‘So, darling,’ Pam says, all sweetness and light. (About as sweet as the aftertaste of saccharine and as light as the blackened forest outside, Lily thinks.) ‘Are you ready to give grandpa his birthday present and receive yours from him?’
Lily stares blankly into her mother’s face. Her confidence has crept back to sit next to her again.
‘Who are you?’ she asks. ‘Who is this condescending stranger trying to talk to me?’
Pam’s face pinches and her eyebrows form an angry V above her Concorde nose.
‘Get out of the car,’ she orders. ‘And do as you are told.’
Nine
A STRANGE PEACE has settled over the house. Usually at dusk the crows are talking up on the highest branches. When you stand on the forest floor and keep very still you can hear them. They are always there somewhere, but hardly seen. They are only glimpsed occasionally as quick darts of indiscernible movement high up and far away. But they are usually heard. You can pick out their arguing from the continuous white noise that the forest itself produces, the ceaseless interference of a breeze, the endless gentle rustle of leaves, the trees breathing.
Dusk tonight is different, and the forest senses it. The birds have fled silently to safer boughs, the breeze has settled down to watch and wait, and no leaves move.
But something else does. That quick dart and flitter that might have been a thrush or a blackbird is distant but discernible and coming closer. Things are moving between the trees, dark shapes rise and fade, one here, one there. They approach the house like returning memories and like lookouts they gather at the edge of the clearing, watching, keeping back but closing in. With the arrival of each one the darkness becomes more complete and the forest more silent.
There is no silence inside the house, just frantic whispering.
‘You gotta do this, Pete.’ Drover pulls the curtains shut and turns to Pete who is standing, white and trembling by the doorway.
‘I can’t, Drover, please, don’t make me.’
‘Pete, listen to me.’ He holds Pete by his shoulders. His mind is aware that the car has just pulled past the front window and is slowing down. He is aware that whoever was in that car saw him and Pete at the window. He is pretty sure that they did not see him shoot the old man. He is acutely aware that he has only a few seconds to form a new plan and put it into action. And he knows that Pete is going to have to be a part of that plan.
‘I need you to tell a story, Pete.’
‘A lie?’
‘No, forget lies. Tell a story. That’s all you gotta do, okay? Someone is going to come to the door and you got to keep them there. I got to put this man and this gun somewhere in case they come in. While I do that, you got to get rid of whoever is here. Got it?’
Pete has his eyes closed, he is wringing his hands. This is not good. Drover hears the car grind to a halt on the gravel.
‘Pete, listen. Look at me.’ He shakes him and Pete opens his eyes. Terrified. ‘I need you, Pete. You know how I’m always looking out for you?’ Pete nods. ‘Well, mate, now it’s your turn to look out for me. Can you do that?’
He’s not sure but he thinks he saw a faint smile. This might work. ‘You gotta be the hero now, Pete, yeah? You gotta use one of your stories. You are good at them, ain’t you? Just tell them a story to make them go away, a believable one.’
He is wondering why there are no footsteps yet, why no slamming of a car door. He hopes they’ve not gone to the back door. They’ll see the broken glass.
The Kitchen. He thinks quickly. The bag, the stuff on the table, the broken glass, fingerprints. The glass is the only problem. The other stuff belongs in the house, there’s nothing overturned, nothing upset. He looks at the body on the floor. It’s big and heavy. There’s blood splatters but luckily not many. There’s a smell in the air. It’s the smell of certain arrest.
‘It’s wrong.’
‘What?’ He turns back to Pete aware that his mind was wandering to the thought that this could be his last day of freedom. No one would believe this was an accident. He has to keep his mind on the task. One thing at a time.
‘It’s wrong.’
‘Yes, Pete, it’s all wrong, but it’s also wrong not to stand by your friend, ain’t it? I am your friend, Pete, we’re best mates. I need you to help me.’
‘Help you?’
It looks like he might be coming out of shock. And just in time.
The sound of a car door slamming.
‘Pete. Tell them anything. Make something up. It’s not lying.’
Then another.
‘One of my stories?’
‘That’s it.’
A third. Three people have just arrived.
‘Like the ghost train?’
Footsteps on the path outside, the quick crunch of heels fast approaching like they mean business. What if they just walk straight in?
‘No, not the ghost train. Save that for us. Special story.’ Drover darts past Pete into the hall and checks the front door. There’s a safety chain. He slips it on and turns back to face Pete. ‘Anything, Pete, but not the ghosts okay? Not the weird stuff, not now.’
He can hear voices. He flicks on the hall light and darts back into the sitting room, switching on the light. It’s got to look natural. Pete steps back into the hallway.
‘No,’ he says, and Drover’s heart falls as his anger rises.
‘Damn it, Pete.’
‘You want me to lie.’
‘I want you to do it for me. Remember, Pete, you said you would do anything for me. Remember that stuff at school, and after, when you came to the camp and you said you would do anything for me, you’d pay me back? Well, that’s now Pete.’
Dark shapes against the frosted glass of the front door. Murmurings. The rattle of keys.
