Neighbourhood Watch

by Lex Sinclair

  Thud... Thud... Thud... That was all the Jack Russell heard - the sound of his heart beating like a drum in the marching band that visited the town once every year in the summer (that din banging also frightened him - but not as much as this).

  Something was in the kitchen with him; something that wouldn’t be frightened by his aggressive barking. It was something so disturbing it couldn’t be anything belonging to the world. Homer was just a dog, living a dog’s life in luxury. He didn’t know much about the world around him, but he knew he was not alone in the kitchen. He also knew that his owner was upstairs, snoring under the coverlet in her bedroom, the door ajar if Homer wanted to join her sometime in the night - which he did on occasions.

  He no longer had any urge to devour his delicious food. Food was the last thing on his mind, when a couple of minutes ago it was the most important part of his life. Food, sleep and running were Homer’s favourite things to do.

  Now, he simply wanted to sprint out of the kitchen through the narrow hallway and up into the bedroom and get into bed with Martha. Maybe then he could relax. Maybe the hammering of his heart would slow down to its normal rate, allowing him to succumb to a deep, peaceful slumber.

  And maybe the entity in the kitchen would be gone before sunup, too.

  Unfortunately for Homer, though, fear had paralysed him for too long, making any chance of escape out of the kitchen impossible. As he headed to the entrance of the kitchen, a towering figure dressed in black from head to toe, lowered its hooded head in the Jack Russell’s direction, staring without a visible face... motionless.

  Homer whimpered in sheer terror he’d never felt before. He skated on the tiled-flooring, back-pedalling, doing his utmost to just get away from the figure blocking his way out, not understanding why there was nowhere to go so he could hide and be safe.

  He darted to the back door, locked shut with the security chain in place, running his front paws in a futile attempt to climb the door, or to somehow break through the white panel to the outside.

  Behind Homer the figure had moved away from the kitchen doorway, silently, and now stood right behind Jack Russell, watching, waiting for the poor, terrified creature to run out of steam and give up on escaping through the impenetrable back entrance.

  Whimpering loudly now, emphasising his trepidation, Homer’s front paws slid down the panel to the rug, leaving long, deep scratch marks in the plastic covering. Then, panting in exhaustion and knowing he would have to face the inhuman intruder, Homer felt a warm, flowing stream coursing down his legs and into the cracks on the tiles. He knew what he did was wrong. God knows he’d done it often enough in the night when he was a pup, and his owner came downstairs in the morning and rebuked him for the mess and acrid smell he’d made. But this time was different. He hadn’t even needed to empty his bladder, and yet he’d inadvertently urinated all over his fur, staining himself in yellow streaks all down his tremulous legs.

  There before him, the tall figure towered over him, witnessing his fear trickling down the gaps on the flooring, steadily running past its feet, paying it no heed. Instead in one slow, but deliberate movement, the cloaked figure’s arm reached out, seized Homer at the collar, where his nametag dangled, roughly and lifted him up, high enough so the dog’s ears brushed the lampshade.

  Homer then saw through the dimness concealing the figure’s face: A face not like any human face he’d seen before. It was something far hideous. It was a face still in the time-consuming process of constructing itself all over again; where blood vessels, capillaries, veins, and flesh intertwined in a gleaming, ragged blend around two huge eyes, shiny as orbs, which looked more like two cue balls on either side of the stub that would soon be a recognisable nose.

  The collar tightened around Homer’s neck, choking him. He flailed his legs at the intruder, the nails on his paws snagging the cuffs on the robe, mouth hanging open, trying to suck in much-required oxygen.

  Blood rushed to the tiny cranium from the neck up. Homer’s head felt like a balloon having air pumped in to it. Too much air in fact. Any more pressure and surely his head would explode, decorating the kitchen walls with brain matter.

  Fortunately, for the mutt his demise was an abrupt one.

  The hooded figure heard the vicious snap of the neck breaking - music to its ears. The Jack Russell’s head flopped to the left side, eyes still wide open, although the light inside them faded, leaving only the glassy, vacant look of the recently departed.

  Then the creature of the night made its harrowing mark.

  ***

  Martha put her robe on early the next morning, feeling an unpleasant chill from downstairs drift up through the floorboards. She slid her feet into her pink, fluffy slippers, went into the bathroom, switched the heating on and then descended the flight of stairs to make herself a nice mug of tea to start the day.

  The scream which she issued resonated in her ears for days afterwards.

  In front of her she saw blood smears on the white walls. Then she saw what was left of her beautiful dog hanging from a hook where one of her pots hung on the rack, entrails swaying to and fro in the air, like a pendulum, splattering the tiled floor with droplets the size of coins in his blood.

  The message written in crimson smears on the wall next to the stove, read: GET OUT!

  Martha half fell, half stumbled out of the doorway where the intruder had blocked Homer’s escape last night, moving backwards all the way into her living room, fumbling for the phone when the back of her legs bumped into the arm of the sofa so unexpectedly, she collapsed by the small table. She stabbed the numbers fast and hard, misdialling in her frantic haste, then told herself to get a grip, dialling slower (but still quickly) on the second occasion.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ she urged, listening to the incessant ringing on the other end for the emergency service to answer her call.

