I just look like a daddy who’s in a hurry, maybe going to meet Mummy on the other side of the green, ready for the procession.
About halfway across now. Still lots of pushing and shoving. It helps a bit – carrying a small fellow. They give you some leeway, leastways some of them do.
I was holding the little chap up high – easier that way – but I’ve dropped him down now, carrying him on my chest.
Just in case the sister-in-law is looking this way. I don’t want his head up above my shoulders and looking back towards her. If she sees him again, she’ll know for sure. Bound to, given a second chance to see his face.
Then she would come after me, wouldn’t she? Yes, she’d have to.
I’m keeping going, nice and steady, with an “Excuse me” to the left and a “Sorry, in a hurry” to the right.
Little William doesn’t speak, doesn’t seem to have heard her, what with all the noise. But his head, pushed close to my chest now, twists first one way, then the other, trying to get a good look at the Ferris wheel lights.
He’s wriggling.
Now he’s struggling.
He’s calling out.
“Fair? Fair?” He attempts to free an arm, wanting to point at the Ferris wheel where he wants to go.
“Sssshh,” I say, “sssshh.” (I’m trying to listen.) I think the woman’s stopped now. I’m straining to hear as I’m moving along, hurrying away. Yes, she’s stopped. Definitely. She’s had second thoughts. Thought better of it.
Made a fool of herself and no mistake.
Stupid bitch.
Made a complete fool and now just wants to slink away, hoping nobody noticed.
She’s stopped and is now walking, trying not to hurry, attempting not to panic, back towards the fishermen’s huts, where she’ll expect to see Veitch and little William.
Of course, when she gets there, she’ll find Veitch lying unconscious in a pool of blood and no sign of William. Then she’ll know. She’ll realise then that she wasn’t mistaken. She’ll know that someone is running away with William – will she realise it’s me, though?
How long have I got?
Before the police are called?
Five minutes, ten?
Thing is, there are coppers. Dotted here and there among the crowd. I’ve got to hurry. Once the word’s got round, they’ll all be on the lookout for a man with a little boy.
I’ve got no more than ten minutes to get to the car and away.
Have to hurry, no time to lose.
God be with me, please.
6.52pm SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
The young man, helped by the St John Ambulance men, struggled to sit upright. He groaned and touched his forehead, looking at the smear of blood on his hand.
“Just stay still for a minute. Gather your thoughts,” said the older of the two ambulance men. “We’ve called for help and someone’s gone to find a policeman. Just sit quietly and get your breath back.”
The young man felt on the ground around him, searching instinctively for something. He winced in pain, feeling as though part of him, at least on the left side, was broken.
One of the ambulance men handed the younger man his glasses. “Smashed, I’m afraid. Do you have a spare pair? Just hold on now, someone will be coming very soon.”
The young man took the glasses and tried to focus on the broken lenses and twisted frame. One of the lenses had a small but perfectly formed blob of blood in the middle of it. He touched his forehead again, puzzled about the blood and how it had got on his head from the glasses.
He looked up at the crowd that was gathering around him, making sympathetic sounds and noises.
“They made off that way,” said an elderly woman. She pointed. “Along the beach towards Thorpeness.”
“I didn’t see them,” said a man, “ . . .they’ve left him in a terrible state.”
“It’s what comes of letting them drink all day long,” added a third voice from within the crowd.
The young man knew he had to think of something. It was important, but he did not know what it was. He knew it was a bad thing that he had to deal with straightaway. Something terribly urgent. He wondered for a moment if the thing was to do with the sharp pain in his side and up towards his chest when he moved suddenly.
“My heart?” He said suddenly, looking up at the two St John Ambulance men. “Is it my heart?”
“You just hold on, old son. The ambulance is coming. You’ve been in a fight. Came off the worse for wear. Just you wait.”
A fight? Why would he fight? He had never fought, not since his school days anyway. Playground scraps, that’s all. He tried to make sense of what they were saying to him. Needed to understand why people were standing around, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and pity. He had to remember.
“We’ve called for an ambulance, but it may take a while to get here through the crowds,” echoed the younger of the St John Ambulance men. “So you just sit and wait until it does. And the police are coming as well. Someone’s gone to fetch a policeman.”
The men were talking to him, but slowly. As if he were ill or something. He struggled to remember what it was he needed to think about. What it was he had to do. There was definitely something that he must do, and urgently.
He tried to get to his feet and went as far as going onto his knees. He reached for the ambulance men’s arms as they moved across to support him.
“Will you sit down please,” asked one.
“Will you wait a minute,” echoed the other.
Will.
Will.
Oh dear God, it was Will that he meant to remember. That madman coming out of the night and punching him. The other men kicking him on the ground. The madman – that old familiar crazed face – turning to laugh as he hurried away with Will in his arms.
The man pushed himself to his feet and screamed out, “Will . . .”
6.58pm SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“Sweeties?” he says suddenly, “sweeties for Will?”
