7.40pm SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Neighbour?
Copper?
William!
It’s the little fellow himself – he’s sitting up and twitching and spluttering back to life.
Know what?
He blacked out.
That’s all.
His hands go up to his face and he rubs at his eyes like he’s coming round.
I race across, sweeping him up in my arms and smothering him with kisses. I can’t help myself. I make lots and lots of “mwah mwah” noises each time I kiss him just like an ever-loving daddy would do.
He pulls his face back, focusing on me, uncertain, not sure where he is.
He’s just woken up, after all!
Most children would cry; but not my fine little lad.
“Hello, William, hello,” I whisper softly, and as lovingly as I can. “Do you want some sweets? Some really nice sweets?”
He takes a minute or two but then seems to know what I’m saying, nodding and smiling slowly as he comes to. It’s that magic word, ‘sweets’, you see. The hands go up in the air again, his little fingers closing triumphantly into fists like he’s won that World Cup.
That’s my boy!
“Come on, William,” I say quietly (I daren’t shout, after all). “Come on!” We move to the kitchen door, me ready with the key.
Opening it.
Moving inside.
Shutting it.
We’re safe, at last – at least for the time being. I need to look over these kitchen shelves and the fridge – I’ll open that for a little light - and the cupboards. There’s a larder too. I must find something to feed William. Keep him quiet and happy. I can’t risk him crying out with hunger – he might be heard. There’s a gap, thanks to the alleyway, between us and the house to one side, but the house to the other side may be occupied.
The next-door house is dark and there were no signs of life when I looked up at it when I was outside. But who’s to say there’s not an old dear lying in bed who’d hear the little fellow crying? She’d soon be up against the wall, straining to hear if she’d imagined it or not. How are we going to spend the next 48 hours in this tiny terraced house without making any noise at all?
Not easy. No, not easy at all.
And then it hits me. What if there isn’t an old dear lying in the dark next door?
But what if there is in this one?
What if she’s here, in this house, upstairs right now?
Say she looked out and saw me in the garden, heard me opening the back door and, while I am standing here deciding what to do, she is pressing 9 . . . 9 . . . 9 on the mobile phone her son bought her, which she keeps by the side of the bed at night just in case?
I’ve no more than seconds.
Dropping William onto the floor, I’m racing out along the narrow hallway, turning back and up the stairs, onto the landing. I open one door. A tiny bathroom. Another, a spare room stacked full of boxes and half-open bags of household items. Third and final door, the front bedroom.
A double bed.
No one here, thank Christ.
I sit down on it.
Fuck, he’s yelled out. William, the little’un, back downstairs. A sudden yelp of pain. Something’s happening and if there’s anyone next door, awake or asleep, or anyone passing by on the street, they’ll hear him. Sure to if he does it again.
I’m up off the bed and back down the stairs.
Doubling back into the kitchen.
Hands over his mouth, he has to be quiet, no matter what.
Somehow, he’s opened the fridge and the door’s swung back and trapped his hand. He’s struggling, determined to free himself. I pull his hand out, holding him tight, one hand over his mouth again as I stand there, straining to listen for sounds next door or outside on the street.
“Be quiet,” I whisper urgently as he wriggles in my arms. “Stop it, William.”
He wriggles harder now as if he’s fighting me, desperate to be free; if I let go, I know he will shout out long and hard and everyone, next door and outdoors, the whole fucking world, will hear. Then we’re well and truly shafted. That will be the end of it. I’ll go down all guns blazing, though, I’ll tell you that now. Listen to me.
Holding William as tightly as I dare with my right arm, hand over his mouth, I pull the fridge door open again with my left. Sweet F.A. in it; no one’s living here at the moment. At least, not on a day-to-day basis. There are just leftover bits and pieces in the fridge.
A tub of margarine and yoghurts.
“Look, William,” I say, “Yoghurt, strawberry yoghurt!” I reach for a tub, pushing it in front of his face so he can see. He focuses, thank God, and smiles. I loosen my grip on him, ever so gently at first, ready to clamp my hand back tight again if he makes the slightest sign of calling out.
“Spoon?” he says. “Spoon, please.”
I fumble around as fast as I can, find one in a drawer and sit down next to him. Handing the spoon to him, I get a chance to listen.
No sound from next door.
Nothing from the back.
Will check the front in a minute, just need to get my breath.
Know what this is? I reckon it’s a second home and a couple from London has bought it recently and is now starting to move some bits and pieces in. That would account for the bed – it’s got pillows, a sheet and a duvet on it – and the snacks and stuff in the kitchen. And the boxes and bags in the spare room; those might be full of bric-a-brac and household knick-knacks but could be useful for spare clothes, maybe a shaver and even some things I can change William into.
William stretches up, holding the pot towards me. He has a puzzled look on his face. What’s the fucking matter, William? (I think this, of course, I don’t say it – nice dads like me don’t say that sort of thing, not to little ones anyway.)
