The Voyeur

by Kimberley Shead

  A firm grasp of the top of the fence gave her a short-lived sense of relief. A hand grasped her ankle and yanked as she attempted to scale over the top. She screamed, kicked, and wriggled in desperation, but he clung tight. One final yank dislodged her grip. Olivia plummeted to the ground. She heard a crack as her foot twisted under her. She threw an arm out to protect her head from the rock-edged vegetable patch. Pain shot from her wrist and jolted her shoulder.

  A thunderous voice echoed in her ears, “You can’t stop us being together.” Olivia’s screamed moments before her throat constricted. Then a hard object slammed into the side of her head. She struggled in vain to fight the blackness that threatened. She was overpowered.

  Nick took a step back and admired his handiwork. He wiped his grubby sleeve across his face. Blood, dirt, and sweat mingled and spread like a warrior’s war paint. He drew back his leg and gave her one last kick to the lower stomach and waited. Nothing. Satisfied, he rubbed his hands together, his mouth spread into a smile, as he went to claim his prize.

  60

  People, like a school of fish, poured from the cinema animated and in full voice. They discussed the film and its merits, the actors’ attributes, and where best to eat to complete a perfect evening.

  Albie leaned on the horn for the fourth time in the last minute, catching the attention of a number of pedestrians and startling a group of teenagers crossing in front of his car. However, the driver in the car in front blocked his way and did not flinch. Instead he stared at Albie from his rearview mirror, then showed him a middle finger salute.

  Albie jumped from the car, engine running and reached the driver’s side in time to see the window close the last few inches. The driver turned away. His pretence of being in deep conversation with three young men was mocked by their shoulder’s shaking like a pack of hyena’s. Albie banged on the window. No response. He pressed his warrant card against the window and hit the glass again.

  “Turn down the window now, I’m a police officer.” He glanced over his shoulder to see a crowd was gathering.

  “What’s going on?” A voice from behind shouted. Then others joined in, murmurs from the growing crowd adding to a choir of curiosity. It had only been a few years ago that a policeman had been kicked to death on the same stretch of road. He remembered the tense disbelief of the officers as the team watched the unbearably graphic details of the attack caught as a grainy image on CCTV. Albie slipped his badge back into his wallet, turned away from the car, and headed for the group of large vocal men. He caught their attention, then began talking.

  “Listen, mate.” He took some notes from his wallet and held them out to a squat, muscular man with more hair on his chin than his head. “I’m in a bit of bother. My missus is on the phone, says the filth are outside with a warrant.”

  The man’s stance didn’t change. He didn’t reach for the money, and his laser stare held Albie’s.

  “Come on, mate. Forty, just to move their car out of the way. What do you say?”

  His lips crept into a half-hearted smile. He snatched the notes from his fingers and indicated to the car. Three men marched in the car’s direction and Albie backed away.

  As he drove away, Albie was the one staring from his rearview mirror as the driver and his passengers sat on the curb next to their car, still shaking but this time from fear. He knew at that moment he would have made both his uncle and father proud. One would have said, ‘As a policeman be canny.’ The other, ‘Keep one step ahead of the game, son. Do what you have to do to survive but always succeed.’ Both from very different worlds, but for both the need to survive outweighed all else.

  The image of the mob bouncing the car to the curb with the hyenas still inside so Albie could get home to his ‘crackhead’ girlfriend who’d phoned to say their house was being raided amused him. It was a genius move on his part, he thought, as he threaded his way through the late night traffic. He hoped it would not be the only genius move of the night.

  Reggie stepped over the threshold from the hard stone doorstep onto the plush cream carpet. The splintered door hung by a screw in the top hinge, a stark contrast to the neat room before him. Reg bent for a moment and contemplated removing his shoes, an inbred need to respect others’ property. But he refrained and moved towards the only room in a home that he would have, expected to have a lock. The carpet smothered the sounds of his steps.

