Sweet William

by Iain Maitland

  What if he asks her name? What if he turns and says, “Oh yes, and what’s your daughter called then?” Friendly like, not suspicious yet. What would I say?

  Kelly. The name just came to me.

  Just like that.

  It simply popped into my head.

  That Fat-Arsed Eileen has three daughters. One’s Kelly or Kelly-Marie? Kylie? I don’t know. I’ll stick with Kelly. Easy to remember.

  “Kelly,” I say, nodding. “My daughter, Kelly. Got me out of bed, see?” I move my legs out from underneath me. Show him my slippers. Better to make a joke of them really. He looks down and smiles.

  “You must have been in a hurry,” he replies, “I’d have got dressed. At least put shoes on.”

  He thinks it’s odd. Out of the ordinary. That I should be wearing slippers. Dressing gown’s okay. That’s normal. But slippers? Slippers are odd. Would anyone wear slippers to drive a car?

  “I couldn’t find my shoes. I drive easier in these anyway. Bad toes,” I say, thinking fast.

  Does that sound believable? Can you even drive with bad toes? I don’t know. What are ‘bad toes’ anyway? I hope he doesn’t ask me anything about my feet. Hope he doesn’t have corns and stuff he wants to talk about. I don’t want a conversation about cutting off bunions, that’s for fucking sure.

  Will he notice I’ve no keys? I’d have keys, wouldn’t I, if I’d broken down? They’d be in my dressing-gown pocket. I’d have my hand on them now. Probably jangling them. And I’d maybe whistle too. They do that, don’t they? People. Men, really. They jangle keys and whistle at the same time. Smith used to do that. I don’t know why. I never have.

  And I said she’d missed the last bus. But it’s gone 1.30. What time’s a last bus round these parts? 11.30? So how come I’m driving to pick her up two hours later. Has he noticed that too?

  I’m giving myself away at every turn.

  He coughs. Clears his throat. I think he’s going to spit. Instead he half turns his head towards me and says, “How far you going? I’m turning back onto the M1 before Nottingham. I’ve just been and done a private drop-off.”

  I look at him, expecting a nod and a wink. Say no more. On the fiddle. A bit of cash on the side. But he doesn’t add anything to it and I don’t really know what to say next. I would have winked if he had looked at me, but he didn’t.

  “That’s fine,” I reply. “I can walk the last bit.” I don’t know how far the last bit is. A mile? Five? Does that sound strange? I’ll walk the last five miles? He’s not noticed anything, though. I’m sure of it. He’s too tired, too worn out. Probably doesn’t know or care anyway. I’m just someone to pass a few minutes with at the end of an eight-hour drive.

  “You’ll get some queer looks dressed like that. I’ll take you in as far as I can go.”

  A kindness, a thoughtful gesture. He didn’t have to offer. I’m touched. Really I am. Small kindnesses are rare. I’m not used to them. Not where I’ve come from. Not from Spink and her cronies, that’s for sure. No small kindnesses at the annexe and certainly not in the big house. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “There’s another of them,” he says suddenly. I lean forward and see a police car overtaking, pulling in front and accelerating away. No flashing lights, but it’s going at speed towards Nottingham.

  “That must be the fifth that’s gone by me in the past 20 minutes. Something’s happening in Nottingham. They’re all going that way.”

  And then we see it in the distance. Just as we come over a hill following the police car.

  A crossroads down by the River Trent. Two police cars – one to the left and the other to the right of this side of the road. Flashing lights. They’re stopping cars. It’s a roadblock. Just like I knew there would be. CID has acted pretty fast.

  I said, didn’t I?

  I fucking well told you.

  Why don’t you just listen?

  I can see two cars pulled into a queue on this side of the road. Looks like a Mini and some sort of estate. Coppers all around them. The police car in front of us moving towards them. We’re following behind, moving down. It’s all half a mile away. A minute or so from being caught. I’ll end up back inside. They’ll lock me up good and proper this time. In prison. I’ll never get a second chance to get away.

