger was rising as he seemed to half-smile back at me. A dirty little smirk. The third time, his eyes rolled upwards. I stabbed him again, four, five, six times, perhaps many more, pulling a third knife in and out, plunging it in and out – like he fucked her – over and over again. It was quite satisfying in a way.

  He fell eventually, but it took some time until I was sure he was dead. I will not dwell on the struggle I had getting him down to the air-raid shelter, where, in a sudden fit of silly humour, I put him in a very ‘compromising position’ with her. I checked his pockets, which contained nothing but a credit card and two ten-pound notes and some keys. No phone, though. I then had enough time to clean up the kitchen floor with my trusty Vileda mop and bucket before Adrian arrived home. We had tea together – I boiled some fish with mashed potatoes and peas (a personal favourite of mine) and went to bed as normal as if nothing untoward had happened at all.

  I sit back and am rather pleased with what I have written. I have explained it very nicely. In a pleasant, story-book kind of way. And I feel I have exonerated myself. He came to the door, banging on it. He shouted the accusation. He strode into my bungalow. He did not accept my explanations. He was going to call the police. So there you have it. I had no choice.

  I did – ‘enjoy’ is not quite the right word – feel quite pleased about killing him. ‘Pleased’ is not the most appropriate word either, but it will do. ‘Satisfied’ is closer but sounds rather smug. Anyway, no matter. He took a slight intake of breath, he almost squealed each time I turned the knife in him. And he looked at me as I stabbed him again and again. I rather think that I may have shouted “fuck… fuck… fuck” each time I stabbed in and out. I did, I have to say, rather lose myself in the moment.

  Although I have ended lives, I do not see myself as a bad sort of chap. I am not what mother would have called a ‘beast in the field’; like father was. I have not indulged. I did only what was necessary with her, with her silly smirk, and him, who was going to bring the police in. They were not easy endings. I did not particularly relish them.

  I would not do it again.

  I have no reason to.

  I just want to see out my days in peace and contentment. That is all.

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 1.23PM

  I have, for a little while now, been worrying about the police having my DNA and what they might do with it. When I last went to the library I used the computer to look up various matters and then printed off some notes. I am reading these now while I have a quiet moment. I cannot quite make sense of them.

  They, the police, have the right to take a DNA sample from you if you have been arrested. This can then be checked against the Police National Computer – to see if it matches DNA found at earlier crime scenes and so on.

  I am not sure if this – the checking, the comparing – always takes place, though. The law gives the chief officers of each constabulary ‘the right to add a person’s DNA to the database but does not oblige them to do so’. It is the ‘do they or don’t they?’ that concerns me. The uncertainty of it. I…

  There is a knock, more a gentle, hesitant tap, at my bedroom door. Even so, it makes me jump.

  “Come in,” I say.

  It is Adrian standing there, pulling a face as if there is a bad smell in the room. Maybe there is.

  The heat.

  Sweat.

  Body odour.

  He twitches and gurns and then speaks without looking at me, almost shame-faced, “Where’s Mum?”

  I push the notes under my pillow and then sigh and answer, “How many times! I told you, didn’t I? Before. Same as I told that policewoman. I’ve told you this more than once. Several times, in fact.”

  His eyes flicker towards me then away, not wanting to meet my gaze. A moment’s silence, maybe more. He watches his foot as it moves back and forth, as if stubbing out a cigarette on the floor.

  “But… Grandad,” he says eventually, “it’s been… They’ve not… Mum… she did not even… she said…” His nonsensical, muddled words tail off as he sees me looking at him struggling to say what he means. What he thinks. What he knows. Or at least guesses.

  I shrug, closing my diary, signalling that this is the end of the matter. I get up. Hoping that we can move on and talk about the young woman and the child leaving. Him going with them. Leaving me alone. In peace.

  “What are you writing about now? In your notebook?”

  “Just stuff,” I answer slowly, reluctantly. “I told you, notes. I might write a book.”

  He looks at me and laughs. There’s no two ways about it. He laughs out loud. A spluttering, mocking laugh. It angers me but I do not react.

  “You? What sort of book?” he says. “Is it poetry?”

  I move away from him to put my diary in a cabinet. With my back to him, I lock it and then reply.

  “About tax matters. For the Revenue. Guidance notes. For new employees. Procedures and regulations.”

  “But I thought…” he says, then stops and nods, as if he is thinking carefully about what to say next. About my departure from the Revenue. I turn towards him, indicating our conversation is over, that I want to get by him. Go to the kitchen. A cold drink. Ice cubes from the fridge.

  He does not move.

  There is the longest pause. I gesture to him to move out of the way.

  Then he gets to the point.

  “Do you think Philip Rennie and Mum…?”

