Sweet William

by Iain Maitland

Jump-start the car.

  Get away without the owners noticing until morning.

  Our only chance.

  It’s an old, run-down cottage, a single dormer window in the loft, alight as the owner gets ready for bed. The cottage looks unchanged since the 1950s. Most of it is bottle green, from the front door to the window frames to the driveway gate.

  At the end of the driveway, adjacent to the cottage’s back gate, is a stand-alone garage, green-fronted too. If my luck’s in, there will be a car there that I can get into without being heard by whoever’s in that dormer-bedroom.

  It’s an old woman, up there, I reckon. She lived here with her old man when they were first married, him cycling to work in sleepy old Ipswich, her at home keeping chickens in the back garden for eggs to sell by the roadside. He’s long dead, leaving her alone and in her 80s. She goes to bed early, huddled in blankets to keep herself warm.

  This is going to be so, so easy. Don’t worry. Don’t even think about it. She’ll not need to come to any harm.

  She won’t hear a thing and I’ll be long gone by the morning.

  It’ll be an old relic of a car but it will get us from here to where we want to go.

  Most people – stupid people – would wait for that light to go out, leave it a while until the old woman fell asleep, and would then make their move.

  Not me.

  I’m smart, see?

  But you know that by now, don’t you?

  Say she’s lying there and hears a noise. What’s she going to do? She’ll have a phone for sure, even in this out-of-the-way place. She’ll dial 999. “Hello,” she’ll say in a wobbly-chinned voice. “Is that the police? There’s someone in my house, come quickly.”

  Can’t have that.

  Far too risky.

  No, what I’ll do is to make my move while that light is still on and she’s pottering about, getting ready for bed, folding back the sheets, winding up the clock and hanging up her clothes for the morning. She won’t hear anything outside then. She’ll be too preoccupied.

  I lay William carefully down by the side of the road, taking off my jacket and rolling it up under his head. I move forward and undo the latch on the front gate.

  Swinging the gate back, I wait for the scree-eech of unoiled hinges, but it makes no sound at all. The garage is 10 yards in front of me. I look up. The light is still on, curtains yet to be drawn. There are net curtains at the window. I cannot see anyone moving about. I go back for William, carrying him up the driveway, just in case a police car drives by.

  I lay William back down on the driveway and slip my jacket on again. He shifts restlessly in his sleep, close to the garage door, safely out of sight of the cottage window and any passing car.

  With luck, the garage door will be unlocked and it will be a simple matter of opening and closing it behind me. I can then break into the car and get it started quietly. Any noises will be muffled by the garage doors pulled to behind me.

  Shit.

  I’m out of luck.

  It’s locked.

  I pull at it. The wood and the lock are old and it would be easy enough to force the door open. But the crack and tear of breaking wood would be too noisy. I look around to see if there are any gardening tools at the side of the garage that I can use to maybe pop open the lock. Nothing.

  I open the garden gate, quickly and without thinking.

  It makes a sharp screech, loud but lasting only a few seconds.

  I stop, standing still, listening and looking up at the cottage.

  Nothing, no downstairs lights going on, no sounds of movement, it’s as still as the night. I move into the garden – a nice old picture postcard of apple trees, bird baths and hedgehogs.

  Another fucking world, this is.

  A gardening fork is stuck in the ground next to my feet. I hold it in one hand, testing the prongs with the other. It’s a strong one, tough enough for me to push it into the door and force open that lock.

  I move back out, leaving the screeching garden gate open – no point in pushing my luck – and check William is okay. He’s sleeping. I move to the garage door, forcing the gardening fork into the side by the lock. I apply pressure, as carefully as I can.

  I’m straining as hard as I can now, using all of my strength.

  Something’s going to give: the door or the fork.

  Can’t tell which, just push the fork further in, leveraging it again.

  With a loud splintering noise, deafening in the silence, the garage door gives way under the force. It’s open. I stand there for a moment or two, listening and looking for signs of life from the cottage. Nothing.

  Know what? I reckon the old woman will be tucked up nice and warm in bed by now, teeth in a glass, hot water bottle by her feet, drifting away into sleep.

  I wait a moment or two, then notice I’m panting, my breath like white smoke in the cold air. I decide to leave William on the driveway while I sort out the car. It’s going to be cramped in the garage and I don’t want him waking up and struggling and calling out in the quiet of the night.

  I swing open the garage door, the lock now hanging loose from the wood.

  It opens silently. I’m charmed, me. Told you that, didn’t I?

  Expect to see an old car, a relic of a bygone age.

  It’s a newish car, though. Three, four years old. Yellow, another of those Japanese ones. The old woman must have a son, maybe a daughter, who told her she had to sell her old Morris Minor. “Mum,” they’d have said, “you can’t be living out there with that old car of dad’s. We’ve got you a new one, from the two of us.” And they’d all beam with pride and happiness and love for one another.

  Seems a shame to damage it, forcing it open.

  Maybe the old dear has left it unlocked – it doesn’t need to be kept locked in a secure garage, does it?

  I try the door handle – shit, it’s locked.

