His eyelids flicker and his bottom lip trembles. His brow furrows in confusion, his cheeks hollowed out by constant pain. The disease eats into his bones, squeezing the life from him. It’s unbearable, but I cannot look away. I have to watch. Every. Last. Moment.
And tomorrow night Mum will repeat those words. She’ll lie, deny he ever existed. But I will see the place where his cot stood and know.
THE RIDE OF YOUR LIFE
Scott yawned and checked his watch. Six o’clock on the dot. Time to start work. There were seventeen mechanical rides in Good Times Theme Park, and he had to complete routine maintenance and safety checks on every single one of them before the gates opened. And he had to do it on his own. “You don’t need an assistant,” they’d told him. “We know we can rely on you.”
Rely on me to get the job done cheap, Scott thought as he crossed the empty park, his footsteps echoing over the desolate concrete. But he’d never complained. Not once.
Scott pursed his lips and scratched the stubble on his chin. Maybe he should change the order he worked on the rides this morning. He shook his head. He’d spent five years perfecting his system; there was no point in messing with it now. He hitched up his tool belt and headed toward the rides reserved for the younger children. These rides were small and relatively simple. They wouldn’t take long. And then he’d work his way up to the big roller coaster. The main attraction.
The gaudy sign that hung over the entrance to the roller coaster was plastered with a slew of jaunty slogans. But there was one Scott hated the most: The Ride of Your Life. He scowled up at the sign as he passed below. That just about sums it all up, he thought. The roller coaster threw you violently around unexpected corners and only pulled you upwards so that it could hurl you back down again. And at the end of it, he thought, you found yourself right back where you’d started. Scott shook his head and clucked his tongue. But it was no use moping. He had work to do.
He hooked his thumbs into his tool belt and mentally ran through the long list of safety checks he needed to get through. He’d long since abandoned the standard safety manual—his version was more thorough. He rubbed his hands together and flexed his fingers. The other rides were just a warm up—he could check them with his eyes closed. But this... this was a challenge worth getting out of bed for.
The roller coaster was enormous, and it ran all day every day. The heavy carts rattled the nuts and bolts and stressed every joint in the framework as they thundered along. Every few minutes, the metal was pushed to the very edge of its endurance. And what had often worried Scott was that the ride was getting old.
You and me both, he thought as he clambered up the track. You and me both. He bent down and ran his calloused hands over the smooth metal rail, feeling for cracks and dents. His fingers knew every inch of this ride, every trouble spot, every imperfection. He’d made sure of that, working away on his own for five long years.
Five years, he thought bitterly, and for what? He coughed and spat on the track. His chest was worse today. The long hours of hard work in the early morning chill had stolen his health a long time ago. But he’d always just gritted his teeth and carried on. He couldn’t afford not to. And he’d always done his job to the best of his ability. He’d never missed a potential problem with a ride, and whenever possible, he’d fixed them on the spot. He kept the rides running, kept the turnstiles moving, kept the customers coming back for more.
When Scott was around, everything ran like clockwork. And you could take that to the bank.
And that’s exactly what the owners did. They pocketed the profits while he was lucky if he got as much as a word of thanks for his labours.
Scott sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and moved on. There was a nut up ahead that tended to work loose no matter how often he tightened it. He fixed his eyes on the place and stepped forward, his fingers running over the tools in his belt, selecting the correct spanner by touch alone.
He settled to his task. Check, tighten, check, move on. The work had a quiet rhythm.
When he’d finished, Scott stood near the roller coaster, folded his arms and watched the customers queue. They took no notice of him, but he was fascinated by them. He studied the nervous grins they gave each other, listened to their excited chatter. If only they knew, he thought. If only they knew.
In his pocket, he fingered the crumpled sheet of paper. It wasn’t a long letter. They were upgrading the rides, replacing them with more modern, hi-tech attractions, and they were outsourcing the maintenance to some contractor. But Scott didn’t care about the details. He only knew they were letting him go. And at his age.
