Lie in Wait: A dark and gripping crime thriller

by GJ Minett

  After a few seconds, Callum pushes himself away from the car and walks over to the driver’s side of the truck. The window’s open. Owen wishes it wasn’t, but shutting it now would only make things worse. He’s painfully aware that Callum could reach in if he wanted to and grab him by the scruff of the neck the way he always used to. One of his favourite tricks was to take hold of Owen’s tie and pull it so tight that he could hardly catch his breath. Then he used to grab hold of the end of it, turn his back and hold the tie over his shoulder, frogmarching him round the playground and asking everyone if they’d seen his pet mong, which Owen always used to think was a breed of dog until his mother put him straight and stormed up to the school to complain. Again. Owen isn’t wearing a tie now but the pungent mix of fear and shame is as clear and present as it was all those years ago – sharp enough to block out the fact that he’s now several inches taller and at least three stone heavier than his tormentor. He really wishes he hadn’t decided to follow Callum. If he could only turn the clock back fifteen minutes or so, he could be ordering his KFC right now.

  ‘Like to explain what you’re doing all the way out here?’ Callum asks, his head cocked to one side as he peers into the truck, forearms resting on the door panel.

  Owen blinks. Swallows. Blinks again. Surely there must be an answer somewhere.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ Callum says again. He’s not shouting and doesn’t look particularly angry. Seems more puzzled than anything else, but Owen knows from bitter experience it won’t take much to tip him over the edge. He can snap just like that. ‘Are you following me or something?’

  Owen shakes his head. An excellent answer occurs to him: how can he be following Callum if they’re going in opposite directions? But the words can’t find their shape somehow. Nothing is getting through.

  ‘I th-thought you were g-going to B-B-Bournemouth,’ he says eventually, aware that it’s no sort of answer. And it certainly isn’t going to satisfy Callum who looks up the road briefly, as if he can see round bends and seek out the cottage in his mind’s eye. Then he turns back to face Owen, his face screwed into a frown.

  ‘I am,’ he says after a moment’s reflection. ‘I’ve just got these papers to drop off at a client’s place first . . . not that it’s any business of yours. And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.’

  At last a thought creeps into Owen’s head and he’s so relieved to find evidence of activity there that he blurts it out without thinking it through.

  ‘I was just c-calling in on Mr and Mrs B-Brady,’ he says. ‘I d-do their garden for them.’

  Callum considers this for a moment.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Brady, eh? So where do they live?’

  Owen is about to point behind him when it occurs to him there are only three houses in that direction before Honer Lane comes to a dead end and one of them belongs to Callum’s girlfriend. How difficult would it be for him to check with her and find out who the other places belong to? So he tells the truth.

  ‘They live down there,’ he says, pointing ahead to where Callum has just come from. ‘In Manor Lane.’

  ‘So what are you doing up here then?’ asks Callum.

  ‘I was . . . I was w-wondering if there’s another w-way out up here. If m-maybe there’s a road that j-joins up with the P-Pagham road. I’ve never b-been up this way before.’

  Apart from Saturday night. He dismisses the thought immediately, anxious not to give anything away. Callum has always known which buttons to press, seems instinctively to know what he’s thinking. To his dismay he can feel the blood beginning to rush to his cheeks and doesn’t need the quick glance in the mirror to know he’s blushing.

  ‘Bullshit!’

  Callum steps away from the truck, looks back at his car for a moment.

  ‘No,’ Owen says, scrambling now. ‘I –’

  ‘You think you can lie to me, you fucking idiot? I can read you like a book. Always have done. Jesus wept, you were following me.’

  Owen shakes his head but doesn’t trust himself to say anything.

  ‘Yes, you were. I don’t know how you knew where I was going but you were following me. Why? Have you done this before?’

