Sitting upright, I slide my knees down. Stretch my legs out either side of a branch. My legs feel stiff. My bones ache. It’s the tablets, see? I said before, didn’t I? Yes, I told you that, remember? I’ve stopped taking them but they are still in my system. They should wear off in a day or two, though. I’ll feel better then, much better, just you wait and see. I’ll think straighter. Clearer too.
I pause.
Wait.
Listen.
I can’t hear anything. The coppers are not close enough for me to hear a sound. I’ve got to go before I do.
I turn, lift my left leg over the branch. Slowly turn again and lower myself down to the next one. Hold tight, slide and sit on it. Hold on. Listen again. Still no noise.
Nothing. I turn and slip down once more, holding on to the branch. Lower my body. Not quite touching the ground. I look down. Only three or four feet. I drop, land and lose my balance. Fall forward onto my knees, my weight pulling me over.
Have I been heard?
I wait. Not breathing.
Still no sound.
It’s almost as though I’m out on my own. It’s dark down here, but I can still see some moonlight through the branches.
I move quickly. Between the trees. I’m making a noise. Slippers crunching on the undergrowth. Like running on gravel. No one nearby to hear though, so I just keep going.
I’ve got to get to the edge of the woods. Pause. Look out across to the crossroads and the river. Pause again.
I’ll run as fast as I can. Down the hill, across the open scrubland. Over and down and into the river.
The lorry driver. He’ll be in the cop car. He’ll see me. He’ll lean forward from the back seat. All he has to do is slam his palm down on the car horn. He’ll hold it there. All the cops will hear. They’ll see me before I can dive in. Could I still escape? No, too tired, too exhausted. I’ve been going so long now. Far too long. I’m near the end, I’ll tell you that. I’m at the end of my rope already.
I move along the trees marking a line between the woods and the scrubland. Farther and farther to my left I move, as fast and as far as I can. I can’t go too far. It looks marshy way over to my left. If I go much further, I could get stuck in it. I’m still under cover and well away from the crossroads, the road and the lorry - and the cop car with the lorry driver in it.
What I’ve got to do is simple. Dead simple. I’ve got to find some undergrowth that stretches down from the woods to the river. Somewhere I can crawl and keep crawling. Staying low, the lorry driver won’t see me. He might not be watching anyway. Or maybe he’ll be looking the other way. It’s dark, of course. And I’ll be low, flat as I can and crawling on my belly.
Is this far enough?
Here?
I can make out the lorry driver in the car, just.
Or am I imagining it? It’s hard to tell from this distance. I can’t see which way he’s looking. I can’t really make him out much at all. Surely he can’t see me, though. And the coppers? Can they see me? Not yet. But they could when I break cover. Unless I keep low and crawl fast.
And then I hear it. In the distance. Behind me. From the road. Farther up, back from the way we came in on the lorry. Faint now. But becoming louder.
It’s not an ‘it’, of course. It’s a ‘them’. I can hear them now, ever so clear they are. And it’s not the coppers’ police car sirens either.
Dogs is what it is.
Just like I fucking told you.
Fucking listen for once, why don’t you?
The four coppers must have guessed I’d run back when I jumped from the lorry. Away from them at the crossroads. Back up the way we came. So they’d radioed CID for more coppers and dogs. To go two, three miles back up, come down and flush me out.
The coppers would come up from the crossroads. Moving up the hill. They’d keep driving me backwards, towards the new coppers and dogs. I’d be trapped in the middle, sure to be caught.
I’ve got to go now.
Right now.
I’m at the edge of the trees and about as far away as I can get without going onto the marshland. There’s just 800 yards of scrub in front of me to crawl across and I’m at the river and away.
300 yards to freedom.
I drop to my knees. Lie down. Start crawling, moving forward as quickly as I can.
Dogs coming closer. Still some way away. But getting nearer. How far? How long have I got?
I’ve got to keep crawling. There’s no noise from the cop car. Can the lorry driver see me? I must keep low.
The dogs are louder now. They’re pulling on their leashes, eager to be released.
I look up.
200 yards?
No more, surely.
Have the dogs been let loose? They sound very loud. And spread out, too. They’re all behind me and getting closer by the second. Have the dogs got my scent already?
Maybe they’re already running free. They’ll be here in minutes – maybe less than that.
Just keep going. Almost there now. Not far.
100 yards?
50?
Getting closer every second.
There’s still no sound from the cop car. I want to look. Check he can’t see me. I daren’t, though. There’s no time. The dogs are in the woods now. Their barking sounds different. Echoing almost. How soon before they’re out and coming down behind me?
Less than a minute, I’d guess.
60 seconds is all I’ve got at most.
These clothes don’t help. Dressing gown and slippers. I wish I could shake myself free of them.
I’m almost there. I lie still for two or three seconds. I can’t wait.
Look left. Nothing.
Look right. All clear.
Still no noise from the cop car.
But the dogs are close now, very close. They’re about to come racing out of the woods. They’re almost on me.
I’ve got to break cover. Got to do it now.
I lift myself up, half crouching, half running. It seems incredibly far. I’m waiting for the sound of the cop car horn any moment.
