One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  ‘Charlie!’

  When Mum sounds like that everyone does what she says, even Dad. My hand’s already on the door knob. I could ignore her and go. But I don’t. She’s walking towards me. She’s noticed something.

  She plonks my baseball cap on my head and pulls down the skip. ‘Don’t forget your cap,’ she says, ‘and come in for some Factor 50 if it gets sunny, will you?’

  I nod and try to make a run for it but the jeans on top of the shorts are too tight. I kind of waddle out the door.

  ‘Don’t bang the door,’ she says, as I close it behind me. Quietly, for once, to keep her off my case. Round the side of the house and across the courtyard, pass the old stables, where the Kidz Klub meets. Not going to it this summer. I’ve decided. Even if Mum wants me to. I know she only liked me to go cos it kept me ‘out of her hair’. Stupid thing to say. As if I’d want to be in her hair.

  The tower looks strong and safe. That’s why it was built. For the family who lived here to hide from bad stuff and to keep watch. Just like me.

  Mum doesn’t like me coming in here. Dad knows that but he doesn’t tell on me. He even helped me with the ladder, so I can get up to the flat bit. You could go even higher in the olden days, Dad says. It’s not safe now. I’m not allowed to go up there. Nobody is. So it’s a perfect place to hide things. Like clothes covered in dirt and blood.

  Get them off as quick as I can. Once the door’s barred. I bundle them into a tight ball and throw. They go up in the air. Then separate and float back down. The shirt swoops and lands on my face. Yuk! Snatch it off. Quick! Roll them into a tight sausage and throw harder. This time they fly up and kind of wait there, hanging in mid-air. Get ready to catch them and keep them off my face. The shorts land on the ledge and disappear, but the shirt opens like a bird spreading its wings and hangs in the air for a second. Then it drifts down again. Need to weigh it with something. That’s why the shorts were easier. They’ve still got some ammunition in the pocket. Shouldn’t have been throwing that stuff about. Forgot. Anyway, they’ve gone. I don’t need to worry about them any more.

  I pick a stone out of the wall by the door where it’s crumbling a bit. Wrap it in the shirt and throw. Up it goes. Then the stone comes out and keeps flying. Hear it landing on the ledge with a clatter. The shirt’s going to come down again. It snags on the edge. Flaps a bit in the draught. I wait, with my hands ready to catch it. It’s stuck. Not up, not down, just hanging there, red and brown with the dead guy’s blood.

  Maybe I could climb up and get it. If I wasn’t sore everywhere and scared of falling.

  I climb the ladder and lean out towards the shirt. No way. Can’t reach it. Need a long stick or a brush maybe, one of Joyce’s.

  I go back down the ladder. On the first level there’s a kind of platform thing that I can walk on. That’s where I have my den. Mum says it’s too dangerous, but Dad says grown men have walked on that ledge for centuries and it hasn’t collapsed yet. He says if I’m careful, it’s okay. Just don’t tell Mum. As if.

  There are four windows. Well, not windows. Glass wasn’t invented in those days. Holes in the wall. Spyholes. For seeing out. To watch for enemies.

  23

  Paris

  Catherine’s mobile rings as she’s going down the escalator into the Métro. She slips the silky rope handles of her carrier bags onto her right arm and unzips her handbag. Since the day she had her wallet stolen she keeps her bag zipped closed at all times. Even here, on a moving escalator, she’s not comfortable with her bag open. Any one of the passengers streaming past on her left could rob her and be gone down the tunnel before she could react. She puts her fingers into the little pocket where she keeps her phone and takes it out, clutching her unzipped bag close to her body. Sebastien’s name is on her screen. Sebastien’s calling! Fumbling like an idiot she slides her fingertip across the screen to accept the call and raises the phone to her ear.

  It stops ringing.

  ‘Damn. Damn. Damn.’ The woman in front of her turns round and gives her a curious look, which Catherine ignores. ‘Damn,’ she says again, defiantly.

  Was she too slow to answer? Or did the signal die as the moving staircase takes her way below street level? She checks the icon. No signal.