He crushed the paper into a tight ball and his fingers brushed against the cold nuts and bolts in his pocket.
“Enjoy it while you can,” he whispered. “It’ll be the ride of your lives.”
SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME
Tim
Wednesday
Late home from work today. It is just as well though, otherwise I might not have spotted him loitering outside my house. I’m sure it’s the same man that was hanging around last week. Sure of it.
I go upstairs for a better view. If I stand close to my bedroom window, I can see what he’s up to. He’s looking in the newsagent’s window, reading the little “For Sale” notices. Or pretending to. “Who does he think he’s kidding?” I wonder aloud. No one could be that interested in second-hand baby clothes and rickety, flat-pack furniture.
I make a note in my log book.
Thursday
No sign of the mystery man today. Even so, I use the back door when I go out. I use the latch and the deadlock, then check they’re both engaged. Twice. When I turn to walk away, Sam from next door waves to me from his kitchen window. I reply with a simple nod and set off. I don’t want to get into a long drawn-out discussion. Between you and me, Sam is something of a windbag. It’s living alone that does it.
Friday
Nothing to report. I underline that twice in my log book. But I don’t shut the book. I don’t even turn the page. I can’t take my eyes off those three words. There’s something I’m missing. A hidden meaning. I put my pen to paper again and add the words, “so far.” Then I make a note of the exact time and go downstairs to get my coat.
I use the back door again. No sign of Sam. I check the door, as usual, and head out down the alley that runs along the back of the house. It’s gloomy this way. A bit depressing. Garages, dustbins and plastic crates of bottles for recycling. Nothing much worth noting. There’s a new car parked on the corner. A black Volvo saloon. Brand new. Nice, I think. Very reliable. I take a good look at the registration and try to memorise it—I’ll put it in the log book when I get home. You never know when that sort of information might come in handy. Thank goodness I had the foresight to go out and check the neighbourhood.
Saturday
No work for me today. Which is good. But what shall I do with myself?
***
I’ve been going through my log book. I think there’s a pattern in there somewhere. If I could just put my finger on it...
Maybe I should try a different approach. I just need to get some good, solid data to work with. I’m going to try assigning a value, like a weighting, to each word and see what emerges.
***
I’m taking a break for a late lunch. I’ve made a quick cheese sandwich, but I can’t face it. My stomach is twisted in knots and my head is buzzing with the first faint throbs of a migraine. That third coffee was a mistake. So instead of having lunch, I’ve come upstairs to splash some cold water on my face. It’s good. It gets the blood going. And since I’m up here, I may was well take a peek from the bedroom window.
I knew it! It’s like I had some kind of intuition. I knew he’d be out there. The mystery man. This time he’s standing by the bus stop, reading the timetable. “Pathetic,” I say to myself. There’s only one bus on this route, and unless he’s having difficulty with the phrase “Every ten minutes,” it’s a pretty l
ame subterfuge.
I rush to get all this down in my log book, including the time and what he’s wearing. Everything I can think of. It all goes down on paper so it’ll be ready for my weighting process. As far as my data goes, this sort of thing is pure gold. I’ll be busy all afternoon.
Sunday
I needed to stretch my legs and get some air so I’m taking a walk around the block. Obviously I’m still using the back door. But before I can get to the alley, Sam opens his door and comes out to stand on his doorstep.
“Hello there?” he calls out. “Going for a walk?”
I have to answer, otherwise it will only make him more curious. “Sure,” I say. “A walk. That’s right.”
He nods and smiles. “Going somewhere nice?”
I stare at him. Why the hell do you want to know? I think. But I just shrug and shake my head. “Just down to the corner shop,” I say. “I’ve run out of... milk.”
His eyes light up. “Oh? Do you think you could get me a loaf of bread? I’ll give you the money.” He starts rummaging around in the pockets of his baggy old corduroy trousers. “I don’t think I’ve got enough change.”