Any second now.
Here it comes.
That terrible sound.
I’ve done it. I’ve fucking well done it. I’m on the bank of the river, slipping and sliding downwards into the water’s edge. My feet are in the water. It’s black and filthy. Stinks too.
I don’t care.
I’ve made it.
The dogs are now in the open. Out of the woods, and spreading across. I can’t tell, for sure. I’m gasping for breath as I drop into the water, the dressing gown billowing up around me.
The cold hits me; I gasp for breath, struggling to stand up. I pull the dressing gown tight around my waist. I’ll lose it soon, though, as quickly as I can.
I drop back down and start swimming downstream and away.
I’m not sure where.
I keep close to the river’s edge by the trees.
I’m away.
Free.
They’ll not catch me now. Not tonight anyway. Even if they track me to the river, I’ll be downstream and gone. They won’t know which way I’ve swum. Up, down or across. But what next?
I’m in a freezing-cold river.
I’m in my dressing gown and slippers.
I’m cold and I’m wet and I’m exhausted.
I’m 150 fucking miles from Aldeburgh and my little William.
I’ve no money.
No proper clothes.
And I’ll be all over the news tomorrow. Not just the press, TV too. The BBC, all of that.
So you tell me – what the fuck do I do next?
6.55am SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“Can you really face this over and over this weekend . . . in front of your mother?” said the young woman, struggling to keep the little boy from wriggling out from beneath her legs and away. “Help me, why don’t you?”
The young man stepped forward, “William John,” he said sharply, using the boy’s full names, �
�stop it. Lie still and behave yourself.”
The boy took no notice. When he was fully awake, as he was now, he would always try just as hard as he could to avoid the injections. His legs and tummy were covered in bruises.
He knew he was being naughty.
He did not want to be.
But the injections hurt and made him feel sick.
He always hoped, if he wriggled hard for long enough, that his mama and papa might give up and leave him alone. But they never had. Not yet anyway.
His papa would say it was good for him.
To have the injections.
The little boy did not understand why.
The man pressed down on the boy’s arms, which just made him twist his head more. He banged it against the floor, which stunned him for a moment, his large blue eyes staring up at the two adults now pinning him down.
“If your mother could see us now . . . she probably will see us . . . what will she say?” said the woman, trying to move the needle towards the top of the boy’s leg without him seeing it. “I h-a-t-e this, really, it’s too much.”
As the man loosened his grip, the boy pushed at the needle, as he always did with his mama, knocking it away as it scratched his skin.
“Will,” she shouted, “you need to let me do this, you need to be still.”
Their eyes locked, hers full of anger, his close to tears.
He tried to smile at his mama.
Sometimes that would make her happy.
He liked to see his mama laugh.
“It’ll be okay,” said the man, suddenly sweeping the woman and the boy into his arms and hugging them clumsily. “Let’s calm down and watch some cartoons for a while. Have some Weetabix. Do it after that. We have to do this together. That’s all.”
“There’s just so much, all the time. It’s non-stop.”
“It’ll get better . . . as he gets older. He should be able to do some of it himself.”
The boy smiled contentedly.
He liked it when they all hugged like this.
It made him happy.
7.42am SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
No need to worry about me.
Everything is fine.
All is well and good, thank you.
I’m downstream, did I say? Not as far as I’d have liked, but far enough away. I reckon I’m safe now. It’s all quiet, has been for ages actually.
I started off well enough and the sounds of the dogs soon faded as I kept swimming farther and farther away. I swam on for as long as I could, hearing nothing except for the occasional noise of traffic far off in the distance.
But the water’s cold, so fucking cold it freezes the blood in your bones.
After no more than 10 or 15 minutes at most, I had to stop. Get out.
Later, I tried to swim again.
And again.
One more time.
But the cold comes so close to paralyzing you that you think you’re going to die and have to get out.
So I walked for a bit.
And the air, a chill breeze, seemed to dry me a little.
And I walked for a while longer by the edges of the water.
I knew I could not go on much more.
Then I got lucky.
The river, twisting and turning, led me to where I am now. Hidden in a dense mass of trees and bushes by the side of the river. Opposite me, woodland stretches out as far as I can see upstream and downstream.
I’m safe – no one will penetrate through that to get to this part of the river.
Why would they want to?
Behind me, up and on the bank a dozen feet away, is a fence. Several fences as a matter of fact. I’ve ended up behind of one of those new housing estates in the back of beyond. Lots of little boxes. Matchbox-sized gardens. Neat and tidy fences. Fucking suburban heaven for wankers in suits.
Four houses back up to the river where I am. I guess they’re part of a cul-de-sac. The owners have each put up fences to close off their gardens from each other and the river. I can sit and watch what’s happening at each house through the knots and tears in the wooden fences.
No one in the houses can see me.
I sit and watch and wait to see what happens. I’ve got ideas, you know. A plan, actually. A little plan of action. But I’ve got to think it all through first. It takes time to do that even if you’re a cunning devil like me.
I can’t wait here for long, mind you.
It’s still cold, very cold.
I’ll catch my death.
