Sweet William

by Iain Maitland

  I just need to catch my breath. I’m taking huge great gulps as I run. I’m trying to breathe in time with my strides. But it’s too much. Way too much for me. I’m not used to this. Not used to this at all. I’m 39. I’ve looked after myself as best I can. But I’ve not run like this for years. I’ve never run for my life before.

  Three miles to go, I’d guess. Three miles to the big road. I’ll flag down a lorry on the way to Nottingham. Get into town before the roadblocks go up. I can disappear into the clubs in Nottingham. Get myself cleaned up. Hack this gingery fluff off my face, sort myself out. Get myself tidy. Then go down to Suffolk to get William.

  Easy.

  Just got to reach that big road first.

  Have to keep running. Must be 12.20 now . . .

  12.40?

  Got to keep moving, slow as I am.

  12.50?

  I’ve made it. At last.

  I’ve done it.

  I’m out of the woods.

  I’m now in a ditch. It’s okay, though. It isn’t as bad as it sounds. It’s clean and dry and full of bracken. I could sleep here if I had to. I can’t, though. No time. Got to get away. Just need to get my breath back.

  Just a moment, that’s all.

  Give me a minute or two, that’s what I need.

  The ditch is in a lay-by by the side of the big road. I’m well placed to hitch a lift. I just need to get my breath.

  I’m alright now. I’m sitting up. In the ditch.

  Getting myself ready to go.

  I’m just taking a minute or two to compose myself.

  I can see out of the ditch and up along the road, both ways. It’s quiet at this time of night. Just a few cars racing by now and then. Boy racers coming back from the clubs, I’d guess. No coppers yet. No flashing lights or wailing sirens, like I’d expected. I duck down whenever a car comes by, though. Just in case.

  You can’t be too careful.

  And I’m that, alright.

  Dead careful.

  Christ almighty, a car’s signalling that it’s pulling into my lay-by. And it looks like a police car by the shape of it. Jesus Christ. They can’t have seen me, can they? I duck down. Daren’t be seen. If they’ve not seen me, I’ll be okay.

  I hold my breath and wait.

  Trapped, I am. I can’t move. Carpet slippers, see? I’d never outrun two fit young coppers. Not in these. The slippers. You can’t run in them, not really. Not properly anyway. I’ve tried. You can shuffle well enough. And I even got to do some longish strides after a while. But you can’t proper sprint. So I’ve just got to hold tight and hope I’m mistaken.

  The car rolls into the lay-by. Level with me, then goes slowly by and stops. It’s just above me, to my left. I’m about level with the back wheels I guess.

  I crouch down, pressing myself against the side of the ditch so I won’t be seen. I can hear myself breathing, though. In and out. In and out. In and fucking out. Never mind the cars. All I can hear is my lungs pumping back and forth like great big bellows. Thumping in my ears, they are. Louder and louder. I can’t stop them.

  Is it the police? I can’t tell. I daren’t look up. I can’t be caught like this. Bent double in a ditch in my dressing gown and stupid paisley slippers. I can’t be caught so soon, so easily.

  There’s no traffic going by now. I can hear the car engine and it’s still running. Maybe they’re checking a map. Directions to the big house? A roadblock, perhaps. Wouldn’t set it up here, though, would they? In the middle of a road?

  God help me, they’ve turned the engine off. It’s silent now. Totally quiet except for my breathing. I’m doing that through my nose. It’s less noisy than my mouth. But I can’t get enough air this way. I have to keep taking in these great long breaths. Gasping and wheezing I am. They’re sure to hear me.

  A door’s opening. Sounds like it’s on my side. The passenger side. Coppers? They’d both get out surely. Especially if they’d seen me. Maybe they’ve been told to search ditches. They’re taking it in turns?

  I don’t know what’s happening.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I’m waiting. Just waiting endlessly.

  Well I can tell you this - it’s a man who’s got out.

  Yes, a man for certain.

  A dirty man who is now relieving himself in the ditch up and away a little to my left.