  Catherine takes a step to her left and runs down the remaining stairs, not caring who she bumps or jostles as she passes. When the last metal stair flattens and disappears underground, she steps off and hurries over to the up escalator. Cursing her high heels, she runs past her fellow passengers until a group of tourists block her path, standing two abreast and laughing noisily.

  Catherine mutters an apology and squeezes past.

  ‘I told you, John. Parisians are the rudest people on the planet,’ says a voice that sounds uncannily like the Queen.

  The tourists laugh but Catherine doesn’t care. She’s got to get this call. ‘Come on, come on,’ she mutters as someone else steps into her path. Have these people no idea of etiquette?

  She sees a patch of sky and pale grey buildings with their little wrought-iron balconies. Cars and taxis honk at each other and at pedestrians foolish enough to jaywalk on the Champs-Elysées. At last she’s free to cross the broad pavement and find a space against a wall where she can stand, out of the crowds. She selects ‘Recents’ and taps Sebastien’s name. Praying he’ll answer, she clasps the phone to her ear and raises her eyes in supplication. On the top of the Arc de Triomphe tiny people stand looking down, as if they’re watching her. The phone rings and rings. Suddenly, ‘Hello?’

  Catherine checks her screen. It says Sebastien. No mistake.

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘Hello? Sebastien?’ Stupid thing to say but she can’t help herself.

  ‘No, sorry. You don’t know me. My name’s Jen Wilson.’ The woman is speaking English, but her accent is not one that Catherine has ever heard before.

  There’s a pause and she has no idea what to say to fill it.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Is there anybody there?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Catherine, hesitantly. ‘I’m here. I’m Sebastien’s mother. May I speak to him please?’

  ‘Sorry. He’s no here. Jist me. I’ve got his phone.’

  Clearly. But why?

  ‘It wis lyin in oor field.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘The phone. In oor field. I found it when I went oot to bring the kye in for milkin. I’m surprised it’s even workin. But I sat it on the Aga for a while to dry it oot, right enough.’

  Catherine has no idea what on earth the woman is talking about. ‘I see,’ she says, although she doesn’t.

  ‘The battery wis flat. We had to go into Dumfries yesterday to buy a charger an that. It’s been plugged in for hours and see? Now it’s sorted. I was going to hand it in to the polis, but my man says they’ll jist keep it. A nice phone like that.’

  ‘Is Sebastien there, please?’

  ‘Nup. He’s away. As far as I ken, anyway.’

  ‘He’s away? Far?’ It was all she could make out.

  ‘Aye. I mean, yes. Where are you?’

  ‘Paris. I’m in Paris.’

  ‘Paris, you say. Very nice. Never been tae Paris. Well, that’s tricky.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For getting the phone to your son.’

  ‘My son’s not here.’

  ‘Oh, right. Is he still away hiking?’

  Catherine doesn’t know what to say. Sebastien should have started his holiday job by now, but she has no idea where that is. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Hiking. Why was he in your field, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘He was camping. Gave us a right laugh, I can tell ye. We watched him climbing the gate.’ The woman laughs, as if she can’t resist. ‘We ken that’s Bob the Bull’s field, but your boy didnae.’ She laughs again. ‘Oh Jeez, you should have seen him. Running for his life, like one of yon Olympic sprinters. Auld Bob would never hurt a soul, big docile lump that he is. But your boy jumped that five-bar gate like the
hounds of hell were on his heels. We were having a cuppa in a wee patch of sunshine at the front of the farmhouse. Oh, the laugh we had.’

  Catherine can picture the scene and she smiles, despite herself. The woman’s laughter is infectious. ‘Was he okay?’

  ‘He was fine. His pride was wounded, maybe, but he could see the funny side. We don’t usually encourage folk wandering into our fields. We had a crowd of hippies one year, in the field beside the burn, and we could not get rid of them. But your boy, Seb, you could tell he was different. My man went out and showed him where he could pitch his tent, near the house, and I handed him out a wee bit of dinner and a mug of milk once he got himself organised. He’s a lovely young man. A real credit to you.’

  Catherine finds she’s getting used to the accent, enough to understand that these good people have been kind to her son and are now being kind to her. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘No bother. We fair took to him, my man and me.’

  Not a clue what that means but it sounds warm and complimentary, so Catherine thanks the woman again.

