30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  He entered the hospital room holding his badge by his chest. His crumpled, outsized grey suit belonged in the attic. As he moved closer I noticed that his nose was heavily pockmarked and red, like somebody had repeatedly stabbed it with a dart; his eyes were outlined with laughter lines that had long lost their sense of humour. The officer he was with bowed his head. I clenched the crisp, white bed sheets, felt an imaginary fist pummelling down against my chest.

  "Good afternoon, Jeffrey. My name is DCI Baldwin," he said. He turned to my mother and smiled. "I'm sorry to learn of your injuries, but I'm pleased to hear you've been making a fantastic recovery. I don't plan to take up much of your time today, because I appreciate you are still recuperating. We're as keen to catch this animal as you are, though, and as you can imagine, the first couple of days and weeks after the incident are crucially important. Are you please able to give some basic information for me today, Jeffrey, to help us catch this killer?"

  I nodded my head. His voice was so much softer than I expected, his manner infinitely more gentile and polite. There was something else: he smelt fantastic, like he was straight out of the shower and had smothered himself in Brut. I was startled, because it was just unexpected. I wasn't sure if all of this was just more unnerving than if he'd barged into the room shouting and snarling and reeking like a dead dog.

  "My colleague here will need to take some photographs of your injuries if that is okay with you?"

  I caught the eye of the young guy; he smiled apologetically. There was silence for a few moments as I unbuttoned my pyjamas and he took photographs. He thanked me for my time. DCI Baldwin sat down on the edge of my bed. "Would you be able to describe the attacker?"

  "I'd say he was maybe a year or so older than me, so nineteen or twenty or something, like. He was maybe a few inches taller than me, so probably just over six foot. The guy was kind of slim but - I don't know - he was sort of strong looking, you know? He was wearing faded blue jeans and a white tee-shirt."

  "Any distinguishing features? Birth marks? Moles?"

  I shook my head. Then I remembered something. Was it something? "His eyes. He had these distinctive eyes. I'm not really sure why they were so distinctive, but I really noticed them. They were grey, I know that..."

  "Grey?"

  "Yes."

  "Right."

  The other guy was writing it all down on a pad. He probably didn't notice me looking at him, for he pulled an array of faces as he scribbled away.

  "Did he give you a name?" DCI Baldwin asked.

  "He said he was called Sam."

  "Do you think it was his real name?"

  "Who knows?"

  "Can you tell me what happened?"

  I closed my eyes. I gripped the sheets tighter, but this was only to stop my trembling. My mum spoke for me. "Only do this now if you feel you can, son."

  I took a deep breath and told DCI Baldwin everything. The words fired out of my mouth. My body was covered in a layer of cold sweat by the time I'd finished, but somehow I felt cleansed, and so much lighter.

  DCI Baldwin had moved closer. I felt his knee pressing against my leg. He didn't speak for a few seconds; he just widened his blue, watery eyes. "So, you went down the back of the library to urinate?"

  My cheeks burned. I didn't want to repeat that part because I knew my mum would not approve. "Yes," I replied. "I wanted to make sure it was away from the high street, completely out of view. I wouldn't have done it at all if I wasn't desperate."

  DCI Baldwin held up his hands and smiled. I couldn't help but notice just how big his hands were. "Don't worry, Jeffrey," he said, dimple in one cheek. "We're not going to arrest you for urinating in a public place. We have bigger fish to fry. So you turned around and he attacked you with the cut-throat razor?"

  "Yes."

  "That's strange," he said, thumbing his chin, coated with black stubble.

  "It is?"

  "You're sure you went to the back of the library?"

  I nodded my head. I knew it was a loaded question, though.

  "It's just you were found at the front of the library, Jeffrey," DCI Baldwin said. "At the front font of the narrow walkway next to the entrance with the concrete steps."

  I glanced at my mum. Her smile was reassuring, completely non judgemental.

  "You know what I think?" DCI Baldwin asked.

  I shook my head. I really didn't want to know what he thought. Not now. Not anymore.

  "I think he dragged or carried you to the side entrance."

  "You do?" I asked, sensing my stomach deflate.

