I wake – in the bed next to William.
Looking up, there’s a man staring down at me.
As I come to and focus, he swings round to run away.
10.40am SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I reach out to grab the man, too late – he is up and by the bedroom door, pulling it open.
As he does so, he turns, wasting precious seconds, glancing back at me. He’s scared, knows who I am. I can tell.
I’m up and out of the bed and after him, almost without thinking – he’s the owner, I know instinctively, and I have to get to him before he’s down the stairs and out the front door, screaming for help.
At the top of the stairs, he hesitates, looking down and then back at me for a second or so, deciding whether or not he can outrun me.
Too late now, he stops, turns back round and says to me, almost defiantly, “I know who you are. You and the boy.”
“It’s not what you think,” I answer, keeping my distance from him.
“The police stopped me on the way in. I never dreamed for a minute . . .” He holds my gaze for a second, then drops it, not knowing what to do next.
He seems to rally in confidence, what with me unsure what to say and not replying. “Give yourself up. The police are all over the place. You won’t get away.”
“We were going to stay here for a day or two, that’s all, until it blows over. I’ve got it all figured.”
He nods, trying to look calm and thoughtful, his hand going up to his chin. How he must yearn to wipe those pinpricks of sweat from his face.
“I have to stay here. We have to stay here. Me and my son. For a day or two longer, that’s all.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that. Yes, that makes sense.” He nods slowly and then stops, not certain what to say or do next. It’s as though he’s about to turn and walk away as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. As if this were a perfectly normal conversation.
He looks at me again, eye to eye this time. He’s terrified, I can see.
I look back at him, working out how to tell him he has to stay here too.
“I . . . I can’t let you leave the house.” My voice cracks, it comes out sounding more like a nervous request than a statement of fact.
He looks around, swallowing on a dry throat.
“My partner’s coming up,” he whispers. I have to strain to hear him. “He’ll be here soon.”
We look at each other.
Neither of us knows what to do next.
I can’t keep two of them here and quiet until we leave, that’s for sure.
“Papa?”
It all happens so fast. We both hear William call out at the same moment, the rustling as the duvet is pushed back followed by the soft sound of footsteps on the floor. The man takes his chance as I turn to look towards the bedroom. He twists round, ready to run down the stairs. In the split second he stands there, with his back to me, I lift my foot, put it in the small of his back and push him with all of my might out and over the stairs.
He seems to hang in mid-air for a second.
Falls forward, hitting the banister, once, twice and again as the momentum of his weight carries him downwards.
Hits his head hard on the wall near the bottom and lies dead still.
“Papa?” says William, coming out of the bedroom. He’s rubbing his eyes. “Wee?”
I watch and wait. A moment. Maybe a minute. There’s no movement from the man. I take William by the hand, steering him away from the staircase and gently towards the bathroom.
We stand there, by the toilet, me straining to hear something, anything, maybe the sound of the man twitching, even struggling painfully to his feet.
I’m distracted.
William reaches to flush it.
“No,” I shout suddenly, reaching out and hitting his hand away, instinctively.
I stand there for a moment longer in the terrible, strained silence, hoping to God no one has heard me next door or outside on the street. It’s all quiet – I think. I’ve no real way of knowing now. Just have to take my chance and carry on. William turns his face up at me, his bottom lip pushed out. I pick him up, making soothing sounds and noises as I sweep him back into the bedroom. I’ve got to get him to lie down or at least sit quietly, keeping to himself, while I check the man at the bottom of the stairs.
Is he dead?
Stunned and about to wake up?
What do I do with him if he’s dead – or close to it?
William does not want to sit quietly. He certainly does not want to lie down. He doesn’t even want to be on the bed. However much I cajole and jolly him along, he struggles and simply won’t stay put. I hold him in place on the bed with one hand, an angry, almost buzzing noise coming from him, as I rummage by the side of the bed for the biscuits.
“Here,” I say, sounding more angry than I should, as I thrust a handful of broken-up biscuits at him. “Here’s your food, eat it all up now. Come on.”
That seems to settle him, at least for a moment, as I move across the bedroom to the door.
Do I shut it?
So I can deal with the man without William seeing?
But what if William yells out and they hear him next door?
I leave the door half-open, taking a quick glance back at William, head down and chewing on the biscuits, as I step back onto the landing. I look down the stairs. The man hasn’t moved, not a flicker. He’s still and utterly lifeless.
Know what?
He’s stone-cold dead.
I wish he wasn’t. I’d not hurt a fly except in self-defence, that’s for sure. You know that, don’t you? Yes, of course you do.
No one will know what happened; not if I leave him there as he is. When someone eventually comes, they’ll just think he fell down the stairs. A tragic accident. I’ll tidy up behind us. Leave everything as we found it – even put the key back by the shed – and no one will know we’ve been here at all.
I pause, listening for William, maybe next door too.
All quiet.
Two, three, four steps down I go at a time.
