by Tom Hoyle
Then everything will make sense.
I’m much closer than you think.
I’m even trusting you now. Please please please keep this a secret.
SAVE ME.
‘That must be done on purpose,’ said Jack, waving the note. ‘That’s absolutely bloody terrifying!’
‘But why weren’t they posted until now?’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘And why would a killer want to send them?’
Jack perched on the windowsill. ‘I s’pose psychos are like that – taunting people, playing with the cops.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Look – if you were being held by some lunatic and managed to get a letter out, you wouldn’t just send a note saying that you were captured; you’d send precise instructions. If you’re writing in code, you might as well put all the facts. Will wasn’t stupid, he was really clever – you can see that – so why didn’t he just tell me exactly where he was?’
After a silence, Sam spoke deliberately and slowly – ominously. ‘Will must have thought you’d know exactly where to look. Somewhere very close.’
I thought of the view from my bedroom window. Two houses were opposite: Will’s and Mike Haconby’s. We saw Mike all the time; no one had threatened us more often; no one had been more of a suspect. ‘When we went up the mountain, Darren said that you knew something about Mike Haconby – what’s that? You said your dad knew he’d been involved with missing kids before, but the police couldn’t prove anything.’
The Twins offered to take me to their dad.
It was Sam who knocked on the door to his study. Jack had been there first, I’m sure, but waited for his older brother. ‘He’ll answer when he’s ready,’ said Sam, his ear towards the door.
‘Come in.’ Mr Thatcher was wearing half-moon glasses and peering at a computer screen. ‘Just wait.’ He put his left hand up for us to be quiet and typed something with his right.
We stood like three naughty kids in front of the Head Teacher’s desk.
‘Yes?’ he said, swiping off his glasses and pointing them at Sam.
Sam stood upright. ‘Father –’ yes, he said ‘Father’ – ‘are you able to tell us about the man who lives in Compton Village, Mike Haconby – the one who was involved in the disappearance of the boy earlier this year?’
We stood in silence as he pulled a legal-looking document from a filing cabinet and read it. The clock ticked thirty or forty times.
‘Mr Thatcher,’ I said, strengthened by being between The Twins, but my voice sounding reedy and pathetic. ‘This is really important to me.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m told that there is no actual proof that Mr Haconby killed Master Capling. No proof, at least, that would stand up in court.’ Mr Thatcher flicked through the document. ‘You see, the prosecution would be unable to disclose previous convictions.’ He looked about a third of the way down the page. ‘Mr Haconby served a few months in 1987 for Violent Disorder. In 1994 he went to prison for Possession of a Firearm with Criminal Intent. In 1997 he was jailed under the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861 – for repeatedly threatening to kill a university student who lived in the same street in Oldham. That jail time was immediately before Mr Haconby arrived in Compton Village. And it was three years before the entirely unconnected death of that same young man – who was found after a short disappearance, drowned in the Manchester Ship Canal.’ He closed the file. ‘He has certainly not lived a perfect life.’ He put his glasses back on and stared at the screen.
No proof that would stand up in court. He has certainly not lived a perfect life.
‘Thank you,’ I said. As I turned, the painting of Samuel John Thatcher, Ward of Hintersea looked at me with the same rigid expression as Mr Thatcher.
Back upstairs, we discussed what had apparently happened to Will.
‘Why would Will go off with him? And where the hell did he keep him for two days before he was found? And would Will have emerged from that unharmed apart from one blow to the head? He would have fought like a caged beast. And the cops tore that house apart. And why did he push him in the Lake?’ I didn’t stop to consider any one particular question. ‘It just seems so needless and senseless and stupid.’ I looked out of Sam’s window, which overlooked Lake Hintersea. Compton Village’s lights were pinpricks visible in the distance. I wondered if one of them was Mike Haconby’s. ‘What he did was evil.’
‘I’m sure killers have their own logic,’ said Jack.
We plotted our revenge in a terrifyingly calm way. Our discussion centred on how to take something important away from Mike. The dark, the whispers, the foggy judgement that comes after midnight – it all helped dissolve normal good sense.