  I’ve got to be quick. We’ve got woodlands to the left, opening up to scrubland down to the river, not so very far away. All wide-open scrubland as far as I can see to the right; no chance that way.

  Have to act fast.

  Now.

  Do it right now.

  “Stop,” I shout, turning to the lorry driver. I’m pleading, I know I am. I can hear it in my voice. “Stop, please. Pull over here. I’ve been drinking. Before I came out. They’re after me. The police. Quickly, stop here. Before they see.”

  He half turns. Looks at me. Checks me over.

  The dressing gown.

  The stupid paisley slippers.

  He looks at my face. Can see I’m desperate. Knows I’m lying. He thinks for a moment. The lorry keeps moving. Another second. One more long one. Another timeless, everlasting second.

  The lorry moves closer still.

  Another few seconds and it’ll be too late.

  “Please . . .” I say again, and I’m really begging now.

  And then I hear the whoosh of the brakes. He’s going to stop. Let me out. Thank Christ. He’s giving me a chance to get away.

  The lorry shudders, slowly shaking itself down, and finally stops. I look ahead down the hill. I can see the coppers by the two cars in the queue. I can’t see any of them looking up this way.

  I turn to the lorry driver, smile, tell him I’m drunk, a little bit tipsy. My voice cracks, I’m talking nonsense. He looks at me, disbelieving. Then says something I don’t catch. Something about not owing them any favours. What’s he mean? The coppers? Has he been in prison? Maybe. I’ve no time to ask.

  I nod my thanks. Open the door, jump down. I move quickly into the woods. The whoosh of the brakes signals the lorry is moving away again. It’s going towards the roadblock – without me.

  What now?

  I wait in the woods, looking at the crossroads. I have a clear view from here. I can see three cop cars in all, including the one in front of the lorry. The Mini has been waved on its way. There are two coppers now, talking to the driver of the second car.

  Another copper is peering through the windows. There may be another copper in one of the cop cars. Sitting by the radio, I guess. Makes four in all. Plus two more in the cop car that’s just arrived? That makes six. The estate driver gets out, opening the back of the car. They’re thorough, I’ll give them that. Spink must have laid it on real thick about me. Then again, me leaving like I did would have been enough to get the roadblocks up.

  Should I run? Hold my breath and start running like I did when I got out of the annexe? In carpet slippers? I don’t know what to do. The coppers will get to the lorry driver in a minute. All he has to do is tell them about me. They’ll come racing up the hill in their cars. Stopping, spreading out, searching these woods. They’ll find me, won’t they? Easily. I’m fucked if he says anything, well and truly.

  Let me think. Just let me gather my thoughts.

  All I need is a moment. A chance to work out a plan.

  Just give me a fucking minute, why won’t you?

  Will he say anything, though? The lorry driver? He mumbled something about not owing them any favours. If he doesn’t like the coppers, he’ll stay quiet. Won’t want to get involved anyway, will he? He’s not going to want to go to the copshop, give statements, shit like that.

  Even if he says something, they’ve no dogs, have they? Not that I can see. Not yet anyhow. And they’ll expect me to be running. They’ll reckon I’ll be half a mile away by now. Sprinting like crazy in the opposite direction. Not standing here 100 yards from where I got out of the lorry.

  The estate’s been waved on its way. So has the cop car, once the fourth copper had come acr
oss from one of the parked cop cars for a bit of yakety-yak. Comparing notes, yawning, saying what a waste of time all of this is. I watch as the cop car that’s been waved on drives off to repeat the ‘nothing happening’ routine at the next roadblock down the road. There are now four coppers left standing there together, talking to each other.

  One beckons the lorry forward. Two of the coppers move to the lorry. They’re out of sight, on the other side. Round by the driver’s door. Talking to the driver. The third copper is walking around the lorry. I can see him bending, looking underneath. He disappears out of sight too. Moving towards the driver. The fourth copper stands there looking up the hill, seeing if any other cars are coming down towards them.

  It’s deathly quiet.

