by Rachel Ward
They’re just kids, she told herself. I probably know them. But they weren’t little kids, they were as tall as her, taller some of them. And all boys.
‘Trick or treat,’ they chanted.
‘Neither, okay?’ Bea said. They were getting in her way now. She was trying to keep walking but she was forced to slow right down, was almost at a standstill. The masks bothered her. She hated not being able to see their faces, apart from the glint of their eyes through the little holes.
‘Reckon it’ll have to be a trick,’ one of them said, from behind his Scream mask. Bea thought she recognised the voice. ‘What’s it going to be?’
There was laughter. Six of them and one of me, thought Bea. Shit. She couldn’t outrun them. Nor could she fight all of them off if it got physical.
She’d stopped walking. They were circling closer now, their masked faces looming in at her, taunting her. Someone touched her bum. She spun round and the laughing got louder. She had the sense of everything getting out of control, slipping away from her. She had to act now.
She scanned the carousel of faces until she saw the Scream mask coming round. Quick as a flash she grabbed it and pulled as hard and she could. The elastic holding it on stretched and then snapped.
‘Aargh! Jesus, fuck!’ the boy screamed. He clapped his hand up to his eye.
‘Ken Thompson!’ Bea shouted. It was one of Ant’s younger brothers. ‘I thought it was you.’
‘Huh?’ Ken said. The others had stopped circling now.
‘Ant’s going to skin you when I tell him what you’re up to.’
‘Shut up. I’m not up to anything.’
‘Are you shitting me? Picking on people who are walking on their own. After what happened to Ginny. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You and your pathetic little mates.’
They were shuffling their feet now, looking down at the ground. Bea noticed that most of them were carrying plastic bags.
‘Now take those sodding masks off and you can walk me to the shops, like gentlemen.’
Amazingly, one by one, the masks came off, propped up on the top of their heads or held sheepishly in their hands.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hang around here any longer.’
They walked together towards the lit row of shops.
‘You won’t tell Ant, will you?’ said Ken, who was by her side.
‘I dunno. Are you going to go home now?’
‘It’s a bit early.’
‘You got school tomorrow, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Pack it in for tonight, then, and don’t spook anyone else on your way home.’
They were at the shops now.
‘Okay. Will you be all right from here?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
She watched them turn back to the rec. They seemed to be arguing. One of the lads hit another one with his mask and there was a bit of a scuffle. Someone ran ahead and another reached into a bag and threw something at them. A white shape flew through the air and shattered on the path by their feet. An egg.
Let them take it out on each other, not the unsuspecting public. Little shits, thought Bea. But as she walked along her road, she found that she was shaking. Little shits they might be, but they had scared her badly.
Most of the pumpkin lanterns had gone out now, the candles burnt down to a stump. There were only one or two sending guttering light out onto the pavement. From along the road, she couldn’t see a lantern on her front gatepost. It must have burnt out too, she thought. But when she got to number twenty-three, she saw that there wasn’t a pumpkin at all. She looked up the path to the house. All the lights were off, even the outside one that Queenie always put on for her to help her safely round to the back door.
‘What the—?’
She went through the gate and followed the path round to the back of the house. She had one hand on the wall to guide her as even though she knew the way well enough, it was tricky in the dark. She got to the back door and tried the handle. It was locked. She knocked on the door and then listened. No lights came on. No sound of footsteps coming to the door. ‘Oh God,’ she muttered. ‘Something’s happened!’
She knocked again, louder this time and started shouting. ‘Mum! Queenie! Open up, it’s me!’
She stopped to listen again. Her phone started vibrating in her pocket. She took it out. The screen was a bright rectangle. ‘Queenie calling.’
She accepted the call.
‘Mum, where are you?’
‘At home. Is that you outside?’
‘Yes. Of course it’s me. I’ve just told you it’s me. Open the frigging door.’
‘Okay.’