  "Yes. And you know why he did this, Jeffrey?"

  I took another deep breath. "No."

  DCI Baldwin pushed his hands against the edge of the bed, lifting his full bodyweight. He looked down at me. "Because he wanted you to be found."

  My mum piped up now, with a high-pitched shrill. "You will catch him, won't you, Detective?"

  DCI Baldwin turned to my mother and smiled. "Your son has done you proud today, Mrs Allen. I'm sure, with Jeffrey's cooperation, we'll catch this brute before he can do any more harm. He is the only witness we have, you see, and so he is vital to our operation. I'll be in contact for you to come down to the station to give a full report once you are out of hospital, Jeffrey, if that is okay with you?"

  I told him that I would cooperate, we exchanged pleasantries and that was the last I saw of DCI Baldwin until I was out of hospital. To all intents and purposes, everything had gone swimmingly. The dread of meeting him again, though, intensified until the scars on my body felt trivial.

  The month of May 2018 simmered but the cackle of thunder always threatened, yet the temperature in June is rising to boiling point. I've been walking in no particular direction for over an hour, just chewing the fat, and now my legs feel heavy, the heat clings to my body and the enjoyment has just disappeared; I decide to take a short cut and skirt through the underground supermarket car park. It is now the middle of the day - I am fairly sure of that without glancing at my watch - and most of the cars park up early in the morning and are picked up again at the end of the working day. There is nobody else around, and if I relieved myself against one of the concrete pillars, then a hot trail of piss would be the only evidence I was ever here. I think back to my mum's disapproval of me urinating in public all those years ago, and I know I could never do it even if I wanted to.

  But, alas, I am not alone. My floating, wandering thoughts are interrupted by noises up ahead, where the sloping path leads to the supermarket on the first floor.

  There is a group of them. I count five. You could throw a blanket over the lot of them. Only, it is not a perfect five: there is four, and then there is one. Those are bad odds for some poor sod, unless he happens to be Jean-Claude Van Damme. The four are tall and broad and they all look the same - white shirts hanging over grey trousers and crooked ties dangling over their chests. They circle like a pack of wolves: jaws dropped, mouths open, teeth coated with spittle. Their prey has his hands up by his face, hunched over at the shoulders.

  Reminds me of when I was a kid, just a nipper, maybe ten years old. It was a grey Saturday afternoon in October. The zip of my coat was pulled high to my chin, leaving my neck warm but my cheeks rosy. The long, curved stick in my hand was prised, ready to cause havoc. I pulled back with my arm, ready to strike. It landed in the soggy, overgrown grass without even threatening its target.

  I turned around, cowering like a dog that has been clipped around the ear.

  “Won't hit any conkers if you throw like a girl...”

  The three boys approached, hoods covering their ears. I knew their names, recognised their faces, but had never spoken to them. They were older, bigger, stronger. They were often laughing, but their laughter always threatened and mocked. Now, they stood in a straight line, forming a wall. They looked me up and down, mouths slanted. I dug my hands in my pockets, tried to hide that they were pink, that they were shaking. I wanted to show that I was friendly. I released a high-pitch
ed giggle.

  “Something funny...?”

  One of the boys took a single step forward. He'd been eating prawn cocktail crisps. The other two boys took a single step forward. I longed to take more than one step backwards, and quickly, but I'd been taught not to.

  “You three going in for a hug? Maybe a kiss...?”

  I looked over my shoulder, and when I turned back to the three boys, I swear to God I felt ten feet taller. It didn't matter that there were three of them and two of us: I was with my big brother. We'd be fine. We always were.

  “Come on, put one on my lips if you really must...”

  Luke pushed his neck forward, elaborately puckered his lips. He, too, was shorter than the boys, but his shoulders spread wider, his bravado spanned further. The toughest boy grimaced. His heavy-set eyes clouded over. None of them were sure what to make of this newcomer. They didn't like the uncertainty. He turned around, held up his hand for the other two to follow suit.

  “Couple of weirdo's,” he said, picking up his pace.