  ‘N-n-no. I p-p-promise I w-wasn’t f-following you. I was –’

  ‘Yeah, I know – you w-were j-j-j-just c-c-calling in to s-s-see your g-g-good f-f-friends Mr and Mrs B-B-Brady.’ Callum shakes his head in disgust, looks at his car again. He stands there, deep in thought. Owen has no idea what he’s thinking but he’s pretty sure he won’t like it. They’re in the playground again, the lunch hour is stretching away into the never-ending distance and Callum’s looking for a bit of fun to pass the time.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he says eventually. He turns and walks over to his car. Owen is hoping the moment’s over, that he’ll get in and wait patiently for him to reverse into a passing space, which he’ll be more than happy to do. No harm done. But instead, he goes round to the back of the car and opens the boot. He takes something out and slams the lid shut. Then he comes to the front of the car again and Owen can see now that he’s carrying what looks at first like a large club but turns out to be a baseball bat. Callum looks over towards him, still sitting hunched up in the pickup, not daring to move. He pauses for a moment as if thinking things through. Then he grins, pats the bonnet of his sports car and says, ‘Sorry about this, lovely,’ before drawing back the bat and taking a swing at the offside headlamp. There’s a loud bang as the glass shatters and he stoops to inspect the damage. Then he walks over to the driver’s side and takes aim at the other one.

  At some stage during these bizarre events, Owen must have got out of the truck without thinking because he’s aware all of a sudden that he’s walking over towards Callum. He hasn’t made a conscious decision to interfere but he doesn’t understand what’s going on and can’t just sit there and watch Callum trash an expensive car for no good reason.

  He’s trying to make sense of it but nothing computes. What’s unfolding in front of him is so beyond his experience that he’s genuinely unnerved by it. He snaps out of his trance and takes a step back as Callum turns and starts towards him. Then another two steps. Callum stops, holds up his free hand.

  ‘Whoa,’ he says, chuckling to convey his amusement. ‘Take it easy, OK? Where d’you think you’re going?’

  ‘I want to g-go now,’ Owen says, still edging closer to the pickup.

  ‘And how exactly d’you think you’re going to do that with my car blocking the road? Relax, will you? What’s the matter? Is it this? Is this what’s worrying you?’ He holds up the bat and looks at it as if surprised to find it still there in his hand. ‘Here . . . I’ll put it down, OK? Look – on the floor, right?’ He lets the bat fall at his feet and shows his free hands to Owen, as if this ought to reassure him in some way. It doesn’t.

  ‘OK,’ he continues. ‘You say you want to go. Fine by me. Only I need you to do me a favour first.’

  ‘I’ve got to go to the cinema.’

  ‘Yeah, I get that,’ he snaps, irritated. ‘Thirty seconds from now I can be backing up into that field over there and you’ll be able to get past with your truck. Then you can go and watch all the films you like. Only first there’s something I want you to do for me.’

  Owen thinks about it.

  ‘You want me to give you a lift?’ he asks.

  Callum stares at him for a moment, then bursts out laughing, his eyes watering with amusement.

  ‘Jesus, it’s like talking to a fridge. No, Owen – I don’t want you to give me a lift.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I want you to hit me.’ He pauses as he sees Owen eyeing the bat on the ground. ‘Not with that thing – you fucking kidding me? I want to be able to walk away from here, not spend two weeks in intensive care.’

  Owen looks at him, waiting for him to start laughing again because obviously this is a joke. He’s never been very good with jokes. Never really understood them. Only Callum isn�
�t laughing. He looks serious.

  ‘You want me to hit you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘What’s with all the questions? Never mind why. I want you to hit me – just the once. Not too hard, mind. Just enough to mark me up a bit.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’s nothing to understand. Just do it. Go on – one free shot. About here would be best,’ he says, pointing to an area near his left eyebrow. ‘Come on, big boy. Think of all those times I picked on you at school. You must have dreamed of doing this some day. So here’s your chance. Grow a pair, for fuck’s sake. Have a go. Just the one.’

  Owen shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘What d’you mean, no?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to.’

