by John Nicholl
‘Of course she does, you prat. I’m back living at my mum’s house for the time being.’
Beringer laughed until his chest hurt and tears ran down his craggy face. ‘How’s that working for you?’
‘I was hoping I could kip at your place for a while, to be honest.’
‘You have got to be kidding.’ He picked up the two empty pint glasses and grinned. ‘On a positive note, I suppose your mum’s pleased to have her little boy back home again. Suck it up, Mike. You deserve all you’re getting.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Get the beer in.’
22
Molly spent a minute or two searching for Anthony’s soiled pyjamas and bedclothes, before eventually finding them hidden in one corner of his wardrobe, under a cardboard toy box. She gathered them up in her arms, along with several other items of clothing and a pair of trainers contaminated by the urine, and fought back her tears as she descended the stairs towards the similarly overburdened washing machine.
Molly bundled everything, with the exception of the trainers, into the front loader, sprinkled in the powder, and washed her hands thoroughly, before making a hot drink and slumping at the kitchen table for a brief, but necessary reprieve. She sipped the hot liquid and sighed. Life appeared to be mocking her. It was as if some great puppet master in the sky were pulling the strings and toying with her fragile emotions for his own amusement. One step forward and two backwards. That seemed to be the way of things these days. Tony had been great after the initial appointment, but how long had that lasted? He’d been clingy and prone to tears over the weekend. And now he was wetting the bed again. Things were just as bad as ever. Worse, if anything. If she was going to cancel the next appointment, she needed to get on with it. The doctor was a busy man. He’d probably want to fit in another patient.
Molly turned up the radio to drown out the incessant vibrating drone of the washing machine, and made herself another mug of mint tea. As she stirred in a large spoonful of honey, she silently acknowledged that she was simply putting off the inevitable. The decision was made. Maybe she should have listened to Phil in the first place.
Molly dialled the clinic’s number and only had to wait a few seconds before hearing Sharon’s cheery, instantly recognisable phone voice say, ‘Good morning, Dr Galbraith’s secretary. How can I help you?’
‘Hello Sharon, it’s Mrs Mailer, Molly Mailer, Anthony’s mother.’
‘What can I do for you, Mrs Mailer?’
‘I’d like to cancel Anthony’s appointment, please.’
‘If the appointment isn’t convenient, I can look in the diary for another time that suits you.’
‘Please thank the doctor for me, but Anthony won’t be seeing him again.’
‘Really? Are you sure that’s wise? Dr Galbraith’s at a Welsh Office conference all day today, but I’ll give him a ring at home first thing in the morning and let him know. I suspect he may want to speak to you in person.’
‘There really is no need for that. I wouldn’t want to waste any more of his time.’
Molly put the phone down as quickly as possible, before Sharon had the opportunity to argue the point any further. Anthony wouldn’t be going again. It really was as simple as that.
23
Galbraith was back in his study at 7:15 a.m. on Tuesday 4 February, updating Anthony’s file, repeatedly checking his wristwatch, and trying to contain his burgeoning excitement. His head was already feeling a little better. Today was the day. It had finally arrived, and the agonising waiting would soon be over. What should he do first? Should he take the boy straight to the cellar? Yes, why not? Why not make full use of the time? He’d have to ensure he left no marks, of course. That wouldn’t be easy. It would mean some unfortunate restrictions. But, like it or not, such things were necessary. Was everything ready? Had he put a new tape in the video camera?
The doctor grimaced as a stabbing pain cut through his brain. He shouldn’t have to deal with the damned minutia. Such things were for the Sherwoods of this world, for lesser men. He should be able to focus on the bigger picture. Maybe he should have allowed Sherwood to live, despite his many failings.
He screwed his face up. Get a grip, man. It was utterly pointless pondering such matters. Sherwood was dead for good reason, and time was getting on.
He rose to his feet and punched the oak-panelled wall hard with a clenched fist, grazing his knuckles. He had to check things himself. What other option was there?
