I accelerate slowly, nudging the car carefully back up towards 50. Nice straight run. All three cars come with me, keeping pace. All in a line. None of them pulls out. Not one.
And still the police car stays put. Tailing me. Watching me. I try to see how many coppers there are in the car. Looks like two to me. Men. Both in the front, I think. I can’t see anyone in the back. Hard to tell, though. Too far to see clearly. Too many cars in between.
One driving, following me? The other radioing CID. Calling for more coppers. Just tailing me until the other cop cars are in place. Somewhere ahead of me. Pulled into a lay-by. Two cars? They’ll pull out in front of me. Sirens wailing as I approach. Two ahead, blocking the road. One behind, closing me down. Forcing me in. Trapping me.
Is that what’s going to happen?
I can see ahead of me. Two, three miles of clear, straight road. Two lanes this side. Barrier in the middle. Two lanes the other side of the road. Nothing but fields everywhere else. There’s no way I can pull over and make a run for it. I’m not going to outrun two fit young men. That’s how it would end, wouldn’t it? Me stumbling and staggering across a field and being brought down by some baby-faced coppers. They’d pin me down. Cuff me. I can’t have that. Not that. Never again. I’d rather take the car up to 70, 80, 90, 100 and go straight through the roadblocks and take any coppers on the other side out with me.
If I have to, I will.
Hear my words.
I’ll die rather than be captured.
This side of the road’s still clear. I can see cars coming towards me the other way. But nothing this side at all. Not as far ahead as I can see.
Just the five of us now. Me. The three cars in between. And the cop car. All in a procession. Me in front. Clapped-out Beetle behind. Green Fiesta. A beat-up old farm truck. The cop car. All of us going at a nice steady 50.
And still we keep going. I can feel the beads of sweat trickling down the sides of my face. One rolls and hangs for a second below my cheek. I want to dab it, brush it, wipe it away. But I daren’t. I don’t want to move. I just need to act normal. Like this is a regular journey. An ordinary fellow wouldn’t be sweating like this. Not in October. Not when it’s cold.
Head facing forward.
Keeping it still.
Nice and steady pace.
The Beetle pulls out. I see it coming by me. Accelerating away, up to 70. Seems to take an age to reach me and pass me by. Signals left, pulls in, moving ahead and slowly away. Textbook driving. He knows the cop car is there. He thinks he’s being watched. You stupid fucker. It’s me they’re after.
The Fiesta does the same. Must have been waiting for someone else to move first, to see if the coppers respond. It pulls out, comes up next to me, and accelerates away, following the Beetle.
Now the old farm truck moves up behind me. Police car keeps pace. Just the truck between us now. They’re waiting, the coppers. Getting ready for me to panic. Put my foot down and accelerate off and away. They’ll pull out, moving up smoothly to 70, 80, 90 behind me. I can’t outpace them and that’s a fact. Not in this tinpot little car. It’s like driving a can on wheels. The police car will move up, siren wailing, as we move on and over the hill that’s coming up now.
What’s on the other side? A lay-by, I’d guess. Two police cars there waiting for me. Did I say? Yes, I did. I’m sure. They’re just sitting and waiting for me to make my move.
Here it comes.
Here it comes.
The truck. Pulling out. Puffing and wheezing by the look of it. Moves alongside me, takes an age to go by.
The police car’s right behind me now, and close. I can see the copper driving. He’s looking at me, watching me, seeing what I’m going to do. The copper next to him – it’s a woman, I can see now – is talking into something, a radio, I’d guess. Radioing ahead. To the police cars just over the hill.
Got to keep calm.
Just stay calm.
Think what to do.
Over the hill, there’ll be a lay-by. I told you, didn’t I? Another cop car there, maybe two. They’ll be a little way ahead. Will pull out as they see me. Get in place to force me over and slow me down. I’m trapped, so help me God.
Here we go.
To the top of the hill.
We’re almost there. At the top. Up we go, up and almost over.
