Neighbourhood Watch

by Lex Sinclair

  A split second!

  What the hell was he doing stepping off the pavement and into the road, anyway?

  That was goddamn carelessness and suicidal, on his part.

  By the time she’d seen the stranger with his hands waving over his head it was too late to stop. Nevertheless she stamped the brake pedal to floor, swerving the steering wheel erratically, not thinking about her own safety, simply wanting to avoid mowing down the asinine pedestrian. A wave of snow obscured her vision, and for a moment, Sherri thought she’d managed to avoid the unthinkable.

  Then she heard a sickening thud. The sound of something hard and tangible denting her bonnet, as well as the car riding the thing it had just knocked down like a speed hump, jostling her inside the vehicle. The yellow Mini skidded to a halt, turning a half-circle and blocking the road in either direction. Yet none of that was important right then. Sherri had just run someone over.

  The panic set in and rumbled through her like a generator.

  She didn’t recall killing the engine, unfastening her seatbelt and climbing out of her vehicle - but she did remember the trail of red tire tracks across the road, crisscrossing where the Mini had spun out of control. In the middle of the road sprawled out, legs and arms twisted at impossible angles was the heap of a man, lying face down.

  From where she was standing, her breath coming out of her mouth and nostrils in white vapours, Sherri could see that his chest wasn’t rising and falling rhythmically as it ought to have done (no matter how much she willed him to just breathe). But she had to be certain.

  She edged towards the man dressed in a black parka, and blue faded jeans. His winter hat had come off his head, either on initial impact or when the tires rolled over him. But as Sherri got down on her knees and leaned in closer to the man, whose head was covered by the hood on his parka, she stumbled backwards, clapping a hand over her open mouth, stopping herself from screaming and getting attention that would make this terrible, terrible situation she all of a sudden found herself in even worse, if that was actually possible.

  She shook her head back and forth, unable to accept the reality of what she’d just seen that caused the bile to rise into her throat, which she swallowed with a painful gulp.

  Why was this happening to her? Why had her perfect life been turned into turmoil in less than a few seconds? What had she done to deserve this treatment?

  But she knew what she’d done. She’d taken her eyes off the road, regardless of weather report on the BBC radio station, warning the locals not to drive unless it was absolutely necessary - and if they had to, then to try and stick to the main roads, which had at least been gritted.

  Instead of paying attention to the good-intentioned advice from the radio station she’d been listening to, Sherri had consciously decided to take a more scenic route. Had she done what the weather reports were suggesting or focused solely on the road in front and nothing else, the strange man she’d knocked down wouldn’t have the top half of his head in his winter hat and the other half where it should be, from the eyes down.

  Sherri’s stomach churned; her full English breakfast came up, burning her lungs with a hot sensation and ripping through her convulsing throat, at seeing the brain leaking mushy crimson blood on the road from the top half of the head a few feet away; not to mention the wide-eyed, unblinking stare of the dead guy looking directly at her, accusingly.

  Tiny stars blinked in her vision.

  The young woman studying English History knew right there and then that life would never be the same for her after this. Events like these got you behind bars. And even if she didn’t get prosecuted (not that that was likely), no one in their right frame of mind would ever trust her again. Her own family would be ashamed, for now until the time they all kicked the bucket. It was accidents like this that made you infamous in your hometown. In her mind’s eye, she could already hear them whispering behind her back, giving her baleful looks, people literally crossing the road just so they wouldn’t have to walk past her.

  All these mixed thoughts flashed through her head in seconds, as long as it took for her to inadvertently kill someone. If she didn’t want to face up to all the nightmares buzzing in her head, which in less than an hour from now would become all too real, then she’d better do something about it, rapidly, before someone saw the mess she’d got herself in.

  The snowflakes sprinkling down from the heavy white clouds would blot out the blood and the tire tracks, but Sherri had to somehow get rid of the dead body.

  The mere thought of having to bend down and pick up the hat containing the top half of the dead man’s skull made her gag. The pain and revulsion racked her body so hard that Sherri lost her balance and fell on her arse with a teeth-chattering thud. When she spat out dissected pieces of sausage, she saw that the spit melting in the snow was red.

  She too was bleeding, and to clarify it a tooth came free of her bleeding gums and also got lost somewhere in the dense snow.

  Wiping the drool away with the sleeve of her coat, Sherri managed to get to her feet, breathing erratically, doing her utmost to calm herself down. She stood over the corpse, took a deep breath, exhaling a rolling white cloud from her mouth, leaned over, grabbed the ankles of the dead man and, with all her might, dragged him across the road, wincing at the sound of the bottom half of his head hitting the kerb (a hollow sound) as she lifted him over and towards the skeletal trees sloping down a very steep incline.

  She had to stop. She was panting with exertion. All she had to do was push the body over the road barrier and down the steep incline where it would roll amidst the fallen leaves and underbrush, where it would - with some luck - be hidden away from prying eyes. Then she could get the top half of the head still stuck in the winter hat and toss that down into the wooded area with the rest of the body, and drive the hell away from here while she still could.

