I’d hear the key in the front door first.
The partner would come in, probably shouting a cheery “Hello.”
He’d look round, downstairs to begin with.
Nothing to see there. I’ve cleaned up the stairs. Front room? Well, I’ve not even opened the door to that, let alone been in there – it’s too easy to be seen from the street outside. I’ve straightened up the kitchen, though, left it as it was.
Maybe he’d be puzzled.
Call upstairs, thinking the dead man – I can’t bring myself to use his name, not now – may be lying down.
Up he’d come, a big smile on his face as he swings open the door.
I’d have to be quick, very quick, with my back to little William so he did not see me raise my arm and bring the ashtray down on the man’s head . . . again . . . and again. God knows how many times I’d need to do it. I’d have to drag him back outside, along to the spare room where I’ve covered the dead man’s body with towels and curtains. Finish him off there if I had to. Not what I want to do. But I’d have no choice.
Then back to waiting again.
Until it gets dark.
When it’s safe to leave.
William’s humming to himself. He does that, I’ve noticed. Just sits there, when he’s awake, and hums different tunes. He’s a self-contained, happy sort of chap. Some songs I know. Others I don’t. I join in humming when I know it. We daren’t sing, of course, not with people next door.
It’s been a good hour or more, since the man died.
Just sitting here, waiting.
The neighbours – did they hear anything?
I run through it in my mind again. The man’s voice, raised, as he stood above me. Footsteps as we ran to the staircase. Voices at the top of the stairs. William calling out. The man falling down, once, twice, three times and hitting his head. Me shouting at William in the bathroom. The bump-bump-bump as I dragged the man up the stairs and along the corridor.
Did next door hear something?
A sudden, unexpected noise. Had to, surely?
Uncertain though, imagining things?
Maybe they are there now, on the other side of this wall. Ears pressed to it, just listening, checking if what they thought they heard was real. Whispering their thoughts to each other. We have to be silent, no matter what. I daren’t let William sing out in happiness or cry or shout out in anger. Anything like that, when everything else is quiet, would be sure to be heard by next door. We can’t have that happen.
Did they see anything, have they spotted something odd, out-of-the-ordinary?
I’ve kept away from the front windows, haven’t even touched the curtains.
It’s been tempting to close them, pull them to, hide away. But what if someone in the houses opposite noticed, knew the owners were away and put two and two together and dialled 999? I daren’t risk it.
Thing is, I’m careful, me.
And smart, see?
I think about things no one else would. I’m clever like that. The first thing most people would do would be to close the curtains. Next thing you know, the police are smashing down the front door.
There are noises now, though. Out on the street. A hubbub, that’s what they call it. The police vans, maybe? Sky and the BBC on the move? Are they leaving? On their way to the next big story? All done and dusted and nothing to see here, so on your way please so everything can start getting back to normal? I’d say so. Yes, for sure. The vans are rumbling and tooting and making their way back out of town. Good news, I reckon. I can’t look out, though, can’t risk being seen by anyone on the outside. I don’t even sit up straight in case I’m seen from the windows of the houses opposite.
Have they seen something already?
The man standing over me as I slept.
Me jumping to my feet and chasing him.
I rerun exactly what happened in my head. They – anyone looking out of the windows of the houses opposite – could have seen the man in the bedroom, looking down at me. Nothing to worry about there; they’d be alert for me, a younger, bigger man, and a little boy. Would they have seen me jumping up? Maybe mistaken me for the man’s partner, at least from a distance? The little chap is the key, of course; if they saw him, they’d raise the alarm. First thing I’d know, the police would be breaking down the door. Guns, dogs, Christ knows what. No, I’ve not been seen. Must be careful not to let him be seen, little William.
Still waiting, me and the little fellow.
Rats in a trap, that’s what we are, thinking about it. At least until it’s dark in, what, four or five hours?
A long wait for us.
I’ve found paper and pens. A Basildon Bond notepad, for writing letters, really. And a fountain pen and pencil set, like you’d give as a gift for Christmas.
All unused and tucked in one of the boxes in the spare room. In among bank statements and other paperwork.
We’ve been drawing, him with the pencil and me with the pen, all sorts of things. Cats, dogs, you name it, we’ve drawn it.
I can’t sit up straight. I’m sure I said. We may be seen. We can’t even talk, let alone move about much. We may be heard. And I know the dead man’s partner is coming at any moment. “My partner’s coming up . . . he’ll be here soon.” That’s what the man said. Not just “My partner’s coming up”, not “My partner’s coming up, he’ll be here tonight” or “at 2pm” or whatever (so that I could be prepared), but “My partner’s coming up . . . he’ll be here soon.” Soon. That’s the thing, see? That’s the worry and what sets me all on edge. It’s the not knowing of it all. Here soon. How soon is soon?
This evening?
An hour?
Any moment now?
William shifts uncomfortably next to me. He pulls a face. I know what that is. Dads just do. It’s an instinct with us. Have to get him to the bathroom quickly. Crouched over, making encouraging noises, I hurry him out of the room and along the landing.
Too fucking late.