Only problem is this, I realise, standing over the man’s dead body – if someone comes up to the front door, a neighbour maybe, and looks in, they’ll see the man’s body on the staircase. But how likely is it that someone will come up the path, let alone peer through the glass on the door, on a Sunday?
Not very.
But if they do?
Before we’ve had a chance to get away.
I could move him. Maybe drag him into the living room or the kitchen? No good – anyone glancing into either, maybe that beat bobby on his rounds again, will see the body straightaway.
Can I drag him upstairs? I’d have to keep him out of the bedroom and bathroom; I can’t have William seeing him. It wouldn’t be right and proper, would it?
The spare room? It’s full of boxes and household things; maybe this man and his partner have been moving themselves in from London over a few weekends. It’s probably the best place – only thing is, I’d need to arrange things so that it looked as though he’d had an accident there. Clean up the mess here on the stairs too.
There’s a smear of blood on the paintwork by the side of his head.
Have to lift him up, off the stairs, to drag him upwards.
I put my hands round his shoulders and head, ready to lift him.
He’s still breathing.
Fuck’s sake, he’s still alive.
I turn him slowly over, so he’s lying on his back stretched out down at the bottom of the stairs. His head falls back; a dark trickle of blood, more black than red, runs from his temple to the lid of his right eye. He’s spark out, that’s for sure. But, moving my head closer to his mouth, he is breathing. It sounds shallow but steady. There’s life in him for certain. I feel over his skull, not sure what it is I am doing or looking for; some sign, maybe, that he has cracked it and is going to die anyway, no matter what I do. It feels, well, as it should, I guess. He’s alive and is going to sta
y that way.
Now what?
You tell me.
I’m damned every which way.
Leaving him where he is for now, I move quickly back up the stairs and into the spare room. Remember? Boxes and bags and all sorts? I crouch down – just in case – and shuffle across the floor. Men’s clothes – casual stuff, nightwear, some shoes and slippers – are in the first few bags. Towels and fabrics in the next two. A box with curtains and various knick-knacks wrapped in newspaper. I open these carefully; a couple of pieces of china, a heavy doorstop in the shape of a dog and a garish, multi-coloured glass ashtray. I pick the last two items up, one in each hand, to work out which is the heaviest.
It’s got to be done.
What choice do I have?
You tell me. There’s no choice at all.
I glance back into the front bedroom, checking William’s still there – he is, lying on his back now sucking his thumb contentedly and staring into space. Not for long, though. He’ll be up and about any moment. Little children don’t sit still forever even if they’re well-behaved like William is. I have to be quick.
I walk to the staircase and down towards the man. I stand over him again, steeling myself this time to raise the heavy glass ashtray up and then, I’ll have to shut my eyes, bringing it down as hard on his head as I can.
I look down.
A bloodshot eye stares back at me, focusing on my face.
He whispers something, so quietly I almost can’t hear him.
“Help me,” that’s what it is. I stop, thinking for a moment. I have to work things through in my head. Think on my feet, as it were. Thing is, he’s no threat. He can’t be. Not really. He’s not going to live that long. I don’t think so anyway.
I put the ashtray carefully on the stairs beside his feet. Moving behind him, I lean forward, wrapping my arms around his chest, heaving him, as slowly and as gently as I can, back up the stairs, one step at a time. Now we are at the top and it’s easier as I pull him as carefully as I can into the spare room.
I lay him on the floor.
Put towels and fabrics under his head.
Prop him up slightly.
He’s okay to be left for a minute or two as I pull a small hand towel from a bag and walk carefully to the bathroom. I need to wet it, maybe wipe the man’s face, squeeze some water over his lips. Need to be careful, though. I turn the cold water tap slightly, pushing the edge of the towel below it to catch and soak up the running water. There’s a second or two’s hesitation, a knocking and a clanking from somewhere up above and then the water runs freely.
I wipe the blood from the man’s face.
Can’t have William seeing him like that.
Cradle his head as I squeeze water from the towel into his mouth.
He tries to struggle up, is too weak, and settles for a brief smile, of sorts, as he slips back down. He focuses on me again – and I take in his appearance as I look back at him. An older man, maybe late 50s or early 60s, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, free, amazingly, from blood. Thin, what they call wiry. His hair dyed black, too dark for his lined face. But it is a kind face.
Sitting here quietly, it hits me suddenly.
What he said earlier.
“My partner’s coming up . . . he’ll be here soon.”
“Look at me,” I say to the man, as forcefully as I can without William hearing. I lean forward, pulling him up by the arms so our faces are inches from each other. “What did you mean, when is your partner coming up?”
His head lolls back, as he slips in and out of consciousness.
“Listen,” I say, laying him back down and shaking his face to wake him. “What did you mean about your partner? When is he coming?”
No good, he’s unconscious again. I use the wet towel to wipe his face, will have to wait until he comes to once more. Will ask him then.
Meanwhile, I search his pockets, see what there is. Inside his jacket pocket is a thin, black leather wallet. I empty it, spreading the contents by the side of his body. A driving licence – his name is Gerald something-cwski – has a small photo stuck to the back of it, showing him as a much younger man with an older, bald-headed man and a small white terrier between them, its tongue out as if it’s panting.