What am I going to do?
Tell me. Please.
What the fuck am I going to do?
11.07am SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
The old woman, sitting in a high-backed armchair in the front room of the tiny cottage, turned her head slowly to the window and watched the old man struggling up the path with handfuls of carrier bags. She listened as he dumped them on the doorstep, coughed and then rattled repeatedly through his pockets for his keys. As she heard the door opening at last, she spoke, her voice raised.
“You’ve been ages . . . did you get everything? They’ll be here soon.”
The old man drew in his breath. “I had to go to the other bakers, they didn’t do kiddie things at the usual, only croissants and scones. I’ve got some biscuits with those sprinkles on top and eclairs and a nice Chelsea bun for Richard. We’ve got scones . . . or we can share one if you prefer, they’re quite large.”
She sat back, waiting for him to put things away in the kitchen. She heard him turning the kettle on and clattering cups and saucers out of the cupboards, making a pot of tea.
“Do you want a pot . . .?” he asked, looking in on her. “Oh . . . I’ll just use a bag then . . . you’ve started early.”
She held her glass up. “It’s gone 11.00; it’s just to get me warmed through. It’s so cold.”
He came in with a cup of tea and sat opposite her, so he could see out the window and up the path, wanting to watch for the son and daughter-in-law and the small boy to arrive in their new car. From here, he could see out and across the car park where they’d arrive.
“I’ve been thinking. While you were out. I’ve had enough of this place and the North Sea wind,” she said, looking at him. “It’s always so cold and it’s just so remote.” She thought for a moment or two and added, “We should sell it and buy an apartment or something somewhere warm, Majorca or that other island . . . not Ibiza. The one we went to once when you were working in Belgium, France, wherever it was.”
“Menorca . . . It’s not so bad here . . . it’s been a long time now. You used to love coming up here when Richard was young.” He hesitated for a moment or two, watching her expression. “And Roger, Roger loved this place too. With the boats. He did love his boats.”
She nodded once, twice, several times, as if thinking to herself. “We did. Roger did like the boats. But it was so long ago. And we’re old and this place is a ruin. Look at it.” She gestured at her armchair and to his sofa across the room. “It’s got so tatty.”
“It’s how you wanted it kept. Like it used to be when . . . in the old days. We can do the place up if you like. Get satellite television in. If we get a phone installed, they can run it off that I think. Maybe some double glazing.”
“The cottage is so cold, it’s always so cold here.” She went quiet.
“The radiators just need bleeding, that’s all. I’ll do it later, this afternoon, if the kiddie has a sleep. I can get one of those keys from that shop opposite the bakers.”
Her head had dropped down and she was silent. He could kick himself. He knew he shouldn’t have mentioned Roger. It was still raw, even now. He thought perhaps it always would be. And the drinking didn’t help. She didn’t have the head for it. Drink, when she had it, made her less angry but more melancholy. Spiteful sometimes, when the mood took her.
“Come on, old girl,” he said. “Chin up . . . look, they’re here already,” he added at the flash of a blue car pulling up outside. “Sort yourself out while I get the door. You don’t want the kiddie to see you upset. Let’s give them a weekend to remember.”
11.15am SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
The
little boy stood on the doorstep of the cottage, holding an African violet in his cupped hands.
He looked at the brass door knocker shaped like a lion’s face on the door, far above his head.
It was a friendly face, like the smiley lion in Madagascar.
He remembered seeing it before and thought about how his mama had laughed when he had growled like a lion upon seeing it.
He did it again.
“Grrr-rrr-rrr.”
But his mama did not say anything, nor his papa.
“Grrr-rrr-rrr.”
They stood there, behind him, waiting quietly.
He smiled anyway, remembering his mama’s words as they got out of the car and she handed him the plant: “Smile little soldier, say cheese, big smile.” He did not really know what all of that meant but he knew he had to smile. And he held the plant as high as he could, raising it up above his head as the door swung open and he listened to the hubbub of adults’ voices.