“Never mind,” I say.
“But I must pay you,” he insists. “If you wait a second I’ll go inside and get my wallet.”
I take a step down the path. “Never mind,” I say again. His smile drops and he raises his eyebrows. For god’s sake. “It’s all right,” I say, keeping my voice as light as I can, “you can pay me when I get back.” I take a few more steps down the path. “Or tomorrow.”
He smiles and I take that as my chance to escape. I raise my hand to wave goodbye and walk away into the alley. I don’t slow down until I turn the corner. But then, in an instant, everything changes.
For some reason, I stop. I have this sudden urge to creep back to the corner and take a peek back into the alley. And I can’t believe my eyes. There’s Sam, standing in the alley, in his tatty old slippers, talking into a mobile phone. I didn’t even know he had one. But this looks like a smartphone, maybe even an iPhone. I duck back around the corner and take a breath. Is Sam one of them? Is he making sure I’ve left and calling up his colleagues to let them know the coast is clear? Christ! Did I lock the door? He’d distracted me just as I was leaving. He must’ve done that on purpose. “Bastard,” I whisper.
They’re going to stage a break-in, plant bugs. I know it. Don’t let them get away with it, I think. Don’t give them the chance. I dash back around the corner and run down the alley. Sam is just letting himself in through his back door. Making himself scarce no doubt. He turns in surprise as he hears me barging back in through my garden gate, but I don’t stop to look at him. “They’re closed!” I shout, and hurl myself at my door. Damn! Of course I had locked it after all. Double locked. Just when I need to get in quickly. It takes me ages to fumble with my keys and let myself in. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t say a word. He’s shocked, no doubt.
I slam the door shut behind me and throw both bolts before I turn the key to set the deadlock. Only then can I get my breath back. “Sorry to ruin your plans, Sam,” I say to the empty hallway. Then I shake my head. I can’t believe he had me fooled for so long. He’s good, I think. I wonder what his real name is.
Monday
Very tempted to phone in sick today. I hate to leave the house empty. But I have to go in to the office. We’re short-staffed this week. Someone has to keep on top of things.
***
I stay late at the office, but there still seems to be a mountain of work to do when I leave. Still, at least the day goes quickly when you’re busy. The downside is that I didn’t get any time to work on my data. Not even at lunchtime. And of course, I’d taken my log book with me. I couldn’t have left it at home to be stolen or photographed or tampered with.
There’s no way I could’ve stopped them from getting in. I just have to hope they haven’t left too much of a mess.
***
Back at home now. Everything seems fine. I check through the photos I took on my phone before I left for work. Every book on the shelves, every pot and pan in the kitchen—everything is just as I left it. That proves it. These guys are real pros. I nod to myself. They must’ve sent their best men. That proves I’m onto something. I have to say the words out loud: “I’m onto something big.”
Tuesday
Another busy day at work. But I decide to leave for home thirty-seven minutes earlier today. It’s best not to stick to a routine. I take a different route home on the Underground, get off at a different station and approach my house from a different direction. My plan is to duck down the alley and use the back door, but as soon as I turn into the alley I remember that I can’t use the back door because the bolts will still be fastened on the inside. Hopefully. That’s if the door hasn’t been kicked in and left hanging from its hinges.
I turn back the way I came and march around to the front. And once again, I catch them on the back foot.
It’s the same car. The same black Volvo saloon, parked right outside my house. I check the registration and stride toward it. I feel like hammering on the window, but it will be more useful to walk past it and take a good look at the driver.
But they don’t even let me get near. As soon as they spot me, the driver pulls out into the traffic and he’s gone.
I check the time so that I can put it in my log book later. It’s 5:19 pm. I commit that to memory and let myself in. I’m ready for a cup of tea, but first I have to check each room against the photographs from this morning. This is getting to be a full-time job.