The Twins saw it as a matter of simple justice. ‘Let’s think logically. We could say “an eye for an eye”,’ said Jack. ‘He’s killed; that means he thinks killing people is OK. But he’s slaughtered an innocent boy. We’re only thinking of killing a dog.’
Sam’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched and dismissive. ‘It’s just a dog. It’s no different to a cow or a sheep, and we eat them. People hunt foxes, and they’re basically dogs. It’s just an animal.’
To me, killing a dog wasn’t the same as a cow or a sheep. I didn’t have any attachment to Bullseye – all he did was bark, and he probably would have bitten me given the chance – but even that aggression was a type of character, and it was personality that set Bullseye apart from farmyard animals. I think I would have agreed to killing, say, a budgie in a second. But a dog?
‘We’re balancing a dog’s life against the life of your friend,’ said Jack. ‘And who knows, maybe Bullseye was used to capture Will in the first place?’
The police said Will hadn’t been harmed in any way apart from drowning and a blow to his head, but I pictured him in the churchyard, unable to escape as Bullseye herded him towards a baseball bat. Guilt poured on to the creature.
‘OK,’ I finally agreed. ‘Bullseye can’t be happy living with him anyway – it’d be like putting him down.’ I breathed out, feeling that I was no longer responsible for the decision. We were purely being logical. ‘But we should do this in as painless a way as possible. It’s not really Bullseye’s fault. He can’t help it.’
‘Agreed,’ said Sam. ‘You’re totally right. We can poison him. Easy.’ And in that moment Bullseye’s life was dismissed.
‘Have you ever done anything like this before?’ asked Jack.
I thought back to things I regretted. ‘Probably not,’ I said. Mark Roberts and Darren Foss were the only times I’d purposely hurt someone. But they deserved it, especially Darren. And Mark – that was innocent play.
It was 3.00 a.m. when we went to sleep in the same room, like brothers. I lay head-to-toe with Sam on the huge double bed; Jack was across the room, sprawled over cushions and beanbag.
Of course, I now understand why they encouraged me to agree to kill a dog. I crossed a line. If you can steel yourself to kill a pet, you might steel yourself to kill a person.
FOUR DAYS TO GO
Draft Email
To:
Cc:
Subject: The Past
Someone else has to know the whole truth.
‘Christmas Eve, 2016. The middle of London, next to Big Ben. Midday,’ he said. Then I watched him disappear into the woodland. With anyone else, they’d be empty words.
It was so far in the future I thought we’d never get here.
I came close to telling you everything when we went to Compton for Gran’s funeral. You mentioned the view from the houses in Compton across Lake Hintersea and how it must be full of memories. ‘Yeah,’ I said. Just Yeah – not I can remember what we did as if it was yesterday. Not I can remember the faces of those who died.
Someone else has to know the truth in case it all goes wrong.
I’m not sure when it all started to change. Maybe that night at the party. It was the first time I’d set out to hurt someone else.
Now you see why I have a dog,
despite the hassle that Ewok is. And you understand why he had to be a Leavitt Bulldog.
I still have all the documents from the story – they’re here in my bedroom in a small black metal case bound up with brown tape. You’ll know it when you see it.
I can’t believe |
Attachment
NOVEMBER 2011
BULLSEYE
I woke at 11.00 a.m. to find Sam and Jack gone, but heard a shout outside and stood in the window as they raced, neck and neck, up the steep zigzag drive and on to the gravel. They slowed as they passed the front door, bending over with exhaustion, and briefly touched hands. Sometimes I thought I could see tiny differences in their faces – Sam’s thinner cheeks, Jack’s heavier eyebrows – but from a distance, it was impossible to tell which was which. One of them looked up and beckoned me down.
They were having breakfast, reading magazines, when I arrived downstairs. ‘Hi, Ben!’ they chanted together. ‘Toast?’ As usual, their T-shirts had embroidered initials.
