by Stuart Young
Will crept along the corridor towards Piper’s flat.
He forced himself to stop creeping, to cease his furtive glances, instead adopting a carefree stroll, trying to make it look as though he belonged there. But still he felt the tension in his muscles.
Reaching Piper’s door he came to a halt. Soul music was playing on the radio. But Piper had exited the building five minutes ago, Will had watched him from across the street. And no one else was in the flat, no one answered when he rang from a nearby payphone or when he buzzed the flat before entering the building. The music was just to fool potential burglars. Even child snatchers worry about crime.
The bunch of keys he’d bribed off the caretaker jangled as he pulled them from his pocket. He had to remind himself that the sound was no big deal. Keys were always jangling outside flats, he didn’t need to hold his breath.
But it wasn’t just the fear of one of Piper’s neighbours spotting him. He was about to enter the dragon’s lair.
Opening the door he stepped inside.
It wasn’t what he expected. No kids trapped in cages, no blood splattered across the walls. Just an ordinary flat.
Ordinary in the sense that it looked like a palace. Open plan, the contours not quite regular, the walls sprouting corners in unusual places as if the blueprint had been modelled on a jigsaw piece. The furnishings were even more impressive: high definition TV, digital stereo, glass coffee table, an ornately crafted bookshelf.
Most of it was probably paid for out of the money the police had given Piper over the harassment charges. Meanwhile Will had to scrimp and save just to pay the rent on the shitty flat he and his family were stuck in.
If only he hadn’t lost his football apprenticeship things could have been different. That one moment of pain and crunching cartilage as Jerry Doyle tripped, stumbled and brought his boot down on Will’s knee had ruined everything in his life. If he hadn’t been injured he could have kept his apprenticeship, played professional long enough to earn some decent cash. Suddenly the years spent kicking a ball instead of studying seemed a terrible mistake. Without a decent education, a decent job, a decent home he would spend the rest of his life trying to make things up to his family.
He pulled himself from his reverie. Now was not the time to dwell on past mistakes, past regrets.
Will rubbed a hand over his mouth. He wished Cooper was here. He would know what to look for. But he didn’t know if he could trust the detective. Policemen had to follow too many rules.
Pulling his mobile from his pocket Will started taking photos. He didn’t know if he would manage to sneak into Piper’s flat again so he needed to gather as much evidence as possible this time round. He would pore over the photos for hours if it gave him a way to convince Cooper to come back with a warrant.
He went to pick up one of the books but then snatched his hand away as if the pages were on fire. He had forgotten to wear gloves. Idiot!
Looking round he spotted a pair of oven gloves draped over the handle of the oven door. Not ideal but they would have to do. Slipping his left hand into the gloves, leaving the other end dangling, he went back over to the bookshelf and picked up a book.
According to the cover blurb Doorways to Other Worlds discussed parallel dimensions, wormholes, vibrational frequencies and other things Will normally only ever heard mentioned in Star Trek. Replacing the book he flicked through another, The Inferno. The poetry left him befuddled but between the cover blurb and half-remembered English classes he managed to pick up the gist of it; the different layers of hell, the different aspects of damnation. An illustration helped, depicting the nine circles of Hell as a demented helter-skelter with Dante and Virgil sliding down each level as they continued their journey through the infernal realms.
Discomforted, he returned the book to the shelf. Then, his hand still resting upon The Inferno, he noticed a slim volume at the back of the shelf. It was upside down and he craned his neck to read the title, the world performing a slow spiral before his gaze. The words turned right side up and he read them, his face turning pale.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin.
The story of children stolen by a man with a flute.
Damn it, the sick freak wouldn’t get away with this! Will would search this flat until he found solid evidence that Piper was a child snatcher.
He marched over to the nearest door, opened it. The bedroom. A computer sat in the far corner, a Peter Pan screensaver filling the screen.
Of course. There must be all kinds of incriminating evidence on there. The websites Piper had bookmarked would probably carry three life sentences alone.
He headed for the computer.
Will quickly discovered just how hard it was to type wearing oven gloves. Robbed of their dexterity his hands mashed five or six keys every time he touched the keyboard. In the end he clenched a pen in his fist, using it to stab at the keys. Operating the mouse was just as bad, he couldn’t get a decent grip on it, it slipped across the mousemat, defying his efforts to click on the right icons. Finally he wrestled it into position.
And after all that Piper had a password on the computer.
Will stared at the dialog box with its blank field and blinking cursor.
He wondered how many guesses he would get before the computer locked him out. Probably no more than three. Leaning into the computer he held the pen above the keyboard, trying to think what to type.
(Behind him Piper walked past the open bedroom door.)
Will started typing “Piper” but then shook his head and jabbed the backspace key. Too obvious.
(Piper walked past the doorway again, brandishing a knife.)
What else could the password be?
He typed in “Inferno.” Wrong.
He tried “Doorways.” Wrong.
(Piper walked by the door again, using the knife to cut a slice off an apple, totally oblivious to Will.)
Will had one last chance to guess the password. He reached out for the keyboard.
The soul music from the radio dissolved into static then reformed as salsa music as the radio tuned to another station.