The little devil kicked off when we were about halfway across the green, just as we went by the Ferris wheel. He started up as he realised he wasn’t going to get a go on it.
(Well be sensible, how could I?)
We just kept on going, though, the little tinker getting more and more upset.
He began with a yell, almost indignant it was.
Still I kept moving, going faster and faster. I ended up barging my way through, pushing people aside in my haste to get away.
Then, God almighty, it turned into a high-pitched screech.
On and on it went, getting louder and louder the farther away we got from that fucking wheel.
Know what? He was causing a scene.
Something of a stink, you might say. People were turning and looking at us. Angry looks, from some of those I’d pushed aside. One or two shouted at us. One old man flailed his arms in our direction, gesticulating wildly because I’d banged into his stupid wife.
Still the little ’un kept wailing, with more and more people turning as we went on by. And not just looking but seeing and remembering us, that’s the thing.
(Well you would, wouldn’t you?)
“Ssshh,” I kept saying, as loud as I could, “later, we’ll do it later.”
(Well I couldn’t think what else to say.)
Almost there, almost there, almost there to the high street.
“Sweets,” I tell him at last, pulling him up and bringing his head close towards mine so he can hear me clearly, “let’s get some sweets. What sweets do you like?”
What sweets do children eat these days? In my day, it was all blackjacks and fruit salads and pink shrimps. Those are what I ate.
“Smarties?” he answers, his hands going up in the air again in triumph. “Smarties?”
“Yes,” I say, “Smarties for William. I’ll give you some money to buy Smarties.”
Into the high street. It’s busy, but not as manic because people are standing and waiting for the parade. It’s where f
amilies march down the high street with lanterns and torches, down towards the funfair. I told you, didn’t I? Remember? Seven, half seven, maybe? They’re starting to move in now, away from the seafront and the funfair, lining the pavements to either side of the street, waiting expectantly.
“Here,” I say, turning and looking at William, “hold on to this. For sweets.”
His eyes light up, as he reaches and grabs the ten-pound note, squeezing it in his tightly closed fist.
“For sweeties? Sweeties for William?”
“Yes,” I say, “Now come on, we’ve got to go to the car, then we’ll get as many sweets as you can eat.”
We’ve got to walk right along the high street almost to the other end to get to the road that takes us up towards the car. It’s late now, although some of the shops on either side of the road are still open.
And the streets are lined maybe two or three deep in places with people waiting for the procession to come by. It’s warming up, I can tell you. A definite buzz in the air, with lots of excitement for the coming procession.
I tuck my head down, hold William’s hand and start moving; got to be quick, no time to waste. No time at all. Won’t take us long, though, just to the end of the high street, cross over and up the hill to the car and away.
Keep my head down.
Moving along.
A dad in a hurry, on his way home for tea, that’s me.
It’s busy, but I’m moving along nicely. Except the little one doesn’t walk in time with me; he isn’t hurrying along. He’s doing some sort of skipping routine. And pulling his hand in and out of mine as he shuffles back and forth. Two steps forward, one step back. We’ve not got time for this, really we haven’t. Two steps forward, another one back. But he’s quiet and happy and he’s moving along. So we’ll go with it. For now.
Not far, we’re moving along well enough.
Two steps forward, one step back. Two steps forward, one step back.
And now he’s humming. God knows what. In fact, he’s singing to himself.
Along we go. Not so far until we are off the high street, across and up that quiet side street and at the car and off and away. No one is looking at us. Nobody is taking any notice.
Piece of cake, this.
Easy-peasy.
Done and dusted.
So then he stands stock-still, the little man. And he’s staring ahead, with a look of concentration on his face. What the hell is he looking at? Is it her? I look up. The sister-in-law’s not there. No coppers. Nothing. Nobody at all. Just people, mums and dads and kids, all waiting for the procession to begin.
“Come on,” I say, chivvying him along. “Hurry up and we can get those sweets.”
“We?” he says.
“Yes, we.”
“We?” he says again.
We? We what?
“Come on,” I repeat, pulling his arm now, “we’ve got to get going, come on William, hurry.”
“We?” he says and then once more, this time more emphatically. “We!” And then I get it: not “we” but “wee”. He wants a wee right here and now, halfway up the high street. No time to waste, I sweep him up into my arms.
“Come on,” I say again, moving forward into some sort of shuffling run as best I can with so many people now moving back and forth across our path. “Nearly there, nearly there; we need to cross the road and then you can have a wee.”
On we go.
On we go.
He’s quiet for a moment, as I move as quickly as I can behind the gathering crowds.
On we go.
On we go.
“Excuse me,” I say, dropping William to the ground and pushing my way through the crowd to cross the road. “Excuse me.”
They move, reluctantly, to let us through, not wanting to lose their position at the front of the pavement, the best view of all. William’s quiet, or at least I can’t hear him, as his head is down and it looks as though he is trying to keep on his feet.
Then we’re through the crowds and at the pavement and I can see, farther along and up to my left, ready to start, the long queue of the procession itself. A mix of mums and dads and children holding Chinese lanterns and torches that they’re waving about, lighting up the night sky.
