A Cry in the Night

by Tom Grieves

  ‘But you didn’t tell your parents about this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She said they wouldn’t believe us. And then they wouldn’t let her come over and protect us.’

  Finn looked tearfully up at his father. ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’

  All of the pent-up fear and emotion suddenly came pouring out of the man and he fell upon his son in a tight embrace, kissing Finn all over his tiny face as tears poured from his own.

  ‘It’s okay, my boy, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.’

  Bryce leaned in closer, sitting cross-legged before the boys.

  ‘Can you tell me some of the stories she told you?’

  ‘She said they have claws and teeth like leopards. They look normal, so you can never tell. But they come at you in the night …’

  ‘And eat your eyes out,’ said Finn, completing the story with an eerie reverence.

  ‘They start with your eyes,’ Jamie continued, a little bossily, as though Finn hadn’t got it right. ‘Then they claw off your face. And eat it raw like sushi.’

  ‘Tasha said that?’

  The boys nodded back solemnly.

  ‘They eat you all up, bit by bit—’

  ‘Even the bones!’

  ‘Especially the bones, you dummy,’ Jamie scolded. ‘They eat all of you so that there’s nothing left. No one will ever find you ’cos you’ll be all inside her tummy.’

  ‘Her?’

  Jamie nodded.

  ‘You said “them” before, Jamie,’ Bryce said. ‘Now you’re saying it’s a woman?’

  ‘Not just one. There’s a gang.’

  ‘A gang of women? Who eat children?’

  The boys nodded eagerly. Bryce glanced at the mirror and raised his eyebrows – he didn’t believe any of it and wanted to wind this up.

  Mr Frey glanced at Sam.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘We need to know what else she told them,’ Sam said.

  Anne was called out of the room and joined Sam and Mr Frey behind the mirror. She listened to Sam’s questions with the politest of frowns.

  ‘She’s just a nutter, Guv. Probably schizophrenic. I don’t think the parents are going to want to hear more of this stuff.’

  ‘Just ask for more.’

  Anne glanced at Mr Frey but he was stony-faced. Confused, but not willing to go up against her superiors, she returned to the room. She talked quietly to Bryce and Sam saw his displeasure at the news. But he did what he was told.

  ‘Jamie,’ Bryce said, settling down before the boy again. ‘When did Tasha first tell you about all this?’

  ‘Oh, she’s always known,’ the boy nodded wisely.

  ‘And was she scared that they were coming to the house? Is that why she said you should go in the car with her?’

  ‘She said she could feel her coming. She said you can always feel it, but you just don’t realise what the feeling is. It’s like a cold bit on your neck.’

  ‘On your neck?’

  ‘Yes, at the back. She said she’d felt it and she knew she was coming.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Finn, jumped in. ‘And she said it was a big one, a really scary one. She was going to chew into my stomach through my belly-button—’

  ‘Is this helping anyone?’ the mother interrupted.

  ‘She was going to hurt us, Mummy,’ Finn wailed. He was crying now and it set Jamie off too.

  ‘Okay, okay, let’s all relax, no one’s going to get eaten,’ Bryce said, but the boys were not so easily calmed.

  ‘I’ve felt it, sometimes,’ Jamie said tearfully. ‘I’ve felt it when your neck goes cold and you know there’s one about.’

  Anne stood up, keen to bring this all to a halt.

  ‘I can feel it now!’ Jamie suddenly squealed.

  ‘Me too!’ shouted Finn and the two boys suddenly huddled together.

  ‘She’s coming,’ whispered Jamie.

  ‘No one’s coming. Just relax, boys, you’ve had a very late night, but there is nothing to be scared of. I promise.’ Bryce stood and laughed loudly, trying to barge the fear out of the room.

  ‘She’s coming, she’s coming,’ they muttered together, trance-like.

  They stood back to back, as if this were an action long rehearsed, repeating the words over and over. The mother looked at Bryce, exasperated, and started to complain. The father, taking her lead, snapped angrily in support.

  Anne and Bryce went to the boys but they flinched at their touch as though anyone trying to prise them apart would hurt them as a result. No one knew what to do.

