“Can’t my mother-”
“-No, she’s got a Cheryl disaster on her hands…”
“Can’t you…?”
“Matt, you can take a few hours off to sit with your kids. The force will cope without you. You can go out after if you have to…” Terry snapped. He instantly regretted it. It was a shitty thing to say.
There was an understandable pause in the conversation.
“I’m sorry…” he added feeling guilt solidify in his chest. It had been such a beautiful day and here he was continuing it on…
“I love you. I’ll see you later,” Matt simply replied. He sounded wounded and it made Terry feel even worse.
God, could this day actually get any worse?
CHAPTER SIX:
It was Friday and life had balanced back out. It had smoothed itself out quite nicely and the terrible day that was Tuesday was just another blip in the days of time gone by.
Matt had come home that night, at about three am, and merely took hold of him and that was all it took for Terry to break into a flood of tears. Terry opened up about the frustrations he was feeling, about the guilt he felt burdened with. Matt listened, before kissing him gently and then telling him to get some sleep.
The girls had initially been wary but once they realised Terry was back to normal they bounced back to their normal self too.
Matt came home for tea on Wednesday night and stayed the entire night, he perhaps daren’t not. Terry’s big booking went well and that night they’d retired to bed together. There was even a little sex. Make-up sex perhaps.
Thursday Terry had visited the sixth family on the list, bypassing the Baxters at fifth. The Hendersons were a pretty nondescript family. A blonde couple with a newborn. They were devastated by the loss of their little boy, Zack (spelt with a K, as the parents stressed to him). He had predictably found nothing in the little boys room.
The trails were as cold as ever.
Terry was still frustrated but he had a better handle on it.
Now Terry found himself stood outside the house of family number seven. The Smiths.
He knocked on the door with a swift three knocks.
It was a plain house, very nondescript. The front drive was just a swathe of concrete with no colour whatsoever. In the drive a pretty flash yellow sports car was trying its better to cheer the place up. It wasn’t working.
A man answered the door.
He was tall and well built. He was wearing a black and white jumper, his gold chain half hanging free from the neck. He finished his look with blue jeans and white trainers. Terry spotted several sovereign rings on his fingers. As the man gave him a curious appraisal, Terry spied a gold tooth. The man looked a little like an English gangster.
“May I help you?” he brusquely asked. He wasn’t impressed by the tattooed pretty boy with a poncy top-knot stood before him.
“I’m Terry, a consultant with the Manchester Police…” Terry prompted as if it would jog his memory. They had spoken only an hour earlier.
“Oh right…” Mathew Smith looked him up and down once more.
He wasn’t sure what to make of Terry. He certainly hadn’t expected what he was looking at.
“May I come in?” Terry prompted aware that it was starting to spit rain.
“Yeah… Sure. Christine! That consultant bloke is here!” He hollered as Terry stepped inside. His right ear was ringing as he stepped around the man.
“Shoes?”
“Nah mate, you’re alright,” Mathew pointed into the nearest door. The sudden switch to a friendly tone was disconcerting.
“Hello,” a curvaceous woman greeted him as Terry stepped into the lounge. It was a long stretched out room, two settees were lined along the walls. While the décor of floral wallpaper wasn’t to Terry’s taste he appreciated it was well done. The furniture looked expensive, the carpet was incredibly thick and plush underfoot.
Mrs Smith gestured for him to take a seat. “Would you like a cuppa?”
Terry declined politely. She smiled and took a seat near him.
She was pretty, more youthful looking than her thirty eight years of age. She was dressed in a pretty dress, a flattering shape that highlighted her large breasts and her equally curvy butt. Her rainbow coloured hair was pulled into a lazy ponytail and she had put a face of makeup on.
Mathew took a seat on the other sofa and Terry noticed the wary distance he was given. He made no open acknowledgement of it.
“You said on the phone you wanted to go over the case?”
Terry nodded.
“But we’ve talked to the police, we’ve told everything we know…” Christine was apprehensive of scraping across the wounds and he couldn’t blame her.
“I know that ma’am, I’m a consultant for the police. I’m here to just take a second look at things. Offer a different perspective,”
“What a load of fucking shite,” Mathew grumbled. He dug somewhere nearby and brought out a TV remote. He then proceeded to put it on.
“Matty!” his wife chastised him.
“What??!” he snapped back.
Terry was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“This man has come to try and help the police find our son!” she shouted at him.
Terry had thought the Peters had a turbulent relationship but that was nothing to the Smiths. He could imagine they had had quite a few rows in their time.
“And what the fuck is this poncy twat gonna do?” Mathew growled.
“Matty! Don’t be such a jerk!” She roared loudly, “I’m sorry, my husband’s a prick!” she turned to Terry.
Terry wanted the ground to swallow him up.
“Oh fuck this shite!” Mathew abruptly flew up off the sofa and stormed out of the room. The front door slammed and a vacuum rippled through the house.
“Sorry about that, he’s not coping with it…” She looked ashamed.
“It’s okay, I understand…” he smiled. No hard feelings despite being called a ‘poncy twat’.
“Did you want to have a look around?”
