by Dan Waddell
He eased the window open a few more inches, bit by bit, until there was enough space to squeeze through. He climbed in, parting the heavy curtains. He stood there for a few more seconds. The house was completely silent.
With the curtains shut and overlapping, the room was dark, so much so that it took a while for his eyes to adjust.
There was a smell he recognized but he couldn't think from where. Then it came to him. The fusty smell of old paper. The room smelled airless. Not unlike his own sitting room, the one he had barely used or entered since his parents died. As his eyes grew accustomed, he could see an old battered armchair in front of a gas fire with rings, a large, bulky television, an old piano against the far wall, a table festooned with piles and piles of paper. He tiptoed over and picked one item up, an unopened envelope addressed to Edith Chapman. He went over to the mantelpiece; he could almost smell the dust it was so thick. There was a black and white picture of an old man in an armchair. Then one of a prim old lady outside a church, too self-conscious to smile. Edith Chapman, he presumed. On the floor by the fire was a copy of an old TV listings magazine. He picked it up, the corners curling and crisp. He checked the date. It was more than three years old.
The whole room was like a mausoleum, frozen in time.
Again he felt a hint of recognition. He knew all about that. He hadn't even redecorated since his father died. He slowly pulled his radio from his pocket and called for back-up. Something here wasn't right.
He found another picture. In colour, free of dust. A tall man, dark hair, good looking, troubled, not making eye contact with the camera, beside him a woman perhaps a year or two younger, fresh-faced and healthy, smiling broadly in marked contrast. Was this man Anthony Chapman? If so, the picture appeared to be the only imprint he'd made on this room. Beside it was a cross, also free of dust. Maybe that belonged to him, too.
He went to the door and opened it slowly. He was in a small hallway, stairs in front of him. The house was entirely dark, but his eyes had adjusted. The narrow hall led to a kitchen, from which an odd smell wafted. To the left of that entrance was another door.
There was a sound. Footsteps, perhaps. Wouldn't surprise him if it was mice. The place was probably teeming with them -- or rats. He stood still, not knowing which way to go, desperate to switch on a light, but not wanting to draw attention to himself. There was the sound again.
A light pitter-patter. It's coming from behind that door next to the kitchen, he thought, though in the impenetrable darkness it was easy to lose track of where the sounds came from.
He reached the door. He tried it as gently as he could.
Upstairs there was a heavier noise, a thud. Then a muffled scream, as if it was coming through a radio. He dragged himself up the stairs as quickly as he could, pains shooting down his injured leg, ignoring the fire in his shin.
In the distance he could hear sirens but he paid them no heed. Upstairs was dark; he opened one door. A bathroom.
At last, some daylight. The smell of damp was almost overpowering. He waited for another sound. In front of him was another door. He forced it open and flicked on the light.
A dark-haired man, the same as in the picture on the mantle downstairs, tall, barrel-chested, was standing there.
Both of them stopped, neither said a word.
Who the hell are you?' the voice was plummy, well spoken.
Foster froze. He wondered if back-up had arrived. He had told them to come without sound, that he would meet them and instruct. Not much chance of that now.
'Police,' he said. 'The game's up, Dominic' He paused.
'Or should I call you Anthony?'
The man's face, puce with anger, bled of all colour when he said the name. Foster tried to think. Here he was, sweating, out of condition, his limbs screaming with pain.
There was no way he could overpower this guy and he had no weapon at his disposal. He needed to buy time.
Chapman started to walk towards him. Foster backed off, hands held up to show he was unarmed. He wished he wasn't. 'Help is on its way, Anthony. You can fight me but not the whole army.'
'Liar,' he spat out. Foster could see a knife gripped tightly in his right hand. Foster continued to back away to the top of the stairs. Chapman closed the door of the room behind him, plunging them both into absolute darkness.
The blast of light from the room meant Foster initially couldn't see a thing. He could feel Chapman's presence, though, a grim spectre.
'It's over, Anthony,' he called out.
'Tell me, do you know the Lord?' a disembodied voice said, closer to him than he had thought.
'Not personally, no,' Foster replied.
