The Two O'Clock Boy

by Mark Hill

  Elliot let out a long breath. ‘He seemed pretty fired up. Angry, you know, volatile. And …’

  Owen stopped outside the barn. ‘And what?’

  ‘Well, he had a few choice things to say about you.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Owen blinked. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Elliot folded his arms. ‘It’s not stuff you would want me to repeat.’

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ said Owen quietly. ‘How could he do it, Elliot? He’s worked for me for years. Perry has been like a son to me.’

  ‘Last I saw, he was driving off with the rucksack.’ Elliot sighed. ‘Sorry, Owen, it looks like he’s done a runner.’

  A branch cracked in the darkness. They heard it crash to the floor.

  ‘Can’t trust anyone, these days,’ said Owen sadly. ‘You really can’t.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Elliot, ‘you can’t.’

  ‘If only Perry were here to put his side of this.’ Eyes fixed sourly on Elliot, the old man prodded open the barn door with his foot.

  When Elliot looked into the gloom, he saw a figure standing in the empty space: Perry. The man’s eyes, those small, hard pellets, almost hidden in his swollen face, glittered with hatred.

  Owen placed a hand on the small of Elliot’s back and guided him inside.

  57

  The first thing Drake saw when he entered his house was Toby Turrell, the man he knew as Frank Wanderly, waiting in the hallway, a long knife down at his side.

  Flick Crowley sat tensely on the bottom step of the staircase. On the floor in front of them both, face down in a pool of blood, was a body.

  ‘It’s Peter Holloway,’ said Turrell helpfully.

  Closing the door, Drake saw the old woman against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest as if she had already been entombed. ‘Myra?’

  Lips pursed tightly, she nodded.

  ‘We thought you’d never get here.’ The way Turrell listlessly rubbed his scalp made Drake lower his gun. ‘Don’t do that,’ Toby snapped. ‘You’ll need it in a moment.’

  Drake took a good look at the man. In all the time that Frank Wanderly had worked at the station – several years now – Drake had never recognised him. Turrell’s features from that chaotic time had always been muddy in his memory, and there was little to connect Wanderly to the boy from the Longacre. Wanderly was tall and bland, a happy, amiable man who Drake saw for a few seconds each day. Toby Turrell had been small and slight, with a mop of thick, blond hair. All he remembered about him was the misery and terror etched onto his face that last night at the home. The forgettable child had grown up to be a forgettable adult, the kind of man who slipped from your memory the moment you turned your back on him. Which, of course, was exactly how he went about his murderous business.

  ‘All those people, Toby, all those families.’

  ‘And why should they have people to love?’ Turrell made a face. ‘Sons, daughters, wives, husbands – and I have nothing! I worshipped Mary and Bernard, I adored them. None of you stopped me, and I have had to live with the consequences of what … I did.’

  ‘You killed your parents,’ said Drake quietly.

  ‘You should have let me die at that home,’ said Turrell. ‘If you had, I wouldn’t have done it, or killed any of those other people. In a way, all this is entirely because of you.’

  ‘It’s always someone else’s fault with you, isn’t it?’ said Myra, from the corner.

  ‘But I’m going to give you the opportunity to do the right thing. Kill me now, put right what was made wrong all those years ago, and I promise I’ll let your daughter live.’

  ‘She’s out of your grasp now, Toby.’

  Turrell smirked. ‘You tried to run me down in your car; you came to kill me at Amelia’s.’

  Drake paced the hallway, trying to think of one good reason to blow his head off, in spite of Flick. ‘Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance, Toby? Why didn’t you kill Amelia or April?’

  ‘Because I’ve been waiting for this moment,’ said Turrell. ‘Waiting for you and me to meet, face to face. You set all this bloodshed into motion, and it’s your responsibility to finish it.’ He pointed with the knife. ‘I have chosen you to do it.’

  In any other circumstances Drake would be happy to oblige Toby Turrell. But with Flick Crowley present, killing him in cold blood was out of the question. ‘I’m not going to kill you, Toby.’

  ‘You must! I want to be with Mary and Bernard. Go on, right here.’ He pulled back his arms and puffed out his chest. ‘Shoot me in the heart.’

  When Drake didn’t move, Turrell grabbed Flick’s hair, dragging her to her feet. She cried out, and Drake snapped his gun towards him.

