Not Safe After Dark: And Other Stories

by Peter Robinson

  I also knew young Johnny Critchley, and thought him to be a serious boy, a bit too imaginative and innocent for his own good. (Well, many are at that age, aren’t they, before the world grabs them by the balls and shakes some reality into them.) Johnny trusted everyone, even strangers.

  “Johnny’s not been in much of a mood for playing with his mates sinsh we got the news about Ted’s ship,” Mary Critchley went on.

  I could understand that well enough—young Johnny was an only child, and he always did worship his father—but I still didn’t see what I could do about it. “Have you asked around?”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing sinsh he didn’t come home at twelve o’clock like he was supposed to? I’ve ashked everyone in the street. Last time he was seen he was down by the canal at about eleven o’clock. Maurice Richards saw him. What can I do, Mr. Bashcombe? Firsht Ted, and now . . . now my Johnny!” She burst into tears.

  After I had managed to calm her down, I sighed and told her I would look for Johnny myself. There certainly wasn’t much hope of my getting the other twenty winks now.

  * * *

  It was a glorious day, so warm and sunny you would hardly believe there was a war on. The late-afternoon sunshine made even our narrow streets of cramped brick terraced houses look attractive. As the shadows lengthened, the light turned to molten gold. First, I scoured the local rec, where the children played cricket and football, and the dogs ran wild. Some soldiers were busy digging trenches for air-raid shelters. Just the sight of those long, dark grooves in the earth gave me the shivers. Behind the trenches, barrage balloons pulled at their moorings on the breeze like playful porpoises, orange and pink in the sun. I asked the soldiers, but they hadn’t seen Johnny. Nor had any of the other lads.

  After the rec, I headed for the derelict houses on Gallipoli Street. The landlord had let them go to rack and ruin two years ago, and they were quite uninhabitable, not even fit for billeting soldiers. They were also dangerous and should have been pulled down, but I think the old skinflint was hoping a bomb would hit them so he could claim insurance or compensation from the government. The doors and windows had been boarded up, but children are resourceful, and it wasn’t difficult even for me to remove a couple of loose sheets of plywood and make my way inside. I wished I had my torch, but I had to make do with what little light slipped through the holes. Every time I moved, my feet stirred up clouds of dust, which did my poor lungs no good at all.

  I thought Johnny might have fallen or got trapped in one of the houses. The staircases were rotten, and more than one lad had fallen through on his way up. The floors weren’t much better either, and one of the fourth-formers at Silverhill had needed more than fifteen stitches a couple of weeks before when one of his legs went right through the rotten wood and the splinters gouged his flesh.

  I searched as best I could in the poor light, and I called out Johnny’s name, but no answer came. Before I left, I stood silently and listened for any traces of harsh breathing or whimpering.

  Nothing.

  After three hours of searching the neighborhood, I’d had no luck at all. Blackout time was 7:45 p.m., so I still had about an hour and a half left, but if Johnny wasn’t in any of the local children’s usual haunts, I was at a loss as to where to look. I talked to the other boys I met here and there, but none of his friends had seen him since the family got the news of Ted’s death. Little Johnny Critchley, it seemed, had vanished into thin air.

  * * *

  At half past six, I called on Maurice Richards, grateful for his offer of a cup of tea and the chance to rest my aching feet. Maurice and I went back a long time. We had both survived the first war, Maurice with the loss of an arm, and me with permanent facial scarring and a racking cough that comes and goes, thanks to the mustard gas leaking through my mask at the Third Battle of Ypres. We never talked about the war, but it was there, we both knew, an invisible bond tying us close together while at the same time excluding us from so much other, normal human intercourse. Not many had seen the things we had, and thank God for that.

  Maurice lit up a Passing Cloud one-handed, then he poured the tea. The seven o’clock news came on the radio, some rot about us vowing to keep fighting until we’d vanquished the foe. It was still very much a war of words at that time, and the more rhetorical the language sounded, the better the politicians thought they were doing. There had been a couple of minor air skirmishes, and the sinking of the Courageous, of course, but all the action was taking place in Poland, which seemed as remote as the moon to most people. Some clever buggers had already started calling it the “Bore War.”

