One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  She comes and sits on the edge of my bed. ‘Poor wee you,’ she says, gathering me into her arms. I have to try really hard not to groan with the pain. ‘Joyce says she thinks you were sick in the toilet. Is that right?’

  Now I’m going to get into trouble for leaving the toilet all covered in sick.

  She cradles my head against her chest, like when I was small. Feels good to be cuddled, but she’s squeezing too tight. It makes the bruises hurt.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, letting me go. ‘I forget you’re a big boy now. You don’t want your mum’s hugs any more.’

  She’s wrong. Hearing her say that makes me so sad I start to cry.

  ‘Oh pet,’ she says, wiping my eyes with a soft tissue. ‘Now I feel terrible about going off without you. We didn’t think you’d want to come. It was meant to be a quick business meeting.’ She makes a kind of ‘humph’ noise. I can tell she’s cross with somebody. Dad likely.

  ‘We’re discovering nothing’s ever quick in this business. Especially making money.’ She’s talking as if I’m not even here. Has she forgotten me already?

  ‘You were sound asleep when I looked in on you this morning, curled up like a bundle of bedclothes. I didn’t want to disturb you. Have you been in bed all day?’

  Nod. Wonder if a lie counts as a lie if you don’t say it out loud.

  ‘Maybe I should call Doctor Kennedy to come and have a look at you?’

  No way. I love Doctor Kennedy with her funky hair and her crazy glasses. She’s funny and she’s very, very kind. But she’s too good. She’ll work out what’s happened to me. She always knows what’s wrong with people. Then she fixes them. Not even Dr Kennedy can fix this mess. I wish she could, but no one can.

  I shake my head and try to stop the tears. The stranger told me to act normal when I got home. Don’t do anything to cause suspicion, he said. Wish he’d thought of that before he battered me. If anybody sees my bruises, there’ll be trouble. Maybe that’s what I should do, let Mum see the damage. She’ll call the police. They’ll find him and he’ll have to confess and then they’ll dig up the body. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll show her how he hurt me. I catch the edge of my duvet and push it down to my waist.

  ‘No,’ says Mum. ‘You stay there and have another little rest.’ She tucks the duvet under my chin, tight and snug round my shoulders. I always feel safe when she does that. ‘Mum will fetch you a nice cool drink and we’ll see how you feel in an hour or so. Okay, my beloved boy?’

  Nod and close my eyes. Mum sits by my side for a while. I feel the mattress move slightly, as if a gentle wave has caught me floating. She gets up and tiptoes out. The usual floorboard squeaks and the door closes with its soft click.

  What would happen if I went downstairs now, took Dad by the hand and led him out to the grave? I know what – he wouldn’t go. They’d pack me off back to bed. Even if I could make Dad come with me, what then? My fingerprints are on the gun and the gun belongs to Dad. We’ll both get sent to jail and the stranger will get off. They won’t even look for him.

  Mum comes tiptoeing back, then Dad, and I pretend to be asleep. Don’t want to see their worried eyes. They leave my bedroom door open. Can hear them whispering on the landing. Dad says they should call the doctor.

  Mum says wait till morning, see how I am then. She says I’m like her. Always bounce back after a good night’s sleep. ‘Just you wait,’ she says, ‘he’ll wake up full of beans.’ Not sure about that, Mum.

  What if the hiker’s got a mum and dad? He’ll never see them again.

  I imagine him in his lonely grave on the hillside. I’d hate to be out there when it gets dark. Somewhere near my window an owl calls and I shiver, as if I’m watching that horror movie again. Soon all the night creatures will be roaming the hill. Feral cats. Foxes. Sniffing the cool air. Smelling the stranger.

  21

  Paris, France

  Monday 28 May

  The sun has spent its day running golden fingers over the city. Evening rays reach across the pale carpet towards Catherine’s feet. The pool of light is as red as a bloodstain, and she moves her foot away.

  The only sound in the apartment is the impatient tapping of her fingernail on the hall table. She studies her reflection in the mirror. Her face looks older, drawn and nervous. What if Sebastien doesn’t want to speak to her? What if he is still cross with her?