  Now, the lone guy is me as a ten-year-old. I know him. I often take this route. I always say hello (being the friendly guy I am) and he always nods his head. Sometimes he smiles. Usually he does not. He is always in the car park. That is his job, his life. He is paid to collect and put away the abandoned trolleys, of which there are many. He is probably a few years younger than me, but he looks a good few years older, partly because his face is lined and weather-beaten and partly because he walks with a limp, like he can't quite fully stretch one leg. His eyes are always glassy, like a punch-drunk boxer who isn't sure he'll make it to the bell.

  He is, in effect, an easy target for four teenage schoolboys with time to kill.

  Judging by their size and the sprinkling of angry red spots on their foreheads, I estimate the boys to be about fourteen or fifteen years of age. It is, I think, probably the optimum age to be idly hanging around a supermarket car park in the middle of the day, bunking off school and causing strife.

  "Here you go, Ken," one of the boys says. He dutifully wheels a trolley towards Ken, kindly gives him a helping hand. The boy halts the trolley just a few short feet away from Ken's black shoes. There is a pause. Ken considers his options. Stand still and wait, or reach out for the trolley? Ken is aware that he is damned if he does, and damned if he doesn't. He stands still, with his crinkled hands on his hips. The boy doesn't move. His eyes don't flinch. He dares Ken to move. Ken doesn't want to wait, for the humiliation builds with every passing second. He lunges for the trolley like Superman on incapacity benefit.

  The boy swiftly pulls the supermarket trolley to one side. Ken stumbles past him, suddenly a befuddled Frankenstein. The boy kicks him on the backside. Ken loses balance and ends up with his hands grazing the floor and his face just inches from the tarmac. The boys are no longer wolves. They are hyenas. They jump around with bent legs and long arms, laughing hysterically.

  I have time. The boys don't even know I'm here. Pulling my wallet from my pocket, I take a quick look at the photograph. Just a glance is enough. I pull back my shoulders, jut forward my neck, muscles tensing.

  "You alright, mate?" I ask. Ken takes my outstretched arm and then he is back on his feet. He brushes down his shirt. The boys stop laughing. They straighten their backs and push out their chests. They keep walking, though, forming a circle. There are two of us now, right in the middle of the circle: Ken's odds have suddenly doubled, and theirs have halved.

  I keep my head straight. I'm a lamb taking on a pack of wolves. If they decide to attack then I'll be torn to shreds. Underneath, I'm that scared little boy again; outwardly, I stare straight into each of their eyes as they rotate around me, neither flinching or blinking. The circle narrows. I smell warm beer on their breath. My eyes are large; my body is motionless.

  The circle widens. The biggest boy, the one with the most fluff on his cheeks, turns his back. He walks away, up the slope, swaying his shoulders. He holds his finger up.

  "You better watch yourself, old man!" he says.

  The other three look at me with disdain, then scurry off after their leader.

  Now it is just me and Ken, left in the darkness of the car park. I'm still contemplating that they called me an old man. I'm not that old, am I? But then I'm prone to distorted, irrational thinking. We've discussed this. Age is, of course, relative. To the ladies at my local Bingo club I am still a young pup with so much life still to look forward to. To these youths I am prehistoric, probably on my last legs, riddled with arthritis. And besides, they were trying to insult me. I'm encouraged by this. If my age - something that is completely out of my control and that affects each and every one of us - is the only thing they could find to mock me, then I can't be doing too badly, can I?

  I become aware that these random, spiralling thoughts are a subconscious distraction technique. Ken's hands are trembling. I go to give him a hug, to give him some reassurance, to tell him that it will be okay.

  But he turns away and busies himself by doing what he is paid to do. He hunts down the trolleys. I am left standing in the car park, just watching him as he edges away from me. I start to feel awkward and self-conscious, even though there is nobody left to watch me.

  "See you then," I say, but my words are lost in the slight breeze that picks up dust and debris from the floor. If Ken heard me then he shows no acknowledgement. I turn and leave the car park, feeling slightly bewildered.

  DAY SIX

  6TH JUNE 1988

  Gordon Allen taps gently on the door. There is no answer, so he taps harder. "Son?"