  ‘Och, my goodness, what’s a shower and a wee bite of breakfast to us? We’ve eggs galore. We were sorry to see him go.’

  Not as sorry as I was, Catherine thinks.

  ‘Anyway,’ says the woman, suddenly business-like, ‘how are we going to get Seb’s phone back to him?’

  Seb. It’s years now since he asked to be called Seb. She refused, insisting on using his given name, even when he went to high school and everyone called him Seb. Same with her refusal to eat informally some nights at the breakfast bar in the kitchen or on the balcony. No, no, it had to be the dining room table in the evenings. Why was she always so determined to do things her way?

  ‘Hello? Are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry, yes,’ says Catherine. ‘I was thinking. Would you mind sending it here? We’ll pay for the postage, of course.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. You give me your address and I’ll get the phone away to you, first class. I’ll put the charger thing in too. It’s no use to us.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘Aye, well, don’t believe everything you hear about the Scots.’

  Catherine gives the woman her address and offers once more to cover her expenses.

  ‘Indeed you will not. I’ll be offended. Hang on a wee minute, my husband wants to say something.’

  Catherine hears a deep, gruff voice in the background, his accent even thicker than his wife’s.

  ‘Aye, Wullie here says, will ye do us a favour?’

  ‘Certainly. Anything.’

  ‘Tell that boy he’s never to pass our door without lookin in.’

  24

  Ayrshire, Scotland

  Arran’s so clear today, I can see the houses from here. The ferry’s half-way across, leaving a trail of white water. Wish I was on the boat to Arran or anywhere.

  It’s very quiet. Tranquil, that’s what Dad always calls it. Unless Joyce is singing. She’s not in a singing mood today. Maybe because she’s got to go to the doctors. Hope she’s okay. Don’t want any more people dying.

  Back to school tomorrow. This is a teacher training day. One time, on a training day, they had a meeting about me. I heard Miss Lawson whispering it to Mrs Hall when she came in to borrow some felt tips.

  I was sure I’d be sorted for going back to school tomorrow. Now I’m not sure I will. My plan backfired on me and I’ve got an even worse secret to keep.

  I hear Dad’s voice down below in the courtyard. Can see him from Spyhole Number 4. He’s on his mobile. He looks up from his phone and smiles. Not at me. He doesn’t know I’m up here. That’s what’s so good about this place. I see and hear loads of stuff and no one ever knows I’m watching.

  Dad walks forward, his arms open, as if he’s going to give someone a hug. ‘Natalie! Great to see you again. Welcome back.’

  Natalie steps into Dad’s hug. She looks different from last summer. Something’s changed, maybe the colour of her hair. She looks even more beautiful. Same smile that lights up her whole face. Thought nothing could make me feel happy again, but Natalie’s smile helps.

  ‘Let’s get everyone rounded up,’ says Dad, his Jolly Joe voice booming up to me. ‘Once we make sure no one’s missing, we’ll give them the tour. You know the place as well as I do, Natalie. Maybe you should be the one showing the new staff round.’

  Natalie giggles, like a wee girl. Miss Lawson says laughter’s like a bug, you get it from other people. For a second, I catch the giggles from Natalie. Then she stops and I remember I’ve got nothing to laugh about.

  I need to catch Dad on his own. Maybe get him to come in here. But that shirt’s still dangling there. If I waste any more time trying to hide it, I’ll miss Dad. Got to go. Can sort it later.

  I reverse carefully down the ladder and take one last look back up. It’s flapping there, like a blood-stained flag after a battle. Kind of taunting me.

  I take the wood bar off the door and open it just wide enough to peep out. Don’t like anybody to see me coming in or out. Coast’s almost clear. I wait till Dad disappears back into the house and step out, closing the door behind me.

  ‘Charlie!’

  I feel my face going pink.

  ‘Do you still do hugs?’

  Nod.

  ‘Not too grown up?’

  I smile and Natalie hugs me. Too tight for my sore ribs. I make a kind of groaning noise. Natalie holds my shoulders and leans down a bit. She takes my cap off and looks into my eyes. Her face is all hopeful. I look away.