‘I’m not sure that we should go ahead with what we discussed last night,’ I said while aimlessly drawing circles with my knife. Breakfast, the bright sun, and the radio playing gently in the background had morphed Bullseye into a spirited, tail-wagging puppy.
‘We certainly don’t want to force you into anything,’ said ‘JT’. ‘It’s all for one, and one for all.’
‘It’s just . . . what if we’re wrong – what if, after all, he’s innocent?’ I pushed my plate away, put my palms over my eyes, and groaned indecision as their father walked in.
‘No one is really innocent,’ Mr Thatcher said straight away. Even in daylight, he was the image of Samuel John Thatcher, Ward of Hintersea. He poured himself some coffee and leaned against the worktop. ‘Given the right prompts, anyone can be corrupted.’
I think, in retrospect, that a glimmer of understanding passed between The Twins.
‘Surely you don’t know about this silly idea?’ I glared at The Twins (who pulled faces that indicated regret). ‘We were just . . . talking.’ Their father was a lawyer – I was certain there was no way he would support what we had in mind. ‘Look, I don’t want us to get into trouble.’
‘I know about everything.’ He smiled at his sons and wandered off, coffee in hand.
Before I could say anything, my mobile vibrated in my pocket. ‘HOME’, read the display. ‘Hi, Gran. Is everything OK?’
‘Benny, when are you coming home? Something strange has arrived in the post.’
Panic detonated inside me. ‘What sort of strange?’
The Twins stopped eating.
‘It’s a large parcel,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what’s inside.’ There was a rustling sound. ‘It’s light, but fairly big.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘You should know that the postman had to ring the bell and I had to come all the way downstairs because you weren’t here.’
‘Are you sure it’s for me?’ I put the phone on speaker mode so The Twins could hear.
‘Yes, it says “Benny” and “private” on the label. It’s definitely for you.’
‘Don’t open it,’ I yelled. ‘It might, you know, be something personal.’ I had to sound calm; otherwise, knowing what Gran was like, it would have the opposite effect. ‘It might be from a girl, or someone messing around.’ I knew I was talking rubbish. ‘I’ll be back soon; we’re just leaving.’
‘Well, I’ll put it on the side for you. But I hope it isn’t anything that you shouldn’t be into.’
A few minutes later, I looked out of the car window in silence as Mr Thatcher sped us around the Lake. It was a sunny and unexpectedly warm day, and boats were out on Hintersea. I saw a couple of boys battling with a sail as we passed one of the landing areas at the bottom end of the Lake. Soon we passed Lakeside House and the sign announcing Compton Village opposite.
I invited Sam and Jack to come in, which meant painfully slow introductions with Gran as the package seemed to grow bigger and bigger. ‘We’re just going up to my room,’ I said – words I hadn’t used since Will died.
I ran my thumbnail along the tape and levered open the cardboard flaps.
It was packed with newspaper. City at the Double: Manchester City 2, Stoke 0 and 25,000 flee as Mississippi floodgate opens cascaded out: newspapers dated Sunday, 15 May 2011. I told The Twins that it was the same tabloid newspaper that I’d seen in Mike Haconby’s hallway.
Then the hard black plastic of Will’s cycling helmet. It had been missing since the day of his disappearance. I quickly withdrew my hands and gasped, ‘Hold on. The police’ll have to examine this.’
‘Get a cloth or something,’ said Sam. ‘We need to see if there’s anything else inside.’
I frantically rummaged around in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet and found a handkerchief. As I carefully pulled out the helmet by its strap, a slip of paper fluttered down:
TO BE PUT WITH THE REST OF MY THINGS.
It was Will’s writing.
I started crying and shaking. Hyperventilating. Will really was speaking from the grave. ‘I don’t think I can go on. I think I need help.’
‘Don’t worry, Ben,’ said one of The Twins. ‘We’re here with you.’
TO BE PUT WITH THE REST OF MY THINGS.
‘What the hell?’ I covered my mouth to stop my low groaning sound from being heard downstairs. ‘Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?’ I concentrated on making my chest rise and fall steadily. Then, somehow, I plucked out more newspaper – still the same tabloid from May 2011. The breathing I heard was my own.