  I reckon the three other coppers are round by the driver’s window, quizzing him, asking him if he’s seen anyone walking, maybe thumbing a ride. Has sir stopped for anyone? Given someone a lift? That’s what they’d be asking. And he’d just shake his head. No, no, he’s not seen anyone.

  What a pile of shit.

  A complete and utter waste of time and that’s a fact.

  Let’s be on our way, please.

  I yawn as the three coppers reappear from round the front of the lorry. They’re going back to speak to the fourth copper, who’s obviously in charge. I ignore them, looking back towards the lorry, which is about to pull away and continue on its journey. Thank Christ he didn’t say anything. He’ll be gone any moment, and then I reckon these coppers will pack up and piss off. I can settle down in these woods for an hour or two’s shut-eye and be on my way again before dawn.

  Perfect.

  Absolutely perfect.

  Nice and easy, this is.

  I glance back at the coppers. They’re all in a huddle, all talking among themselves. They’re in a circle, three coppers with their backs to me. They’re lighting up, having a quick fag before they go home. There’s a big fucker in the middle with his back towards me. I reckon he may be some plain-clothes CID wanker from one of the cars bossing these bobbies about, telling them what to do. I can see him moving, looks like he’s lighting up each of their fags in turn. He stops, steps back and moves to the side.

  And I realise what’s really happening.

  I see it’s the lorry driver standing in the middle of the circle of coppers. I watch him shaking and nodding his head, his hands rising and falling as if to emphasise what he’s saying. And then he lifts his right arm up. I expect all of the coppers to stand there listening to him. But they don’t. One by one, they turn, each of them now looking up the hill towards me. And the lorry driver jabs out the index finger of his right hand. He looks up and it’s as if, in that instant, he can see and is pointing straight at me . . .

  1.36am SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER

  The little boy lay in bed, watching the light on the ceiling. He had been woken by the sound of the toilet being flushed in the bathroom.

  Drowsy at first, he had struggled up and called out faintly, “Mama . . . Drink?” but no one heard him or came to his door like they sometimes did when he heard them moving about at night.

  He called again, “Drink . . . please?” and then lay back down and thought for a moment or two about getting up to go to the bathroom himself.

  But the light had caught his attention. It was a strong light that shone in through the crack in the curtains from the street outside his bedroom window. It puzzled the little boy, the light, because he had not noticed it before.

  His favourite film, right now at least, was Mars Needs Moms – he had a DVD he carried round under his arm during the day, constantly looking at the cover. It excited him in a way. It frightened him a little too, although he would never say that to his mama or papa. The light on his bedroom ceiling was exactly the same, or so he suddenly thought, as the one from the Martian spaceship on the front of the DVD.

  He licked his lips, which felt cracked and dry, and turned his head slowly towards the curtains. The light stayed the same, strong and unwavering. It did not shake nor move about like papa’s torch when they sometimes went outside to look at the stars at night.

  The little boy knew, he just knew, that this was the spaceship from Mars outside his house.

  “Go away,” he said out loud, using the same firm voice his mama used when the big slobbery dog next door jumped up to lick his face.

  He knew it had come for his mama. The scary spaceship with the beam of light. He knew he needed to get up. Go and find her. Tell the Martians to leave his mama alone.

  Very slowly, he turned his head away from the window and looked at his door, open just a crack so he could see the dim but reassuring light on the landing.

  It might be dark, pitch black, beyond that.

  But he was going to have to go to his mama. He had to save her. He listened carefully for the sound of the Martians moving across the landing towards his mama’s bedroom.

  He was sure he could hear the slow but steady steps of the Martians outside his room.

  He got up quietly out of bed and padded in his bare feet over to the chair in the corner.

  He looked at his Batman costume, the one he wore whenever he played action heroes.

  He pulled down his pyjama bottoms and stepped out of them.

  He lifted up his top as best he could, over and above his head. Stumbling back and losing his balance, he fell to the floor with a thud.

  He did not cry.

  He was a brave little boy.

  Getting to his feet, he pulled off his pyjama top and reached for his Batman costume.

  He did not hesitate.