  It’s dark in here, hard to see much, and I check the floor and the shelves at the back of the garage, shuffling into darkness, for a torch and, if I am really lucky, a spare key hanging up on a hook or a nail banged into a shelf.

  I run my fingers along the shelf, by a row of paint pots and other half-used, might-be-useful-one-day bits and bobs. My finger catches what feels like an empty tin and it tumbles off the shelf, bouncing onto the car bonnet and down to the floor, its lid coming off and spinning against the wall.

  Going to have to force the car door.

  Don’t want to; have no choice.

  I force the fork into the gap by the side of the door.

  There’s no give in the car door at all. I push the fork in as far as I can into the gap and pull at it with all my strength. Something’s happening, I can tell – there is some movement; not much, but I can feel something giving, reluctantly and oh-so-slowly.

  I pull harder, my head now beaded with sweat, a tight feeling in my chest, and then, suddenly, as I was about to give up, the prongs of the fork bend so that they are now almost at right angles to the handle.

  Nothing else for it.

  Will have to break a car window.

  I need to find something big and heavy.

  I move quickly out of the garage, no time to waste, but stop as I get to William. He is awake and sitting up, his hands to his head. He can only just have come to, maybe wakened by my attempts to break into the car.

  I bend over to whisper some warm and comforting words and, as I do so, he reaches his arms up, wanting me to lift him and give him a cuddle.

  I do so, but have to be fast – no time to waste. He’s blurry-eyed and not really awake. I kiss him on the cheek and make gentle murmuring noises.

  “Stand right where you are.”

  A voice from behind me. Deep and authoritative, a man’s voice.

  “Move and I’ll shoot you dead.”

  9.17pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER

  A long silence.

  No one moves for what seems like minutes.

  I say, finally, into the silence, “Don’t
shoot . . . my little boy.”

  I shift William a little so that his head, which he struggles to keep upright, is just above my shoulder. I want the man behind me – whoever he is – to see I have William in my arms.

  “Put him down and walk away.”

  If I put William down, the man could simply shoot me where I stand. I think quickly, not sure what to say. What can I say? I hesitate. And then it comes to me suddenly. An excuse.

  “Our car packed up . . . we need some petrol to get home.”

  “I know who you are; you’ve been on the telly. You killed your wife.”

  “No,” I say, still thinking fast. “No, I didn’t.” He knows who I am. My words tail off, I’m not sure what else to add. “Not really . . .”

  “You’re violent, it said so on the telly. A danger to the public, the BBC said.”

  “I just want to leave with my little boy.”

  “I can’t let you do that. Put him down and you can walk away. Or else I’ll shoot you where you’re standing.”

  I stand there, not knowing what to do. Christ help me, I cannot give William up. Not like this. And, if I put him down, I’ll be shot for sure. If the man shoots me while I’m holding William, the chances are the gunshot will kill both of us. What do I do?

  “You’re a murderer, I can’t let you go with the boy.”

  “I didn’t kill my wife . . . she was mentally ill . . . a depressive . . . she threw herself in front of a car.”

  “They said you killed her. And more. I’ve seen it all on the telly. I can’t let you go.”

  There, he’s given himself away. His exact words, “I can’t let you go” – as soon as he has William, he’ll shoot me.

  “If I put my boy down, you’ll shoot me.”

  “Not in front of the boy. I’ll call the police when I take the boy indoors. You’ll get a sporting chance over the fields before the police get here. You’re two miles from the bypass that way; five or six miles from anywhere in any other direction. I’ll give you a sporting chance. Like we do with foxes.”

  “I can’t give up my boy.”

  “Then I’ll have to shoot you where you stand.”

  “And you call me a murderer?” I can feel the anger rising; I have to control it. “You’d kill me and my son in cold blood, just shoot me in my back?”

  “Put your boy down on the ground and walk away.”

  You know what? I won’t do it.

  “Your boy’s ill. It said so on the BBC. He needs his medication every day. If he doesn’t have it, he could go into a coma. Did you know that?”

  I shake my head, don’t believe it’s true. Just a nasty, vicious trick, something to try and make me give up my little William.

  “Look at his head, he can’t even keep it upright. Has he been sick? You need to let him go. I’ll call an ambulance for you, get help for him.”

  “He’s just tired, that’s all. He’s only little. It’s past his bedtime.”

  “Look at him, look at his face. He needs help. You’ll lose him otherwise.”

  I’ll lose him anyway. I turn slowly, ever so slowly, so that I’m now facing the man, with William’s body cradled upright in my arms. The man is older and shorter than I thought; well into his 70s and whippet-thin. He looks as scared as I feel. But he has one thing I don’t. A shotgun. It looks as ancient as him and I can’t help but wonder if it’s actually loaded. Maybe it is – he talked of foxes.

  “That’s the ticket, just put the boy down there between us and you can go.” There’s a half-smile on his lips. Encouraging me? No. If that gun is loaded, he won’t be letting me go, I don’t reckon.

  “No,” I say. “He’s coming with me.”

  “Then I will shoot you as you walk off.”

  Know what? I don’t think he will. As William moves, half-asleep and trying to get comfortable in my arms, I take a step back, not taking my eyes off the old man. He watches me.