  ‘That’s more like it.’ Turrell’s eyes flashed. ‘That’s more like the old you. I really thought I’d lost you, so you can imagine my joy when I found you – hiding in plain sight! It’s all so perfect. I want to die, and you want to kill me. Look, I’ll show you how.’

  Pulling Flick to him, he traced the knife in a slow pantomime from her throat to her stomach, the tip snagging on the cotton of her shirt, to show Ray Drake the bloody journey of the blade if he chose to slice her open.

  ‘I discovered a long time ago that killing is easy. Believe me, I’m very good at it, I’ve had a lot of practice. I’ve always been good at things.’ He laughed in delight. ‘Mummy and Daddy always said I was a clever little boy.’

  ‘Your parents left you in the Longacre, Toby,’ said Drake. ‘My parents loved me!’

  ‘They left you there.’

  ‘They didn’t know what went on at that place!’ Spittle flew from Turrell’s mouth.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’ asked Drake. ‘Because they didn’t hurry to take you away, they took their own good time about it. They left you there as long as possible, with Gordon, with all those kids, and let those things happen to you. They were terrible people, Mary and Bernard, selfish and cruel and thoughtless, and they deserved to die.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘They hated you so much they sent you to that place.’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth!’ Turrell screamed. ‘They loved me!’ He covered his face with his knife hand and howled. His shoulders heaved, snot bubbled from his nose. ‘They weren’t like that!’

  ‘But that’s what you’ve always suspected, isn’t it?’ Drake tapped his chest. ‘In here, Toby, you’ve never been able to rid yourself of the nagging feeling that they hated you so much that they left you there on purpose.’

  ‘Call it in, Ray,’ said Flick, through gritted teeth.

  ‘That’s a cruel thing to say!’ whined Toby. ‘They loved me, and they made a mistake! You’re just like all the rest. No fancy home, no snooty mother or spoilt brat of a daughter makes you any different. You’re just the same as Elliot and Kenny and Jason and that other scum.’

  Drake stepped forward. He was no marksman, and Flick was too close to Turrell. ‘You killed your parents. No one else is responsible.’

  ‘But I didn’t want to.’ The hallway echoed with Turrell’s sobs. ‘I miss them so much!’

  ‘Call it in, Ray.’

  ‘I know you do, Toby,’ said Drake. ‘But it’s over. April is safe, Amelia is safe, it’s just you and me now.’

  ‘No, it’s not over.’ A nasty smiled twisted on his face. ‘It’s all worked out just the way I planned it. Elliot, your daughter—’

  ‘Are safe,’ said Drake.

  ‘Make the call, Ray,’ said Flick, her voice cracking.

  Pushing Flick away, Turrell clamped his eyes shut. ‘I’m ready now, you can shoot me.’ But Drake didn’t move. ‘I said I’m ready!’

  ‘I’m not going to kill you, Toby,’ said Drake. His free hand tapped rapidly against his thigh as he tried to fit together the sequence of events. Turrell took his daughter, and attacked Amelia. But they both survived. All those others died.

  ‘Why didn’t you kill April? Why didn’t you kill Amelia when you had the chance?’


  Turrell leered. ‘Kill me and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, Toby.’

  ‘So you’re not going to kill me?’

  ‘You’re going to prison. It’s over,’ Drake said. ‘For both of us.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Toby bitterly. ‘But there’s one thing I have to do first.’

  And then, shrieking at the top of his voice, Turrell lunged towards Drake with the knife raised above his head.

  Ray Drake lifted the gun in a precise, fluid movement and fired at point-blank range into his chest. Turrell’s feet lifted into the air and he flew back against the stairs and slid to the floor.

  Drake dropped the weapon and went to Flick, who was crying and shaking. He took her in his arms and she clung to him.

  ‘It’s over,’ he told her, desperately wanting to believe it. ‘It’s all over.’

  Myra stepped away from the wall to nudge Turrell’s body with her foot. ‘He’s dead, Raymond.’

  Flick pushed Drake away and staggered to the old woman, her face full of rage.

  ‘Don’t call him that!’ She swung to face him. ‘That’s not who he is!’

  58

  1984

  Ranting and swigging from a bottle, Gordon Tallis worked himself into a fury.