  Once she’d explained as best she could what had happened, Martha put the receiver down, curled into a foetal ball and trembled. She didn’t dare close her eyes and risk her imagination replaying the graphic images of what she’d just seen in her very own kitchen.

  A place where she had once felt safe.

  But not any more.

  ***

  Michael was the first neighbour to see the flashing beacons of the police car coming to a halt outside number five - Martha’s house.

  What the hell had happened? Had the old lady popped her clogs? Had her heart strings pulled too hard? Or was it something far more sinister? Like the kind of thing that had happened to the Sheldon’s on Thorburn Close and that police officer up in Seven Sisters? Had the serial killer - or killers - finished with the street down the road, and had Willet Close in their sights?

  Rapt with undivided attention, Michael put down the twenty kilo dumbbells he’d been exercising with (not caring less about working on his muscles or gulping down a protein shake after the workout, there were more serious things taking place right outside his garage). He lifted the garage door up, ducked underneath and stepped out onto his driveway, staring at the two uniformed officers who were now approaching Martha’s front door.

  They knocked firmly on the glass... waited. Then they knocked again, waited a few seconds before one of the officers lifted up the flap to the letterbox and called out:

  ‘Martha Clark! It’s the police. There’s nothing to worry about, just open your door so we can come in.’

  After about a minute or so, the door opened.

  The second policeman following his partner inside the house looked over his shoulder at Michael and said loud enough so he could hear him, ‘Go back indoors, sir. This does not concern you.’

  Michael nodded, raised his hand as if to say, ‘Yeah all right,’ then returned to the garage and finished his workout with a lacklustre performance, all the while thinking about Martha.

  Once he’d sho
wered and changed into clean clothes, Michael went to the window in his bedroom, peeking through the netted curtains. The patrol car was still parked alongside the kerb. He’d been hoping that by the time his shower was over, they would’ve gone, so he could go and see if the old lady - who had baked him a cake when he first moved in - was all right.

  It had to be something bad for the old lady to phone the police, he thought. Martha may have been frail physically, but Michael knew she was strong mentally and spiritually. She’d told him about her palm-reading days one sunny afternoon last summer when they had been acquaintances for a few months and were comfortable in each other’s company to talk a bit about themselves.

  Martha knew straight away Michael was a drug-free bodybuilder: she said so when he returned the dish the cake had been in a couple days later. She even told him not to worry about what other people thought, as long as he knew he never abused his body by taking illegal substances, that’s all that mattered.

  She was right, too.

  ***

  Inspector Sark had been officially taken off the case and was on sick absence, which was very rare for him. But that didn’t stop him from getting in his car and driving to the suburbs where he and his special agent partner had been working the past couple of months. He drove passed Willet Close, taking his foot off the accelerator when he saw a patrol car going in the opposite direction, indicating to pull over when he saw Joe walking towards him.

  Sark gestured for the former world champion to get in the passenger side, grateful for the company of someone who wasn’t a cop, someone who wouldn’t stare at him, watching for signs of him falling apart, bit by bit. He now knew what criminals meant when they said the ‘cop stare’. And yes, it was palpable once you’d seen it half a dozen times in a short period of time.

  Joe got into the passenger seat - just like before - and faced the pallid, desolate expression of the experienced officer.

  ‘Sorry to hear about your partner, man,’ Joe said without any preamble.

  ‘Thanks,’ Sark said in a sullen tone. ‘He was a hell of a nice guy, too.’

  Joe nodded. ‘I didn’t know him, but I bet he was.’

  ‘What was that patrol car doing here, just now?’

  Joe frowned. ‘I thought you’d know about that. I guessed that’s why you were here.’

  Sark looked out his window, not sure if he should tell Joe what he didn’t want anyone outside the law enforcement to know. ‘I’m not working on the case any more.’

  ‘Oh.’ Joe’s expression was a perplexed one, yet he didn’t enquire why.

  ‘They do that sometimes in cases like these, if someone’s partner dies. It’s not like the movies you see, where the cop who’s still alive goes after the killer to avenge his partner; although I wish it was as simple as that.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway,’ Joe said. ‘I mean if I can’t trust you, who the hell can I trust, right?’

  Sark forced a smile. ‘Right.’

  Joe explained what Martha had told Sherri Douglas, who told Emma, who passed on the information to her husband, to Michael, and then finally to him... in less than an hour.

  Sark shook his head in disgust. ‘I’d better get outta here before more police arrive,’ he said. Then he faced Joe, said: ‘Fancy going for a spin?’

  ‘Just as long as we don’t go far and for too long,’ Joe replied.

  ‘We won’t,’ Sark said, starting the engine again. They pulled away from the kerb, and as they did, Sark added: ‘I just need to get away before I’m seen. Otherwise I’ll get into trouble with my superintendent.’

  ‘You think your partner’s murder and Martha’s dog’s are all related?’

  ‘There’s no proof giving any indication to either ascertain it is or not. However, my instincts tell me something far greater than ourselves is causing all this shit to go down.

