The Waiting Game

by Sheila Bugler

  And suddenly she’s fading.

  ‘No! Don’t go. Please, Chloe. Don’t leave me.’

  She’s still singing but her voice, along with everything else, is moving, drifting further away.

  ‘Collier!’

  Hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Paul Herring’s little ratty face in front of him. Chloe gone. The medication made it difficult to wake up. But Herring was there and the fear of what he’d do to him gave Nathan the strength needed to focus.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Second time tonight you’ve woken me,’ Herring said. He was still holding Nathan’s shoulder. Face pushed up close, his breath sour when he spoke.

  ‘Don’t let it happen again.’ The pressure on his shoulder increased until he cried out. That seemed to please Herring, who smiled. ‘Fucking wake me again and you’ll be sorry.’

  He let go then, bunk-bed rattling as he climbed up onto his own bed. Nathan lay still, barely daring to breathe, listening to Herring shift around until settled. When Herring finally stopped moving, Nathan stayed on his back, even though the position was becoming uncomfortable. He was so big that whenever he moved, the bunk-beds shook, causing the metal frame to rattle loudly. Herring didn’t like that.

  The need to go back to sleep was strong, the drugs fooling his body it was okay to relax. His eyelids were heavy, kept drifting closed. It took everything he had to force them open each time that happened.

  Somewhere, a man started screaming. Nathan wondered if it was the same man as last night or someone else. From his limited experience so far, all men sounded the same when they screamed.

  Above him, Herring shouted at the screamer, called him a fucking pansy and told him to shut the fuck up. Some of the other prisoners started up as well, until it seemed as though the whole place was alive with the noise of it all.

  He couldn’t bear it. Put his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise, but it made no difference. And even as he did this, and listened to the pitch in Herring’s voice rising the more he shouted, even while all this was happening, his eyelids still started to droop.

  His bladder was full. Tight and aching from the pressure of what was inside it. Thinking what Herring would do to him if he wet the bed made it worse. He put his hands between his legs, pressing against his penis, praying for the control he’d need to get through the night.

  And when that didn’t work, when he felt the first trickle of damp through his pyjama bottoms, the moment of blissful relief when his bladder relaxed and the damp turned to a warm puddle as the liquid burst forth, and over him, when he felt the bunks shifting, saw Herring’s feet hanging down as the room filled with the smell of it, Nathan Collier opened his mouth and started screaming too.

  Sixty-Seven

  They arranged to meet outside the Cutty Sark pub. The grey, overcast afternoon suited Ellen’s mood. When she arrived at the river, Jim was already there, leaning over the wall, looking across the murky stretch of water towards the sprawling development of modern apartments along the northern edge of the riverbank. He looked lonely.

  ‘Hello.’

  He turned and smiled. No dimple, so she knew the smile was insincere.

  ‘Ellen.’

  She’d wanted to see him but now he was here in front of her, she felt awkward. She tried to think if things with Vinny had ever been this difficult. Hand on heart, she didn’t think so. Her mother accused her once of looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses. Said Ellen had never been very good at appreciating what she had.

  ‘Always wanting more. Even when you were a little girl. Nothing was ever good enough.’

  That wasn’t true. Not when it came to Vinny.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. ‘I wanted to say sorry.’

  He raised his eyebrows, waiting. He wasn’t making this easy. Part of her respected that. Another part of her hated him for it.

  And then he smiled again. Properly this time, with the dimple under his eye. The smile was what she’d remember when all this was over. It would trigger other memories, make her regret the way she’d behaved. She knew this, even while knowing – at the same time – it was already too late for regrets.

  ‘Walk?’ He tilted his head west and she nodded. Talking was easier when they didn’t have to look at each other.

  They walked in silence at first. Passed the Naval College and were the other side of Greenwich when she started speaking.

  ‘I can’t tell you how your name came up in the investigation,’ she said. ‘You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ he said. ‘I worked it out myself. It was Monica.’

  Ellen stopped walking and stared at him. ‘How?’

  Jim sighed. ‘You’d mentioned someone called Monica. I didn’t think anything of it at first. It was only after I was questioned that I started to think about who might have done that to me. It had to be her.’

  ‘How could you be so sure?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘She’s dangerous,’ Jim said. ‘We went out with each other a few times. It was nothing special, but she seemed to think it was. She became obsessed. When it was obvious I didn’t feel the same way, she turned really nasty.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about her?’

  Jim shrugged. ‘Nothing to tell. Or so I thought. We dated a few times and then I finished it. End of. She still calls and sends texts, but I ignore her. She’ll get the message eventually.’

  ‘You know we’ve charged someone,’ Ellen said. ‘So you’re officially off our list of suspects for now.’

  ‘Is that why you went to see Louise?’ he asked. ‘Is it something to do with what happened to her?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘She called me,’ Jim said. ‘Right after you left. What did you expect her to do?’

  ‘You didn’t tell me about that, either,’ Ellen said ‘Why not?’

  ‘I wasn’t ready,’ he said. ‘What happened with Lou was so horrible. I was gutted when I heard about it. Then to be accused of doing that myself. It’s not something I like to talk about.’