  He muffled a groan as he walked into the edge of a low glass coffee table. The thin skin split on his shin, and he bit his tongue. Another bruise to add to his collection. A light evening breeze caressed his skin, and a slight bellow of net curtains drew his attention to the French windows. A muffled sob from the door to his right changed his focus. He dashed forward, grabbed the handle, and turned the handle of the locked door. He leaned in and pressed his ear against the wooden panel.

  “Hello. Is anybody in there?” He was answered by more stifled sobs. “It’s okay, I’m here to help. Can you unlock the door?”

  Silence.

  Outside, the scape of metal dragged over concrete caught his attention. He gritted his teeth against the vibration which echoed in his head after the noise ended. Reg edged nearer to the noise. He slid through the net curtain and through the French windows, stepped into the garden path, and came within touching distance of his son.

  Reg stood as tall as he could as Nick widened his stance. Deep frown lines etched his face, and his lips were thin and stretched across gritted teeth. Reg squirmed at the damaged man before him and tried to rekindle a glimpse of the young carefree boy he’d tried to protect.

  “What have you done?”

  Nick dropped the blood-smeared shovel and rubbed both hands over his grime-covered face.

  “Get out of my way, old man.” Spittle hung from the corner of his mouth as he barged into him.

  “Wait.” Reg blocked his way. “Listen, son. Whatever you’ve done it can be sorted. I’ll help you make it right, but it has to stop. Now.”

  He didn’t see the first punch coming. He raised his arms too late. It stole his breath and bent him double. Reg gasped for air. The intense agony interfered with all logical thought. His head flew back with the force of the next punch. Unbalanced, Reg hit the concrete. Pain seared his whole body. His vision blurred. Still he tried to focus on the giant bent over his body, his bulk between Reg and the night sky.

  “Listen, old man, and listen well.” Nick leant closer. Reg closed his eyes. “I’ll tell you what I’ve done. Been a protector, something you know nothing about.” He leant nearer.

  “I remember…” A single tear formed in the corner of Reg’s eye. He tried to speak, to stop Nick from continuing. Now he was unsure whether the agony in his body was physical or emotional. He attempted to shake his head.

  “That’s right. I watched you cowering in the corner while one man held her down and the other attacked her. You didn’t do anything…you bastard. You hid your face while they killed her…Why?” Reg scrunched his eyes closed. He knew what was coming. “This is for mum, you fucking coward.” Nick reached behind him and felt the cool metal. He stood, tightened his grip, and swung the shovel at his target.

  Josie uncovered her ears. The voices had stopped. She hugged her legs into her body and listened. She caught her breath. A thud echoed in her head and she made a desperate attempt to control her errant heartbeat. Footfalls stopped on the other side of the door. She focused on the door handle. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her breaths, short and shallow, stopped as the handle rotated. The first thud against the door turned her into a prickle-less hedgehog, hiding within herself her only defence. A second thud and the door thundered open. She tightened further into a ball as sweat-covered arms gathered her into a tight embrace. She loosened one arm and flailed blindly. A fragile attempt to escape. Overcome by his strong grip, she was smothered by his closeness. Small kisses peppered the top of her head, and firm hands stroked her hair.

  “Don’t be scared. I’ll protect you. I’ll keep
you safe.”

  She felt his grip loosen. His voice was familiar. She attempted to settle into his hold and ignore the involuntary shake that rattled through her on endless repeat.

  “Listen, we’re getting out of here. Some place safe. I’m going to let you go now. You just need to listen to me and do as I SAY.”

  61

  Albie parked at the end of the cul-de-sac and joined the police officers assembled in the middle of the road.

  “What have you got, son?”

  “Sarge,” he nodded, “we’re waiting for two officers to report back from the scene. We’re keeping the residence inside. No sign of PC Watts, but neighbours reported a disturbance.” Albie nodded and joined the others awaiting news. Two ambulances blocked the street, and neighbours gawked through thin net curtains. Others, less discrete, wandered out of their houses but were soon ushered inside. It reminded Albie of the Fennick Estate. It may have been an up market area, but underneath their outward personas, people were people and couldn’t quell their curiosity.