They have keys?
‘Pete!’ Drover’s voice is sharp, tight, urgent. He turns Pete around and shoves him towards the front door. ‘I’m begging you. Please.’
Pete stumbles into place, facing the door and turns to look desperately at Drover.
Pete has never told a lie. Not even a small, white lie, as his dad used to call them. But Drover doesn’t want him to lie. He only wants him to make up a story so that these people will go away. If they don’t leave then Drover will go away and he will be alone. No friends. Pete might even get sent away himself. But that wouldn’t matter. He could say he killed the man but no one would believe him, and Drover has been in trouble before, so this would be the end for him. His mind flashes to thoughts of what it would be like for Drover to be in prison. He has heard nasty stories about what happens in prisons. Especially for someone like Drover who is young and good looking, who doesn’t fit in, who is a diddycoy. He wonders what it must feel like to have no family. Pete had his dad for nineteen years and now he has gone. He had a mum for a while and she is gone. He has no brothers, like Drover hasn’t, no sisters, also like Drover, and no girlfriend. He must be very lonely and if he gets sent away he will be sad. And Pete does not want his friend to be sad.
‘Just a story?’ he whispers.
He sees Drover nod and disappear into the sitting room, closing the door behind him.
Just a story. But what story?
Someone outside is putting a key into the lock. Pete’s mind races.
Lying goes against everything he was taught and told by his dad, but it’s now his turn to be the hero.
The doorbell chimes.
As Myles rings the doorbell and stands back to admire the porch, as he always does, Pam passes the front door and looks into the sitting room, but the curtains are now drawn.
‘I don’t like this,’ she says and looks around. She sees nothing but the darkening sky above and tall black trees around. ‘Something feels wrong.’
‘Are we having cake?’ Lily asks, but a look from her mother is enough to silence her.
Myles presses the doorbell again and they hear the chimes from inside the house.
‘Who were those people?’ he asks as he waits.
‘How the hell should I know? Ring it again. There is someone in there.’
He obeys, saying, ‘You really think they are here for… I mean, who would they be?’
Pam looks into the black spaces between the trees. They could be bushes, they could be shapes, they could be nothing but black spaces between trees.
‘You’re the one who read the books,’ Myles is saying. ‘What did it say? Should there be others here?’
Pam had read the books and, yes, there were times when there were others here on this night. But this is the first time she has actually been to a night like this, so, yes, perhaps whoever she saw inside should be here. Perhaps they know more about what is coming than she does. She has no idea and so she has to go with her instincts and they tell her that those boys should not be inside this house on this night.
She looks up at the front of the house and sees darkened windows, upstairs curtains drawn, a strip of light above the sitting room curtains, but no way of seeing inside. She sees her daughter, pale and thin, waiting in her long overcoat, hands in pockets, a worried look on her drawn face. And she sees her inept husband wrestling with the front door. ‘What is it?’
‘The chain is on,’ Myles says, and tries to peer through the gap. ‘Hello, dad? Happy birthday!’
‘God!’ Pam clicks her way under the front porch and nudges Myles off the step. Sure enough the chain is on. ‘So he must be at home,’ she reasons. ‘William?’ No reply, but someone is on the other side of the door. ‘Who is in there?’ She calls through the gap. ‘Open up!’
The shape on the other side of the glass hesitates. It looks like it is moving from one foot to the other.
‘Dad, are you okay?’ Myles shouts.
‘Shut up,’ Pam says. ‘Listen,’ she calls through into the house. ‘You either identify yourself or I call the police.’ She starts to open her handbag to find her identification and notices that Lily takes a pace back. ‘Get up here ready to greet your grandfather,’ she orders, but Lily steps back another pace. ‘It’s alright,’ Pam reassures her, ‘I am sure there is some rational explanation.’
‘Ah, hello.’
She hears Myles speak and turns back to the gap between the door and the jamb. She looks through to see who is on the other side and her training kicks in.
A boy stands there, a small, dumpy boy, no older than twenty, she thinks, with a round face, and short, badly cut hair. His brown eyes are slightly pink at the edges, round and wide, and his nose is small and stubby. He wears a dark jacket that is filthy and she is sure she can smell sweat, and worse. His trousers are grimy jeans and his trainers are indistinct, dark in colour and dusty. He wears no belt, his shirt is a dark brown with an orange stripe on it, he’s five feet seven, weighs twelve to thirteen stone, he is Caucasian, and needs a wash.
‘Who are you?’ she asks, once she has looked him up and down.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘My name is Peter Michael Painter.’
She can tell from his voice that his accent is not local and that he is a bit slow.
‘Open the door.’
‘Who are you?’ he counters.
‘More to the point, who are you?’
‘My name is Peter Michael…’
‘What are you doing in this house?’
‘Who are you?’ he repeats.
‘It is none of your business.’ Pam is starting to get annoyed. This boy clearly doesn’t pose a threat, but he should not be in William’s house, not this evening. Probably not on any evening, though, what kind of burglar would answer the door? A thick one, she thinks. Someone who was a bit slow. ‘Open this door.’