  He went towards the front of the car to do it, thank God, not towards me. I crouch down further. I don’t think he can see me. Dirty bastard can’t even be shielding himself. Anyone driving by could see him for sure. Must have been on the piss all night. Not an on-duty copper then. He must be a clubber.

  Is this my chance? Can I get into the car before he’s finished? He got out of the passenger side for certain. Cars are going from my right to my left. That means there’s a driver? A girlfriend? Another man? A girlfriend, I’d say. If it were another man, he’d get out for a piss too. It’s the pack instinct.

  I reckon there’s just the two of them. Him pissing in the ditch, her waiting in the car, tut-tutting over her watch. If I’m fast, I can get out of here. Jump up suddenly beside him. He’ll turn, all startled like, and I’ll just nudge him, that’s all. Nothing heavy. Nothing violent or dangerous. I’m not like that, not really, no matter what they said about me in the papers. But you know that already, don’t you? I’m sure I told you. Sometimes I can’t remember things, small things anyway. It gets fuzzy.

  Just a little push. He’ll stumble back and fall in the ditch. That’ll give me a few seconds. I’ll pull open the passenger door. I don’t think it’s even been shut. I’ll get in the car next to her. I’ll smile warmly. They say I’ve a wonderful smile. Let her know I’m friendly. Normal. Then ask her to drive me to Nottingham.

  Easy.

  Should I wait until he’s back in the car? That would be better, I think. More normal. I could knock on the window. He’ll jump, surprised. But I’ll smile. One of my big reassuring smiles. Like I give the doctors back at the big house when they do the annual review. It was one of my smiles that got me out of the big house and into the annexe last time round.

  The pisser will see I’m respectable. I’ve got a kind face, after all. I was told that once too, years ago. By a woman. And I can pull the dressing gown round me. I did have a cord for it, with tassels, but I left that behind in the annexe corridor. Did I say? It doesn’t matter – I can simply hold the dressing gown tight. They’ll think I’m in a mac. That my car’s broken down.

  “Excuse me,” I’ll say, all nice and polite. “Can you take me into Nottingham? My car’s packed up.” I could make out I’ve walked from the last lay-by. That would explain why I’m sweaty.

  But what if they’re stopped at a roadblock? And they’ve put child locks on the door. And I’m sitting there in my dressing gown and slippers? I’m done for, aren’t I?

  They’d remember me anyway, wouldn’t they? Even if there weren’t any roadblocks. I’ll be in the papers again for sure tomorrow, or the day after.

  They’ll tell the police they took me to Nottingham. That gives the coppers a lead. Can’t have that, can I? But I’d be long gone from Nottingham by then though, wouldn’t I? Probably into Suffolk and away with little William.

  What do I do?

  Well, what the fuck should I do?

  What would you do?

  He’s stopped, the dirty pisser. He’s zipped himself up. Must be going back to the car.

  I’ve got to decide. Do something now. Got to take a chance. Ask for a lift. Hope they don’t think anything’s odd.

  He’s in the car, shutting the door.

  I’ve got to move.

  Have to do it now.

  I stand up and haul myself over the edge of the ditch. Roll into the lay-by. She’s started the engine. I can do this if I’m quick. Bang on the window and shout “Excuse me”. Got to be fast, mind. She’s signalling and the car’s moving, pulling out now. It’s my last chance.

  I’m up and running alongside the car, leve
l with the back window. I bang on it with my fist. Harder than I mean to. He turns. I can see his face. He looks shocked, scared even. He’s saying something, his face twisting in fear. Shouting at her. The car’s away, accelerating fast.

  He sits there, not moving, just staring back at me. Then he turns, as if coming awake, towards her. She looks to be passing something to him. And then it strikes me what she’d have been doing while he was having his piss. She’d have been sitting there, playing with her mobile phone.

  Now she’s passing it to him and screaming at him to call 999 . . .

  12.57am SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER

  “We should’ve stayed the night in that Travelodge once we hit the traffic,” snapped the old man, dragging a suitcase up the path to the cottage. “I’m too old for these late nights . . . it’s early morning already.” He sighed.

