The Voyeur

by Kimberley Shead

  The sudden scrambled thud exploded into his chest and sent him sprawling to the ground. Heavy boots trampled his body. He rolled onto his side, grabbed a handful of trouser leg, and held fast. Frank stared into the dark eyes of his attacker as he wrestled to free his leg.

  “You’re making a huge mistake.” Frank looked up at the jagged mismatched teeth in the mouth of his attacker, and tried to move. He was too late to dodge a boot to his chest, and bent forward as pain shot through him and he gasped for air. The follow through to his chin rattled his jaw. Gasping, he clambered to grasp support, but instead was knocked onto his back once again by an instantaneous punch to his head, which splintered his senses as searing pain enveloped his skull and drilled into his unsuspecting body.

  Frank’s vision blurred. A rhythmic pounding, like a carefully aimed hammer, repeated in his temple as he mouthed a memorised verse from The Night Mail from his train-mad youth. The words tangled in his mind and tripped on his tongue as he tried to cling to consciousness.

  A touch as soft as a mother’s cuddle or a lover’s caress escorted him to the edge of reality. As Frank’s manic mumblings mingled with another’s anguished sobs and a palm cupped his cheek, he realised he was still alive.

  38

  A blooded young girl, wrapped in a blanket, walked barefoot in the rigid grasp of a petite police officer who continually coaxed her forward. Away from the crime scene. The girl’s unseeing eyes bored through Albie as he silently followed Tanya inside. Both officers stood in the centre of a long narrow living area—a neglected void in the process of being prepared for an unsuspecting family given the opportunity to make this shell a home. A family oblivious to the atrocities the police had investigated just days before they moved into their new home.

  “What happened here, Tanya?” Albie asked. Traces of blood caught his eye, splattered in selective areas of the room. The scattered pattern resembled those left by exploding paint ball pellets— a palette of shades of crimson in a variety of textures. The room was bare apart from a small collection of well used candles sticking from the necks of drained beer bottles. The wax’s gradual coverage of the bottles was all consuming from the amount of times the candles in the dusty glass wine bottles had been lit. Fabric spilled over the mantlepiece and was strewn across the floor in tatters. Only some intimate items were recognisable. A lacy bra and knickers, seemingly matching, shared rips and bloodstains.

  “There’s too much blood,” Albie muttered. Then, turning back to face Tanya, he continued. “I didn’t notice too much blood on the victim when she passed.” He indicated the blood splatters. “This amount suggests a victim not walking out. What injuries did she have?”

  “She was knocked about quite badly, Sarge, and a rape kit will be used during her examination, but still…you’re right, there’s too much blood. We’ll gather all the evidence we can.” Tanya stood and looked around her. “This wasn’t the first attack there’s been here.”

  “Have you got anything from Frank or the girl yet?”

  “Frank isn’t responsive. He’s conscious, just confused. It all happened too fast. I think he’s in shock, like the girl. She’s local. I’m sure of it. DS Fawn has set up door to door already.”

  Albie nodded. “And the girl? Is she talking?”

  “No. Not yet, Sarge.” Tanya stared at her feet and pushed a piece chewing gum wrapper around with the toe of her shoe. “But we’ve got the bastard…After a chase and a bit of a struggle, but we’ve got him.”

  “Has this bloke got a name?” he asked, still focused on the splatter patterns.

  “Rattler. That’s his street name anyway, where he spends most of his time. Apparently he’s unpredictable.”

  Albie clenched his fists, his mouth twisted into a snarl, and Tanya inched away as he hissed the next words.

  “Is it the same bastard who threatened Josie Jeffries?”

  “Not sure, Sarge.” Averting her eyes, she concentrated on her boss’s feet rather than his aggression-pained face. “But he doesn’t really fit the description she gave us.”

  “Great! Now I’ve just got to find out how talkative he is when we’ve got him down the station. What do you reckon, a won’t shut up or a no comment kind of kid? Either way he’s going to talk to me!”