Bea could hear movement inside, then the liquid sound of the key turning in the lock, and the thunk of both bolts being undone. Finally, the door opened an inch or two and she could see Queenie squinting out at her. When she recognised her daughter she opened the door further. ‘Come in, then. Quickly.’
Inside the kitchen Bea couldn’t see a thing. The only light was a ghostly glow from the door to the living room, cast by the TV.
‘Mum, what’s going on? What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?’
‘I don’t want anyone knocking at the door.’
‘But we always do Halloween. It’s one of our things.’
‘Not this year. Not with that maniac out and about.’
‘What about the pumpkin I brought home? Have you carved it?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve got two bags of sweets.’
‘So? We’ll work our way through them, or you can take them back to work.’
‘This isn’t like you. We always . . . when Dad was here . . . ’
‘Don’t, Bea. Don’t bring him into this.’
‘But, Mum—’
‘Did you lock that door?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Come into the lounge then.’
The television screen cast eerie shadows across the ceiling.
Bea could hear the high-pitched sounds of another gaggle of teenagers outside in the street. The noise got nearer. They were coming up the front path.
‘Mum?’
‘Shh.’ Queenie held her finger to her lips. ‘We’re not here. Not at home to strangers.’
‘They’re just kids, Mum.’
Someone knocked on the door. Queenie sat, motionless, in her chair. The visitors rattled the letterbox. Even though Bea knew it was trick or treaters, the butterflies were back in her stomach. Another barrage of knocks made Bea jump despite herself.
‘God,’ she said, ‘this is worse than answering the flaming door. It’s giving me the creeps. I’m going.’ She got up from her chair, but Queenie lunged forward and grabbed her.
‘No!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t open that door!’ Her fingertips dug into Bea’s arms and there was real anguish in her voice.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Bea. She prised her mum’s hands off her. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’
They sat out the evening, pretending to watch the telly while really listening to every noise outside. Voices, footsteps, laughter, screams.
As they were going up the stairs to bed, Queenie said, ‘I’ve got a date, you know. For my interview. The third.’ The day after Ginny’s funeral.
‘Okay, mum. I think that’s my day off. I’ll check. I’ll get the time off if it isn’t.’
Before going to sleep, Bea got on her laptop and typed in the web address on Kevin’s business card. The ‘people’ he liked photographing were all women, mostly young. Very young. The images in his gallery were fairly tasteful, bare backs and no nipples, but Bea wondered what images didn’t make it onto this shop window.
She went back to her spreadsheet and thought back over the day. She couldn’t rule Kevin out. Far from it. Dave was still in the frame too, especially now she’d seen him in his hoodie and sweats.
What about Dean? He liked the sort of pictures Kevin took, and he was quite blatantly the supplier
of eggs to the locals, but that didn’t make him a killer, did it?
She closed the lid of the laptop, but the images and words were imprinted on her brain. There when she closed her eyes. There when she opened them. The sounds of the evening stuck with her too. Those boys and their voices. Kids’ screams and laughter.
She dozed fitfully and woke with a start. She’d been asleep and dreaming, except she could still hear screaming now. Her mind tried to focus. This wasn’t kids messing about on the rec – it was coming from inside the house.
‘Oh God! Mum!’
She threw off her duvet and ran out of the room. Her mum’s room was the other side of the bathroom. The screams made Bea’s blood run cold. It wasn’t just noise, she was shouting words, ‘Get out! Get out! Get him out of here!’
‘Mum! Mum!’
The bedroom door was open but the room was dark. Bea raced in. She could just make out a pale shape on the bed, her mother sitting up.
‘Mum, it’s me!’
The screaming didn’t stop.
Bea crouched by the bed and put her hands on her mother’s shoulders. ‘It’s me. It’s all right.’
‘Get him out!’