“What?” I say, nicely. “What’s the matter?” I try one of my cheeky grins; that should do the trick. Is it sweets he wants, is that it? I’m not going to say “sweets” and that’s a fact. If I say that word and there aren’t any in the house – and there won’t be, I don’t reckon – it might make things tricky. He might get restless and noisy.
And then what will I do?
You tell me.
He has to be quiet. No matter what.
It’s the lid, stupid. The yoghurt pot still has the lid on it. I didn’t peel it back and he can’t do it himself with his little fingers. Clever boy though he is – like father, like son – I guess he doesn’t know the word ‘lid’ yet either.
I open his yoghurt for him, make some soothing noises and then start rummaging through the cupboards, just to see what’s in them. I’m feeling rather hungry myself now and, if we can find sweets, or anything like them, maybe a banana or something, that will come in handy later for keeping William quiet.
What we need to do, thinking about it carefully – rationally, if you like – is very simple. We gather up whatever we can find to eat, take it upstairs to the front bedroom, and sit quietly in bed together and eat it all up. Once we’ve done that – and I know the little fellow will probably need a wee and a wotsit too – we settle down for the night and have a good sleep.
Tomorrow?
We’ll worry about that in the morning.
I’ll think of something for sure.
Two nights here should do it, to let things blow over, with us leaving when it gets dark on Monday evening.
William has finished eating and has what looks like a big fat blob of strawberry yoghurt on his chin.
I crouch down, “William, you’ve missed a bit”, and I point to my chin and then to his. He touches his face, somehow smearing the blob all over his cheek. He then pulls his hand away and looks at it.
Little tinker.
It’s all over his chin, his face and his hand now.
Messy devil.
“Wait, William, wait,” I say, turning to the larder that’s behind me, just by the back door. I open that – nothing to dri
nk, not even orange squash, so we’ll have to have tap water when we get thirsty. Not much to eat either. Two packets of biscuits, a big bag of crisps and a pack of cream crackers won’t keep us going for long. Down below, there are some cleaning items, including a roll of kitchen paper, in a bucket.
“Fingers,” I say, pulling him up and onto his feet, “give us your fingers, William, I’ll wipe them.” Again, I make soothing noises. That’s what you have to do with little people, you know – the ‘kiss it better’ routine as you clean them up.
Suddenly, I hear the sudden revving of a car out in the street; sounds like it’s down to the right and coming up the hill, towards the woman’s house. Another police car? More CID? Beat bobbies? I can’t help thinking that the police are starting to pull things together at last.
No time to waste.
“Here, hold these,” I say to William, tearing open a packet of biscuits and handing it to him with the crackers from the cupboard. He drops one packet, reaches for it and then drops the other as well.
Do I have to do everything myself?
I pick up the biscuits, pulling two out and pushing them into his hands, then turn and shut the larder door.
“This way,” I whisper to William, “follow me.” I shuffle to the door and out into the hall.
“Come on, William, hurry up.”
He’s not followed me. He’s still in the kitchen.
I turn back, standing in the doorway.
He’s sat back down on the floor, cross-legged, with the biscuits in his lap. He looks up at me and smiles a big beaming smile, his mouth full of chewed-up, mushy biscuit. He’s pushing the mush through his teeth with his tongue, like he knows he’s being cute.
It’s hard not to laugh, despite everything.
What a sweetheart.
As cute as a button, he is.
I put what I’m carrying down on the floor, neatly as I can, just outside the kitchen door – I’ll come back downstairs for them later, when William is settled. I take a step forward and pick William up in my arms. He holds on tight to the biscuits.
Letting go of those, little William?
No fear!
I’ll have trouble getting one of them for myself, and that’s a fact.
We step into the hall. It’s long and narrow, with the stairs in front of me to my left, doubling back above my head towards the bathroom.
Living room door to my right – we’ll leave that for now as the front window will overlook the street. Too risky. Too dangerous by far.
The front door is at the other end of the hallway. Wooden, old-fashioned and with two strips of coloured glass at either side. You can make out all sorts of patterns in it. When I was small, we had something similar, but religious-looking. Fire and brimstone it was. Mother said the devil was moving about in it and watching me.
This glass is exactly the same. Like it has a life of its own. As I turn my head to one side, it kind of changes shape, shifts a little. As if it mirrors my movements. I bring my head up straight. The glass stays the same. I move my head to the right this time. Again, the glass stays as it was. Odd. I must have imagined it. I bring my head back up straight again. This time, the glass moves on its own, to the left and back up.
I realise what it is.
A man on the doorstep, shuffling about. A copper. I can see the dark outline of his helmet. He’s 10 feet away from me and William.
He moves again.
Rings the doorbell.
“Anyone in?”
7.49pm SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
I freeze, facing the front door, little William in my arms, his back to it.
Whatever I do, I cannot move. If I can see the copper’s outline swaying from side to side, he will see me and little William if we make the slightest movement.
There’s a second or two of silence.
The copper waits for a reply.
Nothing. Well, what do you expect?
William has his head down, is focusing on chewing his biscuit. He has both hands holding tightly onto the packet. I look at him, willing him not to move.
He’s humming happily.
William.
Wheels on the bus.
