by Rob Parker
The toaster popped, but David didn’t rise to get it. He decided to have it cold in a bit—his appetite felt long dead. So he sat there, and watched as the police car left the street, and Grace Milligan closed the door.
The visit from the police certainly seemed to corroborate that something had happened on the street the night before, and that their disturbance was not unique. But it still didn’t sit right with him.
He had been with Christian for eleven years, and knew his husband well enough to know that Christian was not prone to flights of fantasy, hysteria or paranoia, all of which made the nocturnal events even more disconcerting. However, David couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all too far-fetched, all too clichéd. He hadn’t heard anything in the night, save for Christian’s upset. For all he knew, his husband might have woken confused from a nightmare, having accidentally left the nursery window ajar.
They had met in halls at Liverpool University, and had both arrived on Merseyside as two straight lads going to further their educations. They had been firm friends right through their three-year degrees, but at some point in their final year, the possibility of them going their respective ways triggered something which made them, however surprising to both of them, fall in love. It was something neither could explain. As trope would dictate, it just… happened. Their mates, largely, were staggered, but in recent years some had come around. It was a hugely difficult, revelatory, challenging, liberating time. But they had stood by each other, steadfast in their love.
And they knew what they were going to get from each other. When you’ve been barracked and bullied for years, you close ranks, and come to rely on each other in very fundamental, deep-rooted ways. They understood each other, and to David’s understanding, panic and flights of fancy were not in Christian’s wheelhouse at all.
But the whole thing, it seemed to David so… silly. And hopeful. And silly again. It was ridiculous, a voice on the baby monitor. An adult voice speaking words in a room that patently had no adults in it—apparently. He hadn’t heard anything himself.
David acknowledged that the mind sometimes played tricks on its host. He had experienced enough paranoia when he’d first come out—thinking that every half-heard whisper was about him—to know that sometimes, when you were on edge and fraught, your brain can have a rather rude tendency to fill in the blanks. And the logical corners of his head urged that that was what had happened here.
But Christian was adamant. Completely certain. He said he was going to canvas the neighbours today and ask if anything had happened to them. David had thought he was mad even thinking of phrasing a question like that, and cringed at the thought. Old fires of anxiety had been stoked back to momentary life.
But now, seeing the police leaving Grace Milligan’s house? He wasn’t so sure any more.
26
At four thirty in the afternoon, after spending most of the day gearing up to it, Peter knocked on his boss’s door. He was beckoned inside in a sharp, rude tone, as if the audacity of requesting a brief audience with him was just another affront in a long, sad string of them. Peter had been expecting it, and had prepared accordingly by bringing a cup of hot coffee, one sugar and a thimbleful of semi-skimmed milk. He opened the door.
Paul Threlfall was a man seemingly made from bits of coat hangers arranged into a wiry, angular scarecrow. His skin was the colour and consistency of chicken nuggets, even across his hairless skull. He perched on a desk chair behind his workstation, hunched over his PC keyboard as if he was about to dissect it.
‘Can I have a minute, Paul?’ asked Peter. The last thing Peter wanted was any of Paul’s time, but circumstances dictated otherwise.
‘If it’s a quick minute,’ replied Threlfall, without looking up once. Peter walked the coffee to him and made a point of placing it in his eyeline.
‘I know I’ve had some time off recently for the move, but I wanted to ask if I could step out early today?’
‘How early?’ replied Threlfall, ignoring the coffee and flexing his jaw.
‘Like… now early.’
Threlfall paused and finally looked up. ‘And pay?’
‘Keep the pay, I just need to nip off. I need get somewhere before five.’
Threlfall pushed back from the table and animatedly chucked his pen at his work. He stared at the coffee like the cheap bargaining chip it was. ‘You are aware of how difficult it is to get wages to just divvy up half hours here and there?’
‘I understand.’
‘You are aware of how flexible the company has been with your recent house move arrangements?’ Those last three words carried the acerbic bite of a sceptic referring to the idle predictions of a tabloid horoscope.
‘Yes I—’
‘And I know you are aware that you have already asked myself, the department and the company to review your wage in the hope of a promotion—which I assume has something to do with the new house you now need help paying for?’
Peter gave up there and then. He hadn’t had a raise since he’d agreed, in that stupid spin of bravado, to buy that infernal new house, and now that it was here, he had chanced his arm. The extra cash per month was far more valuable to him than the half hour now. ‘Forget I mentioned it. Please, forget it.’
Before any more could be said, Peter reversed out of Threlfall’s office and back into the main mess area of the PR firm’s offices. He retreated to his corner desk, which had been management’s idea of an upgrade, out of the hubbub of the middle of the room.
Foolishly, he had booted down his computer in the false assumption he’d have been able to leave. Tail betwixt lower limbs á la scolded dog, he turned it back on.
It was the local pet shop—that’s what he wanted. He wanted to make it before five, which was its traditional closing time. He had got his pets there as a kid, and that’s where LeBron had come from. He trusted them. Of course, he could go to the late-night pet supermarket at the industrial estate on the way home, but the animals there all looked confused. Like they were all one or two chromosomes shy of a full set. And local reports had suggested that they often had a habit of dying unexpectedly and without much reason.