  “Did you hear Tommy Handley last night, Frank?” Maurice asked.

  I shook my head. There’d been a lot of hoopla about Tommy Handley’s new radio program, It’s That Man Again, or ITMA, as people called it. I was never a fan. Call me a snob, but when evening falls I’m far happier curling up with a good book or an interesting talk on the radio than listening to Tommy Handley.

  “Talk about laugh,” said Maurice. “They had this one sketch about the Ministry of Aggravation and the Office of Twerps. I nearly died.”

  I smiled. “Not far from the truth,” I said. There were now so many of these obscure ministries, boards, and departments involved in so many absurd pursuits—all for the common good, of course—that I had been thinking of writing a dystopian satire. I proposed to set it in the near future, which would merely be a thinly disguised version of the present. So far, all I had was a great idea for the title: I would reverse the last two numbers in the current year, so instead of 1939, I’d call it 1993. (Well, I thought it was a good idea!)

  “Look, Maurice,” I said, “it’s about young Johnny Critchley. His mother tells me you were the last person to see him.”

  “Oh, aye,” Maurice said. “She were ’round asking about him not long ago. Still not turned up?”

  “No.”

  “Cause for concern, then.”

  “I’m beginning to think so. What was he doing when you saw him?”

  “Just walking down by the canal, by old Woodruff’s scrapyard.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he alone?”

  Maurice nodded.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t say anything to him?”

  “No cause to. He seemed preoccupied, just staring in the water, like, hands in his pockets. I’ve heard what happened to his dad. A lad has to do his grieving.”

  “Too true. Did you see anyone else? Anything suspicious?”

  “No, nothing. Just a minute, though . . .”

  “What?”

  “Oh, it’s probably nothing, but just after I saw Johnny, when I was crossing the bridge, I bumped into Colin Gormond, you know, that chap who’s a bit . . . you know.”

  Colin Gormond. I knew him all right. And that wasn’t good news; it wasn’t good news at all.

  * * *

  Of all the policemen they could have sent, they had to send Detective bloody Sergeant Longbottom, a big, brutish-looking fellow with a pronounced limp and a Cro-Magnon brow. Longbottom was thick as two short planks. I doubt he could have found his own arse even if someone nailed a sign on it, or detected his way out of an Anderson shelter if it were in his own backyard. But that’s the caliber of men this wretched war has left us with at home. Along with good ones like me, of course.

  DS Longbottom wore a shiny brown suit and a Silverhill Grammar School tie. I wondered where he’d got it from; he probably stole it from a schoolboy he caught nicking sweets from the corner shop. He kept tugging at his collar with his pink sausage fingers as we talked in Mary Critchley’s living room. His face was flushed with the heat, and sweat gathered on his thick eyebrows and trickled down the sides of his neck.

  “So he’s been missing since lunchtime, has he?” DS Longbottom repeated.

  Mary Critchley nodded. “He went out at about half past ten, just for a walk like. Said
he’d be back at twelve. When it got to three . . . well, I went to see Mr. Bashcombe here.”

  DS Longbottom curled his lip at me and grunted. “Mr. Bascombe. Special constable. I suppose you realize that gives you no real police powers, don’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I thought it made me your superior. After all, you’re not a special sergeant, are you?”

  He looked at me as if he wanted to hit me. Perhaps he would have done if Mary Critchley hadn’t been in the room. “Enough of your lip. Just answer my questions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You say you looked all over for this lad?”

  “All his usual haunts.”

  “And you found no trace of him?”

  “If I had, do you think we’d have sent for you?”

  “I warned you. Cut the lip and answer the questions. This, what’s his name, Maurice Richards, was he the last person to see the lad?”