  ‘I thought I knew you,’ Ellen said. ‘I can see now part of it was my fault. I’m not used to being with someone. I’d been with Vinny so long, maybe part of me thought that’s how a relationship should be. I think I forgot, you know, that getting to know someone, it takes time.’

  ‘We’ve got time,’ Jim said.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she asked. ‘After everything that’s happened, you still think we should give it another try?’

  ‘If I’m honest,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘Well I do,’ Ellen said. ‘I need a break from all this. It’s too complicated and I don’t have the energy for it.’

  ‘Relationships are complicated,’ Jim said.

  ‘Which is why I don’t want one,’ Ellen replied.

  ‘So that’s it?’ he said. ‘You’re ending it because I’m complicated. Jesus, Ellen, have you looked at yourself recently? You raise complicated to a whole new level. Don’t worry. I get it. It’s fine for things to be complicated when it’s your shit we’re dealing with. As soon as the tables are turned and I need a bit of support, you don’t want to know.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ she said.

  ‘It’s exactly like that. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be. I really am.’

  He turned and walked away without looking back. The further he moved from her, the less clear he became until eventually he was nothing more than a dark outline against the relentless grey of the cold morning. And then he was gone entirely, following the bend in the river as it curved left, towards the white, domed roof of the O2.

  A misty rain had started to fall. Ellen could feel it now, cold and damp against her face, seeping through her jacket, soaking into her clothes. She waited another moment, half-hoping he would change his mind and come back to her. He didn’t.

  A flash of white crossed the sky. A single white swan. It
dipped down, skimmed the river and landed smoothly on its dappled surface. The world around felt oddly silent, as if time itself had stopped and the only two living things left were Ellen and the white swan, floating along the Thames in the quiet chill of autumn.

  Sixty-Eight

  The dog was dreaming, making little doggy noises every now and then. Dreaming of rabbits, no doubt. Adam leaned down and patted the dog’s head.

  ‘At least you catch them in your dreams, Digger.’

  Bel had washed Digger earlier so he didn’t smell too bad. Adam wanted her to wash him every day but she’d refused, saying it wasn’t good for the dog’s skin. Adam knew he should have put his foot down at the very beginning, refused to let the dog inside the house at all. Too late to do anything about it now. Besides, he’d sort of got used to the stupid mutt.

  The dog was asleep on the floor of Adam’s study. A small room on the ground floor at the front of the house. Adam was sitting at his desk, going through the silver business card-holder he kept, looking for the card the police woman had left him.

  He’d promised Bel he would call the police and tell them everything.

  ‘She scared me,’ Bel said. ‘Properly scared me, Adam. Tell the police what she’s done or I’m not staying.’

  His desk was by the window. From where he sat, he had a clear view across the garden to the road that separated the house from the sea. He scanned the road now, looking for Bel’s yellow car. She’d gone to the shops, made him promise he’d have made the phone call by the time she came back. Which, judging by how long she’d been gone, was any minute now.

  He found the detective’s card, placed it on the blotter in front of him and read the details. DI Ellen Kelly. A landline number and a mobile. He picked up the desk phone and tried the mobile number first. He listened as the connection was made and the phone at the other end started ringing. On the road, a car appeared. A red Alfa Romeo that slowed down as it passed the house, then sped up again. No one he knew.

  On the phone, Ellen Kelly’s voice asked him to leave a message.

  ‘This is Adam Telford,’ he said. ‘You came to see me recently. I need to speak to you urgently. Can you call me back? Please. It’s important.’

  He hung up, gave a final glance out the window, just in time the see the red car turn at the end of the road and come back. Another bloody teenager using the street like a driving track. They all came out here when they were learning to drive. He was sick of it.

  Turning from the window, he saw the dog was awake, looking at him. Bloody creature followed him about the place like a shadow when Bel wasn’t here. Sure enough, when he left the room, the dog stood up and padded after him. As he closed the door, Adam caught a glimpse of the red car, slowing down again. He should report them and all, but that would have to wait. Right now, he had bigger things to worry about.

  * * *

  Ellen had been on her way to work when the call came. Because she was driving, she’d been unable to answer it and had to let it go to voicemail. When she parked in the station car park, she listened to the message. Adam Telford sounded desperate. She’d tried calling him back, but he wasn’t answering. On a whim, she’d changed her mind about going into the station and had driven out here instead.

  Just past Sittingbourne, the sky cleared. The clouds, so grey and oppressive when she’d woken up, had floated away. By the time Ellen pulled up outside Telford’s house, the sky was a bright piercing blue that offered the false promise of warmth.

  As she stepped from the car, Ellen’s phone beeped with a text message. It was from a number she didn’t recognise. Someone had sent her a photo. The sun made it difficult to see the picture clearly. She couldn’t work out at first what it was. She shielded the phone with her free hand and the image gradually became clearer. Even then, when she could see it properly, she didn’t understand it. Suddenly, like a punch to the stomach, it hit her. A wave of revulsion washed over her. She couldn’t stop staring at the image, mind churning as she ran through all the different possibilities.