He starts to move, ever so slightly. He’s sitting on my crossed arms, rocking his bottom back and forth in time with what he’s humming.
Can the copper see William moving?
Hear him?
I can’t move a muscle.
I have to just stand here and hope. If I were religious, this is the moment I’d start praying.
Another second or two’s silence.
Other than William’s gentle rocking and humming.
If the copper pushes his face up against the glass, peering through, we’re certainly fucked.
If he crouches down and opens the letterbox to look in, we’re definitely fucked.
If the copper does anything but move away, now, right now, we’re well and truly fucked.
You see, William’s finished his biscuit. He lifts his head. Looks at me. Opens his mouth to show me. The mush, leastways most of it, seems to have gone.
William makes an “urr” noise, at the back of his throat. Like he’s just realised he’s finished it and really, really wants another.
I daren’t say anything.
Can’t even nod.
What do I do?
All I can do is look at him eye-to-eye, then drop my gaze down to the packet of biscuits in his hands. I do it again. Eye-to-eye. Drop gaze to biscuits. Once more. Eye-to-eye. Drop gaze to biscuits. Got it, William? (Take another fucking biscuit for yourself, why don’t you?)
No use. He makes another noise now at the back of his throat, wiggling his bottom.
He’s about to make a louder noise now, one that will be heard.
And all I can do is stand here.
Just like the copper is doing on the doorstep.
A second passes.
William stops moving, looking at me as if he expects me to do something and do it now.
Another second.
The copper stands, no movement at all, on the doorstep waiting for a reply.
One more second.
William opens his mouth again, wider this time, showing me he’s eaten his biscuit.
And a further second.
Still the copper stands there, waiting, listening, for someone, maybe in bed, to get up and answer the doorbell.
A final second.
William shuts his mouth and opens it again.
The last second.
The copper moves, I can see the outline of his arm reaching up to ring the doorbell again.
William’s face contorts.
The copper is pushing at the front door, checking it’s secure.
William jumps, turning towards the noise.
I clamp a hand over his mouth, gripping him tightly with the other arm.
The copper turns away and I can hear his footsteps on the path.
I slump to the floor, loosening my grip and then cuddling William, reaching for the packet he’s still holding. “Here,” I say, “William, have another biscuit.” I’m drenched in sweat, can feel myself shaking. That was close, the closest yet. I need to sit here for a moment or two, get my breath back, just settle myself before we take ourselves upstairs to bed down for the night.
To be expected, really – the copper. House-to-house enquiries about the woman up the street, that’s all, that’s what’s happening now. Of course, it is – it’s only to be expected. Or is it for me? Either way, there’s no point in the coppers waiting until the morning. They need to walk up and down the streets, knocking on doors, asking householders if they’ve seen or heard anything. Stands to reason, that does. Little point in doing it in the morning.
Problem is – for the coppers – most of the people up and down this street aren’t actually in. They’ve been down at the seafront for the fun and games. Most of them won’t be coming back for another hour or so yet, later if they haven’t got children. So the coppers have no one to inte
rview about what they might or might not have seen. All the coppers can do, when they get to a darkened house, is what this one here did.
Ring the doorbell.
Wait a minute or two.
Check all is secure front and back and then go.
The copper would have scanned the front windows for a break-in as he walked up the path. He’d have listened out for sounds inside as he rang the doorbell. Checked the front door had not been broken in by pushing it with his hand.
Front and back.
He’d turn and go down the pathway to the back.
That’s where he’s coming now.
To the back of the house, to make sure there’s no sign of any break-in. He’ll check the back gate (which is shut and as it should be). He’ll look up and down the garden, maybe shake the shed door (which is just fine too, all locked and undamaged). He’ll walk up the back path, looking over the windows upstairs and down as he does so (nice and tickety-boo). Finally, just before he leaves, he’ll look quickly through the back door (and see everything just so). Give the door a final push and away he goes.
That’s the thing, though, thinking about it.
The back door has a handle he might turn.
And, for the life of me, I cannot remember if I locked the back door or not.
7.53pm SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
Sit here and hold my breath or try to get that back door locked before the copper reaches it?
No choice.
Can’t fight for my life in front of the little ’un, can I?
Just not right, is it?
I rip open the biscuits, scattering them over the hall floor.
“Tea time. Eat up, William, eat up every last one,” I say, pushing William to one side so I can pull open the door into the kitchen.
(For God’s sake, William, be quiet about it, though, please be silent.)
I peer cautiously round the door into the kitchen, looking up at the back-door window. I hadn’t noticed before, or at least hadn’t registered, but it’s glass from the top to halfway down.
No blind.
No curtain.
Nothing.
If that copper looks in now, he’ll see me. No doubt about that. I have to be quick. Take my chance. On my hands and knees, I crawl into the kitchen, keeping my head below the level of the back-door glass. It gives me crucial seconds while the copper comes down the back path, checks the gate, enters and, what next, looks over the shed first like I did? I have to believe that he will. If not, if he comes straight to the back door and peers in, I’m done for.
Sweet William Page 15