  She takes a step back from the table, avoiding her reflection and moving away from the tall vase of lilies that always sits there. Normally she loves the way their scent permeates the whole house, but tonight, standing this close to the huge, waxy heads, she feels nauseated. A tiny click on the line confirms that, after endless weeks, a connection is finally being made. ‘At last,’ she sighs. Her time in the wilderness is almost over. In a few seconds, she’ll hear his voice again, that infectious laugh, his gentle teasing. She takes one deep breath and blows it out again, preparing herself. She has already decided how she’ll start the conversation, but she hopes their chat will be natural and easy, the way it’s always been.

  ‘It has not been possible to connect your call.’ The line goes dead.

  She mutters a quiet and most unladylike swear word and dials again, glancing at her watch then scolding herself for her impatience. The same dispassionate voice informs her that her call cannot be connected. She knows Sebastien’s number off by heart. Still, she tells herself, she must have misdialled. Glad to have an explanation for his failure to pick up, she puts the phone down. Then, consulting a little notebook, she checks the number and redials.

  Maybe she ought to have called earlier, but she wanted to wait until Eric came home so they could enjoy the call together. Also, if she were to be frank with herself, she would have to admit how much she needs Eric’s moral support at the moment.

  Even though it’s only seconds, the longer it takes to get through, the more her anxiety grows. Surely her precious boy will not ignore her call? That has never been Sebastien’s way. The line sounds different this time; the call’s going to be answered. She holds her breath. When the robot speaks again, she slams the phone down. Her shoulders sag under the weight of anticlimax and disappointment.

  ‘I can’t get through, Eric. Or he’s not answering. It looks as though he doesn’t want to speak to us, or perhaps I should say, to me.’ Her voice catches. As she hangs up, the last rosy ray of light disappears, leaving the hall gloomy and lifeless.

  Eric comes and puts his arms around her. She leans against him and wilts into his embrace. He feels solid and he smells good, a mixture of woollen sweater and musky aftershave.

  ‘Catherine, there are a hundred reasons why he might not answer his phone. This is his first day so he’s probably still at work. Remember they’re an hour behind in the UK. Or he’s already settled in and too busy having a good time with his new friends, or his battery is run down, or he’s broken his phone, or he’s run out of money to pay the bill. We don’t even know what his network coverage is like. There may be no signal. It’s Scotland, remember. Fairly primitive place from what I can make out.’

  She says nothing.

  ‘Would you like me to try on my mobile?’

  ‘Not sure it will make any difference.’

  ‘Let me get my phone and we’ll give it a shot. What is there to lose?’

  ‘No, not tonight. I feel wrung out. We’ll try again tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you think perhaps his employer may have confiscated his phone?’ He holds her away from him and beams at her. ‘Anything to stop that infernal ringtone of his.’

  Mostly to please him, Catherine smiles, thinking of the ridiculous cartoon tune Sebastien downloaded a few months ago. She tries to keep the smile intact as she looks up into Eric’s face. ‘I just feel so disappointed. It feels as if he’s been gone forever and I was really looking forward to speaking to him. All day I’ve been waiting to make that call. I expected to hear his voice tonight and now I can’t. Oh, Eric, I miss him so much. How could I have been such a fool,
letting him go like that?’

  ‘I know you miss him, darling. I understand exactly how you’re feeling. I was really rather keen to chat with him tonight myself.’ He lets go of her, giving her upper arms a little squeeze of reassurance. ‘Why don’t you go and mix us a G & T while I fetch my briefcase? Use that new botanical gin Danielle and Vincent brought and remember, cucumber slices, not lemon.’

  Catherine busies herself with preparing the drinks. As the ice cubes tumble musically into the crystal glasses, she examines her feelings. Nervousness she can understand. Sebastien’s never been away from home before. It really is a ‘big deal’ as he put it. She slices cucumber into wisps then decides chunky might be better for a cocktail. Her guilt she can understand too. She behaved abominably. Like a spoiled child. It’s only right she should feel remorse. She lifts the heavy gin bottle and unscrews the cap, raising the bottle to her nose and inhaling the fragrant spirit. She pours a generous amount into Eric’s glass and a careful measure into her own.