I clean him up as best I can. I put his pants back on him from the radiator and pull his trousers up. Will have to do for now. I’ve done my best but daren’t wash him properly or give him a bath. The noise of the water tank, the banging of the pipes, the running of the water – will all give us away to the people next door.
This isn’t easy, you know.
Sitting here, fiddling about doing next to nothing to keep a child quiet.
Listening out for the dead man’s partner to arrive at any moment.
It’s enough to drive you mad, it is.
1.00pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
“He’s missed last night’s, Rick, and this morning’s and the one now; what’s going to happen to him?” The young woman looked up from the sofa.
“Ssshhh,” he hushed her down, even though they were alone in the cottage while the family liaison officers had stepped outside and his parents had taken the opportunity to go for a “a well-deserved breath of fresh air”, as the old woman put it. “He’ll be fine for a while. It’s not an instant thing, he will have some insulin in his system . . . keep him going for a bit.”
“How do we know that . . . how do we know how long he’ll be fine? He wasn’t before, was he . . . at the start. Look . . .” she added, showing him the screen of her mobile phone. She read, “This is what this American site says, ‘Man with type one diabetes found dead in the morning after having been observed in apparently good health the day before.’” She choked through the last few words.
“That’s just America . . . it’s all scare stories over there . . . they might have had something else wrong with them anyway, their heart or something . . . drugs.” He moved to the front door to check again on the car that had been left there. “Will . . . he’ll just get tired and a bit scratchy today, that’s all. That’s probably for the best . . . he won’t trouble Orrey.”
“Won’t he? If he gets scratchy? Remember what Orrey used to do to Kate? She could never say what she thought, had to agree with everything he
ever said. Bow and bloody scrape to him. And she had to creep around the house in absolute silence so as not to anger him. How can you even think Will’s safe . . . if he cries when he’s hungry, or misses us?” She paused, struggling again with her composure.
“Thing is, Rick, you know this – if Orrey has to . . . If Orrey has to, he’ll do whatever he needs to do to get away. Will’s safe only while he’s no trouble. When he becomes a nuisance . . .” She sat down, her head dropping, fiddling with her phone again as she had all night long and for most of the morning.
“They’re saying on this newspaper site that we left him on his own and that we deserve to lose him . . . that he’s not ours anyway . . . look at the comments after this news story . . .” She went to pass the phone to the young man. “Know-All247 writes, ‘I’m very sorry but they should not have let the poor child out of their sight’ . . . what do they know, all these people? What’s it got to do with them?”
He brushed the phone away. “We need to do what the police say, just wait . . . there’s no point in keeping on checking these sites, upsetting yourself; they don’t know, do they? And people who email comments about things they know nothing about aren’t worth listening to . . . Nat, here, come and look.”
She jumped up, panic rising within her as she crossed to the front door. “What is it, what do you see?”
“Nothing . . . nobody. Don’t worry. The family liaison officers are over by the sea. I don’t see any other police any more. I think there was someone over there by the road in a green car. That’s gone. So too is that plain-clothes policewoman who was walking about by the prom. The car Orrey drove is still there, though . . . whether they secured that, I don’t know. I’m not sure where their observation place is . . . was; one of the houses I think. Perhaps they’re looking elsewhere now . . . he must have gone.”
In the distance, they saw the old man walking back towards them from the far side of the car park. He waved at them, attracting their attention. The old woman was some way behind him as he hurried forward as best he could on aching legs and feet.
The young man strained to hear what the older man was saying, was mouthing at them.
The young woman looked at the young man. “Maybe they’ve found him, Rick, maybe they’ve got him back.”
The young man went to speak as she hurried off across the car park. “It doesn’t seem . . . I don’t think my dad looks as though . . .” He stopped as he watched the young woman reach the old man and they exchanged words. As he saw her shoulders slump and she put her hands to her face, he ran across towards them.
“They’re leaving town, Richard,” said the old man, reaching out to touch his arm. “They’re going. All the television and radio people. I spoke to one of them and there have been sightings of Orrey and William . . . lots of sightings . . . on the roads into London. They’re heading off that way we think. They are closing in on them. We need to sit and wait for the police to come back and tell us they have got William back. It won’t be long now, I’m sure.” He turned and waved the family liaison officers over to tell them.
2.15pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
Hours it’s been.
Just sitting here.
Me and the little ’un.
God knows I’ve done everything to keep him quiet. We’ve hummed. We’ve sung (ever so quietly). We’ve drawn pictures. Loads and loads of pictures. We’ve done the water and wee routine again. And for good measure he’s been sick too. More than once. I don’t know why, he’s only been eating plain biscuits. Digestives and custard creams. Not much wrong with them.
We’ve had one or two tense moments, shall we say.
He can be tricky, I’ll tell you that.
He won’t just sit there and behave like a good little boy.
I’ve tried so hard. I have told him stories but he pulls away when I put my arm around him. He makes that angry, buzzing noise now and then for no good reason. I have played all sorts of games. I Spy seemed to keep him quiet for a little bit. Then I did this thing where you go “round and round the garden” on his hand then go “one step, two step and tickly under there” under his arm, but he pulled his hand back the moment I reached for his armpit. He’s an awkward so-and-so and that’s a fact.