  Tanya shrugged at Albie’s retreating back. She followed his determined march into the hallway and out onto the balcony. He side-stepped over the broken boards which had criss-crossed the open front door. She knew Albie well enough to know he wasn’t bluffing, and if Rattler didn’t cooperate he was in for an uncomfortable twenty-four hours. Tanya’s ideal of policing had initially been to always play by the rules, everything by the book. Albie’s actions in some situations sometimes compromised her beliefs, but with each passing year and added experience, her attitude was gradually changing.

  She thought of Frank’s face clenched in agony and confusion when she’d found him barely conscious. His body had been contorted on the threadbare dingy hall carpet in a foetal position. She blinked twice to erase the image from her mind. Bending, she used the tips of her index finger and thumb to pick up the remains of a scanty black and red lace thong and placed it in an evidence bag. Then with a sigh, she whispered, “Do your worst, Albie Edwards.”

  Human curiosity some called it, others called it voyeurism. Whichever camp they belonged to, they could more or less guarantee if they lived on the Fennick Estate they would often be privy to police incidents. And as a resident, they would find it difficult to ignore a scene like this unfolding in your territory. It may be a need for drama, or it could be the need to know that, whatever was going on in their life, there was always someone worse off. Unfortunately, there are also a small minority of gawkers who are sick souls, and their only desire is to see any kind of pain or human suffering happening to others. It feeds their unspeakable needs. Albie was an expert when it came to detecting, especially when it came to those with unspeakable needs, and as he reached the balcony, he began to scan the flats in the square. He knew his mere presence would excite some of the invisible eyes behind the curtains and blinds. He was also well aware that between them all, they’d have enough information to solve the case. No doubt they were already aware of the main issue bugging him…Josie Jeffries. She was the one connection linking each of the attacks. Apart for the attack on this young woman. At the moment, this was a thread that still dangled, but he’d follow the thread until he found the truth.

  As of this moment, Josie Jeffries was the catalyst of the investigation and, as so, was his focal point.

  All roads lead back to Josie, he thought as he scanned the surrounding flats one last time and headed for the lifts.

  39

  As a general rule, Elsie had an established routine she liked to follow whenever possible. The routine never changed. It had been difficult to maintain when her mother first passed away, especially with the cocktail of drugs her doctor had prescribed. It was true she’d been hysterical at the time. What did he expect? After all, she’d not just lost her mother, she’d lost her best and only friend. Elsie screwed up her nose and squeezed her eyes tight at the thought of the doctor’s disbelief after Elsie had lashed out in anger at his suggestion that she leave her home. He’d dabbed his bloodied eyebrow and bent to retrieve his broken glasses from the floor. The image of his shocked face distorted, but refused to disappear, and shame hung over her shoulders like a woollen shawl on a summer's day.

  The emotional burden of loss remained a mirage Elsie refused to acknowledge no matter how tempting it became. A counsellor had come to visit in the weeks after her loss, a professional with no connection to the family. The doctor had suggested it as he’d backed out of the front door with an artificial smile etched on his face, and ending his newly collected wounds. To be fair, he’d been right. It was so much easier talking to a woman with the repetitive view that grief was personal to the individual and who chose to ignore the chair nestled by the window with the blanket draped across the arms as if covering imaginary
legs. But when she had challenged the extra place setting for tea and cake, Elsie picked up the cake knife, waved it around, and, with tears eating tracks in her dusty pink blusher, screamed that she wanted to be alone with her mother. It had been a few months since a professional had walked over the threshold, and Elsie’s grief was bearable when she shared her problems with her mother.

  Mother wasn’t really with her. She still had a grasp on all her facilities. Problem solving was easier when she spoke aloud, and Elsie felt weird speaking aloud to an empty room. It was so much easier to thrash it out with her mother, just like the days before she was gone. If this behaviour meant she was mad, then so be it.

  In the beginning, it was structure Elsie missed most. Even just the simplicity of the structure of day and night. She was often unsure of the regularity of sleep, or even if she’d slept at all. She was capable of spending hours in a chair staring at nothing. It had taken Elsie months to build routine into her life once again, and she stuck to it like the turn of the tide. To her, it was the main indicator that she was on the mend.