Bea fumbled for the light switch at the side of the bed. The light was blinding. As her eyes readjusted she scanned the room, expecting – dreading – to see someone else there. But there was no one. The room was exactly as it always was: a dressing table with a mirror, a hairbrush and some bottles of scent; and two wardrobes – one for her mum’s clothes, the other for her dad’s, still there after six years, untouched.
‘There’s no one here, Mum. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’
Queenie stopped shouting, but there were tears pouring down her face now. Her hair was tousled. Bea took a tissue from the box on the bedside table and wiped the tears away. She smoothed her hair, and a familiar queasy feeling overtook her. The tables were turned again. She was parent and Queenie was the child.
‘Can you see now? There’s only me and you. We’re fine. Everything’s fine,’ Bea soothed.
Her mum found a tissue of her own and blew her nose. ‘I heard something,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Saw something. Someone. Here, in this room.’
‘There was no one here when I came in. There’s no one else in the house.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. Well, I haven’t checked the whole house. I’ll do it now.’
‘No!’ Queenie clutched her again. ‘Don’t go down there. What if he’s still there?’
‘Who? Who do you think it is?’
‘Him. The one who’s been attacking people.’
‘Don’t be silly. He’s been doing it outside in the street, not breaking into people’s houses. I’ll go and make us a cup of tea, shall I? And check the house while I’m about it.’
‘Don’t, Bea! Let’s ring the police!’
Bea sighed and stood up. ‘I’m not ringing the police because you had a nightmare. That’s all it was. Bloody Halloween got to you. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Despite her brave words, Bea felt sick as she stood at the top of the stairs looking down. She couldn’t hear anything, because, of course, she told herself, there was nothing to hear. Even so, what if there was someone there? What should she do? Scream? Hit them? There’s no one there, she told herself firmly, and switched on the landing light.
Downstairs was just as they had left it. Bea padded into the kitchen and checked the back door – still locked and bolted. She made two mugs of tea and heated up two microwavable bags in the shape of cuddly owls, and retreated upstairs again with everything balanced on a tray.
Queenie was still sitting up, still looking confused and lost.
‘Here, Mum,’ Bea said putting the tray on the floor. ‘Here’s an owl for your feet and a nice cup of tea.’
She lifted up the bottom of the duvet and put the warm bag in.
As Queenie sipped her tea, she seemed to come back to herself.
‘Ahh,’ she said, smacking her lips a little. ‘That’s better. I’m a silly old fool, aren’t I?’
‘No, Mum. Everyone has bad dreams sometimes.’
‘I never hear you in the night. Well, not shouting out. Snoring, maybe.’
‘Shut up, I don’t snore!’
‘Says you.’
Bea sat on the side of the bed until both mugs were empty. The bedside alarm clock was showing nearly ten past four. She took her mum’s empty mug and put in on the tray.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Time for lights out again. You’re okay now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Queenie. ‘But could you sleep here, just for tonight?’
They’d slept in the same bed for a couple of months after Bea’s dad died. They had both needed the comfort to start with, but in the end it was Bea who had decided to move back to her own room. Was this a step backwards?
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll just turn the lights out.’
‘Leave the landing light on, love. Just tonight.’
‘Okay.’
Bea switched the bedside light out, then walked around the bed and climbed in. She lay on her right side facing away from her mum, who was still sitting upright. After a few minutes, Bea turned over. She could see in the soft light cast from the landing that Queenie’s eyes were still open.
‘Mum,’ she said. ‘Lie down, for goodness’ sake. You’ll never get to sleep like that, and neither will I.’
Queenie turned her head, and Bea saw the faint glistening of fresh tears on her face.
‘Mum,’ she said softly. ‘Come on.’
She held her arms out, and Queenie shuffled down the bed. She curled up with her back to Bea who curled up too, her legs parallel to Queenie’s, one arm around her stomach, the other hand stroking her hair. And sure enough, Queenie’s breathing became slower and more regular. She stopped sniffing and her body relaxed. Soon, she was asleep, leaving Bea wide awake, but too scared of waking her to move.