  He did not falter.

  He was in his suit and he was going to save his mama.

  He shouted “G’onim-oo-ooo” at the top of his voice as he ran out onto the landing.

  1.37am SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER

  Everything freezes for 10 to 20 seconds. The coppers stand and stare up the hill towards me. Not one of them moves. They all stand perfectly still. Like they’re waiting for something to happen. Like I’m going to step out and wave at them. Maybe I’ll set off some fireworks to show them where I am.

  Then all hell breaks out. It’s like watching the Keystone Cops. Two of the coppers turn and run into each other. Another looks like he’s shouting at the lorry driver. The fourth copper stands staring at the one who’s shouting.

  The fourth copper suddenly takes charge. He steps back from the one who’s shouting, and waves his hands for silence. Next, he’s gesturing and pointing, stabbing a finger towards the two other coppers. I see him keep turning his head towards the lorry driver. Must be asking questions. I see the lorry driver nodding and shaking his head again, the oh-so-anxious-to-please bastard.

  The two coppers are running towards their cop car. Doors slamming. I hear the engine roar as the car skids, turning round by the crossroads and racing back up the hill towards me.

  I see the car coming, swerving behind the lorry and back on to the right side of the road again. Out of sight for a moment, then back again, accelerating up the hill. I lose sight of it once more behind the trees lining the road.

  The trees hide the car from me.

  The trees shelter me from them too, of course.

  Little old me sitting here in my tree.

  I’m clever. I told you, didn’t I? No use running when that lorry driver gave the game away. They all looked up, the coppers. Stood there waiting. What did they expect to happen? Me to break cover and start running? No way. They’d be on to me within minutes, that’s for sure.

  I just stepped back behind this tree and lifted myself up into its branches.

  Easy. Took seconds, that’s all.

  The cop car roars up, going faster and faster. Level with me now, and then away, moving 100, 200, 500 yards off and up the hill. I can’t see it any more. But I hear it screech to a halt. It’s some way up on the road behind me. I can’t tell how far. Hard to judge.

  Got to think quickly.

  Act fast.

  Do I stay or make a bre
ak for it?

  I have to do something. There are two coppers coming up towards me on foot from below. There are two coppers now out of their cop car high above me, coming down towards me.

  Piggy in the middle, that’s me.

  What do I do? You tell me.

  Stay or go? Hurry.

  To one side, it’s scrubland – I’d be seen as soon as I broke cover from the trees. To the other, downwards, I can see the dark swirl of the River Trent.

  The Trent – is that my best chance to get away? It has to be. Maybe my only chance.

  The copper in charge and the other copper will be up into the woods in a minute or two. Moving slowly, searching. How long will it be before the other coppers arrive? Once that busybody copper in charge has radioed everything back to CID, they’ll be drafting in cop cars from all around to come here.

  So more coppers?

  And dogs?

  Have they already called for dogs?

  If they bring the dogs, I’m done for. I’ll never outrun them. They’ll take the dogs to the lorry. Let them get the scent of me.

  Then they’ll bring the dogs up the hill. Barking, snarling, straining to be set free. To hunt me down. They’d be let loose when they picked up my scent again by the side of the road. Just where that bastard lorry driver let me out.

  I’d stand no chance. They’d be on me in less than a minute. Scratching, tearing at my clothes, ripping them to shreds. They’d probably kill me if they got my throat. If the coppers didn’t stop them. And they wouldn’t, would they? They’d laugh and jeer and urge the dogs on. Because I’d led them a merry dance. Made them look like fools.

  The river’s my only option. If I get in the river, the dogs won’t be able to track me. The river will wash off my scent. Dogs can’t follow a scent through water. The coppers won’t know where I’ve gone. To Nottingham? Towards Newark? Out towards Grantham? Good as lost me again then, haven’t they?

  All I’ve got to do is climb down from this tree. Keep my eyes on the crossroads, the road to my right, and listen out for the coppers. I’ll move down to the edge of the woods close to the river. I’ve got to do it; got to take that chance.