Will spun round. Piper stood at the radio, his back to Will.
Shit!
Swiftly cancelling the dialog box Will dropped to the floor and slid under the bed. He only just hid from view before Piper walked into the bedroom.
Will watched Piper’s black trainers walk along one side of the bed, disappear from view, then reappear on the other side of the bed. The closet door opened and Will heard Piper rummage around inside.
‘Mobile,’ muttered Piper, his voice higher than Will had imagined it, more childlike. ‘Where’s the bloody mobile?’
Dust tickling his nostrils Will felt a stab of irrational hilarity. As a kid he had been terrified of monsters hiding under his bed but now he was hiding under the bed of a monster.
The thought was comforting somehow. Especially as it distracted him from how his heart was beating fast enough to match the rumba on the radio.
Damn music. If it hadn’t been so loud he would have heard Piper coming in and could have hidden sooner. Found somewhere with a decent view.
Drawers slid open and shut. Objects got rummaged around. Finally Piper gave a small murmur of triumph.
Crouching amongst the balls of dust beneath the bed Will watched the black trainers head back out to the lounge. A new song came on the radio, louder than the previous track. Piper stopped, turned the volume down slightly.
Above the subdued rumba Will heard the screeching of flute music. That music.
His hands balled into fists, the knuckles turning white, the mobile nearly shattering in his grasp.
Then an oak door swung open, obscuring the view of the trainers. When the door shut the trainers had gone.
He waited for a few seconds, his heart easing itself back to its natural rhythm, then he wriggled out from under the bed. Cautiously he crept over to the bedroom door and peeked out. The flat was empty.
Will frowned. P
iper had left via an oak door, the grain covering the door in a wooden filigree. But the door to the flat was covered with a glossy blue emulsion with not a hint of grain in sight.
Will scratched his head at the impossibility of it all. Both Piper and the oak door had vanished.
Will walked home.
As he approached the tower block he saw the plastic devil one of the neighbours had used to decorate the roof. Lightbulbs glowed in the devil’s pitchfork as he leered over the streets. The satanic effigy bugged Will. People were quick enough to celebrate ghosts and goblins and devils on Halloween but there was hardly a peep about November 1st, All Saints’ Day. And tomorrow, November 2nd, that was something too. All Souls’ Day? Something like that. Why couldn’t people celebrate the good instead of the bad?
Not that he had anything good in his life right now. He guessed he and Janie would fight when he got in. Either that or she would be cooking yet another meal that Michael would never eat.
Opening the door he entered the flat, already on the defensive. Janie stood in the lounge, hanging her coat up after picking up Josh from school.
Will shrugged off his coat. ‘All right?’
Before Janie could answer Josh came running out of his bedroom, schoolbooks spilling from his bag. He thrust himself between Will and Janie, his face flushed, his eyes red with tears, his voice whiny. ‘What have you done with Sully?’
‘We haven’t done anything –’
‘Yes you have! He was sick and now he’s gone – I bet he’s dead and you’ve flushed him down the toilet and I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him!’
The words were almost incoherent through Josh’s distress but Will got the gist of it. He took Josh’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go look.’
He led Josh into the bedroom, Janie tailing along behind. Sully’s cage stood with the door hanging open. ‘The cage was open when you got here?’
Josh nodded.
‘Door must have come loose.’ Will searched Josh’s room, under the bed, in the closet, under the discarded Action Man uniform with the water pistol laid on top. Then he searched Michael’s old room, his and Janie’s room, the entire flat. Sully was gone.
‘I’m sorry, Josh.’
‘No you’re not! You threw him out! I hate you!’
Josh turned and ran back into his bedroom, slamming the door.
Janie stood on the far side of the kitchen, her arms folded, her face weary. ‘So when did you flush Sully?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, I didn’t. Someone must have got rid of him.’
Will gave a start, then began searching the flat again.
Janie called after him, her voice heavy with resignation. ‘You won’t find him.’
But Will wasn’t looking for Sully. He was checking to see if the flat had gained any new doors.
Steam rose off Cooper’s coffee as he studied the photos on Will’s mobile. Scowling, he handed the phone back to Will. ‘I should arrest you for this.’
Will gulped. He knew there was a chance Cooper wouldn’t go along with his amateur sleuthing but he hadn’t been able to find anything in the photos and he needed a professional’s opinion.
‘With the way you feel about Piper I thought …’
Cooper took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, put the glasses back on. ‘I never saw these.’
‘Thanks. I – ’
‘And you know why I never saw them? Because you never showed them to me.’
Will hesitated. ‘So there’s nothing incriminating in the photos at all?’
‘’Fraid not. And you say you couldn’t figure out the password for his computer?’
‘No.’
Cooper sighed, the weariness that always pervaded him deepening. The jaded professionalism fell away and Will saw the compassion in his face, the last remnants of idealism that a lifetime in law enforcement had not yet quite managed to erode.
‘If we could figure out how he manages that disappearing act of his that’d at least be something. You didn’t see anything that could give us a clue to how he pulls it off?’
Will hesitated. ‘No. Nothing.’
Cooper stared into his coffee. ‘God, when I think what that bastard could be doing to that little girl.’