  He can hardly believe he’s saying this because Callum’s right. There were many times when he’d entertained fantasies as a tormented teenager, most involving Callum falling under the wheels of a bus or coming to a sticky end because he’d picked on the wrong person for once. If he’d been offered the same chance back then, he’d still have turned it down, but it would have been because he knew there would be repercussions and Callum would turn it back on him somehow. There would be a catch – there always was. If he’s equally hesitant now, it has nothing to do with fear . . . at least, he doesn’t think so. He’s bigger now than he was back then. He doesn’t like violence – has never been involved in a fight in his life – but he imagines that if he ever had to defend himself he’s big and strong enough to do it. No, his reticence now is more to do with uncertainty. He doesn’t know what he’s dealing with here. It’s such a ridiculous request. What Callum did just now to his car is bad enough, but no one in his right mind would follow that up by asking someone to punch him. It doesn’t make sense. He’s sure there has to be a trick in there somewhere.

  Callum looks angry for a moment, is about to protest. Then he heaves a sigh and stoops to pick up the bat.

  ‘Should’ve known,’ he says. ‘Fucking pussy. What’s that they say? You want a job done properly, do it yourself.’

  So saying, he holds the bat vertically out in front of him, both hands gripping the handle. He closes his eyes for a second or two, takes a couple of deep breaths, blowing the air out in long, steady streams. Then he jerks the bat towards himself, stopping it at the last moment. He bursts out laughing and asks Owen if he’s sure he doesn’t want to help. Then, in the absence of any reply, he assumes the position again and this time goes through with it, hard enough for it to cause him to stagger sideways although it looks to Owen as if he held back a little at the last moment. It would probably hurt and there may be a slight swelling but that’s all.

  Callum staggers slightly on his way over to his car and peers in the wing mirror before slipping inside to check the rear-view one for a better look. ‘Shit,’ he says, as he presumably comes to the same conclusion as Owen. Nothing there to speak of.

  He slides back out of the car and leans against the bonnet. Lines up the shot for a second time. Owen can’t help himself – he asks him not to do it. Callum asks if he’s changed his mind and he shakes his head.

  ‘Well, then,’ says Callum. And this time he manages to go through with it with a little more conviction. He slumps sideways, clearly dazed for a moment or two, then runs a finger over his eyebrow which has been split open, releasing a trickle of blood down the side of his face. He curses, throws the bat to the ground, tries to take a few steps forward but his balance is off and he veers away to one side. Owen reaches out and catches hold of him. Eases him gently to the floor where he sits with his head in his hands. As he slides down, the blood from above his eye smears across Owen’s shirt front, making a mess of it. Callum shakes his head as if trying to clear it, then he gives a loud whoop which, if anything, seems even crazier than anything that’s gone before. It’s almost as if he’s celebrating.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Owen asks.

  Callum looks up and blinks at him.

  ‘Is my eye closing? I think it’s closing,’ he mutters. And sure enough there’s a large swelling above the eyelid which is rapidly forcing the left eye shut.

  ‘You need to go to the hospital,’ Owen insists. ‘You’ll need stitches in that.’

  Callum laughs, shapes as if to get to his feet, then decides that may be a little over-ambitious right now. He needs another minute or so.

  ‘Later,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ says Owen, as if repeating it might bring some sort of enlightenment.

  ‘No, of course you don’t. I was using words. Life’s one big mystery to you, isn’t it, big boy?’

  Owen leaves him there for a moment and goes back to his truck. On the front seat there’s a bottle of Evian which he tucks under one arm while he rummages around in search of a cloth he can use. He rejects two before finding one that’s relatively clean. Then he carries the bottle and the rag back to where Callum is checking his mobile, before snapping it shut with a groan of frustration.

  ‘Shit. No reception. Would you believe it?’

  He takes the bottle from Owen, unscrews the top and takes two or three deep swigs from it, then uses the rest of the contents to dampen the cloth. When it’s wet enough, he dabs tentatively at his eye, wincing as he wipes the blood away. It forms a messy patch again almost instantly.