  What she can’t understand is this constant anxiety. No matter how hard she tries to distract herself or tell herself she’s being silly, she cannot get rid of this awful feeling that something has happened to her son. A fresh wave of panic washes over her and she tilts the bottle again, sloshing more gin into her glass. This is not the time to be frugal or calorie-conscious. The tonic water, fresh from the fridge, opens with a whisper and the liquid sparkles as she pours, just a splash for Eric and a flood for her. The cucumber drops in and a glass swizzle stick sends the cocktail swirling as she carries the tray onto the balcony.

  She and Eric fell in love with this apartment and paid a premium for its view of the Paris skyline. No matter how often she stands on this balcony, she never tires of looking out over the city where she and her son were born. The evening sun has cast the Eiffel Tower in solid gold and painted the white stone of Sacré-Coeur a deep coral pink. She puts down the tray and leans on the balcony rail for a few minutes before she smooths her skirt and sits down at the table.

  When Eric appears, phone in hand, she sets his glass in front of him and raises hers, waiting.

  ‘Sorry it took me so long. This looks delicious,’ he says, touching his glass to hers. The crystal sings like a tuning fork. ‘Cheers, darling. Here’s to Sebastien.’

  ‘Sebastien,’ she says, her voice catching. She smiles, stretching her lips tight and her eyes wide, to keep tears at bay.

  ‘Now, let’s get a hold of the little bugger.’ He grins, knowing she’ll react. Ever since Sebastien was tiny, his father has affectionately called him ‘you little bugger’. When he wouldn’t sleep. When he dirtied a freshly changed nappy.

  ‘Remember when he found the box from La Maison du Chocolat you’d hidden for my birthday?’ She smiles, picturing Sebastien as a four-year-old covered in luxury chocolate. ‘He didn’t even like them.’

  ‘No, but the little bugger had to try every single one in the box to work that out, didn’t he?’ They laugh together, the first time for a while.

  It goes quiet as they each take a sip of their drink. On the street far below a wailing siren races to a distant emergency, and a cavalcade of cars, horns blaring, announce a wedding party en route to their celebrations.

  Catherine takes another mouthful, much larger this time, enjoying the sensation of ice, the sharp taste of the gin and the effervescence of the tonic. She waits for Eric to speak.

  ‘Scotland and England are the same, aren’t they?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure everyone would agree. Don’t the Scots want independence, like the Basques and the Catalans?’

  Eric laughs. ‘I don’t mean politically. I know they’re very different culturally. Scotsmen wear skirts, for God’s sake. The English are more like Parisians.’

  ‘Are they?’ Catherine raises her eyebrows. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘Anyway, I meant the dialling code. Is it zero, zero, forty-four for Scotland as well as England?’

  Catherine puts down her glass and slaps her forehead dramatically. ‘Oh, Eric, I’m so stupid!’

  ‘I’ll give it a go.’

  She adjusts the front of her hair, laughing with embarrassment. ‘I forgot to add the international dialling code. No wonder I couldn’t get through.’

  ‘Shh. It’s ringing.’ He holds his phone out, offering it to her. She shakes her head. She’s lost her nerve. Anyway, it’s probably better if Eric speaks. She watches his face, trying to read his expression. A tiny reaction tells her the phone’s been answered. Eric clears his throat.

  ‘Hello, Sebastien.’

  Catherine feels sick with relief. All that stupid fear for nothing.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  Catherine moves to her husband’s side and puts her head close to his, so she can hear her son’s voice, planning to listen for a bit before she speaks to him. At last.

  Eric turns to look at her and shakes his head.

  ‘Well, son, we just wanted to say hello and hear how things are going. We understand how busy you must be. It’s great that you’re having a good time. Give us a quick call when you pick this up, will you? We’re both dying to talk to you.’

  Eric offers her the phone again, nodding his encouragement for her to say something, add to the message, talk to the voicemail.

  She can’t.

  22

  Brackenbrae

  Tuesday 29 May

  Thomas blows his whistle and the Fat Controller says, ‘Come on, Thomas. Time to go.’

  I bang The Fat Controller on the head to shut him up. Stupid alarm clock. Wish I’d lost that in the bracken instead of the gun. Didn’t need an alarm to wake me. I’ve hardly been asleep. Couldn’t get comfy all night. I’m hurting too much, all over.