The phone sounded just as Galbraith was leaving his study and walking in the direction of the kitchen. Cynthia reached it before him and recognised Sharon’s voice immediately. She held out the phone at arm’s length and spoke quickly before he reached her, ‘It’s Sharon. She needs to speak to you.’
He took the phone from her without comment. What did the obnoxious bitch want now? ‘Sharon, lovely to hear from you, my dear girl. Now then, how can I help you?’
‘I didn’t want to bother you while you were at the conference, Doctor. Mrs Mailer rang yesterday. Anthony won’t be attending his appointment this morning.’
Galbraith gripped the phone table tightly with both hands, and lowered himself slowly to the floor before speaking again. ‘Did she say why? Did she arrange another appointment? Will I see him again?’
‘Are you all right, Doctor? You sound upset.’
His head pounded. Could she hear it? Surely the bitch could hear it.
Galbraith closed his eyes, and began twitching uncontrollably.
‘Are you still there, Doctor?’
‘Another appointment. Did she make another appointment?’
‘No, she didn’t, I did say…’
He was very close to tears. ‘The number.’
‘I’m sorry, Doctor?’
‘The Mailers’ number, give me the damn number.’
It took Galbraith three attempts to dial the correct number with a trembling finger. Answer, bitch. Answer the fucking phone.
‘Hello.’
‘Good morning, Molly, my dear girl, it’s Dr Galbraith. I was somewhat surprised to hear that you’ve cancelled Anthony’s appointment.’
‘We appreciate your help, Doctor. We really do. But I really don’t think the treatment is helping Tony.’
Fucking mothers, why did they always feel the need to interfere? Choose your words carefully, man. Choose them carefully. ‘You urgently need to reconsider, my dear. As I explained, it’s essential that Anthony completes the course of treatment. You may recall that you signed an agreement to that effect.’
‘I’ve talked it through with my husband. It’s not a decision we’ve taken lightly. We both agree that it’s best if Tony doesn’t attend again. I’m very sorry if we’ve wasted your time.’
‘Are you an expert in these matters, Mrs Mailer?’
‘No, of course not, but…’
‘Is your husband a childcare expert?’
Molly silently scowled. This was starting to get irritating.
‘Please listen to me very carefully, Mrs Mailer. It is crucially important that you recognise that despite appearances to the contrary, Anthony has made some significant progress. You may recall my shaking-the-bottle analogy: if he continues therapy, his emotional trauma will eventually subside, and his behaviour will dramatically improve. He’ll be a happy child again. You do want that for your son, don’t you?’
‘I suppose so, but…’
‘Now, now, there is no room for doubts where a child’s wellbeing is concerned. I will ask Sharon to send you another appointment at the earliest opportunity.’
‘I’d like to think about it. I’ll talk it through with Mike again, but please don’t send another appointment letter at this stage. I wouldn’t want to waste even more of your valuable time. If we decide Anthony needs to see you again, I’ll speak to Dr Procter.’
‘You’re making a grave error of judgement.’
‘I’m sorry, Doctor. I will think about it, but I’ve got nothing more to say.’
> 24
Galbraith awoke in surprisingly positive mood on Wednesday 5 February, despite the bitter disappointment of the previous day. It was time for action. Time for a different, more radical approach. There was no time for dwelling on past failures. His ultimate goal was far too important for that.
He forwent his usual morning exercise routine in favour of an early breakfast, which he enjoyed without interacting with Cynthia on any level whatsoever. There were more important things to do with his time. Significant things that required his total undistracted attention.
The doctor phoned Sharon at 8:45 a.m. precisely, and engaged in a lengthy, somewhat inconsistent apology, in which he cited various reasons for the previous day’s aberration, as he put it. He informed her that he’d be taking a few days sick leave by unfortunate necessity, and instructed her to cancel his various professional commitments. Sharon concluded that illness, or to be more specific, fever, best explained his shocking outburst of the previous day. It was so out of character. What other explanation was there?