But he’s just started to settle at last.
Become a little sleepy-headed even.
It’s about time.
I lift him onto the bed, give him a chance to have a sleep. And he does. I pull the duvet over him and he turns on his side with his thumb in his mouth again. It gives me a while to relax, shut my eyes for a minute or two; not that I dare fall asleep with the dead man’s partner due at any time. I check the glass paperweight is close by. I’ll need that. Now would be a good time for him to arrive, while William is asleep on the bed. Yes, a very good time.
Then it starts.
Quiet but persistent.
The tapping.
At first, I thought, straining to listen and to hear every noise, that I was imagining it. Assumed maybe it was the creak of the rafters of an old house or the knocking of a water pipe. That, somehow, my mind in a heightened state of awareness was playing tricks and taking an ordinary noise and turning it into something more sinister.
Tap . . .
Silence.
Tap . . .
Silence.
Tap . . .
There it goes again. Quite unmistakable. Not a random noise at all. But something real and steady.
Silence.
Longer this time.
Tap . . . tap . . . tap.
My mind is playing tricks on me. I can’t work out where it’s coming from. Maybe the back door of this house? Is it a neighbour? From next door? They’ve seen the Mini outside, think the man has arrived from, where, London maybe and have come to the back door with, what, an apple pie, cake, some home-made biscuits? They’re tapping on the glass with their fingernails to attract attention.
Who knows?
Silence again.
No more tapping.
Quiet for a few minutes. Then I hear creaking, no imagining there. Quite the opposite. There is clear and definite creaking somewhere above my head over towards next door. I strain to listen. Someone next door – the man I heard talking outside last night I suspect – is very carefully and very gently moving his weight across the loft, joist to joist, from his side of the roof to ours. I can hear the creaking – quite clear, quite definite – as he does it.
There’s a reward, I reckon.
For me.
This guy’s a fucking have-a-go hero.
I guess this row of old terraced houses shares some sort of communal loft. This fucker next door is going to have a go at capturing me. I think he’s heard something – maybe me shouting out, perhaps William calling “Papa” – and has put two and two together and made four.
He’s smart, I’ll give him that.
If he goes to the police and tells them what he’s heard and they believe him, they’ll storm the place and he and the reward will soon be forgotten. He’ll not get his money. But, here’s the thing, if he captures me and comes out of the front door – in front of the police, Joe Public and any BBC and Sky reporters who are still hanging about – well, they can’t avoid the payout then. Maybe he can even sell his story to the papers, make himself some extra cash.
There it goes again.
The creaking.
Directly above me now.
I turn, gently hushing William, who has woken up again and is now making some sort of retching noise in his throat. I need him to be quiet, dead quiet, and now, so I can listen and see which way the next-door neighbour is going. But I daren’t clamp my hand over William’s mouth to keep him quiet. He’ll struggle in my arms, maybe make that furious buzzing noise again. I’ll not be able to hear. I leave William be. His gagging noises make it harder, though. I sit up straight, straining to hear.
“Oran,” says William, sitting up slowly. He looks dazed.
Oran? What the hell is oran?
�
��Shhh,” I say, “yes, yes, in a minute, in a minute.”
“Oran?” he repeats sluggishly.
Christ’s sake, I can’t hear. Does he realise I’m trying to listen? It’s all for his sake, after all.
“Yes,” I say, as firmly but as quietly as I can. “In a minute, William.”
God almighty, he rolls off the bed and, after a moment or two, gets unsteadily to his feet and moves slowly towards the door.
I’m up too and after him, almost without thinking, grabbing him by the shoulders as he reaches the door. I spin him round, hold him tight in a hug – harder than it needs to be but I want him to know, it has to get through somehow, that he must be quiet. Now he’s struggling again and I can’t hear the man above me.
For God’s sake, be quiet, William, please.
The man will have heard what’s happening. He’ll have taken advantage, moved swiftly across, from one joist to another, to the loft hatch in this house. Where the hell is that? I have to think fast. It has to be on the landing, doesn’t it? At the top of the stairs? I don’t know, I really don’t. I never looked. Well, you wouldn’t, would you?
I hold William down, God help me, what else can I do.
Somehow, I swing the bedroom door open and look up. I can see it on the landing above the staircase. The loft hatch. Just as I thought. Never noticed it before. I hold William still and quiet – he’s passive in my grip – as I watch the hatch. No sounds of creaking or movement now.
The man – the next-door neighbour – is in the loft by the hatch, listening and waiting. He’s going to open it at any moment, pull back the hatch, drop down onto the landing and go for me.
I push the door to. Let’s not make it easy for him to know exactly where I am. I need to retain some sort of element of surprise. Give myself a chance. He’ll be armed in some way, for sure.
Kitchen knife? Hammer? I don’t know.
It’s going to happen.
Any second now.
William twitches; some sort of spasm runs through his body. I let go of him, look down in horror. His head tips back as what looks like an electric current jerks its way up and down his body. Some kind of fit. I don’t know what to do. I lift him up, hold him to me, as gently as I can this time, making soothing noises. I don’t know how I’m supposed to help. I hold him close. Love him. It’s all I can do.
Sweet William Page 19