  Albie shuffled against hedges and along front garden walls with a calm stealth, aware that the situation was volatile. With silent, frantic gestures, he mouthed for one team to approach the front of the property and for the others to follow him under the arched bushes that led to the back gardens. He flailed at the airborne insects as they danced before his eyes. The torch light lit a passage a short distance ahead of him to check for twigs and uneven paving. Sounds and smells were intense at night. A sweet cloy of fragrances with an underlying rot of compost hit his nostrils and lingered. A rustle in the bushes had him throw his arm back to stop his followers. He froze. Poised to attack. The ginger mange of fur hit his beam, stopped, and met his gaze with a cold stare, then disappeared on the other side of the pathway.

  The team continued, a slow, stealthy approach. A piercing scream forced him to abort all caution. He shot to the end of the pathway, then listened and gestured to a garage at the far end to his right. Albie stood to one side while the officers prized free and released the door.

  Tanya rolled under the door, unable to wait until it was fully opened. Two officers wrapped her in their jackets, and one embraced her to control her shaking. Her eyes, large and bright, flicked from face to face.

  “I’m so sorry. The witness and Olivia…I don’t know what’s happened to them. It’s the caretaker’s son. He did this.” She placed hesitant fingers on the tender wound that throbbed in time with her heart.

  Albie held up a hand to stop her. “We’ve got it, okay.” He turned to the others. “Take PC Watts and get her checked out.”

  The back gardens were easy to access. They were in an isolated spot with fences a child could scale.

  “Any idea which garden is Miss Devine’s?” He followed the officer to the next fence along. The young man took a run up and walked the fence like Spiderman. He sat and balanced on the edge, scanning the ground below.

  “There’s something down here, Sarge. It looks like a bundle of rags. Difficult to see exactly.”

  Albie’s world stopped. All senses froze. If there was such a thing as a sixth sense, it kicked in at that moment.

  “Move.” He shouted as he clambered to the top and vaulted the fence. A roll secured his landing just a few feet away from the silent bundle. He knelt in front of the crumpled figure and attempted to lift a clump of her hair. In the dimness of night, her features where prominent, the darkened patches touching on grotesque. Albie stifled a primitive cry which bubbled up from his gut. He swept his clammy forehead and swallowed putrid bile.

  “Get her to a hospital.” His barked order startled those around him into action. He leapt to his feet and gestured for his team to spread across the width of the garden and follow.

  “Sarge, the assailant is inside. He has a hostage. The front exit it blocked.” The repeated radio message engaged his attention. He stilled, and his team copied in unison. He retrieved the offered radio and dictated clear instructions.

  “But Sarge, he has a hostage. Are you sure you want to proceed with—”

  “Officer. He will not harm the hostage, no matter what he’s threatened. Now hold the front. We’re going in.”

  “Sarge!”

  A thread of light slithered from the window through a narrow gap where the curtains failed to meet. The bright light illuminated a battered face. Like an actor on stage, a wide-eyed face stared unblinking from a bed of fragrant flowers.

  Albie and other officers rushed to Reggie’s side. One spoke into his radio as another helped Albie assess his injuries.

  “He’ll live.” Albie said. He stood and slipped off his overcoat and laid it over Reggie’s shaking shoulders, while the officer with the radio asked for further medical assistance.

  The brightness that spilled from every room of the flat inferred a busy interior, a complete contrast to the silent near emptiness that could be seen through the open windows. Before entering, he stilled. He cleared his head, slowed his breathing, and made an internal promise there would be no more casualties. Cool air danced through the flat and dried the perspiration that dripped from his forehead. The soft hum of an overhead fan soothed and cooled simultaneously, the movement hypnotic.

  Albie locked eyes with his colleague in the opposite doorway and moved with caution in the direction of his nod. His team flanked him. They arranged themselves into triangular lines, each movement made with silent precision. Some took cover behind available furniture.

  Albie waited for the final officer to place himself before he spoke.