The words unlocked something inside Will, releasing all his fears about what Piper had done to Michael. His guts churned and he felt light-headed. Fearing that he might faint he gripped the edges of the table. He forced himself to do the impossible; put his fear to one side and focus on what needed to be done. ‘We have to stop him.’
‘How?’ Cooper toyed with his wedding ring, the two mangled fingers jutting out like broken twigs.
Will knew he couldn’t give Cooper a straight answer. Not yet. First he had to remind him what was at stake. ‘He saw me at the crime scene. If we don’t stop him he’s going to come after my family again.’
‘I know.’
‘He’s going to come after my son.’
‘I know.’ Cooper’s voice was pathetic in its helplessness. ‘But there’s nothing more I can do.’
Will looked at him. ‘There is one thing.’
Will put the gun case on the top shelf of the wardrobe then threw a couple of old blankets over the top to hide it.
Cooper had complained about the gun case, he didn’t want to provide Will with an untraceable firearm in the first place and the case just made things more difficult. But Will played on his guilt, emphasising how dangerous Piper was, how he had already stolen one son from Will, he couldn’t be allowed to steal another. The only way Will could be sure his family was safe was if he had protection. Protection that he could keep safe from Janie’s prying eyes and Josh’s prying fingers. Finally, after an hour of begging, Cooper relented.
So now Will had a piece of death in his home.
An ugly chunk of wood and metal with a set of scars where its serial number had been. An Olympic starting pistol converted from firing blanks to live ammunition – the cylinder only held five rounds but at least being a revolver it wouldn’t spit spent cartridges everywhere, things would be dangerous enough with an untrained marksman behind the trigger without having extra chunks of red hot metal flung into the air.
Cooper had looked uncomfortable when he handed it over to Will. ‘I’m praying you never have to use the bloody thing but if you do there’s some things you’ll have to remember. Tell the police – Christ, I can’t believe I’m telling someone this – tell them that Piper was carrying the gun; you managed to grab it off him and shot him in self defence. Drop a knife next to his body, make it look he was carrying it as a back-up. Don’t change anything else about the scene, the Evidence Recovery Unit’ll be all over the gunshot residue and blood patterns, you try to be clever they’ll spot holes in your statement and you’ll be too shook up to keep your story straight.’
It wasn’t just his own story Will had to worry about, chances were Janie and Josh would be present if he needed to use the gun. Would they lie to protect him? He guessed they would. Lies came easy in this family.
Closing the wardrobe Will walked through the lounge to his study. Well, he called it a study but it was really just a cupboard that he had managed to squeeze a desk into. He locked the ammo in the drawer of his desk. Extra insurance – accidents couldn’t happen if the gun and the bullets remained apart. Will would only bring them together if he intended to shoot something.
Or someone.
Putting the key in a separate drawer he turned to find Josh standing in the doorway, watching him. The edges of the doorjamb encircled Josh, framing him, focusing his angry glare into an intense tunnel vision.
Will put a finger to his lips. ‘Shh. I’ve just hidden your mum’s birthday present.’
Being included in a secret didn’t impress Josh. He kept glaring.
Will started to speak, to offer to buy Josh a new mouse, but he knew it was a wasted effort. He had made the same offer at least a dozen times since Sully’s disappearance and each time
Josh had refused in disgust.
Will turned and walked to the kitchen. All the time he could feel Josh’s gaze upon him, his son’s eyes burning into him as neatly as a pair of bullet holes.
The bank of television screens along the store’s wall showed a trailer for a Halloween movie marathon. Donald Sutherland chasing down streets after a tiny figure dressed in a red coat. Freddy Krueger sending up sparks as he scraped his metal talons along the walls of an alley.
Will hit the remote, switching to a trailer for a golden oldies movie channel; a flying car, Dick Van Dyke singing and dancing, and some bloke with a pointy nose creeping about with an oversized butterfly net.
‘Oy, I was watching that!’
Darren Taylor grabbed the remote and switched back to the horror movies.
Will didn’t like Darren. It wasn’t just that Darren was cocky or that he had been promoted over Will despite being fifteen years younger or that he used too much gel in his hair and his crisp white shirts never seemed to show off sweat patches the way Will’s did. The real problem was that Darren reminded him of Jerry Doyle.
Jerry Doyle, his white football uniform spattered with mud, his boot crunching down on Will’s knee. Will had been tearing towards the goal with a half dozen of the opposing team on his tail. He booted the ball at the net, the goalie only just deflecting it with an outstretched glove, the plastic orb ricocheting back within reach of Will’s right foot, giving him another shot at the goal, left undefended now with the goalie sprawled upon the turf after his desperate save. Will was going to equalise, take the match into extra time, give his team a chance to win, he would be a hero. Then Jerry came charging up and Will wasn’t going to finish the goal, wasn’t going to finish the game, or even his football career.
Jerry begged forgiveness for injuring him but the apology was tempered with Jerry’s joy at his team winning the game. Even as he apologised there was a hint of a smile on his lips. And whenever Will replayed the accident in his head he could see the smile already on Jerry’s face as the boot came down. The bastard had done it on purpose.