The police are all down that end too. I can see three or four at the front of the procession, ready to lead it. And more, so far as I can see, to either side and stretching back, ready to contain the procession and stop it spreading and spilling onto the pavements as it moves along the route.
All we need to do is cross the high street – now – and get along and into the darkness of the side road. I step to the edge of the pavement, pulling William along behind me. Got to make this nice and calm and peaceful because, the thing is, the whole of the fucking high street, three or four deep to either side, is looking down towards the procession. Each and every one of those fuckers is going to see me and William as I cross the street. So it needs to look dead natural and ordinary, doesn’t it?
A normal dad just crossing the road with his lad, maybe nipping back home, just round the corner, so the tiddler can do his business. Then back out again to the procession and the fireworks.
Perfect. Who’d think anything else?
I pull William to his feet; don’t want to snatch him up in my arms again as we cross just in case he cries or struggles and people look at us, and remember.
I take his hand in mine and he looks up at me and smiles. I look down at him and smile back. We’re okay, him and me. Big Dad and little lad, that’s us.
We step out into the open.
I turn my head to the left towards the procession, almost automatically, even though I know there’s no traffic there.
I turn my head to the right for a split-second, no traffic there either, of course.
I turn my head back automatically once more, look left again.
And then, above the chattering of the procession, the hubbub of the crowds and the noise of the funfair in the distance, I hear her again.
“Wiiilllliammm!”
That fucking woman.
Dear God.
I turn back to my right, I know she’s there, that she’s seen us, been following us, hunting us down, but I need to see how close she is to us. I need to know how long I’ve got.
100, 150 yards away, that’s all.
And waving her arms in the air. The crowds turn to look at her.
“Wiiilllliammm!”
7.06pm SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
A small crowd stood watching as the young man, unsteady on his feet, was supported by the St John Ambulance men. The young man faced the policeman who had come forward as the crowd shuffled to either side.
“No, officer,” said the young man, his voice rising. “You’re not listening. My son, my adopted son, Will, has been taken by his biological father. Just now. He’s snatched him. You have to do something about it. He’s in great danger.”
“If you’ll just wait a moment, sir, I can take a statement.”
“There isn’t time for that, really there isn’t. My wife and I, his aunt, adopted Will after his mother died . . . was killed by his father, actually. You see, his biological father, he’s dangerous. He’s been certified and sectioned because he’s a menace to the public. He’s just got him, Will, and he’s run away with him.”
The young man could hear the panic in his voice and knew what he was saying sounded nonsensical. He tried to appear calmer and more rational, talking steadily, explaining himself.
“So this man – the biological father, you say – is he the one you’ve been fighting with?”
“No, I’ve not been fighting with anyone. I was behind the hut so my son could go to the toilet when his father came and knocked me down and these squaddies then started kicking me. It was only when these ladies here saw what was happening that they stopped and ran away.”
“And why would they do that, sir? These squaddies. Why would they set upon you?”
“Listen . . . because . .
. his father told them I was, look, he said I was a paedophile and they believed him. My son’s a type one diabetic so we need to find him quickly. He needs help, constant checks . . . injections.”
“I’ll report it to the duty inspector now sir and he’ll pass it straight on to the CID team on duty. Meantime, we need to get you down the station and take a proper statement from you. Get those cuts and bruises seen to as well.”
The young man lunged forward, his arms pushing at the policeman’s shoulders. The policeman stepped back as the two St John Ambulance men held on to the young man’s arms, pulling him away.
“You’re still not listening to me,” shouted the young man. “Will’s in terrible danger. You need to alert all the police round here, right here and now on the streets. Not some duty inspector sitting miles away in some office. His father’s mad . . . and dangerous. I’m telling you. And Will could go into a coma if he’s not looked after. Why won’t you just do something to help?”
The policeman reached for his radio and turned away as he started talking. The young man caught snatches of what he was saying, “ . . . send a car . . . paedophile . . . seafront toilets.”
The young man let out a cry of anguish.
7.07pm SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
I drag William up into my arms, high against my shoulder. I swing him round to my left, so I’m between him and the woman down the high street.
I smile at him, pretend to be talking, acting natural.
All the time, I’m thinking, be calm. I can’t lose control, see? I can’t rush, break into a run, making it look like I’m trying to run from that screaming fucking woman. Someone will grab me, pull me to the ground, stop me getting away. I couldn’t bear it, not now. Not now I’ve got him.
“Wiiilllliammm!”
Christ, there she goes again. What’s she doing? Is she standing there pointing at me? Is she running? Is she racing towards me?
I daren’t look. Mustn’t turn around. I’ve got to act natural. Make it seem as though I haven’t heard her. That she’s nothing to do with me. A nut, that’s what she is. A drunk, maybe. Someone who’s not worth a second glance. Not by me anyhow. I’m just a normal dad out and about with his little fellow-me-lad.
Sweet William Page 12