Galbraith made one further call, ordering a large bunch of red and white roses from a local florist, which would be delivered to Sharon at the clinic later in the day. They would have a simple message of apology and affection attached. He smiled in response to his largesse. It was well worth spending a few miserable pounds to keep the obnoxious bitch onside.
After an hour or more spent watching videos and fondly reminiscing, he turned his attention to planning Anthony’s abduction with what he considered military precision. He took a notepad and a fountain pen from a desk drawer, and began exploring his thoughts on paper. Firstly, when the time was right, he would borrow a suitable vehicle from a paedophile acquaintance.
Next, he’d dedicate as much time as was required to observe the Mailer family, in order to determine the optimum time and place to seize his prey.
Once Anthony was imprisoned in the cellar, he’d take his time to chronicle every moment on film and paper.
Finally, when the boy had served his purpose and was of no further use to him, he would maximise the bitch mother’s suffering by sending her copies of the videos. It was nothing if not inspired.
Galbraith linked his fingers behind his nape, pictured the scene, and relaxed. When he was finally ready to let go of the fantasy, he placed his completed plans in Anthony’s project file for safekeeping and future reference.
The doctor suddenly sat bolt upright. Who the hell would assist him with the practicalities? Sherwood had occasionally served a useful purpose, fetching and carrying, assisting with filming, and doing the cleaning up that invariably followed their activities. At some point in the near future, he’d require another like-minded, malleable accomplice to do his bidding. What about Gary Davies? Davies owed him. That was true. But, was he too risky? Should he be ruled out on the basis of recent police attention? Why the hell was he finding it so much harder to reach definitive decisions than he had over the years? Why did thinking make his head ache? What the hell! Davies would have to do. Davies was the obvious choice.
25
At 8:00 a.m. the next morning, Galbraith was sitting outside the Mailer family cottage in an old white van borrowed from a sex offender contact, who owned a local scrapyard located in the neighbouring industrial town. The man was a member of the paedophile ring, and happy to assist without asking too many unwelcome questions.
The doctor lifted his military binoculars to his eyes, and stared into each room in turn. His eyes darted from window to window, ground floor to first floor, right to left, left to right, and then back again. He watched and waited, constantly repeating the process, until he finally saw Anthony leave the cottage approximately half an hour later. Come on, you little bastard. Out you come. Out you come.
Anthony walked down the path hand in hand with Molly, boarded the bus, and sat at the front, rather than join the other boys of his age, who considered it cool to sit at the back. Molly waved with exaggerated enthusiasm until the bus left her sight.
Galbraith silently cursed Molly’s existence, started the van’s ill-kept diesel engine on the third turn of the key, and followed cautiously at a discreet distance, adhering slavishly to the speed limits and actively avoiding any ill-considered manoeuvre that could potentially draw the attention of the police, or anybody else, to the van.
Clouds of choking black smoke poured from the van’s fractured exhaust as he overtook the bus on reaching its ultimate destination approximately fifteen minutes later. He applied the brakes, turned off the engine, and parked about fifty yards further down the road to watch the children disembarking in his passenger side rear-view mirror. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.
The doctor gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, lurched forward, and head-butted the windscreen. A bitch crossing attendant was helping the little swines cross the road. A moronic male teacher was watching from the school’s entrance. It was fucking hopeless.
Galbraith was back outside the school at 3:20 p.m., having concluded that while it provided an unlikely snatch point, it was probably worth a second look before ruling the option out completely. He parked on the opposite side of the road at a place he’d chosen earlier in the day, and observed events with keen eyes. The same bitch lollipop woman, the same moronic pleb teacher, the simple system appeared to work frustratingly well.