I’ve stripped down to my T-shirt and trousers. I’ve wrung them out of course (I’m not stupid). First the T-shirt, then the trousers. Gave them a good shaking before putting them back on again. They feel alright, I suppose. They’re quite loose on me actually. I’m not fat. And there’s a breeze. Still a chilly one as a matter of fact.
I got rid of that dressing gown way back upstream. I said, didn’t I? I had to. It soaked up the water, dragging me down, slowing me up. I swam to the river bank, stood up, stripped it off and bundled it deep into the undergrowth. It’ll never come loose, not in a hundred years. No one will ever find that, I can tell you.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Things are taking shape.
I’m going to have to break into one of these houses. I don’t want to but I’ve no choice. I can’t hide here for much longer. It’s just too cold. Far too cold. I need clean, dry clothes for a start. And money. I can’t get far without money. And food, I must have some food. I’m starving.
I’m waiting to see when the owners of one of the houses will go out. Maybe to work. Lots of people do on a Saturday. Or maybe they’ll go out for the day, to the shops or a garden centre. That’s what middle-class people on housing estates do for fun. I’d rather put a fork in my eye, to tell the truth.
Won’t be long now.
It must be getting on for nine o’clock. Someone will leave their house empty. I’ll force the back door and slip in oh-so-quietly. Out again just as smoothly. No one will ever know.
It’s an offence, of course it is. Someone as smart as me knows that. But the beauty is that nobody will ever realise I’ve been in and out. Not if I’m clever, which I am (as you know).
They’ve all got patio doors, these four houses. You can get in and out of a property with those dead easy. I’ll put my shoulder against the doors and push in slow but hard. They’ll pop open with barely a sound, just the bolt slipping out of its casing. You get a lot of noise and damage only when you shoulder it hard and fast. Or kick it in – that’s when everything cracks and breaks. That’s when you get all the noise. I can’t afford none of that. Shoulder it slow and it all slides open nicely for you.
I’ll slip quietly upstairs. Find some nice and clean, warm and dry men’s clothes tucked away at the back of a wardrobe or maybe the bottom of a drawer. Stuff that’s not worn any more. Clothes that won’t be missed for ages and maybe never at all.
A shave would be a smart idea, if they’ve got one of those disposable razors they’d never miss. I need to get all this fuzz off my face. I’m told I look ten years younger without a beard. Spink told me that when I shaved it off before. Said she wouldn’t have recognised me. She smirked (like she always does), so I wasn’t sure if she was taking the piss.
But I’d look different anyway. Nothing like the photo they’ll put in the papers. I know the one they’ll use. The one where I jerked my head away at the last second. The one with the beard. No one who sees that in the papers would notice me without that big fuzzy beard; they’d never give me a second glance.
I’ve got to get some food too. I’m going to find that first, I have to. I’m hungry now, really hungry. It’s been hours since I ate anything. One of Spink’s stews. Was it only last night? 7 o’clock. 12, 13 hours ago? It seems longer, much longer. The tablets have been wearing off, been ages since I took them. It’s giving me my appetite back. I feel ravenous.
Maybe I’ll find some loose change as well. Not much, not so’s
anyone would notice. I’ll rummage in the pockets of old jackets, the backs of drawers, places like that. Perhaps they’ll have a bottle of old coins by the fireplace. Full of 20p and 50p pieces. I’ll take a couple of handfuls so they’ll not see. Two handfuls can add up. Maybe a fiver’s worth or more. Enough to get a train ticket for one or two stops from Nottingham. Once you’re on the train, you can go where you want in the system, it’s easy. I’ll hide in the toilets if one of the inspectors comes along. Then jump off at some isolated station in Suffolk. I can hitch from there.
I’m going to go for the house to my far left, at the end of the cul-de-sac. A professional couple live there by the look of it, and are getting ready for work. Mid- to late 20s, I’d guess. No kids – not that I can see. He’s about my size and build. Close to six foot, quite solid but not fat. A smoothie, with his slicked-back hair and stupid goatee beard. Like Veitch, the oily fucker. A yuppie’s what they call them. Or they used to anyway. You lose touch when you’ve been away, so to speak.
She’s a skinny little thing. Not my type at all. About five six, I’d guess. Slight build. Boyish even. Blonde hair, cropped quite short. She’s in a business suit now. (She wasn’t to start with, I can tell you.) Black jacket, white top, short black skirt and heels. Very nice, some would say. If you like that sort of thing. I don’t. Not particularly. No, not me.
Best of all, the house is on a corner plot. Trees down one side, all along my left. A nice tall fence between this house and the next one to my right. Just one neighbour, that’s all. Very nice. All quiet and peaceful.
They’re in the kitchen. She’s at the sink, standing over it, holding a bowl of cereal and trying to eat it. He’s behind her, pressed up tight. His hands are everywhere; I can see that very clearly. She’s wriggling now and smiling. Putting her arms out to keep the cereal bowl away from her, stopping it from splashing milk down her front. His hands now up and round her breasts. She’s laughing and I can see her mouthing “No!” as she twists and faces him. They kiss. Seems like forever.
I feel myself stirring.
Sweet William Page 4