  The image was dark, like the photo had been taken in a room with the lights off. There was a woman in the photo, lying on a bed, a white leg – the only flash of colour – protruding from under the quilt. It was too dark to see the colour of the quilt, but Ellen knew it was a dusty blue. Just as she knew that the person she could just make out in the photo on the bedside table was her dead husband. She was the woman lying in the bed, fast asleep, with no idea that someone was standing over her taking a photo. The sense of invasion was debilitating. Ellen felt violated. Knowing this was how Chloe must have felt in the weeks leading up to her death did nothing to help. She was standing outside Adam Telford’s house, the phone in her hand as she worked out what to do. She had no idea how long she’d been here. The initial shock passed, rapidly replaced by a burning anger. She focussed on this now, feeling it creep across her stomach, into her veins and around her heart.

  She wanted to deal with this immediately. Was tempted to leave now without bothering with Adam Telford, knowing her attention wouldn’t be on him. The only thing that stopped her from driving away was the possibility that whatever he had to tell her might somehow be connected with the bastard who’d sent the photo.

  She walked quickly to his house, an icy wind cutting across her, so sharp and cold it stung her face. She was about to press the doorbell when she noticed the door was slightly open. She pushed it open a little wider and leaned in.

  ‘Hello, Mr Telford. Adam? Is anyone home?’

  Something about the way his voice had wavered in the phone message told her whatever he wanted to tell her, it couldn’t wait.

  She called his name again.

  Nothing. Ahead of her, the house was still, with the sort of deadly silence that chilled her far more than the wind outside. She called his name again. Fear crawled its way through her stomach and across her chest, clogging in her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

  Her mind flashed back to a different time. Standing on a different doorstep, breathing in rose-scented air, not knowing a killer was waiting for her on the other side of the door. That door had been open, too. Ellen had walked through the doorway and into a nightmare.

  She jerked back, away from the house. Her mouth opened, lungs desperate for air that couldn’t get through her fear-clogged throat. And then she was breathing again. Despite the time of year and lack of anything resembling a flowerbed, the cold October air seemed to carry the smell of roses with it.

  Her heart pounded, hard and loud. She pressed her hand against her chest, feeling the strong, steady drumming. She looked up at the crisp, clear sky and waited for the drumbeat to subside and the images in her mind to go back into the dark, inaccessible corner where they belonged. She needed to calm down. Breathe and think. No reason to believe anything was wrong. Chances were he’d gone out and forgotten to close the door behind him.

  Nothing to worry about. She kept telling herself this as she walked back to the house. She knocked loudly on the door and called his name again. Silence. She pushed the door wide open and stepped inside.

  ‘Mr Telford?’

  The silence was complete. As if the house itself had died. Or someone in it.

  The sitting-room door was closed. She moved towards it, put her hand on the handle ready to push it open, when she heard something. A rustling sound, so faint she almost missed it, coming from the other side of the door.

  She froze. Slowly, slowly, she craned her head forward so that she could press her ear against the closed door. There it was again. Reminded her of her father. He liked to read the broadsheets over breakfast. Each morning, he would spend most of the meal shaking out the paper, straightening it and folding it into shape, as he moved from story to story. This sounded just like the paper when he shook it, right before folding it.

  She didn’t want to open the door and face whatever was in there. She knew it wouldn’t be good. Knew even though there was no reason to think it. Even though there were a thousand
rational reasons she could find to explain why no one replied when she called out. Why, if the house was empty, someone – or something – was clearly in there. The desire to flee was strong.

  She ground her teeth together, pressed down on the handle and pushed open the door.

  The curtains were closed, making it difficult to see through the gloom. She stood in the doorway, scanning the shapes in the darkness. The rustling sound was louder now, and came from somewhere over by the armchair near the fireplace.

  There was a dark shape, barely visible against the other shades of darkness. Slowly, she started to make sense of it. There was a head and a body. She thought at first the head had been separated from the body but, as she moved towards it, she realised that wasn’t the case. It was just hard to imagine how, with all that blood and a cut so deep, the head had managed to stay attached. It was even harder to imagine how the poor creature could still be alive.

  The body was moving in regular, jerking spasms. Like it was repeatedly being given electric shocks. With each jerk, its legs brushed against the pages of a newspaper lying near it on the ground.

  The closer she got, the stronger the smell became. Dog faeces and blood mingled with the pervasive stink of chemical air freshener. The stench caught in her throat, causing her to gag. She put a hand across her nose and mouth. A pointless attempt to block it out.

  She didn’t know what compelled her to cross the room to the dying dog. If she’d been thinking straight – thinking, at all – she would have turned and run. Got as far away from that dreadful scene as quickly as she could. But the way the dog stared – eyes pleading with her to end the pain, to make it stop – meant she couldn’t just walk away.

  She crouched down beside him and put her hand on his stomach. He flinched once, then stopped. Was still for a moment then gave another, mighty spasm. His legs jerked forward, rustled against the newspaper and were still. Ellen reached out to stroke his face. The dog whimpered, briefly. Ellen’s hand touched something beside the dog’s head. Soft material. Like corduroy.