  That’s why there’s not a shred of proof or plausible excuse to any of this. It all just seems to be pure, indescribable madness.’

  Sark brought the automobile to a halt outside the entrance gates of a deserted graveyard that had been first used in the ninety-sixties. Bald maple trees obscured the daylight, swaying gently in the breeze, creating shadows of gigantic skeleton arms with thousands of fingers, different shapes and sizes on the concrete in front them.

  When the inspector turned the engine off, he could still hear the distinct ticking from under the bonnet; it made him think of a grandfather clock in a quiet room in one of the empty houses on Thorburn Close he’d been in to, belonging to the husband and wife the young boys discovered in the barn.

  ‘If I tell you something in confidence,’ Joe said, breaking his train of thought, ‘will you promise to keep it to yourself? Can I trust you in other words?’

  Sark shrugged. ‘Depends what it is... I mean if you’re gonna confess to the murders and kidnappings, for instance, I’d take my .45 out of its holster underneath my jack and blow a hole in your head, without thinking twice about it. Cop or no cop. If, however, it’s something far less significant, I probably wouldn’t bat a fuckin’ eyelid, the way I’m feelin’.’

  ‘It’s not a confession, as such,’ Joe said, all of sudden, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. ‘Although, I’m not exactly proud of what I’ve been doing, either.’

  ‘If you’re gonna tell me, sport, then tell me already,’ Sark said, visibly getting impatient.

  ‘I’ve been keeping a close watch on my street, ever since what happened at Thorburn Close - but my neighbours don’t know about it. I’m not sure if I should tell them, because they hardly know me. They might think I’m a weirdo or somethin’.’

  Neither of them spoke for what seemed like five minutes, but could have only been one, tops.

  ‘It is a little strange... and it’s also against the law, spying on people - although, in this case, you’re doing it for a good cause. But if you’re watching your neighbours getting dressed or having sexual intercourse, or just watching them because you’re a pervert, then you could get arrested if they found out and pressed charges. Do you realise that?’

  Joe nodded. Then said: ‘But I’m not watching what they’re up to. I couldn’t give flying monkey’s what they’re doing. It’s just I can’t bear the thought of not doing anything, while shit like Martha’s dog being gutted is going on. Know what I mean?’

  The off-duty officer nodded, understanding all right. ‘It’s disturbing - but if you’re spotted, they’re apt to think that you’re the one doing the killin’. Maybe it would be in your best interest to just take care of yourself and not worry about your neighbours.’

  Joe sighed. ‘D’you know the worst thing about all of this shit is?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Last night someone got into Martha’s place somehow, without making any noise, and most disturbingly, without breaking open either the front or back door. Police checked them. Nor were any of the windows open. All locked. And yet someone broke in and gutted her Jack Russell and smeared the words, GET OUT! on the kitchen wall in the dog’s blood. Now you tell me how in God’s name did they manage to do that, huh? Because I sure as hell can’t.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Sark asked, mulling over everything he’d been told.

  ‘My neighbours aren’t a bunch of liars. We’re all scared shitless.’

  Sark drummed his fingers on top of the dashboard, contemplating something, making an important decision. He reached in his pocket and took out a small white paper bag with, PIC ‘A MIX, typed on the side in pink capitals. Joe didn’t know what to make of the inspector putting his hand into the paper bag, rustling it, and then taking out a couple of chewy sweets.

  ‘You’ve got every right to be,’ he said, chewing some wine gums. He offered Joe a sweet, glad that the former champ took some after a second hesitation.

  ‘Thanks.’

&n
bsp; ‘When I’m really depressed, I always - without fail -treat myself to some high-sugary food. It’s my way of coping with not sitting alone in my house, blinds closed, blocking out any light from outside and coming to terms with whatever’s troubling me. If I eat any more sweets, though, I think my teeth are gonna start falling out... This time it’s gonna take more than delicious sweets to get over my depression.’

  Joe got the impression that the inspector was going off at a tangent. All the same he nodded in the right places out of politeness.

  ‘I can’t explain what happened to your neighbour’s dog,’ Sark said, returning to their grim topic of conversation, ‘just like I can’t explain to you what happened to me to make my colleagues think I was going stir crazy after Reeves’ gruesome death.’

  ‘What happened?’ Joe blurted out.

  Sark went on and told Joe in detail about the letter, addressed to him, advising that he stop his investigation before he too wound up like his unfortunate partner, then the words vanishing when he handed it over to the chief.

  ‘This is like something out of a horror film,’ Joe said, stunned, after hearing the detective inspector’s account.

  ‘A part of me insists that my imagination read words that weren’t there, but I know for a fact that I didn’t make anything up. I don’t rely on my imagination. I rely on hard substantial evidence that cannot be denied. Little, infinitesimal things which most people overlook or don’t even notice. That’s how ninety-nine percent of homicide cases are solved - going through endless paperwork, getting to the root of something other people read late at night when they were too tired to recognise the answers right there in front of them.’

  ‘You didn’t imagine anything,’ Joe said. ‘You’re not the crazy type. And even if you were, there’s too much other weird, unexplainable shit goin’ down to be ignored.’