  Watching the body roll and tumble, thudding against the broken branches and dried leaves below, would live for ever in Sherri’s mind no matter how hard she tried to forget it. So would holding the top half of the head in both shivering gloved hands and hurling it as far as she could where an overreaching branch speared the gelatine that was the brain. Sherri thought it looked like a bird’s nest in the distance from her vantage point. Perhaps it soon would be.

  She headed back to the car, treading over the blood trails, opened the passenger side door of her yellow Mini, reached in, opened the glove compartment and removed a bottle of Brecon Spring water. Then she checked to see that she was still alone and poured the contents over the coagulating pool of dark blood where the head and got separated from the rest of the body, killing the man instantly.

  The rest of the sprayed blood she covered up with snow.

  By the time she’d completed concealing her tracks, hiding the facts as best she could, Sherri was exhausted, pale and trembling with a profound dread.

  Her vehicle was dappled in blood, which she soon got rid of, pouring water onto it and rubbing it away with a box of Kleenex she kept in the car. The only damage to the car was a cracked headlight. When her dad asked her how that happened, she’d simply say she only noticed it on the morning she’d set off on her journey home; that someone must have accidentally bumped into her car, skidding on the snow. It made perfect sense, she told herself. After all, lots of people had accidents they wished had never happened in the treacherous road conditions, besides her.

  Also, as she got in and drove off - deliberately driving over the blood smears in the road - Sherri thought that when the snow melted it would turn to mush. And by the time the roads were clear of snow, the blood would have been washed away with slosh, especially with other vehicles constantly riding through it.

  She’d been extremely lucky, because until she heard the unfamiliar, sinister voice reminding her of all the gory details on that evening, she’d thought she’d got away with her crime,
and that by the time the body was discovered it’d be impossible to determine who’d knocked him down.

  That man had a wife and son, Sherri. For years they lived in a misery you could never imagine. They wouldn’t have cared if it was an accident or not, all they wanted was to put their minds at rest, for good. All they asked was to know what had happened to the man they loved. To know whether or not if he was dead or alive, just so they could have some closure and resume living their lives, knowing it was okay to grieve, and not live in false hope.

  All that man wanted was a lift, seen as you were heading in the direction of his house, because it was too dangerous to drive home.

  Earlier that day, someone had driven into the back of his car, caving the boot inwards, giving him a nasty pain in his neck that was whiplash. He knew the other driver - who unlike you was apologetic and willing to own up to his mistake - was sorry for what he’d done. That man had told him that these things happen, that it was no one’s fault really. Then he decided to park his ruined vehicle in the car park outside his office and catch a bus home, only to realise he’d forgotten his wallet. Hence why the “silly man” as you thought of him had to walk home in the middle of a snowstorm.

  Not only did you kill him - but you put his wife and son through hell for two whole years, merely because you were thinking of yourself. By the time his body was discovered and identified, his flesh had rotted and he was barely recognisable when his wife had to go into the morgue and collect his wedding ring and St. Christopher necklace.

  You’re a murderer, Sherri Douglas. You’re a cold-hearted murderer.

  Sherri could do nothing, except sit perfectly still, knowing that the voice inside her head was telling the complete and utter truth, no more, no less.

  If this was a court case, she wouldn’t have a foot to stand on. She’d be banged to rights. The jury would certainly find her guilty of murder, and then she’d be sentenced to five years or more in prison. When those five years were up, she’d return to a whole new world with no friends, no family members willing to stand by her side (nor could she expect them, too), and with no prospects for the future.

  Sherri stood up, still in a trancelike state, ambled over to bookcase at the far end of the living room, pulled out an A4 notepad, got a pen from a cup holder, returned to her chair, plopped herself down and began writing.

  12.

  Emma was used to early mornings, and so on the weekend she naturally got up early and went through the normal procedure. Use the toilet, brush her teeth; take a hot shower, before finally getting dressed.

  On the weekends, she took longer in the showers as there was no need to be hasty. She stood under the shower head, eyes closed, head arched back, smiling at the feel of the water pelting her neck and face, running down her sensuous body in soapy rivulets, swallowed down the drain beneath her feet.

  Jake was at the other end of the bathroom, standing in front of the sink brushing his teeth vigorously, listening to the portable radio, announcing what he already knew - that it was going to be a warm, sunny day, not a cloud in sight. He’d slept like a log, unlike his other friends, who would shatter his happy, feel-good thoughts in a matter of minutes.

  When he finished brushing his cakehole, Jake washed his mouth out with cold water, spitting it back into the sink, then drying his face with the hand towel draped over the radiator. In the mirror above the washing basin, he could see his wife looking as though she was enjoying her shower equally as much as she enjoyed having intercourse with him. He pivoted, stood with his back to the sink, and then began heading towards the shower with a broad grin spreading across his features. He was a second or two away from gently tapping on the door, asking if he could join her when the phone started ringing.

  He sighed. Just my luck.

  Reluctantly, Jake opened the bathroom door and picked the receiver up on iron-wrought round table on the landing.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jake? It’s me, Joe.’