  I do not answer. My head down.

  “They might… you know?”

  I look up at him but do not reply, my mind whirring. Realising suddenly that I might turn this to my advantage.

  “Mum used to… talk to me. Sometimes. About, you know… things.” He swallows hard and his frog-eyes are here, there and everywhere. Anywhere but on me.

  I shrug, not sure what to say.

  Another long pause.

  An awkward moment, both of us full of embarrassment.

  He talks on, ever so cautiously, word-by-word, almost whispering conspiratorially, “I know Mum hasn’t been in touch, has she?”

  I shake my head to confirm.

  “And I know she and this Philip Rennie were… more than friends.”

  I nod, just once, curtly, in agreement.

  “They’ve gone off together, do you think?”

 
“Yes,” I say, thinking quickly. “But I don’t want… the police… the world… to know my… our… business. Do you understand me?”

  He nods, pleased with himself that he has uncovered the truth, as he believes it.

  He moves to one side. I step by him, going towards the kitchen. As I do, I know that this – this revelation – will only be the beginning of it. The start of Adrian gnawing and chewing and tearing at things.

  Where is she, do you think?

  What’s she doing!

  Why hasn’t she been in touch with me?

  He’s put two and two together, so he thinks, and understands why she’s not been in contact just yet. But his birthday is not far off, in early September, and he will expect a card and a present or something then. If – when – he doesn’t, he’ll start asking more questions. He’ll dig. And dig. Deeper and deeper.

  She must be ill, surely?

  Something wrong.

  She wouldn’t forget my birthday!

  He’ll sit there, worrying about her and him running away together, working things through, weighing every thought, the ifs and buts and maybes, wanting to know, needing to know, on and on, until he gets what happened clear in his head. At some point, he will work out the truth. He will see it staring him in the face as clear and as bright as a sunny summer’s day.

  She vanished on Sunday 9 July. Rennie’s car appeared on the 25th. Sixteen days later.

  They vanished separately. Independent of the other.

  So where are they if they did not disappear together?

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 2.24PM

  We are sitting on two old bed sheets, me on one, them on the other, in the garden, the four of us. They are eating and drinking, a makeshift picnic of sorts. I am sweating. We are ignoring the smell of the pig farm and the fields. The air-raid shelter is just ten yards away. “Scarecrows,” the girl is going to say at any moment. Then she will raise her finger towards the shelter. Adrian will amuse her, pretend there are scarecrows there, taking the girl down to the door, pulling and pushing until it cracks and opens. And they then will see everything inside.

  I am leaning forward. My back strained and tense. I can hardly breathe.

  I feel my heart pounding. More than it has ever done.

  I am acting normally, as best I can. But I feel my heart may stop at any second, that I might fall forward and die.

  It was Adrian’s idea – coming outside – as we all sat in the living room talking about what to do. About Leon. About them leaving. Or staying here. Hiding away. Close to arguing, really. They are not going to go. Not now. Not for a while yet.

  I said to call the police, claim harassment.

  This would anger Leon, they replied. Make him even more dangerous. “Madden him,” she stated. We had to wait, until he calmed down.

  How long would that take, I asked? They could not say. Days, I questioned, weeks… forever? They did not know.

  Adrian broke the moment by saying we should sit in the garden, that the girl could run around, let off steam. I did not want to go outside. Not at all. But I could not explain why. Josie smiled her agreement and the child stood up ready to go. I suddenly said we could not.

  No rugs.

  No garden chairs.

  No toys.

  But they were already up and going. Adrian said we had some old sheets in the airing cupboard and we could take some tumblers of squash and some crisps and biscuits from the kitchen. It would be nice to sit in the sun and sunbathe for a bit. So we sit here, all rather awkwardly, on and on, doing nothing. None of us is sunbathing.

  I can hear noise from the road in front of the bungalow, that ever-steady flow of stop-start traffic, revving and braking. I let it wash over me. It is of no importance. At the bottom of the garden, a freight train moves ever so slowly by. They seem to almost crawl along in this baking-hot weather, these trains. So agonisingly slow that, at times, I swear you could walk, even stroll, alongside them and move more quickly.

  Adrian says he guesses there will be 30 containers. Josie says 10. I go in the middle, 20. They turn to the little girl and ask her, but she does not seem to understand how to play this guessing game so Josie says she will guess for her and chooses 15. As she says it, the girl yells “one million” at the top of her voice and waves her arms about.

  I do not know how long it will take for the rumbling and squeaking and grinding to fade into the distance and disappear but it seems to go on for ages. I could almost scream as they count the number of containers one by one to 10, through to 15 and then to 20 and we, I am expected to join in cheerfully, then count the final few through 22 and 23 and on up to 26, 27 and 28, the last one.