  Startled from her thoughts by the ring of the phone, Elsie steadied herself, lumbered into the hallway, and reached the phone just as her mother’s voice echoed off the walls asking the caller to leave a message.

  “Pick up, Elsie. I know you’re home. We need to talk about Chloe.”

  For a moment, Elsie considered whether to answer. It was the first she’d heard from Andy Reynolds for years, but if it was about Chloe, she supposed she could give him five minutes. As an afterthought, she put the phone on speaker and pressed record.

  “What do you want, Reynolds?”

  “Nice, Elsie. See you still haven’t graduated from charm school. The name’s Andy, remember?”

  “How can I forget.” School wasn’t a place Elsie’s mind liked to dwell on, and although the three of them had been great friends, times had changed, especially with the appearance of Lana.

  “Look, I understand Chloe’s been spending some time with you. Thanks for helping her out when she fought with her sister.”

  “It’s nothing. But I’m worried about those girls. I have been since their mother died.”

  “I don’t need another lecture, Elsie. I just want to thank you.”

  “It’s not a lecture. You’re the girl's father. The only one they’ve got, and they need you to be clear headed.”

  “I’m doing my best. It’s not been easy since…well, you know.”

  Elsie listened to his erratic breathing down the phone. If she didn’t confront him now, she never would.

  “No. I don’t know. Tell me, how did Susan’s and Lana’s deaths affect you?” She said, expecting him to put the phone down, but instead his breath hitched and his voice was strained.

  After a short silence, Andy said,“When Lana died, it was such a shock. Susan had been ill for a while. You were so supportive of Susan and the girls, and Lana supported me at college. Her death just crushed me, and Susan’s finished me off.” A muffled sob rang out over the loud speaker.

  Elsie gave him a minute. “I know it was tough, Andy. But what I’ve never understood is why you withdrew your statement to the police. I know you witnessed Lana’s death.” She brought her voice to a gentle whisper. “I know you loved Lana in a way you never loved Susan. But you chose to keep quiet, and that’s what’s eating away at you now. And it’s the girls who are suffering. Get your act together for their sakes. Goodbye, Andy.” Elsie replaced the phone in the cradle, listened to the silence around her, and headed back to the kitchen.

  As a creature of habit, she’d already eaten a light dinner. Well, lighter than usual. She’d eaten two chicken pies, but substituted her beloved plate of chips with boiled potatoes and was ignoring the fact that her plate was devoid of vegetables. She had cleaned her pallet with a pot of tea before washing up, each item left to drip dry on the drainer.

  Elsie lumbered, sloth-like, towards the window seat. Shadows bounced across the kitchen table, and shouts slowed her progress. Hands on the kitchen table, she leant forwards. Her upper arms shook in the artificial street lights. The shouts intensified—low sinister barks loud enough to penetrate the walls of the flat. She turned in the direction of the voices, edged along the table, and balanced herself on the back of a sturdy chair. Elsie felt blindly for her glasses, her face felt clammy as the glasses settled on their perch, and she squinted in an attempt to focus on the figures ghostly in the distance outside the boarded flats.

  “What’s going on, Mum?”

  She shook her head. “I know it’s probably nothing. You’re right, I’m over reacting again.” Elsie eased her bulk into the chair in front of the window, slipped a stubby pencil from behind her ear, and studied the next puzzle in a sudoko book. An anguished scream broke the silence. Elsie froze. A pained, wretched cry sliced through the air. She dropped the pencil, and her hands covered her mouth as a scream gathered at the depths of her stomach and threatened to be vomited from her throat. Elsie’s stomach jittered, her body cooled, and perspiration dripped from her forehead.

  The silence after the scream was a cold emptiness.

  Elsie scanned the balcony one last time through the gaps between her fingers. Empty.

  “Nobody’s there, so there’s nothing I can do. Goodnight, mother.”