“Is this him?” I say louder again, shaking the man by the arm and putting the photo close to his face. “Is this your partner?” No use, he’s still not there.
I rummage through his trouser pockets. A handkerchief in one, a small key ring, with two keys on it, in the other. I study the key ring, with a Mini logo. One key is an old Yale – the front door of this house, I’d guess – while the other is a car key, presumably for a Mini. So, out there, probably just outside the front door and no more than 12 feet away, is our getaway.
“Go,” replies the man suddenly. He’s laid back, his eyes shut, his face twisted in pain. “Go!” he says again, as strongly as he can.
“Gerald?” I say sweetly, leaning forward so our heads are almost touching, so he can be sure to hear me. “Can you hear me?”
He nods, painfully, his lips twisting. I push the corner of the towel into his mouth and he sucks on it slowly, like a baby. “Better?” I ask nicely. He nods, almost imperceptibly. “What did you say about your partner coming up? When will he arrive?”
It seems to agitate him. “Go!” he says again. “Go . . . please.” It strikes me that he’s frightened, not of me, nor for himself – he must surely know his life is ebbing away – but for his partner. He’s worried that I will kill him too.
“We’ll go, me and my little boy, later; when it’s dark. We can’t go before then. It’s not safe. When is your partner due here?”
This time, a huge effort, I don’t know how he does it, he somehow struggles upwards onto his elbows, as I support him by the arms. His eyes open, he struggles to focus now, his eyes rolling back and he almost spits out the words, “Go . . . now . . . Go . . . now.”
He slumps back.
God forgive me.
I’ve killed again.
11.20am SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
The four of them, the young couple and the old couple, flanked by two police family liaison officers, one man and one woman, looked at the older plain-clothes officer who stood before them in the doorway of the cottage.
The young man and woman went to speak, both of them getting to their feet as the older officer turned to face them.
She spoke, her hands gesturing them to sit down. “We’ve no news yet, I’m afraid. I’ve just come over to tell you what we know, to put you in the picture.”
“No one’s told us anything, it’s been ages . . . I’ve been using this . . . my phone . . . to see if there is any news, on Sky.”
“Kept us in the dark . . . we should be the first to know, not the last.”
“And you will be, just as soon as we have something to report. Let me tell you what’s been happening.”
The two police officers, responding to the senior officer’s nods and movements, stepped back towards the kitchen. The two couples sat and waited for the senior officer to speak.
“May I . . .?” She sat down on an armchair, leaning forward. “Orrey – Raymond John Orrey – has been at a unit near Nottingham for the past 18 months or so and escaped on Friday night at about midnight. He stole a car from Nottingham and drove here yesterday morning. It’s the one you have outside . . . we’re keeping watch with officers . . . but we think he’s long gone.”
“With Will?” asked the young woman. “He still has Will?”
“We assume so . . . as his biological father . . . we have no reason to suppose otherwise. But he is on foot, so far as we know. There have been no reports of stolen cars in this vicinity in the past 24 hours or anything out of the ordinary. There has been a domestic incident – I understand you’re aware of that, Mrs Veitch – and we are still looking into that matter and trying to contact the estranged husband. The car for that household remains there, which may mean Orrey had no involvement. That�
�s now been immobilised. We have this one to do, outside here, at some stage, but we’ve officers at an observation point for the time being.”
The old man spoke up, “It said on . . . Natalie’s telephone that you’ve been searching for him and we saw, well we heard, lots of activity in the night, with helicopters. Did they see anything?”
“We had roadblocks on the main roads after you reported to the station. And officers from the parade were deployed to check houses in the area where you last saw him. We think he is somewhere outside of Aldeburgh. We had helicopters up and they’ve not seen anything yet. We suspect they’ll be hiding in a farmer’s barn somewhere. They may have hitched a lift. We’ve let the TV people in to get the news out there far and wide and our officers are searching farms and outbuildings. We still have roadblocks on the main roads, checking cars going out just in case.”
“If the boy is alive, officer, and I very much doubt that knowing what we do about Raymond Orrey, but if he is, you had better be quicker than that,” responded the older woman, standing up.
The old man interrupted, “William is a type one diabetic and without his medication, and proper food and care, which he won’t get, he will become seriously ill very soon. It could even be fatal. You must hurry.”
12.32pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
Me and my boy, little William, are sitting on the floor, just as we were; best place for us, I reckon. For now anyway. I’ve been thinking things through carefully, long and hard, you might say, and have decided it’s too risky to wait here until Monday. We’re going to go tonight, just as soon as it gets dark.
I can’t bear it here.
I feel trapped; too much is going on around us.
I want to be out of here as soon as I can, free, and on the way to France.
I’ve the ashtray on the floor next to me – if the dead man’s partner comes in before we leave when it gets dark, well, let’s just say I’m ready for him. I don’t want to, mind. But I’d have no choice. What else can I do?
Sweet William Page 18