The house was quiet and would be until the heating pipes started creaking when the boiler fired up in a couple of hours’ time. There were no footsteps on the pavement, but now and again the soft purr of a car passing in the road. At one point, a car seemed to stop outside with its engine idling. Bea craned over her mother’s sleeping bulk to see the clock. Five thirty. She wondered if it was Tom, finally back from whatever call he’d had to go on instead of driving her home. Her phone was in her own bedroom, otherwise she might have sent him a cheeky text, find out if it was him. Maybe she could tiptoe to the window, peek out.
She moved her arm away from Queenie’s waist and started to slide away from her towards the edge of the bed. Queenie groaned and turned over. She flopped out an arm and pulled Bea closer. Bea rolled her eyes to the heavens and gave in. She was here for the night. Her mum’s breath was warm against her neck. Instead of disgusting her, it was soothing, and now, finally, she found herself drifting off. She was almost asleep when she heard a car door open, the telltale sigh of the gate on its hinges, and footsteps on the path. Her heart started racing, jumping about in her chest. Someone was in their front garden, getting closer to the house. Her breath was coming fast now too and she strained to hear what was coming next. The letterbox rapped once, twice, and then the footsteps retreated.
A car door slammed and then the engine revved up and the car was away. Bea listened until she couldn’t hear it any more. An over-enthusiastic paper boy? A meths-soaked flaming rag? For fuck’s sake, I’m never going to sleep! she thought.
‘Sorry, Queenie,’ she whispered and slithered out of her mum’s grasp. Queenie protested and shuffled about, but was settled again as Bea headed out of the bedroom. She crept downstairs. There was a square of paper on the floor by the front door. She picked it up. It was, in fact, a rectangle, folded in the middle. She opened it up. It was written in red biro in capital letters. Five words.
‘MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, BITCH.’
14
Gavin was scrubbing the front windows with a
broom and big bucket of soapy water when Bea got to Costsave the next morning. She was on her own as neither Dot nor Ant had materialised on the High Street like usual. Perhaps Dot was still lying low.
‘Been demoted? You must’ve done something really bad.’
Gavin spun round. His forehead glistened a little from his efforts with the broom. ‘That’s a bit below the belt. Wouldn’t expect that from you, Bea.’
Bea’s stomach lurched. ‘I d-didn’t mean anything . . . ’ It had only been a bit of gentle teasing.
He dipped the brush into the bucket. ‘Anyway, I was first in, Bea. Can’t have people seeing the store like this, especially if the eggs came from us.’
Her stomach gave another little flip. ‘Did they?’ Did he know something? Had someone turned Dean in?
‘Where else? The farm shop was in lockdown, apparently. No one else has big quantities of eggs.’
She still couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Dean, but she could at least drop a heavy hint. ‘You could check the stock levels, I suppose, look at breakages.’
He turned to face her, eggy suds dripping off the end of his brush. ‘Yes. I’ll ask Neville later.’ He let the brush stand on the ground and leaned against it, puffing a little. The brush handle put Bea in mind of a pole propping up a washing line.
‘Do you want me to finish that, Mr Howells? I don’t mind.’
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘No. I’m nearly done here. Thanks, though, Bea.’
Inside, Bea got changed and touched up her make-up. She checked her watch. Dot was definitely going to be late. She was about to send her a text when Anna came into the locker room.
‘Ant’s just rung,’ she said. ‘Dot’s in hospital.’
Bea heard herself gasp. ‘What? What’s happened?’
Please God, not Dot. Let her be all right.
‘Broken her hip, apparently. In a fall. Ant’s with her.’
‘Oh my God. Is she okay?’
‘He didn’t say much. She’s having an operation now. He said he’d ring again when he knew more.’
‘Is it the Royal United?’
‘Yeah. Ward 10, he said.’
‘I’ll go after work, get the bus. Bloody hell.’