“If that’s okay?” Terry nodded.
“Sure, look I just want to get my son back. I’ll do whatever it takes…” she stood and placed a hand on Terry’s arm. The pain in her eyes told Terry that Christine Smith was accustomed to pain, she knew how to live with it. She was a survivor.
Faint glimmers of old pain fluttered in Terry’s mind. Fleeting sensations he couldn’t quite catch, it was like trying to catch butterflies…
She led Terry up a set of stairs and directed him into a bedroom.
“I can’t…” she faltered at the doorway.
“Its okay, I understand,” Terry reassured her.
“I’ll be downstairs…”
Terry smiled and waited for her to disappear before he stepped into the room.
The room was a shrine to football. It was appropriate, Mathew Junior was the eldest of the children taken. He was nine. Almost Bridget’s age. He swiftly shut that thought down. He had to keep his mind on the job at hand. Terry didn’t recognise any of the footballers plastered on giant posters, he wasn’t a fan. The red theme of Manchester United swamped the entire room. Everything was red, or a dark shade of red. Terry took a seat on the bottom bunk, uncertain why Matty Jnr had a bunk-bed at all. There was no brother… No, there was a step-brother. A kid from a different relationship. Terry couldn’t recall the child’s name. The other child was Matty Senior’s, an outcome of a previous relationship.
The PC that once stood on the computer desk had been taken by the police, they’d scanned it thoroughly looking for any interaction with a paedophile or an equally worse offender. There was nothing. Matty Jnr’s internet history was mostly social media and football related, there was one pornography visit but it amounted to nothing.
Terry took a deep breath. The room felt as empty as all the others.
The house itself however didn’t feel so empty, there was a lot of static energy left in the air. No doubt residue fro
m the volatile relationship between Mr and Mrs Smith.
He sighed. Another dead end.
“You’re gonna take my Dad to prison aren’t you…?”
Terry froze. His eyes bulged and slowly he turned to the source of the voice.
Matty Jnr had manifested in a football shirt that displayed his favourite team. Upon further inspection it seemed that the kid was dressed in shorts and football socks too. Almost like he was about to go out and play a game of football. The kid was handsome, a little gangly in the frame but would no doubt fill out. Would’ve. He had his father’s features, the same sort of square face.
“That depends… What has your Dad done?”
“I’m not saying unless you promise he won’t go to prison…”
Hope flipped over in his stomach. “I can’t make that promise Matty, I need to know what he’s done…”
“It’s not his fault…” Matty Jnr had folded himself into the corner of the bed, his knees up to his chin.
“What did he do? I need you to tell me… What if other people are in danger?”
“They’re not in danger…”
“How do you know?” He wasn’t throwing doubt, he was trying to manipulate the truth out of the child.
Matty Jnr didn’t answer, he just shook his head.
“What did he do? I need you to tell me…” Terry pleaded.
“What the f-” Matty Senior appeared at the door, “who the fuck you talking to fruit loop?! Get the fuck out of my house!”
“Wait-!” Terry jumped in.
“No, get the fuck out of my house, you fucking nutter!” He demanded.
The rage that appeared in him spooked Terry. Red had spread across his face and he looked murderous. Terry glanced to Matty Jnr but he’d vanished, time to leave. He stood up and brushed past Matty Senior. He felt a chill roll its way down his spine as he passed him and Terry physically shuddered. There was some seriously dangerous vibes coming from the guy.
“What’s going on?” Christine appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
“This fucking weirdo was talking to thin air in Matty’s bedroom!” Matty Senior roared. It echoed and boomed like a blast in a wind tunnel.
Terry’s pace hurried and he practically lunged out the front door when Christine opened it in a daze. He hurried across the drive and climbed into his car. All the while paranoia was conjuring knives that were about to be plunged in his back. He started the car and sped off, not turning to notice an incredibly angry Matty Senior stood on the doorstep firing off evil glares. When Terry was a few blocks away he felt his breath return and his foot ease off the accelerator. He pulled into a quiet side street and turned off the engine. His heart was hammering in his chest, he’d honestly expected to be attacked. There was a shockingly potent rage in Mr Smith. It had frightened the living shit out of him. Which was good going considering Terry had seen pretty gruesome and violent things in his time as a mediator between the living and dead.
Now what did he do? His hands were shaking as he felt for his mobile phone in his coat pocket. He was trying to calm himself with breathing techniques but it wasn’t helping with the jittering nerves that felt like convulsions.
Matt answered on the fifth ring.
“Hello?”
“Matt, Matt, I’ve spoken to Matthew Smith…” he sounded breathless and it only panicked Matt.
“You what? You spoke to the child?”
“Yeah. He came,” Terry had to stop, his nerves were playing havoc with his words and he was struggling to verbalise them in order, “came to me in his bedroom…”
“What did he say?”
“I didn’t get chance to talk to him for long, but he asked me if I was going to send his Dad to prison…”
Matt didn’t speak, he was listening intently.
“…He said something about it not being his Dad’s fault, that he didn’t mean for it to happen…I don’t know. Mr Smith disturbed us and kicked me out of the house…”
“Can you go back?”