There was a muffled scream behind them. From the room they had just left.
Well, in that case, too bad.'
He sensed a figure move in the gloom, felt its sick breath. Foster knew there was no other option. He turned and threw himself down the stairs, rolling and tumbling, the wind knocked out of him, sears of pain taking his breath away. He landed in a heap at the bottom, gasping for air, but managed to scramble to his feet. He reached for the front door, hearing Chapman race down the stairs.
The door was locked. The keyhole was empty.
Instinctively Foster turned and hurled himself at the oncoming man's midriff. It surprised Chapman and knocked him off his feet. Foster felt something in his shoulder buckle but he drove his weight through and slammed his assailant into the banister pole. He deflected into the hall and they both hit the floor, dust and lint flying through the air. Chapman had grabbed Foster's shirt and was trying to wrestle him off while the detective tried to locate the other man's arm and stop him striking with the knife.
He grabbed the right arm and held it away, but in doing so lost purchase on the rest of his body. Chapman scrambled out from beneath him and forced him to one side with his left arm. Foster's back was now on the floor, both hands grasping Chapman's knife arm, trying to shake the blade free from his grasp but his grip was iron tight. The pain in his shoulder grew worse but he gritted his teeth, trying to kick up a leg and force Chapman away so he could get clear. Chapman's left hand found his throat, all his weight bearing down. Foster just didn't have the strength. He was starting to choke, his windpipe crushed, pressure immense. But he couldn't remove a hand from Chapman's arm or his knife arm would be free. Strangulation or stabbing, which end do you choose, Grant? He let go of the right arm with one hand and started to prise away the left, gurgling as he did, head feeling like it might explode. As the knife moved closer to his chest. . .
Then Chapman's body tightened and tautened, his back arched and his weight fell on Foster. He screamed out in what Foster thought was bloodlust. Foster expected to feel the top of Chapman's blade pierce his skin, but there was nothing, just the man's heaving body pinning him down, and his hot breath on his cheek. The breathing was shallow and laboured.
A light went on. Foster blinked, like an owl in daylight.
Chapman was a dead weight. He'd stopped moving.
Foster pushed with all the effort he could muster, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He lifted him enough to squeeze out from underneath. As he did, so he could see a large kitchen knife sticking out of the man's back. In the distance he could hear sirens.
A figure was standing at the foot of the stairs, scowling at Chapman with consuming hatred.
'Gary?' Foster said.
The kid didn't react. Eventually he looked up, face still set hard.
'Thanks,' Foster added wearily. He noticed for the first time that his front was stained by Chapman's scarlet blood, which was now oozing across the threadbare hall carpet.
'I didn't do it for you,' he said.
Wait.'
Gary ignored him, and ran into the front room, making for the open window.
Foster hauled himself up, body screaming with pain.
Gary could wait. He remembered the muffled screams earlier. He dragged his frame upstairs and into the room where he'd first encountered C
hapman.
'Hello?' he said. 'Is anybody there?'
Nothing. He repeated his inquiry. This time there was a response.
'Help,' a plaintive voice said weakly.
He looked around the room. There was a cupboard.
Foster opened it. It was shallow. Empty.
'Help.' The voice was pitiful and weak.
He pushed at the back of the cupboard. It seemed to give. He pushed harder, then he kicked. It gave way.
Behind it was an extra few feet of space.
Curled up in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, was a girl. The blonde hair was matted and tangled, but the blue eyes and face were unmistakable. They had been staring out from the newspapers every day for the past week.
'Naomi,' he said.
She stood up and launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, convulsed with sobs.
'It's OK,' he found himself saying, as she wept hot tears on his shoulder. 'You're safe now. You're safe.'
She was shaking.
So am I, he thought.
He heard the front door give way, footsteps on the stairs. 'I'm here,' he shouted, overcome. 'I've got her. She's safe.'
Officers came rushing in from every angle. He held up his hand, making them aware they should tread carefully.
'This whole place is a crime scene,' he said.
He held Naomi for a few minutes, then led her downstairs, handing her to a WPC and asking for her father to be summoned immediately.