  ‘She’s coming.’

  And, although they couldn’t see anyone, the boys looked towards Mr Frey and Sam, staring into the mirror. Sam felt their fear. He wanted to smash through the glass and reassure them that they were safe, that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt them. But then he heard her footsteps. He recognised their fast, percussive rhythm as they echoed along the corridor. A moment later, Helen Seymour stepped into the room.

  ‘She’s coming,’ the boys whispered tearfully behind the glass. But Sam couldn’t see them now – he just stared, slack-jawed, at Helen as she quietly closed the door and stared at the two men. She looked momentarily at Sam and then, more heavily, at Mr Frey.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Mr Frey snapped. ‘There’s no one to defend. The woman’s dead.’

  ‘Yes, I heard once I got here. Mixed messages,’ she said with a shrug, but made no attempt to leave.

  ‘So go away then,’ the Chief Superintendent replied. ‘There’s nothing for you.’

  ‘But what are you here for, Jeremy?’ she asked.

  They stared at each other, the barrister and the Chief Superintendent. Behind them, Sam heard Anne and Bryce calming the children as they were herded out of the interview room.

  Helen was the first to look away. She glanced at Sam again, then walked out, leaving the door open in her wake. He looked back through the mirror – the room was now empty. He turned to Mr Frey, but his boss was lost in thoughts of his own.

  Sam slipped out and followed after Helen, letting her footsteps guide him to the front of the station, and outside. She stopped when she got to her car and turned to find him watching her. Neither spoke. Sam found himself rooted to the spot, unable to pursue her across the road. He was stuck on the pavement, transfixed by her.

  Her eyes took him in. They stared at each other through the passing traffic that raced between them. They sized each other up. No words, no gestures, no theatricals.

  After an age, Helen let her gaze fall. Calmly, coolly, she got into her car and drove away, leaving Sam to stalk the shadows.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Zoe hung around in CID long after most of the team had gone, hoping to catch Sam, until she realised that he’d slipped away without telling her. While she was hardly his mother, she was disappointed when she tried his mobile and it rang onto voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message. She had done as he asked and investigated Helen Seymour’s funding and payment for the Sarah Downing case. Although such information was confidential, she was able to determine that the work was being done pro bono. It seemed that Helen had sought out the case and made it her own. On top of it was the revelation that she might have made a witness disappear. Zoe could certainly understand Sam’s interest in the case. But she didn’t want him to do it without her.

  A little disconsolate, she headed back down to the locker rooms to change into the more feminine clothes she’d brought with her – she was due to see some girlfriends later for a boozy night of nattering. But she’d hardly got round to taking off her trainers when Gareth came running in, breathless and flushed.

  ‘We got him!’ he said, hurrying to his locker and pulling out his baton from inside.

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘Eli Robinson. He’s only been caught tagging one of our sodding cars! Malcolm’s spitting feathers!’

  He fixed his belt and charged out. Outside, Zoe heard more footsteps and s
houting. She heard one of them banging his baton against the wall as he ran.

  ‘Come on, let’s get the fucker!’ someone cried, his high voice echoing in the corridor.

  Zoe pulled her trainers back on and ran after them. She hurried into the back lot where several uniform officers were piling into a van. She slowed and tried to look casual as she came up to them.

  ‘Alright, Zoe?’ called the driver, a squat constable in his late twenties.

  ‘Hiya, Dion. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. A bit of cleaning is all,’ he replied, and the men in the back of the van laughed hard at this.

  ‘Where’s Sarge?’ she asked.

  ‘Already at it, love.’

  The cold November sky was dark and cloudy, lit by the orange glow of the city’s street lamps. Behind her, another PC came charging out of the station and dived into the van.

  ‘About time, Lee. Come on, Dion, let’s fucking do it!’ screamed Gareth. He tapped his baton against his thigh, pumped and over-eager, then went to pull the van’s sliding door shut. Zoe leaped forward and jumped inside.

  Gareth paused and stared at her.

  ‘This is uniform business, darling. Off you pop.’

  Zoe saw the hard faces that stared at her. But they were young, still puppies, and there was no way that she was going to let them order her about.