  Forced to listen to his bitter tirade, they sat in the room – Connor and Elliot, Kenny and Jason, Amelia and Toby – anxious and fearful. Each of them was accused of trying to destroy him. But mostly it was the Turrell boy who bore the brunt of his drunken anger. Toby sat with his face pressed into his knees, unresponsive to Gordon’s threats.

  Huddled against the wall, Amelia reached for Connor’s hand, and he took it. Her grip was hot and clammy. Elliot darted glances in his direction, as if expecting him to do something, anything.

  Life at the home carried on as usual outside the room. Connor heard the Dents shout commands in the kitchen; the chirp and chatter of conversation over the evening meal; the bedtime stampede, feet thundering on the floorboards above.

  ‘It’s all over for me.’ Gordon paced, flinging out his arms. ‘I’ve associates breathing down my neck, and a high court judge on my back. It’s all right for you people, you’ve your whole lives ahead, but who’s looking out for Gordon? All the effort I put into this place, the commitment. All that good work ruined because of a stupid bitch.’

  He stopped in front of Connor. Liquid plinked in the bottle as it dropped from his fist and rolled on the floor. ‘What do you think, lad? What should Gordon do next?’

  ‘You should let us go, Gordon. We just want to sleep.’

  ‘But where’s the fun in that?’ Gordon’s lips curled back, revealing his jumble of teeth. ‘After everything I’ve done for you, and you let me down!’ Lurching forward, he grabbed Toby. The boy hung limply in his grip, his eyes had lost all focus. ‘And this is the one who’s caused it all. I do people a favour out of the goodness of my heart, and this is what happens.’

  ‘Put him down.’ Connor jumped to his feet.

  ‘Yes.’ The manager threw Toby down, wiped his palms down his sides. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  He pushed Connor, who nearly fell over Jason’s outstretched legs, stumbling into the room at the back. Connor saw the threadbare mattress, the petrol canister beside it, and the green ribbed radiator.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for this, boy.’ Gordon slammed the door shut. ‘It’s time for us to settle our differences, one way or the other.’

  Connor was pinned against the radiator. ‘Promise you won’t hurt them.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’ Gordon giggled. ‘This anger inside me has been building, building. I’ve nothing to lose no more. The boy ain’t going home, I’ll tell you that much.’ He ran his fingers through Connor’s hair, and his face was pressed so close that the boy could smell his fetid breath. ‘You’ve been a big disappointment to me, lad. I thought we were chums, partners. I thought we shared something special.’

  Connor reached for the manager’s hand, felt his calloused fingers, and whispered: ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment.’

  Gordon stared, as if in a trance. ‘You and me both, boy.’

  Then Connor let go of his hand, and slid out from against the radiator. Gordon’s hand snapped towards him angrily – and jerked to a stop. He was handcuffed to the radiator piping. Gordon yanked at the cuff, then lunged at Connor, clawing with his free hand, but the boy stepped out of his reach.

  ‘Get these off!’ Straining against the radiator, the cuffs jangling against the metal strut, Gordon’s face twisted with rage. ‘Sooner or later I’m going to get free. You may be long gone, I don’t expect you to stick around, but the others will be here.’ His laugh was laced with bile. ‘And, believe me, boy, I’m going to make those cunts pay.’

  And it was at that moment Connor knew what he had to do. Knew why he had stayed in this place. Maybe he had always known why. With shaking hands, he picked up the canister and unscrewed the cap.

  Gordon sneered. ‘Oh, come on now, you’re not going to—’

  He reared back as Connor lifted the canister and slopped the contents all over him.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The petrol soaked his chest and legs; Connor threw it into his face and he spluttered. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  The pungent liquid spattered onto the diamond-patterned carpet. Connor splashed it over the walls, and it soaked into the mattress as Gordon hurled threats, obscenities, working himself into a frenzy. Then he threw down the canister. Its contents gulped onto the manager’s feet.

  Connor’s head pulsed with cold, hard contempt.

  He took out the lighter he’d kept from the night before. Thumbed the flint. Sparks flew off it.

  ‘You ain’t gonna do it!’ snarled Gordon. ‘You wouldn’t dare! You and me are pals!’