Near the bottom, something solid, wrapped. I laid it on my bed and slowly unfolded the crumpled paper. Inside was a Dictaphone tape recorder.
I was overcome with dread and fear, unsure whether it held a message from Will or from his killer. Using the handkerchief, I laid the player on the bed and retreated slightly. ‘I’ve got to know. Guys, I want you to stay, please.’ Then I pressed PLAY.
After about three seconds, Will spoke in the slow way that people do when they know they’re being recorded.
‘Hi, Benny. It’s Will. I hope you’re cool. I’ve been given permission to get this message to you. I’m not far away.’ Pause. ‘I’m going to be fine.’
There was nothing else, though we listened right to the end of the short tape.
‘Run it back,’ said Jack.
‘. . . not far away.’ Pause. ‘I’m going to be fine.’
‘What?’ I said, rubbing my eyes.
‘Listen, after not far away . . .’
‘. . . not far away.’ Bark-bark-bark. ‘I’m going to be fine.’
It was faint, but it was there: Bark-bark-bark.
I played it again.
Bark-bark-bark.
And again, just that bit.
Bark-bark-bark.
With the sound up.
Bark-bark-bark.
I stood up and looked out of the window. Bullseye was trotting over the grass between Mike Haconby’s front path and the caravan.
‘We don’t need the cops,’ said Sam. ‘We know who’s behind this. Everyone in Cumbria knows.’
‘The weirdo bastard. He’s playing games with us,’ added Jack.
I looked at the newspaper. It was definitely the same newspaper I’d seen. Little things give people away, I thought.
I pulled down Will’s Box from the top shelf of the wardrobe, put it on my bed, and opened the top. ‘It’s the box I told you about. You remember? The mementos. Bits and pieces that remind me of Will.’ I held up an old Solo Sail key ring that was a present from Will.
Sam’s mouth smiled – but, for once, his eyes didn’t. He looked from Will’s Box to the newly arrived items. ‘I see you have quite a lot of Will’s stuff.’
Jack whispered in my ear, but looked at his brother: ‘We can do this, Ben. Let’s complete this Challenge.’
Everything rested on the fact that it was Saturday, the evening that Mike went to the local pub. From what I’d heard, he just sat in a corner and drank a single pint, a
lone.
We had to cover our shoes. My gran had a large collection of plastic bags under the sink and I took six while running the tap noisily for glasses of water. That was my only part in the preparation.
We needed gloves. The Twins said that they had a packet of the plastic ones used for washing up.
The Twins would bring a stick about eighteen inches long with a hooked end.
And they would supply a half-empty packet of rat poison. We would burn the container afterwards.
We weren’t to buy anything suspicious; we wouldn’t text about it; we would make only one telephone call. They returned home, and I spent the afternoon in a dreadful trance trying to write a History essay. My mood swung drastically: sometimes it felt obvious that Mike Haconby was responsible; at other times, the evidence seemed paper thin.
It was 9.30 p.m. when my gran said that she was tired and going up to bed.
‘I’ll stay down here and watch something,’ I said. This wasn’t unusual and meant she would expect the television to be on for a while.
At 9.55 p.m., I listened at the bottom of the stairs and heard the flush of the toilet. I slipped out the back door, which didn’t have a Yale lock, so opened and closed much quieter than the front one, and tiptoed through the back garden. Just before I reached the road, I tied plastic bags round my shoes. If it came to it, the police wouldn’t be able to find prints to match our trainers.
The bulb in my gran’s room went off. There was a line of light between the curtains in our front room and, very faintly, I heard the start of the ten o’clock news. Otherwise, the houses on both sides were in silent darkness. Will’s house had been empty for months. In the distance I could see the lantern-like room at the top of Lakeside House. Surely no one would be looking towards the village at this hour.
I hadn’t heard The Twins arrive, and couldn’t see them as I crept along the path that ran next to the oil-black lake. On this side of the houses, away from Compton Village’s solitary street lamp, it was nearly impossible to see.