  ‘I fancy coming along. Hurry up then, or we’ll miss all the fun.’

  No one moved for a second. Gareth didn’t know what to do, his adrenalin pushing and pulling at him until, with a small cuss, he grabbed the sliding door and ripped it shut with a heavy metallic clang.

  ‘Come on then!’ he roared. ‘Let’s do it!’

  *

  The estate was only a ten-minute drive from the police station for a normal car, and only five or six when Dion was at the wheel. No one spoke as the van raced through the streets. Zoe stared out of the scarred windows (scratched and battered from countless assaults) and saw people stop and gawp as the sirens and lights screamed their presence. A group of three kids, chatting together in a huddle, turned and shouted abuse at the van as it passed. Further on, others would glare at them and gesture their hostility with fists and fingers, but they were gone in seconds as they charged towards their target.

  When they reached the estate, Zoe hopped out first, getting out of the way so the others could charge off. It only took a minute before they were gone and all that was left was her, Dion and the van’s throaty engine. His radio crackled and then fell silent. He peered out into the murky alleyways ahead, expectant.

  ‘Why are we here, then, Dion? Really?’

  ‘Best you don’t ask, Zo-Zo,’ he said and raised his eyebrows slightly, as if it wasn’t something he wanted to be a part of. But she knew him better than that. She looked up at the dark concrete towers above. Inside the flats, television screens flickered in sync from different windows. She could see figures gazing down from balconies while others were busy in their kitchens, oblivious to the police’s arrival. On the ground, however, there was no one at all.

  ‘Alright, bored now,’ she said.

  ‘Silly cow. I’m not driving you back.’

  ‘Don’t worry your cotton socks about it, I’ll sort myself out. Laters.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, but he was staring out again ahead of him, itching to be a part of whatever was going on.

  Zoe walked away and then, when she’d turned the corner, broke into a run. She doubled back, slipping lightly through the empty walkways. She knew the estate well from her days back in uniform and she had a hunch that if Eli Robinson was running from the cops, he’d either hide in one of his friends’ flats – as she imagined the PCs were guessing (and she heard heavy banging on a door as she ran to confirm this) – or he’d hide in the shadows, laughing as the cops chased shadows and were forced to return home empty-handed. Tagging a cop car was provocative, to say the least. When she first joined the station, she remembered finding him and three mates in a dead-end alley to the south of the estate, giggling together as they burnt an old man’s prized possessions in a metal bin, destroying evidence that might have incriminated them. It was the first time Zoe had seen Eli and he stared at her that day with a wild, aggressive confidence – daring her to come closer, itching for a jostle and a fight.

  She ran towards that same alley now. The other cops were running above her, across the concrete walkways, noisy and full of bluster. But there was no noise ahead and she slowed, thinking that maybe she was making a mistake. But then she heard the whimper.

  Eli was lying on the floor on his stomach, his head twisted to the side, staring out at her. Malcolm was standing over him and as she approached them, neither man moved. But then she noticed that Malcolm was panting from his exertions. As she got closer, slowing to a walk, she caught the reflection of a street lamp in the blood on the concrete floor, and then she saw the bovine, glazed stare of Eli – unfocused and semi-conscious.

  ‘Little tyke went for me,’ Malcolm said, a little breathless. ‘Self-defence, love.’

  She stopped short of them. She could see the wound to Eli’s head now. It wasn’t the sort of injury you get from a single defensive blow.

  ‘Reasonable force,’ he added and winked at her.

  Zoe didn’t move. She watched Eli and felt sick as his tongue slowly slipped out of his mouth. He twitched and suddenly Malcolm was beating him again with his truncheon, this time around the back and kidneys.

  ‘Don’t move, don’t you dare bloody move,’ he hissed, timing his words to the cruel, metronomic beat of each strike.

  ‘Sarge …’ she said quietly. But the attack continued. She saw Eli’s eyes roll up into his head.

  ‘I said don’t move, you little runt …’ Malcolm grunted and spat.