  Elsie braced her arms to support her body from sitting to standing and began her tiresome bedtime ritual. Guilt, an emotion she was familiar with, was easy to ignore. After all, she told herself, it wasn’t her problem.

  40

  “Will you come away from the bloody window, Charlie? I don’t want anything to do with whatever’s going on over there. It’s one thing after the bloody other in this place.”

  Charlie kept his back to Andy and nodded a response, but continued to stare into the distance.

  A paramedic led a figure towards the lifts, followed by his colleagues who carried an occupied stretcher. Flanked by officers, they made their way to the lifts. Each victim was smothered in a fawn blanket pulled close like a protective armour. Charlie sneered. One was Layla. Stupid slapper, he thought. That’ll teach her to mess with me.

  “I said come away from the window, Charlie.” Andy tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and moved to the edge as if to stand. Instead he slumped back into an Andy— shaped dip that had taken years to form. “Why are you still here?”

  Charlie turned to face Layla’s father and studied his parchment skin, infested with pock mark scars and sallow from lack of exposure to daylight. He was a dried-up addict who struggled to live without prescription drugs. Just because they weren't hard drugs didn’t make him any less of an addict. Charlie relished being the puppeteer. He’d seen Andy in a bad way and he’d been his saviour on numerous occasions. He had a hold on Andy. One shake of the bottle in his pocket and Andy would be begging his to stay. But not today. He’d leave him to fry today. He was desperate for a place to lay low. He’d be back with his bottles of happy pills and Andy would bend.

  “I told you,” Andy was on his feet now, “I don’t know where Layla is or even when she’s coming home.”

  Charlie lifted his hands. “Okay, calm down, old man.” He laughed and knocked into a chair as he leant forward. Stale beer coated the air as Charlie lowered his voice. “When you see her again, be sure to tell her I came to see her and I’m thinking of her…” At the door he looked over his shoulder. “Tell her I’ll be back, Andy. I’m not sure when, but I’ll be back.” He left, but the threat lingered.

  Charlie pulled the front door to. Across the balcony, three men struggled to contain Rattler. One held onto him half-heartedly with his left hand while he clutched his ear. Blood seeped through his fingers. His head dipped, and he scanned the concrete, probably for the other part of his ear.

  “Come on, you want some more?” Rattler shouted and bounced on his toes from foot to foot—a caricature of Muhammad Ali. Charlie watched as the earless man pulled his truncheon from over his shoulder. The blow hit Rattler from behind. His le
gs collapsed, and he stumbled forward.

  “Is that all you got? You wanna shut me up, shitheads? You’ve gotta do better.”

  Charlie shook his head, a smile quirked the corner of his mouth as he walked towards the stairs. Rattler was a nutter, for sure. One thing he wasn’t was a grass. Charlie knew he was out of the picture, and Rattler would keep them busy for a while.

  41

  The wind had whipped up since earlier, and among the pale grey clouds were those with heavier, darker edges with threats of rain. Turning her collar up, Josie gripped the lapels close enough to cover her bare neck. She backed onto the balcony and ensured she faced away from the scuffles unfolding behind her, relieved that the police were on site.

  She gave her front door a firm yank and headed to the lifts on the opposite side of the balcony. She walked at a swift pace, and although she was tempted, stopped herself from glancing back at the chaos outside the empty flats. Her heart pounded to the beat of her steps, slowing the further she walked from her home. For some antiquated reason, she expected to be called back at any moment, but instead she wandered off unnoticed.

  The lift area was empty, and although she had to wait, her shoulders sank as if she’d shed a great weight. For a moment, she felt quite criminal. She caught her breath. Her fingers lingered over the panel. Her destination escaped her and all reasoning was gone. She stood staring at the dirty numbered buttons embedded in the dull, scratched metal panel, unsure of her next move. Fisting her hand, she punched the panel, rubbed her knuckles, and leant her forehead against the frame. The cool metal soothed the throb developing behind her eyes. Knowing she had no option, she placed her phone against her ear and focused on steady breathing, Tension building with each ring.