  ‘Who are you trying to phone?’ Owen asks. ‘Do you want an ambulance?’ He feels he should be doing something more than standing around, watching helplessly. Maybe they ought to go to the woman’s cottage. They can phone from there. That would just about set the seal on a crazy evening. Doesn’t get much weirder than that. Plenty of chances to take a photo there.

  ‘OK,’ says Callum, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You really want to know? I was going to phone the police.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why,’ he repeats to himself, not as a question, more as a problem that needs to be addressed. ‘Well, let’s see how this sounds, shall we? I was meant to be on my way to Bournemouth, Officer, only I realised at the last minute that I’d forgotten to get these important papers signed by one of my clients, so I drove over here first. I got this far and then this truck was coming the other way and I knew who it was cos it’s this guy who does gardening jobs for us . . . nothing much, you know? He’s a bit on the simple side, to be honest, but we give him a bit of work every now and again, just to help him keep his head above water. Just doing our bit for care in the community, right?’

  He throws his head back and cackles. Owen can see that his eye is now little more than a slit. It’s also changing colour, yellows and purples seeping into the picture.

  ‘Care in the community,’ he chuckles. ‘Like it. I’ll have to remember that. Anyway, Officer, I get out of the car to ask him if he’ll back up and unfortunately he’s in one of those moods of his. Don’t happen often but when they do the best thing is to stand well clear cos he can be a total lunatic when the red mist comes down. And he starts shouting at me and I’m trying to calm him down but he’s not listening and next thing I know he’s pushed me out of the way and kicked in one of my headlights with those bloody great boots of his. So I yell at him and try to stop him doing the same to the other one, only he swings round and smashes me right in the eye and I must have blacked out for a second or two cos next thing I know I’m on the floor and he’s stomping over to his truck. And I’m worried he’s going to start it up and just plough straight through my car and ram it into the ditch or something so he’s got enough room to get past. So I go to the boot of my car – and I know this is stupid but I was dazed I guess. Wasn’t really thinking straight. Anyway, I get this baseball bat out of the boot, just for self-protection, you know? And . . . no. Maybe not,’ he says, breaking off from his story. ‘Maybe it’d be better without the baseball bat. I’m the victim in this, right? Don’t want to introduce anything that might confuse things.’

  He’s mumbling more to himself now than to Owen, thinking things throug
h as he goes along. Owen is still standing there, stunned by what he’s hearing.

  ‘But . . . that’s n-not true,’ he says. ‘Any of it.’

  Callum laughs.

  ‘Shit, nothing gets past you, does it?’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why would you make up something like that?’

  ‘Ah well,’ gasps Callum, bending over and reaching for the next breath. ‘That’s the best bit. You see, I’ve got two major problems in my life right now. Actually that’s a lie. I’ve got plenty, but only two you can help me with. One is that I still can’t quite make up my mind whether you were following me or not just now. If you were, I don’t know how much you know or suspect and I’d like to believe it’s all a big coincidence, us meeting up here like this, but I don’t think I can afford to take the chance. In fact, let’s be honest. I think you’re full of shit. Don’t believe you. So I need to sort that out for one, make sure no one’s going to believe a word you say.

  ‘And the second problem is, I had to put up with three years at school with you slobbering all over Abi, acting like you were something special in her life when the plain and simple truth is she just feels sorry for you, mate. She doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. Me, I don’t give a shit, so I don’t have any problem telling you what I think. You’re an embarrassment. You shouldn’t be allowed to mix with normal people. They don’t want to look up in the middle of their lunch and see you spreading yours all over your face. They don’t want to sit there for half an hour waiting for you to get your tongue round a simple sentence. F-f-f-f-fuck that! And I for one don’t want to find you leeching off Abi’s good nature. I thought you’d have got the message when I used to kick you around the playground but I keep forgetting what a slow learner you are, so let me spell it out nice and simple for you. I don’t know how the fuck you wormed your way back into our lives but you can just worm your way back out again. If you imagine for one minute I’m going to put up with you hanging around like some fucking ghoul, you obviously don’t know me very well.’