  “Shh, you’ll wake the Simmons,” hushed the old woman, following close behind. “We could have come up this afternoon if it wasn’t for your silly bowls game. And even then, we’d have been here by 10.00 if it hadn’t been for that pile-up and your so-called short cut for goodness knows how many miles.”

  “We shouldn’t even have come here this evening in the first . . .” The old man stepped back as he opened the front door, “Oh, it smells . . . we can’t go to sleep with it like this. Why couldn’t we just have come up in the morning like everyone else . . . like other people?” His voice rose again in irritation.

  The old woman pushed by him, turning on a light, “Because if we don’t come and give it a clean-through, no one will and we’ll have to spend all weekend with the place as a pig sty. She won’t do any cleaning, she’ll just spend all the time fawning over the child.”

  “Don’t start on that again, he’s a sweet little thing.”

  “Sweet little thing,” the woman snorted derisively, moving from room to room turning on the lights. “It’s all well and good when it’s little. And . . . and the sister was a drug addict and the husband, well . . . how do you think it’ll turn out when it’s older?”

  “It? He’s a . . . it’s not his fault . . . and he’s being brought up properly – doesn’t want for anything.” The old man stood there defiantly, blinking in the light. “It’s not his fault, is it? And she was on anti-depressants, not drug-drugs.”

  “She wasn’t right in the head, that’s for certain. Richard will do his best for the child, we know that, but they should have adopted properly, through the channels, not taken her sister’s leftover. They’re just asking for trouble.”

  The old woman opened kitchen cupboards, pulling out various cleaning items. “Go and get the hoover from upstairs and run it round the bedroom while I clean the bathroom and I’ll get the bedroom wiped over and we can get to bed. We’ll do the rest in the morning before they arrive, show her how to keep a place clean and tidy.”

  He sighed again and made for the stairs. “This is going to be a hell of a weekend,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.

  1.12am SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER

  I’ve been heading towards Nottingham for about 20 minutes or so now. Nice and quiet. No fuss, no bother.

  The traffic’s eased off. Time of night, see? I’d guess it was really busy early on.

  I’m keeping close to the side of the road. Just in case the dirty pisser has phoned the police. They won’t know which way I’ve gone, though, and I can slip out of sight if need be. Of course, I duck off whenever I see a car’s lights in the distance. They come by very fast in places. Might be the coppers, might not. I can’t take any chances, though, can I?

  Actually, if I’m honest with you, I’m not really worried that the filthy bastard saw me. In fact, I’m not worried at all. Not really.

  But it’s best to be careful, see? That’s what I am, you know. Calm and careful. But you know that by now, don’t you? Of course you do.

  I reckon, thinking about it a little more, that they’ll just assume I was a down-and-out. Probably won’t report it. No harm done. I only banged on the window, after all. And that was only because I was desperate to get a lift. No crime in that, is there? No crime at all. They’ll have forgotten all about it in a few minutes, mark my words.

  All I’ve got to do is stay calm and keep walking.

  Nice and steady, nice and cool. That’s me.

  Let’s just keep everything in proportion and see what happens.

  A few minutes more and I walk over a hill and look down at what’s in front of me. Ahead, at the side of the road, I can see an old Peugeot. Broken down, I’d guess.

  As I get closer I can see from the plate that it’s five or six years old. Not that old, really. It’s empty. Abandoned? No one’s in sight, that’s for certain.

  I stand still and listen. All quiet. No one around. Not been here long, I reckon. It’s not been stripped or torched yet. Maybe too far out of Nottingham for the joyriders to get it.

  No ‘Police Aware’ sign either.

  I scout round, trying each door handle in turn. Might have some money in there. Some loose change in the ashtray, kept for parking. I’ll need money soon. I’ve nothing on me. I’ll need clothes as well, although I’d be lucky to find anything in here. Not unless it’s a salesman’s car, with a change of clothes packed away in a neat little hold-all in the boot.

  I try the boot. No luck. That’s locked too.