  Behind her, Zoe heard the crunch of boots and turned to see two PCs rushing along the alley. Malcolm saw them too and stopped. He sucked air into his lungs and stood tall and proud over Eli’s inert body. The two young cops stared at him, shifting uneasily.

  ‘Little bastard went for me. With this,’ Malcolm said loudly, stepping away from the body and grabbing a metal bar which he held up. ‘I’m lucky he didn’t brain me.’

  Eli’s eyes fluttered and closed.

  ‘The kid went mad, totally out of control. Bloody animal,’ he added. And then he pointed at Zoe. ‘She’ll tell you. Our Zoe saw the whole thing.’

  All eyes turned to her, but all Zoe could see was Eli and the blood. His unconscious body suffered another involuntary spasm and for a second she thought that Malcolm was going to hit him again. But no one moved.

  ‘Call an ambulance, lad,’ Malcolm said to one of the PCs, who hurriedly did as he was told. Malcolm went over and stood very close to Zoe. She could smell his breath.

  ‘Glad it was you that found me,’ he said quietly. ‘A proper cop. Part of the team. Knows what’s what.’

  She didn’t acknowledge the comment.

  ‘Had it coming, didn’t he?’ Malcolm said.

  ‘Ambulance is on its way, Sarge,’ said the young cop behind them. She heard the words and heard Malcolm thank him in his hearty, confident, blokish manner. And then she felt his hand on her arm.

  ‘Zoe. You saw him go for me. You saw that I had no chance.’

  She pulled away from him and walked off. He went to grab her again, but she was too quick, hurrying away. She saw the two young cops look at her, astonished, as she went. A moment later she heard him shout after her.

  ‘So I’ll see you back at the nick, then. Okay, Zoe?’

  She walked on and away. She didn’t go back to the station but did manage to meet up with her friends, where she drank a little fast and argued a little too loudly. They were used to her, and tutted and shushed her when she became too abrasive. She watched them chat and gossip, and laughed at herself when they despaired of her single status.

  Later, when they all cried off to bed, with jobs and boyfriends awaiting, she found an ugly bar close to home where she sat in a corner
and drank herself properly drunk.

  FORTY

  Issy and Jenny came downstairs next morning to find Sam burning pancakes on the stove and swearing his head off. The congealed mess in the sticky frying pan made them laugh, and this didn’t improve his mood.

  ‘When did we get this stupid thing?’ he moaned, waving the pan in the air. The girls both shrugged and busied themselves with cereal and toast. Sam offered to drive them into school and, after a shared glance that made it clear this was never going to happen in a million years, they both declined with a snigger.

  Magda had every Wednesday morning off and was enjoying a lie-in, so Sam took his frustrations out on the washing-up. As he beat the living daylights out of a couple of mugs, he wondered again about Helen’s appearance that night. He felt calmer now that it was day, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that those little boys had provoked. He stared at the soapy bubbles and wondered what Helen was capable of, and how best to defeat her.

  Aware that his daughters were watching him and that he looked ridiculous in the apron he wore to protect his shirt and tie, Sam tried to play the fool to raise a laugh. His antics fell flat. Issy shoved a school form in front of him to sign – a trip to a local museum – and snatched it back off him when he did. Trying a little too hard, he asked them if they needed money. Jenny took some for a new set of files (to which Issy made sarky comments) and Issy ignored the question completely.

  ‘We’re out of Marmite,’ Jenny said.

  ‘And everything else,’ her sister added.

  ‘Like what?’ Sam asked. The girls just shrugged as if the list was too enormous to contemplate. Then they dumped their things in the washing-up bowl, muttered goodbyes (Issy was already on the phone by this point) and shot out, slamming the door behind them.

  Sam wandered around the kitchen, opening cupboards and peering at tins and jars, trying to work out what was needed. Now fully deflated, he headed off to the local supermarket and trudged miserably round the aisles. As he got lost somewhere amongst noodles and spaghetti, his mind pushed the case back at him.

  No one disappears without a trace. There must be a trail, somehow, that would lead back to Helen Seymour. His brain coughed and sparked like a flooded engine as he tried to put the pieces together. It wasn’t until he reached the police station that he finally saw a way forward and everything inside him roared.