  “I win,” says Adrian.

  “Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” laughs Josie, the little girl echoing the last two words.

  It is all I can do to sit here quietly.

  The gardens to both sides are silent for once; I assume no one is there. But it could be that they are indoors, sitting in front of fans, cooling themselves. The heat out here is tremendous. Too hot to do anything. Too stifling to relax. We all sit, dripping in sweat and melting away, on and on, just doing nothing at all but smelling smells and pretending we’re not.

  “I know,” says Adrian suddenly. “Wait here.”

  He dashes back into the bungalow. Out again with the key to the garage. I stiffen. I don’t want him digging about in there either. What with one thing and another.

  Too late. Before I can say anything he has opened the door and is inside.

  Josie looks at me and smiles. She is sitting there leaning back slightly, her hands keeping her upright. Her bag between her legs. The child to one side. She is very pretty, prettier even than I had at first thought. Her features are really quite exquisite. I notice that her top is damp from sweat and clings to her breasts. I look away, imagining for a moment what she would look like with her top off. I think she would be truly beautiful. I feel myself reddening and, despite the heat, and the horror and the fear of what happens next, I feel movement down there.

  This is not what I want. Not now. Not ever.

  Not really. But it is hard not to imagine what it would be like if it were just the two of us here together. I think we’d get along just fine. Her and me.

  She seems to me to be a warm and caring person at heart.

  The child distracts me, us both, as she suddenly walks around in a circle as if she is marching. I have no idea what makes her do this but am pleased that she is. Josie laughs and claps her hands. The child joins in, clapping clumsily and almost in time with each step. She looks at me and smiles again, encouragingly this time. I clap along too, although part of me is sick with worry.

  And then Adrian is out, saying he cannot find the hose. But he has an old tin watering can in his right hand.

  He goes towards the outside tap to fill it noisily. Then turns towards the little girl who is watching him closely.

  He mock-snarls, waving the can full of water towards her. She squeals delightedly and runs off towards the air-raid shelter.

  I sit, barely able to watch, expecting her to go down the steps, trying to pull the door open to hide inside. I fear the door is so rotten, not just at the bottom, that one strong tug might open it. There, it’s all laid bare for everyone to see. But, as she approaches the steps, she swerves to one side, almost losing her balance, and is then away and down the garden towards the tree stumps and railway line.

  Adrian follows her, waving the can and splashing the water just behind her, a thin spray catching her as she screams happily. She turns, just beyond the shelter, and comes back in a wide arc of a circle towards Josie.

  He is closer to her now, swinging the can back and forth with splashes of water hitting her repeatedly. He could catch her easily but keeps far enough back to get her wet but not so close that she over-reaches herself and falls over. She runs into her mother’s open arms and they fall back onto the bedsheet laughing.

  Adrian slides onto his knees as he catches up and fall
s theatrically on top, grabbing them in his arms and rolling back and forth. I look away, feeling awkward and embarrassed to be sitting here watching this show-off behaviour with its laughter and breathlessness and grunts. But I am relieved that they did not go down the steps. All I have to do now is to get up and suggest we all go indoors to lie down and cool off.

  I am about to speak, to mention, ooh la la, a siesta, when the little girl wriggles free from Josie and Adrian.

  She sits up and speaks. “Why,” she asks, quite curiously, “are there scarecrows in that house?”

  And, just as I feared, she points at the air-raid shelter.

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 2.43PM

  There is, for a moment, complete and utter silence.

  I hear nothing from the road or railway line, nor from the neighbours to either side.

  Neither Adrian nor Josie speak. The child’s hand remains outstretched.

  I am thinking fast, the thoughts and idea tumbling through my head. I can laugh, deriding the child’s nonsense. But she might break free, running forward, insisting they all look through the crack in the door. And they might follow, humouring her by peering in. “Oh My God,” Josie would cry out, scream even, “Adrian, look!”

  But instead, “Ssshhh,” the young woman says quietly to the child, “… don’t be silly.”

  I could pretend ‘scarecrows’ was a game we played when I babysat the girl. That these magic scarecrows were there but now they are hiding somewhere else. We’d look in the bungalow, turning the game into hide-and-seek. But what if the little girl tried to hide in the air-raid shelter? Started screaming for help when she realised what the scarecrows really were.

  Adrian glances at me and away. I don’t know what he’s thinking.

  And then it comes to me. A story. I’d pretend I’d been telling her a story about scarecrows. But I can imagine the little girl standing there, hands on hips, “No!” she’d shout. “No, no, no! That never happened!” And, to placate her, they’d go down to the shelter. Adrian would wrench open the door, “Look, see…” he’d say smiling, before stepping inside.