  The door pushes open and Gordon peeks his head inside. It's only been a few hours since he sat next to his boy at the dinner table, but in the interim the colour has faded from his son's cheeks and his hair appears greasier and more fragile. "Can I come in, son?"

  Jeffrey bows his head and smoothes down one of the newspapers that are spread out over his bed. Gordon knows that silence is acceptance. He lowers himself into a small, square space on the edge of the bed.

  "You were quiet at dinner, Jeffrey. Is everything okay? Your mother is worried about you. We both are."

  Jeffrey glances up. Despite the dark patches under his eyes, he still emits a zany energy. He brushes away a strand of hair."You know there has been another murder, Dad? Killed in the same way. The victim was Benjamin Conway. Bit of an oddball. Three Roman numerals engraved into the skin. The number is going up. In Rhondda this time. He is getting closer."

  Gordon nods his head sagely. He wants to pick up the newspapers and burn them in the fire; but what was the point? This killer was everywhere: on the radio, on the Welsh news, on the national news; everybody was talking about him in work. If they took away one avenue then Jeffrey would merely seek out another. It was only a couple of days ago that this beast entered their world, but now he absorbed it. Jeffrey came down from his bedroom on Friday just like any other morning, but then he spotted the front page of the newspaper and he read every word of the article in a trance. He barely noticed his dad leave for work. Now Jeffrey was the first to reach for the newspaper when it dropped through the letterbox. His mother's morning routine was ruined. Gordon eyed the papers laid out on the bed with disdain. Now he knew why Jeffrey hurried back to his room after tea.

  "I'm aware, son," Gordon replies, carefully choosing his words. "This man is obviously very sick. I don't know if he is evil or mad, or maybe an evil madman, but either way, he is very dangerous. I'm sure he'll be caught soon enough, though."

  "You reckon?"

  "Of course. These people always are."

  "What about Jack the Ripper?"

  Gordon hoped his son didn't notice him rolling his eyes. No seventeen-year-old boy ever wanted to be patronised. "Those were different times, Jeffrey. We have DNA. We have instant radio communication. This animal won't be able to run forever."

  "I think he is cleverer than the police, though," Jeffrey says.

  "No clever man would ever commit these evil crimes, son. You kn
ow we don't like you reading about all this, Jeffrey. It just isn't healthy. And your mum felt so sorry for that poor couple. Imagine if your personal life was dragged through the gutter like that."

  "There isn't much to say about my personal life," Jeffrey mutters.

  "Anyway, let's not waste our time talking about him. Life is too precious. The Euro's start in a couple of weeks, don't they? That should be good. Shame Wales aren't in it. Been thirty years since we got to the final of anything. Our best chance was against Scotland two years ago, but the ref did us again, didn't he? Will you be supporting England?"

  "Guess."

  "They've got a good team this year, haven't they? That John Barnes is something else when he gets the ball at his feet..."

  His son silently shrugs his shoulders. Gordon decides to try a different tact, anything to keep his mind away from this killer. "So, you break up from school soon, and then it is those dreaded A Levels next year, isn't it? Your studies going okay?"

  "Yeah. Just taking a break."

  Gordon nods his head. "Obviously we want you to do well, son, but we don't want it to be at the expense of you being happy. You know you don't have to go to university if you don't think it's right for you, don't you?"

  Jeffrey fixes him a look. "Really?"

  "Of course. We'll be proud of you whatever path you take."

  "I don't really know what else there is to do in life. I think I will end up going to university, but I'll keep it in mind."

  Gordon pats his son on the shoulder. He'd discussed this with Yvette. Jeffrey was becoming more and more isolated and distant, and if it had anything to do with his studies then they needed to relieve some pressure.

  "Any young ladies on the go, son?"

  Jeffrey's cheeks redden as he smiles bashfully. This was encouraging. "There is one I like," he says.

  "That's the way, son," Gordon says. "Shall we be meeting her soon? I'm sure your mum would love to meet her."

  Jeffrey bows his head. "Doubt it. We haven't really spoken yet. She is a bit older than me and to be honest I think she may be out of my league. I may be blowing everything out of proportion."