  “I’ve a gun myself,” I lie, to scare him. “In my pocket.”

  “Put your boy down and take your chances with me then,” he answers.

  I take another step backwards.

  And another. He says nothing else, just watches me.

  One more away from the man.

  “I’m going to turn and walk with my boy. We’re no trouble to you. Leave us alone.”

  “I can’t let you leave. The boy needs help. And you’re dangerous. And you’ve just told me you’re armed.”

  Our eyes meet.

  A battle of wills. He lifts the gun higher, levels it towards my head.

  I have to go, see what happens.

  “You’ll have to shoot us both then.”

  I turn, almost stumbling, and take a step farther away from the man. I do not know what he is going to do. Shoot me? With William in my arms? I adjust his position carefully. Can the man see William clearly now?

  There is silence.

  I wait to hear the cocking of the gun.

  Or has he done that already; is he about to shoot?

  I hold my breath, take one more step and another. Part of my mind is screaming at me to stop, look and see what he’s doing. The other tells me to keep going, to take one careful step after the other, down to the gate and away.

  It is now just a few steps to the gate.

  Six, five, four.

  Three, two, one.

  I stop at the gate. My back to the man. William still in my arms. This is it. The moment. Make or break. Life or death. I have to know which. I turn my head slowly, looking back at the man. Will he shoot me? Me and William?

  He has gone, I broke his nerve.

  But he will be inside now, calling the police.

  And I think, dear God, my time with William is almost up.

  9.36pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER

  The little boy did not feel very well. He wanted to tell the man with the staring eyes and the torn face but did not seem able to do so.

  He kept falling asleep and, when he did, the angry man would shake him awake every time when all he wanted to do was sleep; he could not say anything.

  He did not like the angry man. He was a little scared of him.

  His lips felt cracked and dry and he thought he might be sick again.

  He wanted to say he felt ill so the man would fetch his mama and papa. He did not want to be with the man any more. He did not want to be on his best behaviour. But he could not seem to think of the words to say. They would not come to him.

  When he felt unwell, usually his mama would somehow know and make him feel better.

  Or his papa would.

  He did not miss having the finger tickles and the injections. He did not like those. But he knew, somehow, that he had to have them.

  He could not remember when he last had anything like that.

  The angry man did not do them.

  And he let him have biscuits, as many as he wanted. He liked biscuits but his mama and papa would only let him have them now and then.

  The little boy felt hot.

  And he felt sick all the time.

  And what he really wanted now, more than anything, even more than seeing his mama and his papa again, was to go back to sleep.

  He felt a little better as he started falling asleep. The ache in his stomach seemed a bit less painful.

  But then the man would shake him awake again. Or drop him to the ground. Make him try to walk on hurting legs.

  He liked it best when the man carried him, even though he did not like the smell of the man.

  It was a nasty smell, like he smelled on his papa when he had been out running on a hot day.

  And there was another smell on the man.

  He did not know what it was but he did not like it.

  It was a sour and dirty smell.

  He felt sleep coming on again, as the man carried him, walking steadily now, into a rhythm.

  A falling-asleep pattern.

  It would be nice to sleep.

  Just sleep and sleep and sleep.

  9.52
pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER

  I headed towards the bypass – two miles, or so the man said. Better than five or six across the fields to anywhere else.

  Was he telling the truth?

  I don’t know, I’d have thought we’ve walked more than two miles by now. Off the road, out of sight, and across fields and ditches and tracks.

  Maybe the man said it was two miles just so I’d go that way. Then, when he called the coppers, he could tell them exactly which way I was heading. I should have gone the other way. Tried to outwit them. But I am tired now, too tired – dog-tired, in fact.

  The bypass is safer anyway. I can hide in a ditch there. A lay-by. Like I did when I got out of the annexe, remember? It seems so long ago now. The annexe. Spink. The big house. Sprake and Ainsley and Tosser Gibson.

  I was safe there.

  In the annexe.

  No one would hurt me.

  If a car pulls over, we could hitch a ride. Leastways, I guess I could on my own. I reckon everyone everywhere, round here at least, will be on the lookout for a man and a boy together. Maybe we’d have to try something else.

  Must have been a half-hour now since I left the old man at that cottage.

  Longer probably. I’m tiring so much.

  Not seen or heard anything yet.

  I’d have expected to hear police cars by now. Sirens. Behind me. Going to the cottage to speak to the man with the shotgun. And then helicopters overhead, searchlights picking us out as we criss-crossed our way across fields and over gates. Then dogs – like I had before – but not in the distance this time, right here and now and all around us.

  William’s asleep again. He has a troubled look on his face, I think. He’s not warm, and that’s a fact; it seems to be getting colder step by step. My body heats up, though, breath and sweat almost creating a fog around me. Poor little lamb is having a bad dream. I think I should wake him but he’s probably better off asleep.

  I stop, for no more than a second or two, exhausted.

  Bent double almost, William squeezed tight between my chest and stomach.

  He does not move, asleep in the land of nod.

  We cross a field. Crops or livestock, I don’t know. Crops, I’d guess – I see no animals. There is a fence ahead of me and another gate – always another gate, one after the other – and, beyond that, some more trees.