  Connor swayed on his heels, the fumes making him light-headed, and lost his balance. Stumbling too close, Gordon grabbed his wrist. Connor screamed as his arm was wrenched behind his back, and he was pulled close against Gordon, who lifted his arm around the boy’s neck.

  ‘Drop it!’ screamed Gordon, who couldn’t snatch the lighter with his free arm and instead tightened the crook of his elbow around the boy’s throat and squeezed with all his might. Connor felt air trap in his lungs, blood bulge in his head, as he struggled to keep the lighter at arm’s length. He plucked ineffectually at Gordon’s arm with his free hand. The lack of oxygen, the stench of petrol in his nostrils, made the room warp and bend and his thoughts became sluggish.

  And just as his outstretched arm ached and he was afraid that he would drop the lighter, he had a fleeting sense of glass shattering in the skylight and a figure dropping into the room.

  And then Ray Drake was pulling at Gordon’s arm, digging his fingers into his flesh. The lighter fell from Connor’s hand and bounced across the floor. Gordon released his arm from Connor’s throat to punch Ray in the side of his head, sending the boy flying into a corner.

  Connor fell to his knees and crawled to the lighter – gulping for air, colour and shapes rolling in his vision – to spark the flint. The flame took, and as the manager struggled in panic, Connor lunged towards him – pressed it into his face.

  Flame crackled across Gordon’s skin, sizzling greedily into his hair and collar.

  Connor stood back and saw him burn. Watched his body erupt into flame. Fire leapt from Gordon, igniting the curtains, and racing across the floor to the mattress.

  Gordon screamed and thrashed in agony, frenzied hands clawed in submission, his skin cooking. Then Connor snapped out of his trance – knew they had to get out of there. He shouted to Ray in the corner, who climbed unsteadily to his feet. But his path was blocked by the burning mattress on one side and Gordon’s flaming body on the other.

  ‘Quick!’ Connor held out his arm, and Ray moved forward, cringing against the heat, to pass close to Gordon—

  Whose hand thrashed out, knocking Ray behind the rising wall of fire.

/>   ‘No!’ Connor tried to get to him, but was forced back. Flames rippled to the ceiling. Smoke rolled into every corner. When he tried again to get to Ray a hand held him back.

  ‘No!’ Connor wept tears of rage and frustration. ‘No! No! No!’

  ‘You can’t,’ shouted Elliot, as Ray Drake disappeared behind the thickening fire and smoke. Connor angrily shrugged off Elliot and surged forward, but couldn’t find a way through the intense heat.

  Connor’s last memory, as he was dragged from the room, was of Gordon, a fireball shaped like a man, on his knees, his last agonising screams lost in the snap of the fire.

  And Ray Drake’s eyes, imploring, terrified, vanishing behind a black curtain of smoke.

  Back in the office, Kenny and Jason pounded desperately at the locked door to the hallway. Toby was still slumped against the wall.

  ‘Help us!’ screamed Elliot, but Connor stood dazed in the middle of the room.

  The two biggest boys, Elliot and Jason, picked up the desk chair and threw it at the window, smashing the glass. Cold night air sucked inside. Flame and smoke billowed greedily from the back room. Elliot kicked out the shards of glass around the frame, and one by one the children climbed onto the sill and jumped to the pavement.

  ‘Connor!’ Elliot shouted, and Connor lifted Amelia in his arms. The children from upstairs poured onto the street from the front door. People from the squat opposite came to watch. Connor swung Amelia out of the window and climbed out after her, falling to the pavement. He sat on his haunches in the road to watch the fire take hold of the building.

  ‘Where’s Gordon?’ Ronnie Dent stumbled through the crowd of kids. He angrily hauled Connor to his feet. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Connor said softly. ‘I killed him.’

  Dent flinched from the boy’s calm stare and disappeared quickly back into the crowd.

  Elliot came up behind him. ‘Where’s Toby?’

  Connor looked everywhere, but couldn’t see him. When he moved towards the house, Elliot grabbed at him. ‘You can’t—’

  But Connor shrugged him off and ran up the steps. Smoke poured from the window, clawing at his eyeballs. He covered his mouth and pressed inside, the image of Ray Drake’s final, terrified look as he disappeared behind the whirling flame and smoke repeating in his mind’s eye. In the hallway Connor kicked at the office door, pumping his leg against the lock.