  “Nick Lansbury, I’m DS Albie Edwards. I know you have Josie Jeffries in the room with you. Miss Jeffries can you hear me?” He hesitated. Listened. A muffled scream, scraping, perhaps an attempted struggle.

  “Josie. Stay calm, Mr Lansbury doesn’t intend to hurt you. Do you, Mr Lansbury?”

  The lock clicked, and Albie squinted at the door handle. The movement had been precise and deliberate. As the door was flung open, Albie raised his hands palms forward. His colleagues responded by maintaining their pose. Albie stared at the intimidating figure who filled the whole doorway. His right arm embraced a limp, slim figure much like a child would a rag doll. Josie slumped into his hold, her ghost-like face drained of blood and emotion as she struggled to keep her distance from the large kitchen knife pressed against her neck.

  In that moment, Albie wondered at Nick’s choice of weapon. One crick should have been sufficient to snap her neck. What good would come of using the knife? After all, from the lack of colour in her face, it was doubtful that much blood ran through her veins anymore.

  Albie spoke—a mellow bass, gentle in the electric atmosphere of unsettled silence.

  “Come on, Nick, lower the knife. I know you do not want Josie hurt.” The whites of his knuckles protruded further, and a drop of blood drew a virgin trail from the edge of the blade, forming a crimson pool in the dip of her collarbone. Albie outstretched both arms in front of him. Palms back in their original position, he took one step towards Nick.

  “You don’t want to do this, Nick. She’s not responding. You are killing her.”

  Nick’s grip tightened.

  “Stay back. You’re not taking her from me. I’m here to protect her.” His grip tightened. Josie gasped. A crushed fragile wisp of herself—defeated, out of fight. In the split second it took for Nick to adjust his hold on Josie, Albie turned side on and charged. His shoulder barged into Nick’s left side, he felt the knife slice his outer arm. Pain was not instant, just the liquid warmth that oozed from his wound. He stayed low and covered the girl like a giant shield. The next jolt of the knife felt like a thud in his upper back. Shouts and commotion cleared his thoughts.

  “Get behind me, gov.”

  The full weight of an armed officer flattened him to the wall. At the same moment, Lansbury angled the knife around the officer into his side. He lost focus. His intense stare fell on a book balanced on the arm of a flower pattered chair. Words danced on the cover before the whole book took
on a life of its own and mingled with the flowers, a mirage before darkness. His final thoughts were that his team had a great opportunity to rid themselves of an egotistic boss they hated.

  The bloodied knife slipped from Lansbury’s grasp, and he reached out to Josie.

  Within seconds, his hands were secured in hand cuffs behind his back, and he was marched from the room towards the front door.

  “Nick. No wait.” Reggie ran up from behind.

  A strong arm barred his way.

  “Your son is being taken to the station. I suggest you contact a good lawyer before you join us.”

  Reggie lowered his head, gave a slow nod, and pivoted as if to turn away. Instead he gave a war cry, drew a knife from up his sleeve, and ducked under the policeman’s arm. He weaved his way through them like a slippery eel.

  “Nick.” His screech was shortened as Reggie tackled him to the ground. Nick brought his legs up to his stomach, wriggling frantically to escape the knife.

  Reggie mouthed into his ear, “You’ve left me no choice. You’re poison, Nick.” He plunged the knife into Nick’s neck as he struggled under his weight. Officers hauled Reggie up off his son, and onlookers could do nothing but watched the devastation as it unfolded. A frantic medic bellowed orders to his team while covering the neck wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleed from the severed artery. Albie followed the officers who escorted Reggie to the squad car. One of the officers held his hand above Reggie’s head and encouraged him to lower his body then checked that he was seated comfortably before they drove away.

  Albie slipped into the driver’s seat of his car, slipped the packet of cigarettes he carried around with him out of his pocket. He sniffed the end of one before placing the filter between his lips, leant back on the headrest, and closed his eyes.

  62

  DS Fawn paced across the front of the room, stood by the murder board, and cleared her throat. Tanya leant against the wall at the back to take the weight off her swollen leg and tried to ignore the ache in her left arm and the throb in her head.