He took a deep breath and composed himself. Where had Gary come from? He must have been in the house before him. It was Gary he had heard moving around downstairs. He returned to the room where Naomi had been held. He peered into the cupboard and the false wall at the back of it. There was a duvet lining the floor and a pillow, but it was no more than a couple of feet deep and four feet wide. Naomi would have had no room to lie down flat, and only stale air to breathe; there would have been nothing but darkness and the fear of what might happen.
It was over. He rubbed his head, a wry smile on his face.
^'What's so funny?' a uniform asked.
'Nothing,' he replied. 'Just appreciating a bit of grim irony.
"The kid that was given up for adoption to save him from being hunted down and killed as an act of blood atonement was the one who had ended up carrying out the atonement legacy.
16
Foster was dozing on the sofa. He'd returned to his house late for a few hours' sleep and rest as they tried to tie up the loose ends surrounding Anthony Chapman. Much still needed to be explained. Too tired to make it upstairs, he propped up a couple of pillows and rested his head, fully clothed, pausing only to kick off his shoes, sinking into unconsciousness immediately.
He woke up with a start. A noise? There was a figure in the corner of his eye. Small, stocky.
'Gary?' he whispered hoarsely. 'Gary,' he added, more clearly and forcefully.
The kid stepped from the dark corner of the room into the middle where the light from the moon fought its way through a crack in the curtains.
'Nice of you to drop in again,' he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
The kid said nothing. Foster got up and turned on the light. 'Hungry?'
Gary nodded. Foster asked him to follow him into the kitchen. The digital readout on his underused cooker read '03:3 5'. He'd been asleep less than two hours. Every part of him ached, even the bits Karl Hogg hadn't smashed up.
'The takeaways are shut. I can only offer toast,' he said.
He stuck a few pieces in the toaster and filled the kettle, setting it to boil. He turned round.
Gary was staring at the floor. There was anger and concern in his eyes, the open window to a complicated young soul.
'Thanks for saving my life.'
Gary's face softened. 'Don't mention it.' He paused, uncertain. 'Am I in trouble for stabbing that feller?'
Foster tried to get angry, or at least to wear a look of anger, but failed. The kid was safe and that was a relief.
'A few people are going to want to ask you a few questions,'
he said. 'No, I don't think you'll be getting into too much trouble. But as for breaking into my house yet again . . .' He spread his arms out wide. Gary half-smiled once more.
The toast popped up. Foster buttered it and put on some jam. Gary devoured it in seconds so he made some more and made himself a cup of tea. Once the boy's hunger was sated, Foster sat opposite him across the kitchen table.
'It was a bloody stupid thing to do.'
Gary shrugged. 'Is he dead?'
'No. He'll live. We think. He lost a lot of blood.'
Gary nodded, a tinge of relief to his features.
'How did you find him?'
Gary explained. 'I'd gone to bed in the safe house.
Except it wasn't safe, was it?'
Foster felt a twinge of guilt. "I suppose not.'
"I went to bed. They had a DS. I'm playing with it on the bed, with the TV on, but there was nothing on, just news and stuff. The woman comes in and she says, "It's ten o'clock. Turn that off and get some." I says OK, but I carries on playing because I'm fucked if I'm going to bed when some copper tells me. Then this car alarm goes off outside. It goes off for a bit and I hear the bloke swear.
Then, I dunno, I hear something but I don't know what.
Like a thud.'
Chapman had used a silencer, which explained the lack of a gunshot.
Gary continued, eyes saucer-wide. 'The woman screams and she goes running downstairs. I'm like, "I gotta run." I open the window, climb out, down the drainpipe and I'm in the garden. I just ran, out of the garden, and then I'm in these fields. Nowhere to hide, just fields.'
'So where did you go?'
'I ran to this tree. There was a car and I knew it straight away. It was the same car that man had who came round and saw my sister. A blue Mondeo, battered but still the same. The engine was still a bit warm. I just got in, thought it was the safest place. I knew he'd look for me but he wouldn't look in his own car because he's a dozy twat. I broke in and hid in the footwell in the back seat.'