He followed the bus on its return journey, more in hope than expectation, and pulled up behind it as Anthony got off directly outside the Mailers’ cottage. For a glorious second or two, the doctor thought this may offer an opportunity. But no… there the bitch mother was. Back in the doorway. Watching every move the little bastard made like an obsessive mother hen. What was it with these people?
He swore loudly and crudely, punched the steering wheel violently with a clenched fist, overtook the bus, and drove off as speedily as the spluttering engine would allow. It was high time to consider other options.
Galbraith parked almost directly outside Mike Mailer’s workplace at 4:44 p.m. and watched as Mike left the building approximately twenty minutes later. He was contemplating whether to follow in the van or on foot, when Mike stopped next to his convertible, unlocked the car, and got into the driver’s seat. The doctor restarted the van’s engine on the fourth attempt, just as Mike drove off, and succeeded in keeping the car in sight despite its vastly superior performance, due to the busy rush-hour traffic.
The doctor didn’t stop on reaching June Mailer’s council house, but he slowed as he passed by, and watched Mike get out of the car and walk down the path towards the front door. He made a mental note of the street name and house number. It looked hopeful. One less obstacle to worry about? Probably, but he had to be sure.
Galbraith pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and headed in the direction of the Ceffyl Du public house, which he’d passed a few minutes earlier at the entrance to the council estate. He’d anticipated leaving the anonymous security of the van at some point or other during the day, and had prepared accordingly. He was wearing thick-rimmed, mock tortoiseshell glasses with brown, lightly tinted, nonprescription lenses, a dirty dark-green bobble hat pulled down low over his precisely trimmed eyebrows, a pair of the scrap man’s oil-stained overalls, and a pair of decrepit black Wellingtons, unnecessarily turned down at the top. He left the van and admired his reflection in one of the pub’s two large ground-floor windows. It was an effective ensemble that rendered any fear of recognition virtually groundless. Even a close family member would struggle to identify him if challenged.
The Ceff, as the tavern was affectionately known locally, was a typical Welsh working-class watering hole. He pushed open the door with his foot, and waited in the doorway for a few seconds, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim interior before entering the bar. Even in the gloomy atmosphere, through choking clouds of swirling tobacco smoke, he could see that the only customers were three dishevelled-looking elderly men holding cigarettes with yellow fingers, and a younger alcohol-ravaged drunk of ind
eterminate age, standing unsteadily at the bar, talking to a grossly overweight landlord who couldn’t have looked less interested if paid to. A pounding rock track the doctor didn’t recognise or appreciate was playing on the wall-mounted jukebox.
Galbraith said, ‘Evening,’ to the proprietor in a fairly convincing Glaswegian accent on approaching the bar, and ordered a single malt whisky.
‘We’ve only got the one brand of blended whisky, if that’s any good to you?’
The doctor was used to more expensive spirits, but replied, ‘No problem,’ with mock enthusiasm, and gulped it down with the flick of his wrist. ‘I’ll have another, and have one yourself.’
‘That’s very kind of you, it’s a rare event around here, I can tell you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
The landlord laughed jovially and gestured to the inebriated regulars. ‘I can’t remember the last time one of these mean sods bought me a drink.’ He poured the spirits and smiled, revealing decaying teeth. ‘I haven’t seen you in here before. What brings you to our part of the world?’
The doctor leant casually on the bar. ‘I’m looking for an old friend of mine. Mike, Mike Mailer. Any idea where I can find him?’
The landlord scratched his balding head and frowned. ‘I should do. I’ve run this place for almost thirty years, but no, I can’t place him.’
‘I’m pretty sure he lives around here somewhere.’
The landlord thought for a few seconds, before the quizzical look suddenly evaporated from his face. ‘Ah, you mean Mikey, June’s boy.’ He laughed loudly, causing his protruding beer gut to wobble like a birthday jelly. ‘He’s back living with his mother, the silly sod. Kicked out by his missus after screwing some slapper.’
Galbraith laughed along with his jovial host. ‘What, he’s not with that Tina he left his wife and kids for?’