  Need to get up before Mum comes. She’ll make me take a shower and I can’t let her see me. She’s not supposed to come into my room or the bathroom without knocking. But she still does, sometimes.

  I’ve got to pretend everything’s fine. Or she’ll send for Doctor Kennedy.

  Can hear Mum’s voice snipping at Dad before I even open the kitchen door. Think they’ve forgotten how to be nice to each other.

  Cough to clear my throat. To let them know I’m coming.

  ‘Hello, wee man,’ says Joyce.

  I smile because I like Joyce, but why is she even here?

  ‘Aw, look,’ she says, ‘he’s feeling better. That’s magic, so it is.’

  Mum comes and hugs me. It hurts so I squirm, and she says, ‘Oh dear, my boy’s getting too big for cuddles.’

  ‘Ach, they never get too big for a hug from their mammy. Charlie’s just embarrassed cos I’m here. Well, I need to get on with my work. Now, Boss, you’re sure it’s okay if I slip away early? Only appointment I could get. A cancellation. It was either that or three weeks’ time. It’s terrible so it is, the time ye’ve to wait to see a doctor.’

  ‘Shortage of GPs, Joyce,’ says Dad. ‘Stressful job these days. Nobody wants it.’

  ‘For the money they get, I’d take their job, stress or no stress.’

  ‘Ah, that’s the trouble, Joyce. We couldn’t do their job. Anyway, looks like our boy here won’t be needing the doctor after all.’ He ruffles my hair and turns to Mum. ‘See? Told you he’d be back to his old self after a good sleep.’

  ‘He still looks a bit peaky to me. What do you think, Joyce?’

  I want to shout, ‘Hello-oh! I’m right here.’ Hate it when they talk about me as if I’m not even there.

  I sit down and lift the packet of Coco Pops. Undo the plastic clip we put on bags. ‘Cos Mum goes mental if we forget. The smell of chocolate makes me gag. Too much like yesterday. I shut the clip again.

  Mum’s watching me. I know that look. Suspicious. Open the clip and pour some Pops. Drown them in milk and start supping. Mum says, ‘How many times, Charlie? Take your cap off at the table. Remember your manners.’

  ‘Right, thanks for the coffee,’ says Joyce, standing. ‘Where do you want me to start?
In the house?’

  ‘Perfect, thank you, Joyce,’ says Mum. ‘Oh, and please remember to do under the beds, will you?’

  I shove my chair back and run for the stairs. Three at a time. Crawl under my bed to get the dirty clothes. Can’t reach the shorts, they’ve landed right at the back against the wall. I crawl in, army-style, hoping Joyce won’t appear with the hoover.

  I grab the shorts and run for the bathroom. Pass Joyce at the top of the stairs and slam the bathroom door shut before she can stop me. I turn the lock and lean against the door for a minute while I try to decide what to do. I could throw them out the window and hope they land on the roof. But what if the wind blew them down into the yard? Maybe I could wash them myself. But then how would I get them dry? Or even clean? Could I flush them down the toilet, maybe? Imagine if they got stuck. I could rip them or cut them up and flush them away, a wee bit at a time. I’m opening the cabinet to look for scissors when Joyce calls out, ‘You okay, wee man?’ She bangs on the door. ‘Charlie, are you all right? Wait there and I’ll get your mum.’

  I put my hand over my mouth and blow hard. It makes a big, loud farting noise like James McTaggart showed me.

  ‘Oh, sorry, son. I’ll go and leave you in peace.’ A moment later the hoover starts to wail. I wait till it moves away from the door then I strip off my clothes and put yesterday’s on. Even touching them makes me want to be sick, never mind putting them on next to my skin. I put my clean clothes on top of the dirty ones and flush the toilet, twice.

  I open the door and peep out. They’re at the bottom of the stairs. Looking up.

  ‘Okay, mate?’ says Dad.

  Nod. Smile, as if I’m embarrassed, then hurry downstairs. Trying not to show how much my bruises hurt when I walk, I head for the back door.

  ‘Wait, Charlie. You’ve not finished your cereal.’

  Dad says, ‘He’ll come back when he’s hungry. Don’t worry.’