Why?'
'Find out where he lived. Sure enough, he spends ten minutes huffing and puffing around the countryside before he gets in swearing his head off, effin and blindin, and I'm there sat on his back seat. Then he drives off. It was like he was never gonna stop. He did once. Don't know where. Middle of nowhere so I stayed inside. I knew we was getting back to London because of the traffic and the lights. Then he pulled up at some garage to get some petrol. Then he drove some more and parked up. He got out. I waited. Then I opened it up from the inside and got out. Luckily the car was a heap of shit and the alarm didn't go off, innit. Not sure it had an alarm. It smelled bad, really bad, too. The guy got a real problem with BO. Anyway, I knew where he lived now. I wanted to finish it. This wanker was gonna kill me.'
Why didn't you call us, Gary? Why didn't you call me?'
'I didn't trust you lot to do it.'
'Cheers,' Foster said. Where did you get the knife?'
'From his kitchen. I thought about it all day. Walked round and round. Then I saw his window was one of them with the old locks what break. Just gave it a little tickle and it did nicely. Went in, had a look around. Didn't think he was home, it was that quiet. So I waited. That's when I heard you come in.'
Why didn't you make yourself known to me? Would have saved us a lot of trouble.'
'Yeah, I suppose. But it was pitch black and I just hid.'
He nodded. 'Next time, don't try and play the hero.
That's what cops are there for. Anyway, we found the girl.
She's safe.'
'Good. Now can you go and find Leonie?'
Foster paused. He'd spoken to Heather and told her and Nigel to come back. The job was done. There was an open line of communication between the law enforcement agencies in the UK and the States, but there was understandable reluctance to go wading in unless names were given and good reasons were for
thcoming.
He sighed. We've found Leonie.'
Gary's whole face transformed, brightened. 'You have?'
'She's in the States,' he said, nodding.
'Is she coming back?'
He thought he would save the truth for another day.
We'll talk about that tomorrow. I hope so, but there are a few things we need to sort out first. I promise we'll do all we can.'
Gary looked downcast.
I better get all the bad news over with, he thought.
'You'll need to be questioned officially,' he added. 'You'll be OK. Just be polite. Difficult though you might find it.'
The boy looked knackered.
'Come on,' Foster added. 'You can have the spare room again. You've had quite a day'
Foster spoke to Naomi the next day. She was a strong young girl, terrified by her ordeal yet not crushed. He admired her resolve enormously. He felt a pang. His daughter, in whom he'd never shown any interest. Maybe one day soon he'd remedy that.
She told them with tears in her eyes how Chapman had taken her as she entered the house from school. He'd grabbed her from behind, covered her mouth and she'd passed out. She woke up, feeling groggy, in the cupboard, unaware of how she'd got there.
When did he tell you that your mother was dead?'
Foster asked softly.
It was the only time she broke down.
'I lost track of time. A day, maybe two days. I asked where she was and he said she was with the Lord and with her kin in the celestial kingdom.'
Foster had wanted to halt it there and then, pick it up another time, but she insisted on continuing the interview.
She said Chapman constantly proselytized about fundamental Mormonism, giving her books to read, testing her at night and rewarding her with food when she demonstrated her knowledge. He spoke to her about the True Church of Freedom, about how they would go there.
They would be married and escape their previously apostate and sin-soaked lives. He would preach, rhapsodize and persuade every second of the day when he was with her. Foster had seen the literature in the house pamphlets produced by the Church, and other fundamentalist texts.
The police found letters from Church members addressed to Chapman, or his adoptive name Dominic Ashbourne, helping him with genealogical information, seeking to reassure him of his reward: the chance to live among them with several wives of his own. An exchange of information and ideas on how to reunite the family under the fundamentalist Mormon banner, killing those beyond salvation, baptizing them into the faith by proxy, atoning for the sins of 1890, and exporting those with something to offer across to the US and the bosom of the Church. His computer also yielded communication with the sect, a series of strange e-mails that appeared to be in some sort of code. The techies were working on deciphering them, but it seemed as if he was the puppet and they were pulling the strings.