The white-haired man leaned forward and bent down, his face appearing inches in front of the little boy. “Is that for Grand-Mama? Thank you very much.” The old man took the plant from the little boy’s outstretched hands and went to ruffle his hair.
The little boy smiled again, not sure what to say or do, and whether he should attempt another lion’s roar. He put his face into his mama’s skirt, but she pulled him out gently and moved him forward into the cottage.
He smelled a smell, something that reminded him of his papa’s breath sometimes late at night when he came to say goodnight. He did not like the smell at all.
Moving into the cramped front room, the old man sat in an armchair by the window, opposite his mama and papa on the faded sofa. The small boy sat between them, laying down across them at first and then, when they kept pushing him up, pressing his head against his mama. She pulled him out, softly the first time, but more firmly after that.
“Do you remember me, Willie,” the old man smiled. “Is it Willie? Or Billy? Or do they now call you a very grown-up William?”
“Will,” answered the young woman, “we always call him Will.”
“Will it is then,” said the old man, winking and smiling at the little boy.
They sat there for a few moments as the younger man talked of distances and speeds and miles per gallon: “Litres, these days, of course.”
And then the old woman came back into the room, pushing an aged silver tea trolley with a pot of tea and cups and saucers on the top and a range of pastries underneath, all arranged neatly on bone china plates.
The little boy sat up, pointing at the chocolate éclair he had spotted. He had eaten these before, one after another, at a party. He liked them a lot. But he also remembered when his mama had come to collect him and there were raised voices, mainly Mama’s. She had taken his hand and walked him away. He tried to smile bravely as they went, knowing he would not now get a present as the other children did at the end of a party.
“Mama?” he said, turning towards her. He pointed towards the éclair.
“That’s my favourite,” said the old man, leaning down to pick up the plate. “But you can have it this time.”
The boy smiled and went to reach out for the éclair as the younger man and woman looked at each other. He pulled a face. She grimaced back. There was a moment’s silence as the older couple watched on.
The younger woman spoke, leaning forward to take the éclair from the boy.
“Thing is . . .” She hesitated, looking again at the younger man, who glanced away. She spoke more firmly then, “Will is type one. I mean he’s diabetic. He can have the occasional treat but we then have to change his insulin dosage, so it would be easier all round . . . just for now . . . if he didn’t . . .”
The little boy let out a cry.
12.03pm SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Want to know where I am?
I’m in Aldeburgh.
Too fucking right.
You’ll never believe it. What happened? I’ll tell you what happened.
Nothing.
Jack squit.
I came up over the hill and that was it. Sweet FA. Nothing on the other side at all. Not on the left. Nor on the right. No cop car in a lay-by. Just that long A1 road stretching out and away again in front of me.
I kept the car at a nice pace, mind you. Because I still had the police car behind me at this point, remember? So I couldn’t be sure I was safe. Not 100 per cent anyway. I just kept on going on. Cool, that’s me. Dead cool.
I went on and on to Suffolk. Easy it was. The petrol light flashed up with a little way to go. But I held my nerve. And I arrived in Aldeburgh, turned right by the bookshop and the cinema, and made my way through to the other side of town.
I’m sitting here now. Stretched out and relaxed. I’m just lying here, watching. I’ve tipped my seat back a touch. I’m taking a breather. Well, you’ve got to, haven’t you? Not for too long, mind. Because it’s all going to happen soon. It’s all going to kick off big-time.
My plan’s worked just perfect so far.
Just perfect.
Did I tell you about my plan? I did, didn’t I? Yes, I’m sure I must have done.
It’s why I got out last night. Friday 30 October.
And late – too late for the Saturday papers, see? Probably the Sundays too, if truth be told.
I had to get to Aldeburgh for Saturday 31 October. Where the Veitchs are. And the grandparents. And my little William, of course.
The Veitchs won’t be at home in London, see – so the cops can’t warn them I’m out.