Oh well, he thought, knowing that was exactly where he was going. Better it’s a defect if it’s only going to end up in the washing machine again.
27
Quint’s fury had bubbled along all day at such an unpredictable rate that he kept finding himself short of breath and flushed. Little things that didn’t go his way became huge indignant, obstinate obstacles that pushed at his patience. The traffic lights weren’t playing ball. The paper he bought from the village shop had a wet patch on the back page. The crease on his carefully ironed trousers forked off and skewed midway down his left shin.
And it was all that stupid girl’s fault.
And the police? Piss-ups and the inability to get one going in a brewery sprang to Quint’s mind. Not like in his day.
But the reason he’d endured the traffic and even put on his slacks was to go to the local camping store, which was about the only thing today that had been a roaring success. And he was looking at his prize now, sitting on his back porch where nobody could see it, turning it over and over in his hand.
He didn’t really know what he was looking for per se, save for the fact that he’d heard mention of them on those television wildlife programs he enjoyed. The ones where they fly a chap into the deepest Amazon or onto the highest Himalayan peak, with nothing but a Swiss Army knife and some camera gear to survive. He fancied he’d have a good go at that. And the godforsaken wilderness they ended up in sounded a lot simpler and quieter than the Blackstoke estate. Maybe they should have retired there.
There was a battery pack on the back of the unit, a fiddly little thing that needed a tiny screwdriver to get at. Quint liked that. He liked that it needed a unique tool to get at it—a tool that he, ever prepared, had. It meant nobody would be able to just wander up and rip the batteries out either.
This would be perfect.
After the electric fence had failed its remit of prevention, he had to up his game.
A hunting camera, the salesman had called it. Eighty quid all told, with a spare rechargeable battery and a memory card, which apparently took the place of a conventional tape. It had a motion sensor too, so that when anything tripped it, the tape started rolling. Or memory card started rolling. Or recorded. Or whatever the hell it did.
Point was, whoever had been chucking shit on his lawn and windows would be caught in the act.
He turned it on like the salesman had shown him, and looked at the green images on the screen on the back. Night vision. Excellent.
Quint smiled at the thought of Grace Milligan caught red-handed, bathed in that luminous glow, her eyes glaring jade-green like a caught cat’s. He couldn’t wait to hear her denials, only to produce this. The mere thought of it made the hairs on his arms stand on end, just like they always had in his police days when irrefutable evidence was put to the accused.
Justice. Incontrovertible justice. Quint fucking loved it.
The back door clunked open, and Quint hunched over to hide what he was doing. The drone of television voices escaped the open door.
‘What are you doing out here, darling?’ said Wendy.
‘Just enjoying the evening,’ Quint said.
‘Okay, well, supper’s nearly ready. Could you come in and set the table?’
‘Of course,’ he said, tucking the hunting camera behind one of the large plant pots either side of the porch’s top step. Later, he thought. Later.
28
The bastards just wouldn’t die. Their spawn point had to be nearby because they kept reappearing near this spot—and if he didn’t find it and camp next to it, killing them as soon as they appeared, they’d never get a handle on them and keep the flag. If he just hid behind this crate, tight to the wall…
BANG. The view shook and tilted downwards, and the screen took the hue of dark claret.
‘FFS,’ muttered Jacob, enunciating each letter with relish, then tossing the PS4 controller down. ‘I’m out boys, sick of it—this is why this map sucks.’ He took off his headphones and unlooped his school tie from around his neck. He hung it on the wardrobe handle, ready for the morning, and did the same with his crumpled white shirt.
Don’t think of school.
His new room was so much bigger than his last one, with a flatscreen TV wall mounted over a desk, a double bed—which he couldn’t believe he had, and equally couldn’t wait to introduce the girls at his new school to. There were a couple of girls from his old school that he would have liked to have over here too, but that ship had sailed now that they’d moved. He’d kept in touch with his old mates, via their online nightly Call of Duty matches, but considering he didn’t know any girls who did any of that sort of thing, they’d have to slip into the past.
Maybe, he thought, there’d even be a girl at his new school who was a gamer. Now that would really be something.
Don’t think of school.
He grabbed a T-shirt from his bed, and tugged it on, inevitably now thinking about his new school. It had seemed okay, he guessed. Kind of alright. Much of a muchness, he told himself. On balance he preferred his old one, but this new school meant they could move, and the move meant he got a double bed and 42inch flatscreen, so… you know, compromises. And everyone seemed pretty interested in the fact that he lived on the new estate. Even some of the girls.
Jacob had never been particularly popular. He wasn’t an easy fit for popularity, with his apparent late-blooming, and his habit of playing benign lingerer—he was always present at things, but always in the background. He was privy to what went down, but never part of it. And that made him socially malleable. He was never in trouble, but he had the gossip. And his interests in gaming—or generally anything that wasn’t sports—meant that he could bounce between both the cool and not so cool camps. And happily, that was what was appearing to happen now, in his new setup.
He swapped his already dusty trousers (from crawling around on the art room floor) for some joggers and made his way down stairs. Tea should be ready soon, and his pre-pubescent stomach was rumbling.
