“I know. I’m gonna run around to the front of the alley, and come in that way. You come in behind him, and we’ve got him trapped. Got it?”
“Yeah, but what if-”
“Stop being such a girl!” he said. “He’s not gonna give us any problems. Just back me up. I’ll do the talking.”
I nodded my head, and found myself saying, “OK.”
He punched me lightly on the shoulder, and said, “Let’s get going before we lose him.”
I watched as the old man turned left into the alley. I picked up my speed and followed him in.
The lane ran between high-fenced gardens that backed onto each other, and I was surprised to find that the streetlamps gave a lot more light than we’d figured.
I saw the old man facing Hendo, fifteen feet ahead. Hendo had his hand raised, and I guessed he was telling the guy to stop. I approached slowly, trying to make as little noise as I could.
The man was taller than I’d thought, maybe six feet – about the same size as Hendo, and a few inches taller than me. He turned to me when he heard my approach, and stared for a couple of seconds. Then he adjusted his position to get a better view of us both.
“Who’s he?” the old man asked.
“Never mind!” snapped Hendo. “I said give me your wallet.”
The man shook his head. “I don’t think so, sonny.”
“Don’t get smart, grandpa!” he said. “Or I’ll have to show you my knife.”
The man glanced at me, then back at Hendo. “You’re full of it. If you had a knife, you’d have used it by now.”
Hendo lowered his jacket zip quickly, and reached inside. “I’ll show you who’s fu-”
The old man jumped on him, trying to put an arm around his neck and get him in a headlock. Hendo’s right arm was stuck in his jacket, and his left hand was trying to claw the old man’s face.
“Get him off me!” Hendo shouted.
I was stunned. How things had happened so quickly. The old man didn’t seem so old now. Without really wanting to, I tried to grab him in a bear hug. He hit me with his elbow, and I cried out in pain.
I fell back against the fence, tasting blood in my mouth. Hendo broke free of the old man’s grip, and as he stood straight something fell from his jacket and made a loud metallic noise as it hit the pavement.
For what seemed like a minute we stared silently at the object on the ground, the orange glow of streetlamps reflecting off its blade.
A dog began to bark in a nearby garden, shattering the quiet. I saw that lights had been turned on in a few houses. It was time to go.
“Well,” said the old man to Hendo. “Are you going to pick it up?”
Hendo looked at the knife, which he was no closer to than the old man was.
“Next time,” he said, and ran.
I followed him.
We stopped running ten minutes later, coming to a halt in the deserted recreation park. We sat on a bench and caught our breath for a few minutes, before Hendo stood up and spoke.
“You’re an idiot,” he said.
“Me? What did I do?”
“Exactly. What did you do? Nothing.”
“I tried to grab him,” I said.
“You didn’t try hard enough, did you?”
“He elbowed me in the face, Hendo. You saw it.”
“I saw you stood still while he tried to twist my head off. That’s what I saw, Mattyboy.”
“That’s not fair,” I said.
Then he slapped me across the top of my head. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it shocked me.
“What’d you do that for?”
“Because I’m sick of your whining,” he said. “And your stupidity.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
He laughed then, and it hurt me as much as the slap.
“Oh, really?” he said. “What are you gonna do about it?”
I looked away. I could feel my eyes beginning to water, and I didn’t want to give him an excuse to call me more names.
He sat back down beside me, and we didn’t speak for a few minutes. Then I said, “You didn’t tell me you had a knife.”
“So?”
“Well, what if the police find it? Fingerprints.”
He shook his head. “You’re not very observant, Mattyboy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had gloves on.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you? Any more questions, Sherlock?”
“Well,” I said, “what were you going to do with it?”
“Just scare him a bit. Make sure he gave us the wallet.”
“That didn’t work out very well.”
“I didn’t know he’d be such a mean old bastard, did I?”
“Yeah, well. You still should have told me about the knife.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Why? Because we’re partners, Hendo.”
“Partners? Don’t make me laugh!” He spat on the ground. “Partners look out for each other.”
“I tried to-”
“You’re a moron, Mattyboy!” he said, before standing and slapping me again.
Without thinking I stood and kneed him in the balls, and he fell to the ground.
I watched him rolling around in pain, surprised at what I’d done. He called me some awful names, and told me that he’d get even with me.
I didn’t want to be there when he got up. So I ran.
I ran straight back to my house and made my way upstairs quietly. I could hear my dad snoring downstairs in the living room.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door. Standing in the dark and looking out of the window, I thought about my situation.
What should I do? The old guy would give our descriptions to the cops, and it wouldn’t take long until they knocked on Hendo’s door. Liam Henderson and his two older brothers were well known to the police, usually committing or having knowledge of most petty crime in the area.
And if Hendo was caught then he’d tell them about me. He’d probably say it was all my idea.