“Erm… No, he practically chased me out of the house. Matt he scared the shit out of me…”
“Are you okay?” Typical police officer, investigation first and personal wellbeing as an afterthought.
“I’m ok. I’m just… Just shook up…”
“Ok. Come to the station. We need to come up with a plan, a way to get you in that house…”
--------------------------------------------------------
The problem was Matthew Smith was a drug dealer. Now Terry had wrongly assumed that would make it easier to gain a warrant to search his house, what he learnt was that Mr Smith was under pretty heavy investigation by another team. For drug related offences. That meant nothing could be done without the other team’s permission and cooperation. The Captain had a problem because he didn’t have a good enough reason to convince the drug unit they should help. The use of consultants within the force was an unspoken ‘thing’ that didn’t “officially” happen. The Captain couldn’t openly say he needed Terry to search the house because he wanted to communicate with a dead child, no matter how much he believed him. And the Captain had gone to great lengths to inform Terry that he believed him over the course of the afternoon.
It resulted in the unfortunate scenario of having a lead but no means to chase it. It became the mystery for the entire department to mull over, some plausible excuse or reason to get Terry inside the house. As Terry and Matt sat eating their tea they were silent with their own brainstorming. Nobody had had any luck, as of yet.
“Dinner’s nice…” Bridget complimented trying to break the pregnant silence at the dinner table.
“Is this oatmeal?” Christine enquired sweetly as she placed a turkey coujon in her mouth.
Everybody looked at her in disbelief.
“What?” She shrugged.
“It’s not oatmeal moron, it’s chicken…” Bridget scolded her.
Terry wanted to tell her it was actually turkey but he let it drop instead.
“I’m pleased you like it…” Matt nodded, drifting off back to his thoughts.
“It’s nice for us all to be together,” Bridget smiled, drifting her attention between her two equally distracted parents.
“Yeah, it is.” Terry came back around.
“Can I sleep over at Shannon’s this weekend?”
“Has her mum agreed?”
“Yeah, her mum said she’d call you later…”
“Ok, well its alright with me. What about you Matt?”
Silence. Matt was deep in thought and completely oblivious.
“Dad?” Bridget shouted.
“What?”
“Just say yes,” Terry shook his head.
“Yes,” he shrugged.
Bridget smiled.
“Can we get a dog?” now she was trying her luck.
“No,” Matt instantly returned.
Christine’s face soured and she pouted.
“It’s not fair Daddy!” she called out.
Bridget just sank into her plate a little.
“Working on it,” Terry mouthed silently after nudging her. He then winked.
It was rewarding to see that glimmer of hope reappear in her face.
They finished their meal, the kids venturing into the lounge with Matt to watch a film. Terry opted to wash the dishes and potter about the kitchen.
It was bugging him, this conundrum with the Smiths. How could he get inside that house? He needed to talk to Matty Junior, he needed to find out what he meant. This could be the big break they were looking for.
As he stacked the washed pots on the rack it bugged him why a drug-dealer would abduct kids. It wasn’t a pair of crimes that went together. It didn’t make much sense.
Terry wondered if perhaps that was why they’d been stumped for so long? Had they been looking at it the wrong way? Was the answer the most bizarre one?
Terry stole a private moment to sit outside on the garden bench.
He felt relieved he’d finall
y found something. He prayed that this really was the beginning of breaking the case wide open.
He just needed a way to get in that house and find out what happened.
He knew that house, that little boy, would tell him everything he needed to know…
CHAPTER SEVEN:
Terry was still recovering from the price when he threw his first ball down the lane. He’d been flabbergasted by how expensive it was. Two games for a family of four had cost him just shy of fifty quid.
He didn’t score a strike, which served as a huge boon for the kids. Christine was doing her little peculiar dance where she puffed her stomach out and stomped around. It was some victory dance.
Matt, deliberately, missed his chance for a strike. So the kids were delighted.
It was pretty busy, but it was a Saturday afternoon after all. Every lane was full and the alley was awash with the sounds of balls slamming, pins clattering and excited family chatter. Terry took a seat and watched Christine take her shot.
She side stepped this way, then that, before taking her shot. It resulted in a zigzag bouncing harshly off the rails and did not score her a strike. The first time had obviously been a fluke.
“I’ll get some drinks…” Matt whispered in Terry’s ear.
“Not Fanta…” he warned gravely. Matt looked puzzled for a second and then he remembered how Fanta affected Chris. One drink and they’d be peeling her off the ceiling all day.
He disappeared to the bar at the other side of the alley.
Bridget was taking her turn. Jesus, he thought, this wasn’t taking long. They’d be done and dusted shortly, or so it felt. It seemed fifty pound didn’t last as long as it used to.
Bridget was pretty good at bowling, she had a pretty good line.
When she scored her second strike, she turned on the spot and looked deservedly smug with herself. Christine guffawed and yelled it wasn’t fair.
Terry gave her a complimentary high five as she padded back.
“PSST,”
Terry had talked with the dead long enough to distinguish the difference between spirits and the living. Spirits tended to sound a little echoed, an odd peculiarity that he had no answer for. His face sank.
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