***
I’m just getting ready for bed. It’s been an interesting day. I caught them out by spotting the car, and then I found a tin of beans in the kitchen cupboard with the label facing the wrong way. They’re getting sloppy. I smile at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and say, “I’m not as stupid as you think.” I don’t think there’s a camera behind it—that would be too obvious. But I can’t help but hope that someone, somewhere is feeling uneasy.
Wednesday
I’m at work, and I’m just making myself a cup of coffee when my boss, Mr Wightman, comes up and stands right next to me. I smile and say, “Good morning.” But I don’t offer to make him a cup. I’m not a tea boy. He just stands there with a fixed grin on his face.
“Good weekend?” he asks me.
I stop stirring my mug and stare at him. It’s halfway through the week, I think. Why ask me that now? The answer is clear. He must know something. He must be in on it. I look him in the eye. I don’t like the way he’s studying me, appraising me. I need to make him go away, so I just say, “Very nice thank you, Mr Wightman.”
He laughs. “Please,” he says, “call me Rob.”
I try a smile, but it isn’t easy. “OK, Rob.”
He smiles and nods, then saunters off along the corridor. What the hell was all that about? I shake my head in disbelief and turn my attention to my coffee. Unfortunately, I’ve now lost count of how many times I’ve stirred it, so I’ll have to start again. Very frustrating.
***
I’m home now. With the doors locked. And guess where I’m sitting. No, I’m not in the bathroom with the taps running. And I’m not in the front room with the radio on full blast. Those stupid tricks only work in second-rate spy movies. Give me some credit for my intelligence.
I’ll tell you. I’m sitting, quite comfortably, in the cupboard under the stairs.
Think about it. Who, in their right minds, would bug the cupboard under the stairs? No one.
So here I am, with my flashlight, my sleeping bag and my pens and my calculator. I’ve even got a bottle of water. I bought it from the supermarket on the way home. I made sure I took one from near the back of the shelf, and I checked the seal. And of course I’ve got my log book. I’ve got a lot to do.
Thursday
I’m not going into work today. I phoned in sick. It’s because of Mr Wightman. He scored quite highly in my new risk factor algorithm. Too highl
y for me to take any chances.
I’ve been around the house, checking on everything, but now I’m back under the stairs. I’ve gathered up some food and water from the fridge, so I should be all right to stay in here for the rest of the day. And I made sure that I put a couple of packets of painkillers in my pocket, because that damn headache keeps coming back, over and over again.
But I’ll be fine. I have everything I need. I’ve even got a flask of hot black coffee to keep me alert.
And a knife. My big cook’s knife. Just in case.
Friday
Flashlight batteries running low. It’s getting stuffy in here. And cramped. But I’m safe. I don’t need anything. I don’t even need to go into the kitchen because I just don’t feel like eating today. Perhaps I’ll have something later.
The phone’s rung a few times. I didn’t answer it. It was probably just the office anyway—wondering where I am. Even so, I made notes of the times in my log book, and noted the number of rings. Very interesting.
And Sam knocked on the front door earlier. And then he shouted through the letterbox. “Are you all right?” he kept asking. “Are you OK?” Very annoying. I expect the whole street could hear him yelling his head off.
It’s my fault. I should’ve realised Sam would come poking his nose in. If I’d been better prepared, I could’ve slipped a note under his door saying that I’d gone on holiday or something.
Too late for that now.
Too late.
Saturday
Tired today. Hard to sleep in here. It’s too small to lie down properly. But I can’t go out. Not now. Not when I’ve come so close to identifying the patterns. It’s been a hell of a task, but I’m so close now. So close.
I’d be very happy, but these damn headaches... they just get... worse. And I’m sure these painkillers don’t work. They don’t do any good. They must be too old. I can’t read the use-by date on the packet; the flashlight is too dim now.
I guess it won’t hurt to take a couple more.
Just a couple.
A Dark Assortment Page 8