  “Johnny’s his name. And yes is the answer, as far as we know.” I paused. He’d have to know eventually, and if I didn’t tell him, Maurice would. The longer we delayed, the worse it would be in the long run. “There was someone else in the area at the time. A man called Colin Gormond.”

  Mary Critchley gave a sharp gasp. DS Longbottom frowned, licked the tip of his pencil, and scribbled something in his notebook. “I’ll have to have a word with him,” he said. Then he turned to her. “Recognize the name, do you, ma’am?”

  “I know Colin,” I answered, perhaps a bit too quickly.

  DS Longbottom stared at Mary Critchley, whose lower lip started quivering, then turned slowly back to me. “Tell me about him.”

  I sighed. Colin Gormond was an oddball. Some people said he was a bit slow, but I’d never seen any real evidence of that. He lived alone and he didn’t have much to do with the locals; that was enough evidence against him for some people.

  And then there were the children.

  For some reason, Colin preferred the company of the local lads to that of the rest of us adults. To be quite honest, I can’t say I blame him, but in a situation like this it’s bound to look suspicious. Especially if the investigating officer is someone with the sensitivity and understanding of a DS Longbottom.

  Colin would take them trainspotting on the hill overlooking the main line, for example, or he’d play cricket with them on the rec, or hand out conkers when the season came. He sometimes bought them sweets and ice creams, even gave them books, marbles, and comics.

  To my knowledge, Colin Gormond had never once put a foot out of line, never laid so much as a finger on any of the lads, either in anger or in friendship. There had, however, been one or two mutterings from some parents—most notably from Jack Blackwell, father of one of Johnny’s pals, Nick—that it somehow wasn’t right, that it was unnatural for a man who must be in his late thirties or early forties to spend so much time playing with young children. There must be something not quite right in his head, he must be up to something, Jack Blackwell hinted, and as usual when someone starts a vicious rumor, there is no shortage of willing believers. Such a reaction was only to be expected from someone, of course, but I knew it wouldn’t go down well with DS Longbottom. I don’t know why, but I felt a strange need to protect Colin.

  “Colin’s a local,” I explained. “Lived around here for years. He plays with the lads a bit. Most of them like him. He seems a harmless sort of fellow.”

  “How old is he?”

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. About forty, perhaps.”

  DS Longbottom raised a thick eyebrow. “About forty and he plays with the kiddies, you say?”

  “Sometimes. Like a schoolteacher, or a youth club leader.”

  “Is he a schoolteacher?”

  “No.”

  “Is he a youth club leader?”

  “No. Look, what I meant—”

  “I know exactly what you meant, Mr. Bascombe. Now you just listen to what I mean. What we’ve got here is an older man who’s known to hang around with young children, and he’s been placed near the scene where a young child has gone missing. Now, don’t you think that’s just a wee bit suspicious?”

  Mary Critchley let out a great wail and started crying again. DS Longbottom ignored her. Instead, he concentrated all his venom on me, the softie, the liberal, the defender of child molesters. “What do you have to say about that, Mr. Special Constable Bascombe?”

  “Only that Colin was a friend to the children and that he had no reason to harm anyone.”

  “Friend,” DS Longbottom sneered, struggling to his feet. “We can only be thankful you’re not regular police, Mr. Bascombe,” he said, nodding to himself, in acknowledgment of his own wisdom. “That we can.”

  “So what are you going to do?” I asked.

  DS Longbottom looked at his watch and frowned. Either he was trying to work out what it meant when the little hand and the big hand were in the positions they were in, or he was squinting because of poor eyesight. “I’ll have a word with this here Colin Gormond. Other than that, there’s not much more we can do tonight. First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll drag the canal.” He got to the door, turned, pointed to the windows, and said, “And don’t forget to put up your blackout curtains, ma’am, or you’ll have the ARP man to answer to.”

  Mary Critchley burst into floods of tears again.