‘I can’t let you in. Please go away.’
‘This is ridiculous. Myles, go around the back.’
‘No!’
The boy sounds worried. Pam is immediately suspicious.
‘Then open this door!’ Her voice rises and she can see the boy is scared.
‘Who are you?’ he asks for a third time.
‘Look, son,’ Pam puts on her work voice. ‘We are the family of the man who lives here and so if you do not, A, let us in and B, explain who you are, then I will have the police here so fast you won’t be able to say…’
‘Identification please.’
‘What?’
‘The police always tell you to ask for identification when strangers come to the door. I’ve seen it on the television. You could be here to keep me talking while one of you looks for a pension book. There is another house, some way off I think. You could try there, they may let you in. I heard this story about a house, you see? In these woods. It’s dangerous here because people go in and never…’
Myles steps forward and shows his driving licence.
‘Myles, what the hell are you doing?’
‘You see? I am the son of the man who lives here and we are all here for his birthday. There,’ Myles says. ‘Now, let’s be reasonable. Where is my father?’
‘He is… not with us anymore,’ the boy says after he has studied the licence through the crack in the door.
Pam is starting to worry now. This is not going according to her plan.
‘He’s out, then? Out where?’ she asks, pushing Myles back out of the way.
The boy looks away to his right for a moment, as if looking at something in the sitting room, then looks back through the gap and he is concentrating harder now, as if trying to remember something.
‘He had to go into the town. He said he was having a birthday dinner with some friends.’
‘That would explain why the car is not here,’ Myles reasons.
‘It could be in the garage,’ Pam shoots back. ‘And when does your father ever go out to eat?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Myles says sheepishly. ‘Of course.’
‘He said for you to come back tomorrow,’ the boy says, and then does something very strange. ‘Wait there, please.’
He shuts the door in her face.
‘What the…?’ Pam is outraged. She is about to put her shoulder to the front door when she sees a shadow through the frosted glass. It is the other boy and it looks like he is running down the hall and into the kitchen. She bangs on the door and the boy inside calls out, ‘One moment, please,’ so she bangs again, harder.
‘Pam, be careful.’ Myles tries to chide her, but it’s a useless act.
‘Be quiet, Myles. Phone William, see where he is.’
She watches as Myles fumbles for his phone.
‘You don’t need to do that.’ The boy is back at the door and it is slightly open again. ‘He said he wouldn’t be home until late.’
‘Look here.’ Pam speaks through gritted teeth now. ‘My father-in-law is not out at a birthday dinner, he is expecting us here, now. And what’s more, he gave no indication that there would be anyone else here. So explain yourself or face the consequences.’
The boy falters, looks behind as if he was looking for guidance.
‘Who else is in there?’ Pam demands to know.
The boy turns back to her. ‘What did you say?’
‘Why are you stalling?’
‘So,’ the boy says, ‘this other house is probably not very far away…’
‘Myles! Where’s that phone?’
Myles has finally found his phone in the depths of his overcoat, but by the time he has fished it out, squinted to see the key pad and then waved it around to see if there is a signal, the chain is rattling on the front door and light is spilling out from inside.
‘Who the hell are you?�
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Drover is sweating and he knows it. He smells, he needs a shower, his heart is racing as if it was about to explode, his arms are weak and trembling, he needs to eat, he is thirsty, and he needs to make a decision.
Let these people in and bluff through this, or turn, run, and hope for the best?
He has his fingers on the security chain and his other hand on the door itself. He is either going to slam it shut and run, or close it gently and slip the chain off. He looks at the fierce-faced woman outside and his life stops for a split second as everything is put on hold.
The body has been hidden. That part was easy but it is not safely hidden. And actually it wasn’t that easy. He had to drag it out of the way while avoiding the coffee tables and clutter in the room, and then move the sofa away from the wall slightly, then, making sure not to get any blood on himself, drag the body behind it, climb back over it and push the sofa back to cover it. That left only a slight gap between the back of the sofa and the wall. He prayed that if these people came in no-one would notice.
There was surprisingly little blood on the carpet; the heart stopped pumping as soon as it was blown apart. Gift-horse. But there was no way to clean that blood from the carpet so, risky though it was, the only thing he could do was move one of the tables to cover the stain. The table was a round one, with bookshelves underneath close to the ground, and it sat on casters, so it was easy to move. Gift-horse two. No-one would see what’s under it as long as they didn’t move it, and if they did, then, what’s to say the blood was fresh? He hoped it would get soaked up quickly by the carpet and look dry.
The pellets that blasted into the old guy didn’t penetrate through, so there was no splatter on the walls, though there was some on a few pieces of furniture which Drover had wiped up with his shirt tails. He had tucked his shirt back into his jeans and hoped he hadn’t missed any blood. The smell in the room seemed to filter away pretty quickly but he found an air freshener on one sideboard, one of those automatic ones that shoots out foul smelling ‘Misty Mountain Air’ every twenty minutes and makes the room smell like cat piss. He had given it a manual squirt.
Lonely House Page 9