  ‘It’s great to see you again, Charlie,’ she says, handing me my cap. ‘I’ve been looking forward to spending some time with you this summer. Look at you, you’ve got so tall.’

  Why do adults say that kind of stuff? Kids don’t go around telling them they’ve got so fat. Or so old. It’s a stupid thing to say.

  At least Natalie doesn’t do that thing to my hair. That head-rubbing, hair ruffling thing a lot of them do. I stick my cap back on in case she’s thinking about it and nod, cos it’s rude not to answer. Even though it wasn’t a question. Anyway, I’m only about two inches taller than last year. Mum measures me all the time, like she’s worried I’m going to be a dwarf or something. So it’s a really stupid thing for Natalie to say. I just stand there with my arms by my sides.

  ‘Listen, Charlie, we’ll have a chat soon.’

  Did she really say that? Natalie of all people?

  ‘Once I’ve got settled in, eh? Speaking of which, I’d better go. Your dad wants us all in the café for a welcome meeting. Then he’s going to do the tour. You coming to Kidz Klub this year?’

  Wasn’t planning to. But she’s so full of fun, she makes me want to go along. I do a kind of shrug thing with my shoulders.

  ‘Excellent. You’re such a good help to me. Don’t know what I’d have done without you last year. After Joe left.’

  I liked Joe. Not sure why he left before the end of the summer. But Natalie made me her second-in-command for the last week and we had loads of fun.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got to run. Here’s the boss. Will you pop into the playbarn later and help me remember where everything is?’

  Of course I will. I’d do anything for her.

  Dad’s heading for the café. Doing that striding thing. Taking huge giant steps. I run to catch up but I’ve got to kind of jog alongside, he’s going so fast. I catch his arm. Make him slow down. He frowns at me. ‘What is it, Charlie?’

  I tug on his arm till he stops. Got to tell him.

  Dad pulls his arm away from me and sorts the papers he’s carrying. ‘What’s up?’ He can’t be bothered with me.

  How do you tell your dad there’s a dead boy buried on the hillside?

  I tug on his sleeve, pulling his arm. He drops his papers. He sighs, really loud, and bends to pick them up. I try to help and he says, ‘Don’t mix them up. You’ve caused enough trouble.’

  He shuffles his paper
s, putting them back in order. Without looking at me he says, ‘Sorry, Charlie, didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just, can’t this wait? See, I’ve got to go and brief the summer staff and I’m already running late.’

  He looks at my face for an answer. I pull on his arm again.

  ‘Son, I’m really busy right now. Can’t this wait?’

  Before I can stop it, a great big tear runs down my face, but Dad doesn’t even notice.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, shifting his papers so he can put his arm round my shoulders. I want to cuddle into his side, but he starts walking. Taking me with him. ‘Let’s go meet the new staff. You’ll see Natalie.’

  I pull my cap down a bit. Don’t want Natalie to see me crying or wiping my eyes every time a tear pops out. Can hear people in the café. Laughing. Natalie’s giggle and a deeper laugh that I don’t recognise.

  Dad pushes the door open and walks in ahead of me. Three people are sitting at a table, their backs to us. Natalie and the two new guys I’ve never met before.

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ says Dad, in his boss voice. I stay behind him and sit on a chair at a different table, keeping my head down so Natalie won’t see my face, all blotchy from crying. She’ll think I’m a baby.

  ‘Welcome to Brackenbrae,’ says Dad. ‘This won’t be formal, don’t worry. Just a chance to get to know each other and the campsite.’ I’ve heard all this before; so many times I could do the welcome talk myself. Unique setting, blah blah. Offering something different, blah blah. Austerity, blah. Staycation, blah. Glamping, yurts, eco-camping, biomass energy blah-de-blah-de-blah. Usually I switch off, think about football or something. Interesting stuff. Not today. Today I’m concentrating on every word he’s saying. To keep my mind off the guy in the grave. I’m going to tell Dad, the first chance I get.

  ‘Right, Natalie, you’re an old hand so you can go first. Tell these new guys a bit about yourself, and bring me and Charlie here up to date at the same time. If you want to mention what a great place this is to work and what a good boss you’ve got, that will be fine by me.’