  I could force my way in if I had something to use as a lever. But I’ve nothing like that on me. And maybe there’d be some sort of alarm on it anyway. Guess that wouldn’t make much difference as there’s no one within hearing distance, but you never know. If a cop car came over the hill at that precise moment, I’d be fucked, wouldn’t I? Alarm flashing on and off and wailing away. Could hardly miss that, could they?

  And then I suddenly hear it climbing up the hill from behind me, the driver changing down and clunking heavily though his gears. A lorry. Must be on its way to Nottingham.

  I’d be safe in that, I’m sure. I’m on a roll, you know. Lady Luck is on my side. She most certainly is.

  I’ll be in Nottingham in 20 minutes. High up and safe, the police cars (if there are any) far down below. Maybe even going the other way if that dirty pisser has reported me.

  I step out, throw up my arms and wave frantically. He blasts the horn once and then twice. What’s that mean? Two blasts. Fuck off? I stop waving and step back. Is he stopping? For a second or two, I’m not sure. Then I hear the great whoosh of the brakes as the lorry starts to slow. It comes to a halt with the cabin door just up above me.

  I reach for the handle, pulling the door open. I put my left foot on the step and lift myself up so I can see into the cabin. The driver looks across at me. Blank-faced – no welcoming smile, but no scowl neither. He’s a big man, heavy-set. Not fat, just solid. 6’ 2”, I’d guess. Dark hair cut short. Thick stubble, all peppery. Trucker’s uniform of checked shirt and jeans. He looks tired, worn out.

  “Are you going to Nottingham?” I ask. “The car’s packed up. I’m supposed to be picking up my daughter from the Roxy.”

  He nods, beckons me in with a movement of his head.

  I sit, reaching for the seatbelt and pulling it around me. The lorry driver turns from me, checking his mirrors as the brakes whoosh again and the lorry pulls slowly away.

  Silence.

  Absolute silence.

  Total fucking silence.

  Should I have said the Roxy? It sounded stupid as I said it. But it was the first name that came into my head. And straight out through my big fat mouth. I’d no time to rehearse, see?

  Is there a club in Nottingham called the Roxy? I’ve no idea. Do they even call clubs the Roxy these days? Did they ever? I don’t think so. Not in Nottingham anyhow. America maybe. The Deep South.

  Would he realise, though? That there’s no Roxy. No club. No daughter. No concerned father sitting next to him in a dressing gown and stupid fucking slippers.

  “Are you from Nottingham?” I say at last.

  He sits quiet for a moment, co
ncentrating on the road ahead. I’m not sure he heard me. Should I say it again? Maybe I didn’t say it loud enough. Maybe I’m mumbling.

  Does he think I’m mad, just talking to myself? A madman, muttering and twitching like those stupid fuckers back in the annexe.

  Then he shakes his head, says something in reply. I don’t catch all of it. Guess he’s not from Nottingham by the headshake. That he’s telling me where he’s from. Hessle-something? Up North by the accent. I can’t place it. Maybe the North-East. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know the Nottingham clubs. Doesn’t realise there’s no Roxy.

  It’s silent again. And dark outside. The road through the trees half-lit by far-apart lights. It dips and weaves up and down so we can see some distance ahead.

  I feel I should say something. Wouldn’t you? Just to keep the conversation moving. Make it all seem natural. I’m not good at niceties, though. That’s what comes from being in the annexe with Ainsley and Sprake sitting there twitching and jerking and pulling at themselves all day long. There’s no polite conversation there, I can tell you. It’s all grunts and moans and sudden cries.

  “Do you have the time?” I ask finally.

  He nods towards the front of the cabin. I’d not noticed. A couple of daily papers. A handful of sweets and wrappers. A small clock with illuminated hands. Says it’s 1.31am. It’s taken me longer than expected to get this far. Two hours? Must have been in that ditch longer than I thought. Walked farther too. No police cars now then. No roadblocks. They must have thought I’d gone the other way towards the M1.

  Mugs.

  “My daughter’s missed the last bus . . . I’ve got to pick her up.” I can’t think of a girl’s name. What are 17-year-old girls called now? Stupid American names they have these days. Britney. And made-up ones. Kay-Leigh and Chavney. Tabitha Rainbow Fucking Trout.