  * * *

  Even the soft dawn light could do nothing for the canal. It oozed through the city like an open sewer, oil slicks shimmering like rainbows in the sun, brown water dotted with industrial scum and suds, bits of driftwood and paper wrappings floating along with them. On one side was Ezekiel Woodruff’s scrapyard. Old Woodruff was a bit of an eccentric. He used to come around the streets with his horse and cart, yelling, “Any old iron,” but now the government had other uses for scrap metal—supposedly to be used in aircraft manufacture—poor old Woodruff didn’t have a way to make his living anymore. He’d already sent old Nell the carthorse to the knacker’s yard, where she was probably doing her bit for the war effort by helping to make the glue to stick the aircraft together. Old mangles and bits of broken furniture stuck up from the ruins of the scrapyard like shattered artillery after a battle.

  On the other side, the bank rose steeply toward the backs of the houses on Canal Road, and the people who lived there seemed to regard it as their personal tip. Flies and wasps buzzed around old hessian sacks and paper bags full of God knew what. A couple of buckled bicycle tires and a wheelless pram completed the picture.

  I stood and watched as Longbottom supervised the dragging, a slow and laborious process that seemed to be sucking all manner of unwholesome objects to the surface—except Johnny Critchley’s body.

  I felt tense. At any moment I half expected the cry to come from one of the policemen in the boats that they had found him, half expected to see the small, pathetic bundle bob above the water’s surface. I didn’t think Colin Gormond had done anything to Johnny—nor Maurice, though DS Longbottom had seemed suspicious of him, too—but I did think that, given how upset he was, Johnny might just have jumped in. He never struck me as the suicidal type, but I have no idea whether suicide enters the minds of nine-year-olds. All I knew was that he was upset about his father, and he was last seen skulking by the canal.

  So I stood around with DS Longbottom and the rest as the day grew warmer, and there was still no sign of Johnny. After about three hours, the police gave up and went for bacon and eggs at Betty’s Café over on Chadwick Road. They didn’t invite me, and I was grateful to be spared both the unpleasant food and company. I stood and stared into the greasy water awhile longer, unsure whether it was a good sign or not that Johnny wasn’t in the canal, then I decided to go and have a chat with Colin Gormond.

  * * *

  “What is it, Colin?” I asked him gently. “Come on. You can tell me.”

  But Colin continued to stand with his back turned to me in the dark corner of his cramped living room, hands to his face, making eerie snuffling sounds, shaking his
head. It was bright daylight outside, but the blackout curtains were still drawn tightly, and not a chink of light crept between their edges. I had already tried the light switch, but either Colin had removed the bulb or he didn’t have one.

  “Come on, Colin. This is silly. You know me. I’m Mr. Bascombe. I won’t hurt you. Tell me what happened.”

  Finally Colin turned silent and came out of his corner with his funny, shuffling way of walking. Someone said he had a clubfoot, and someone else said he’d had a lot of operations on his feet when he was a young lad, but nobody knew for certain why he walked the way he did. When he sat down and lit a cigarette, the match light illuminated his large nose, shiny forehead, and watery blue eyes. He used the same match to light a candle on the table beside him, and then I saw them: the black eye, the bruise on his left cheek. DS Longbottom. The bastard.

  “Did you say anything to him?” I asked, anxious that DS Longbottom might have beaten a confession out of Colin, without even thinking that Colin probably wouldn’t still be at home if that were the case.

  He shook his head mournfully. “Nothing, Mr. Bascombe. Honest. There was nothing I could tell him.”

  “Did you see Johnny Critchley yesterday, Colin?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where?”

  “Down by the canal.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Just standing there chucking stones in the water.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  Colin paused and turned away before answering, “No.”

  I had a brief coughing spell, his cigarette smoke working on my gassed lungs. When it cleared up, I said, “Colin, there’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there? You’d better tell me. You know I won’t hurt you, and I just might be the only person who can help you.”

  He looked at me, pale eyes imploring. “I only called out to him, from the bridge, like, didn’t I?”

  “What happened next?”