And I reckon the cops won’t know about the grandparents’ place in Aldeburgh.
And they certainly won’t know they all get together here at this time of year.
In a seaside cottage with no television and no telephone.
Perfect.
Just fucking perfect.
Now I’m here.
In Aldeburgh.
On Saturday 31 October.
It’s the day that’s the key. It’s the Halloween festival tonight.
That’s why little William’s here. And the Veitchs. And the grandparents. The family all get together for the Halloween festival. I know exactly what they do. I used to come here with them, see? Years ago, when I was with, well, you know. The wife. They do like their routines, I’ll tell you that for nothing.
They spend the morning on the beach, usually. Or at least they used to do – they walk up to the town and back along the seashore. I reckon they might still be doing that. Little William would be collecting shells by now. They do that, you know. Small children. Collect shells.
I couldn’t take William straight off the beach, not in front of them. Veitch would put up a fight. Too many people around to see, maybe even stop me as they all cried out for help. No, the beach is too risky, far too risky.
But you know, I’m smarter than that.
I’ve got a better idea. Two, actually. Alternatives you might call them.
I’ve thought them both through.
They go back to the cottage for lunch. The old biddy fusses around with cold meats and pickles and her plates of bread and butter. The old bloke will be opening his home-made bottles of wine and making a right to-do if any of the cork gets into any of the glasses. Sometimes, they eat in the back garden. If the weather’s alright. Maybe, just maybe, William might wander into the front room or perhaps even into the front garden while they are out the back.
Well, who knows?
Did I say where I am now?
Right fucking now?
I’m in Aldeburgh. I said, didn’t I?
But not just in Aldeburgh. Not just anywhere in Aldeburgh. I’ve parked the car in a car park at the end of the seafront, opposite the cottage. It’s just over there, about 30 yards away, that’s all. Just a couple of other cars. And there’s nobody in sight but me. Not anywhere. I know, I’ve looked all around, back up the beach towards the town, everywhere.
I’m just lying back and waiting, like I said.
/> Just to see what happens.
Who knows, I might get lucky if the little fellow happens to wander outside unnoticed.
If not, there’s always later on. As it gets dark, they walk to the funfair on the seafront by the town, a half-mile to a mile or so away. And here’s the clever part. They’ll all stop for a hot chocolate or an ice cream when they arrive. Veitch will probably wander off to look at the boats. The sister-in-law may sit and look out to sea. And Granny and Grandad might take William on some rides. Or will they think he’s with Veitch or the sister-in-law? And vice versa?
“Who’s got little William?” one of them will say suddenly. “Oh, he’s with the others,” will be the answer. No, he isn’t. He’s not with Veitch or the sister-in-law or the old biddy or the fat old fart. He’ll be with his real daddy, heading back to the car and away.
It will all be very crowded tonight. Lots of teenagers. All pushing and shoving and swearing their heads off. Loads of families with the occasional “Excuse me” as they bump into each other. Queues everywhere for burgers and chips or teas and coffees or sweets and candy floss. Lots of chances for me to stroll up, cool as you like, when someone’s not looking, and I’ll be off and away with William.
I’d bet they won’t even notice he’s gone for 20 minutes or so. They’ll all be waiting for the others to turn up with him. And when they’ve all got together, they’ll then realise he’s gone. Wandered off, they’ll think. Maybe towards the sea. They’ll panic, especially if little William can’t swim. They’ll go down to the shore, running this way and that. It will take them ages to actually call the police.
And old plod won’t take it seriously, not locally, not immediately. They’ll assume he’s wandering in among the crowds. Then they’ll reckon he’s tagged on the end of another family. At 7.00 there’s the torchlight procession along the main street, where everyone brings lanterns or torches or whatever they’ve got and walks along. Families, mostly. A few older people. Some teenagers too. And lots of little kids. The beat bobbies will tell the Veitchs to stand somewhere and watch the procession go by to see if they can spot William.
Sweet William Page 6