When he got into the kitchen, he came to a stop. Nobody was about, but there, on the kitchen island, was a cardboard box peppered with holes. The kind you got when you went to the pet shop. He hurried over and held his ear next to the cardboard, listening.
A popping sound, then a rustle.
There was something in it.
Warm elation flooded Jacob from his calves to his shoulder blades. He tensed on the spot, and pulled back the lid of the box, immediately smelling wood shavings and urine. As the light from the overhead LED’s poured in, Jacob could see a small, round, fat, dazed-looking guinea pig—all black apart from an orange streak from its nose across its left eye, right back to its left hind leg. It looked up at Jacob, sniffing the air.
Jacob’s heart filled at the funny little creature, and put his hand in to give him a stroke. The animal backed up into the corner, but Jacob managed to get his fingertips to the animal’s spine. ‘That’s it. That’s it.’
The rodent relaxed a touch, and sat still while Jacob’s fingers traced wide circles in its fur.
‘LeBron 2? TwoBron?’ he said, in a hushed voice. The animal started sniffing the air again. ‘Or how about something else, like Snuffles or Shuffles or something.’
The animal arched its neck back so it could sniff Jacob’s fingers, and before he could pull them away, the guinea pig bit sharply into Jacob’s middle digit.
‘Ouch!’ he shouted, pulling his hand away, looking at a neat drop of blood on his finger tip. ‘FFS.’
He ran his finger under the kitchen tap.
‘Nibbles it is then.’
29
Dewey sat obediently, watching Grace intently through the straggly fur that hung over his deep brown eyes.
‘Paw,’ Grace said, crouched in front of him. She had put a wind cheater over her office suit, and swapped her patent leather heels for a pair of bright blue Nikes. Thanks to Dewey’s size, their eyes were on the same level, and he lifted a big weathered front foot up to her.
‘Good boy,’ she said taking it. ‘Walkies.’
She lifted the loop of the rope lead over his head, but only got it as far as his forehead before he shook his head and ducked backwards.
‘Dewey, heel.’ The dog bowed his head, almost in shame, and edged forward again. Grace tried again, the routine from start to finish.
‘Paw.’ Dewey shook her hand diligently. ‘Good boy. Walkies.’
This time, as soon as the rope appeared anywhere near Dewey’s head, he snatched it with his jaws and tugged it away from her. Grace tried to pull it back, but she suddenly felt the tears go. He was losing it.
‘Please, Dew,’ she said. She held a finger underneath each lower eyelid and blinked a couple of times, then wiped the mascara that had caught on her fingers across her coat.
Dewey watched her for a moment, his own gaze a primitive mix of defiance and confusion, before walking back down the hall to the kitchen, dragging the lead as he went. Grace heard the tinkle of the metal clip on the kitchen tiles as he dropped it on the floor.
She’d have to ring her mum and dad, she thought. They deserved to know. Dewey was theirs originally, and now that the baton had passed to Grace, she should take responsibility.
It was supposed to be the other way round, she thought bitterly. He’s supposed to be looking after me.
She knew such petulance was only a refusal to acknowledge that the dog was in sharp decline. It was a common thing wasn’t it? Animals not surviving major upheaval in their lives, like moving home?
And now she felt obscenely guilty.
The doorbell went, just behind her head, causing her heart to hammer up into her throat. She stood immediately and pulled on her professional veil. Please don’t be Fenchurch. Not now.
She opened the door to one of the men who lived over the street, but not the one she wa
s trying to avoid. It was one of the guys from the house opposite, with the cute baby.
‘Hello,’ she said, almost too jauntily, as she valiantly tried to paper over her own cracks.
‘Hi,’ said the man. ‘It’s me, David, from across the way. David Lyon.’
‘Of course, hi. How are you?’
‘Fine thank you. You settling in okay?’
Grace noticed he had a very laid-back demeanour, even from this small exchange. It was all in the confident posture and the easy, non-judgemental, friendly eye contact.
‘Yes, I think. It’s going so quickly though. Blink of an eye and weeks go by like that—it’ll be Christmas before we know it.’
‘I know what you’re saying! I can’t even remember what it’s like not to live here!’
They both laughed in that convivial yet ultimately contrived way that signalled that the readily available amount of small talk had just expired.
‘I’m sorry to bother you in the evening like this,’ he said. ‘But I wondered if I could come in for a minute?’
‘Of course,’ she replied, immediately trying to think of what state her house was in but realising at the same time it was too late to do anything about it.
‘Great, thank you.’ He crossed the threshold.
‘Just pop to the kitchen at the end of the hall,’ she said. He did just that. Grace followed and saw with mercy that the kitchen was just fine, with just a couple of dishes in the sink. The kitchen was small yet perfectly formed, with whitewashed walls and chrome appliances, and a window over the sink that overlooked the back garden.
‘Like I said, I’m sorry to just barge in,’ he said, standing near the back door. ‘But we had a… how do I put it… a little disturbance at home last night, and, well, I saw the police car here this morning and I wondered if anything had happened here too? Christ, when I say it out loud like that I sound like the nosiest man alive.’ He blushed intensely and looked at the floor.