And then there was the knife – that made it pretty serious. I thought about the first time, and wondered if he’d had it on him then. The old lady had just given us her purse, so there’d been no need to show it. What would he have done with it?
I thought about telling my dad, but if he’d had a drink I’d get much more than a clip round the ear. And my mother had spent the last month at her sister’s house, so I hadn’t been seeing her much.
I figured I had to go to the police. They would understand. I never really did anything – it was all Hendo’s fault. He bullied me into it. I had no choice. Yeah, they would see that I wasn’t a bad kid.
I was sick of him picking on me, and I was sure he’d beat me up the next time he saw me. Maybe the cops would put him in jail.
And at least I wouldn’t have to listen to him calling me Mattyboy any more.
Poor Mr Tibbles
Abbie Gordon took a large gulp of water, and tried to control her breathing. She sat back down at the kitchen table, fighting a wave of nausea, willing herself not to look at the severed head. She reached for the telephone.
Linsey knocked at the front door, and let herself in. She found Abbie in the living room, sat on the sofa smoking a cigarette.
“Thanks for coming over,” Abbie said.
“Don’t be daft. Are you OK?”
“No, I’m bloody not. Mr Tibbles is dead.”
“OK,” Linsey said. “Where is he?”
“He’s in a box, under the kitchen table.”
“I’ll take a look,” Linsey said, heading to the kitchen.
“And, Linsey?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s horrible.”
Linsey returned a minute later.
“Jesus! That’s awful,” she said. “Why would somebody do that to a cat?”
“I really don’t know,” said Abbie, shaking her head.
“Fuck. Can I have on
e of those cigarettes?”
Linsey lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and exhaled. “You said on the phone that you found him on the doorstep?”
“Yeah. I was leaving for work, and I almost stood on him,” Abbie said. “It was horrible. I felt like puking.”
“Christ!”
“So I went and got a shoebox, and put him inside that.”
“Are you going in to work?”
“I called in sick,” Abbie said, stubbing out her cigarette.
“OK. Are you going to call the police?”
“Yeah. I should, right?”
“I think you have to, yeah. They’ll know what to do.”
“Alright. Can you stay?”
Linsey shook her head, and said. “I’m on the afternoon shift. But I’ll come back about six, and you can tell me what the police had to say.”
A young police constable arrived an hour later.
Abbie showed him the cat. He asked a few questions, and scribbled in his notebook.
“We’ll look into it,” he told her.
“OK. Thank you.”
“And you should let the RSPCA know.”
Linsey returned at 6.15, and Abbie briefed her on the day’s events while they drank coffee in the living room.
“Bloody hell,” Linsey said. “The police don’t seem too interested.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What did the RSPCA have to say?”
“Well, I talked to one woman there,” Abbie said. “She said it was horrible, and she hoped the police would find out who did it.”
“That’s all?”
“She said she’d seen another cat last week. Somebody had cut its tail off.”
“Jesus! What the hell’s wrong with people?”
Abbie shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“I wonder if it’s the same person doing it.”
“I wonder…”
“What else did she say?”
“She said that if I take Mr Tibbles to the vet, then they’ll dispose of the body.”
“Oh, well, that’s good. Speaking of Mr Tibbles – where is the box?”
“I’ve put it in the shed.”
Linsey sipped her coffee and said, “You know what strikes me as odd?”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about this all day - why would they leave it on your doorstep? Is it some kind of sick message?”
“I was thinking it could be personal,” Abbie said. “But who? I’m not sure if I know any really sick bastards.”
“What about Richard?”
“What? No way!”
“Why not?”
“He’s too much of a wimp. He’s a nice guy, but he’s hardly Action Man.” Abbie shrugged her shoulders, adding, “That’s why I kicked him out.”
“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
“Linsey – he was scared of spiders.”
“Ha-ha. OK. But…”
“What?”
“Who did it, then?”
“Well, that’s what I’m going to find out.”
“How?”
“If you make me another coffee, then I’ll tell you my plan.”
The next morning Abbie called work, and told them she wouldn’t be in for the rest of the week. After breakfast and coffee, she knocked on her neighbour’s door.
“Morning, Sam. Have you got a minute?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, “come on in.”
Abbie told Sam about Mr Tibbles. He was horrified, but he told her he hadn’t seen or heard anything.
“But there’s a guy at the end of the road,” he said. “He has a few cats. He might be able to help you.”
“Right. Keith?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Abbie got no response at Keith’s house, so she tried a few of the adjacent homes. Nobody answered.
She walked to the next street, and started knocking on doors. A few people answered, and they all agreed that there were some sick people out there – but they couldn’t shed any light on the situation.
One door was answered by a man dressed in a onesie, who said, “I don’t care what you’re selling, so get lost!” before shutting the door on her.
“Rude prick,” Abbie said, and headed home.
Stressed and frustrated, Abbie smoked two cigarettes in her living room. Then she made lunch, and ate it while considering her next move.