  Even though Jake was still a bit annoyed with the phoning shrilling to life just as he was about to get in the shower with his wife, the frustration abated drastically when he heard Joe’s voice. Joe wasn’t a guy to phone for no apparent reason at all. He’d phone only because he had something important to say.

  ‘What’s up, Joe?’

  ‘I was wondering if you’re not too busy, if you could come over. I’d like to talk to you about some weird shit that happened last night. I don’t know if you know what I’m talkin’ about - but could you come over?’

  No. I want to explore my wife’s curves. ‘Yeah, sure. Just give me a few minutes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The connection was broken.

  Jake went back into the bathroom. ‘Honey, I just have to go out for a bit. Joe wants to see me. Sounds pretty urgent. I’ll be back as soon as I can, all right?’

  ‘Okay,’ she called out, glancing at him over shoulder, bending at the waist a promiscuous position giving him a flirtatious smile.

  He wished he hadn’t picked up the phone now. Too late.

  ***

  Jake stared at the broken TV; its tube smashed to pieces, taking in everything Joe had just told him, hardly believing his ears. It wasn’t just Joe; it was Michael’s uncanny tale about seeing - or thinking he saw - a indistinct shape moving past his kitchen window in his back yard at roughly the same time last night.

  What about you, Jake? Did anything out of the ordinary happen to you?’ Michael asked.

  Jake shook his head. ‘No. At least, not yet it hasn’t.’

  Michael rolled his eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jake said, not at all rueful.

  ‘No, that’s good,’ Joe said. ‘I wonder if Hugh had anything happen to him, that’s all.’

  ‘Have you phoned him?’ Jake asked.

  Joe nodded. ‘Twice. But he must still be in bed. He left here pretty late.’

  ‘Try him again,’ Michael insisted.

  Joe regarded Jake, who shrugged in a may-as-well gesture.

  ‘Can’t do any harm, right?’

  Joe picked up the phone and punched in Hugh’s home number, waiting for the dialling tone. After twelve long rings, Joe hit the disconnect button, frowning deeply at his two friends.

  ‘Still no answer?’ Jake said, stating the obvious.

  Joe shook his head, expressing concern. ‘No, there wasn’t.’

  Michael checked his wristwatch. ‘It’s twenty past eleven. He must be up by now.’

  ‘He usually is,’ Jake admitted.

  ‘Maybe something’s happened to him,’ Joe said, silencing them with the horrible notion. Then quickly added: ‘Let’s give the old fart another half hour. He might be having a lie in. Or fell asleep late and is still catching up on some kip. Last thing we ought to do is go over knocking on his front door, thinking the worst when there’s no need to. Make sense?’

  The two men nodded in agreement.

  Joe faced Michael and said: ‘Do you believe there’s something going on here that isn’t in the slightest bit normal?’

  ‘You mean the kind of shit Martha and Sherri were babbling on about?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There was along pause, and Joe thought Michael would never reply.

  ‘I guess I’ll have to see it to believe it. But the more of this weird shit that goes down, the more I’m beginning to be less sceptical, that’s for sure.’

  Half an hour later, Joe put the phone down on the receiver, turning to his two friends, shifting from one foot to the other, uncomfortably, not sure how they ought to proceed, because once again Hugh hadn’t answered the phone.

  ‘Perhaps he went out early this morning,’ Jake suggested.

  Joe shook his head. ‘I’ve been up all night. Haven’t slept a wink. I would’ve seen him if he’d left his house. He
hasn’t gone anywhere.’

  ‘I guess there’s nothing else for it,’ Michael said.

  Joe rubbed his brow, thinking all sorts of nasty scenarios that could have befallen his friend and neighbour. He tried to get those horrible images out of his head by grabbing his house key off the pegboard and putting his trainers on. Then he followed the guys out of his house into the morning sunlight, closed the door behind him and locked it.

  The three men crossed the road to house number two. Joe did not wait any longer. Now he just wanted to find out what was going on, so he could put his mind at rest. He rapped on the glass panel. The door’s latch clicked and the door itself opened ajar.

  They stood there frozen to the spot, not knowing what was the best course of action to take. Should they chance going inside and finding an awful discovery, like what happened at Martha’s house? Would they find the house vacant, like all the houses on Thorburn Close? Or should they instead call the police and say that their neighbour’s front door was open, but there was no answer when they called all morning? And because of recent events the police wouldn’t hesitate - they would there within a flash.

  ‘What d’you think we should do?’ Joe asked, in a voice that sounded nothing like his ordinary, confident voice.

  ‘I gotta bad feeling about this all of a sudden,’ Jake said to no one in particular.

  ‘Maybe he can’t get to the telephone,’ Michael said. Maybe he’s had a fall - you know, ‘cause his bad hip n all - and is unable to get to the phone: hence why he hasn’t picked up.’

  Joe much rather preferred his friend to have had taken a bump, than for something far sinister to have taken place (like what happened at his and Michael’s house last night).

  Something he could cope with. Blood and guts and sudden, unexplainable disappearances he could do without.

  ‘So, do you think we ought to go on in?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Give him a shout first,’ Michael said, standing behind Jake on the concrete path.