She tried Keith’s house again at 3 p.m. After exchanging hellos, she told him about Mr Tibbles.
“Jesus!” he said. “Cut his head off?”
“Yeah.”
“And left it in the box?”
Abbie nodded. “I was wondering if you’d had any problems with your cats?”
“Problems?”
“Yeah. Anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. They’re fine. No problems.”
“Oh. OK. Well, if you-”
“Hang on a minute,” Keith said.
“What?”
“Well, I did hear something weird…”
“What?”
“Well, I was in The Spitfire. Last Monday, it’ll have been. And one of the lads, Malcolm – I don’t think you know him.”
“No,” Abbie said, “I don’t think so.”
“Well, he was telling a story about a cat. But it wasn’t killed.”
“What, then?”
“I think somebody had cut its paw off. Or was it a leg?” he said. “Something like that.”
“It was just a story? Or it happened?”
“I think it happened, yeah.” He shrugged. “That’s what he said, anyway.”
“What – local?”
“Yeah, Lansdowne Road area. I think Malcolm lives over that way.”
Getting off the bus, Abbie walked a couple of streets to Lansdowne Road. She knocked on doors and talked to a number of people. They sympathised with her over Mr Tibbles. Some had heard the story about the cat’s paw, but didn’t know any details.
One door was answered by a young pregnant lady, who told Abbie that her cat had been poisoned two months previously.
“Poisoned?” Abbie asked.
“Yeah. That’s what the vet said.”
“How?”
“He said that Leo had pieces of chicken in his stomach, and the chicken had been soaked in something. Probably antifreeze.”
After coffee and a light breakfast, Abbie walked to the town centre. She spent twenty minutes inside the print shop, emerging holding one hundred flyers.
She took a slow walk around town, fixing the flyers to lampposts and telephone boxes along the way. She visited a number of newsagents and convenience stores, and with permission she taped flyers to their shop windows.
She got home around 2 p.m., and waited for the phone to ring.
Abbie got to Linsey’s house at 6:30 p.m., catching her shortly after returning from work. They sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and smoking while Abbie brought her up to date on her activities.
“Why didn’t you post the flyers through people’s letterboxes?” Linsey asked.
“I thought it was a bit cheeky.”
“Fair point. Did you get any calls?”
“Yeah,” Abbie said, stubbing out her cigarette. “A few actually.”
“And?”
“Two people said their cats were missing.”
Linsey took a sip, and said, “Whereabouts?”
“One house is near the cemetery, and the other one is near the swimming baths. It’s weird.”
“But, Abbie - they could be anywhere. You know what cats are like.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Why not?”
“Well, look at it,” Abbie said. “Mr Tibbles. A cat with its tail cut off, another with its paw cut off.”
“But, wasn’t that a rumour?”
“A lot of people had heard the story. And that lady had her cat poisoned. And now two people have told me that their cats are missing.”
“Yeah. It does seem like a
lot,” Linsey said. “But why haven’t we heard about it on the news? Or in the papers?”
“I don’t think the owners are reporting it. Maybe they think it’s just kids or something.”
Linsey finished her coffee, and said, “What kind of twisted bastard would do all this stuff?”
“I have no idea.”
“It makes you wonder what people are capable of.”
Abbie rose early the next day, and after eating breakfast she returned to the print shop. She picked up one hundred more flyers, and walked to an area of town that she hadn’t canvassed previously.
She fixed the flyers to lampposts, and mailed a few through random letterboxes. She knocked on many doors; not everybody answered, but she did have some interesting conversations.
She talked to one woman in her thirties, who’d heard rumours of cats being poisoned.
“As a mum, I’m worried about my kids.”
“What do you mean?” Abbie asked.
“Well, what happens if one of them picks something off the floor and eats it?”
Another man told her about hearing his cat screaming one night.
“Screaming?” Abbie asked.
“Yeah, you know? Like, screeching. Howling. It was about a week ago. In the back garden.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “As soon as I opened the back door, Daisy ran inside.”
“Was there anybody out there?”
“I didn’t see anybody.”
“Was Daisy OK?”
“Well, she had a bit of fur missing from her back. And she was a bit jumpy,” he said, shaking his head. “She doesn’t want to go out so much, now.”
Abbie was halfway through supper when the telephone rang.
“Hello,” she said. “Yes, that’s me. I put the flyers up. Oh, you saw one of them? Right. Right. Over the road from you? Are you sure? You think he’s the one doing it? Where are you? Lansdowne Road? What’s your name? Ethel? What, now? OK. I can come now. What number are you? Twenty-three? Right. I’ll leave now, Ethel, and be there in about fifteen minutes.”
An old woman answered the door; Abbie followed her into the living room, where they sat down to chat.
“What is it that you wanted to tell me, Ethel?”
Nightmare Waiting Page 2