One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  They all laugh when Natalie says, ‘Nothing like fishing for compliments, Boss.’

  Dad gives a kind of cough. Like he’s pretending to be embarrassed.

  ‘You’re right, though,’ says Natalie. ‘Brackenbrae is a lovely place to work. I mean, look at that view.’

  I know without looking she’ll be pointing to the window that Mum and Dad argued over for weeks the winter before last. Dad wanted to put new glass in the old frame. ‘Keeping the character’ he always calls it. Mum was determined they needed to ‘capitalise on our best assets’. She won. Weeks later, a gigantic lorry arrived, with a crane and everything, and a huge pane of glass was set into the old stone. Turned the whole wall into a window, but it closed the café for half the summer.

  Natalie and Dad sound like they’re giving a geography lesson. Talking about Arran and Ailsa Craig. The bird colony. The curling stones. Although it’s not his turn to speak, one of the new guys interrupts. Miss Lawson tells us off for that. He tells us his name is Pim. Keeps asking questions. Showing off, Miss Lawson calls it.

  ‘What species of birds, please, and is it true that Ailsa Craig granite makes the best curling stones in the world?’ What a geek. The other one doesn’t speak. Think I’ll like him better.

  I stare out at the scenery while Natalie tells us about herself. Arran’s gone all misty like it’s ready to disappear. I’ve heard Natalie’s story before but it’s not hard to listen again. She’s got a nice voice. She tells us she’s wanted to be a teacher since she was five years old. That she used to line up her dollies and teddies and teach them.

  ‘It’s my passion,’ she says. I can tell she means it. ‘I can’t wait to qualify and get started.’

  Want to peep round Dad and watch her. But I don’t. In case she says, ‘Oh, Charlie. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I love being here, organising Kidz Klub. Best job in the world. Thanks for having me back, Boss.’ She stops talking and the café goes quiet. Except for Big Mark banging saucepans through the back.

  ‘I should like to go next, please,’ says Pim.

  He would.

  He tells us he’s from the Netherlands, but we can say Holland if we find it easier to remember. Tells us a load of stuff about himself. Bor-ing. I stop listening for a while. But then I start to worry and feel sick again, so I tune back in to take my mind off it. He’s still showing off. Claiming he speaks fifty languages. Or maybe it was fifteen. Still don’t believe him. When he says he’s here to work on reception and in the bar, so he can improve his English, Natalie groans loudly.

  ‘Come off it, Pim,’ she says. ‘I was born here and your English is already better than mine.’

  ‘Yes, but that is understandable. You are Scottish. The language here is not the same as the proper Oxford English which I have studied.’

  Can’t resist a quick look at Natalie.

  She spreads her hands and raises her eyebrows but she’s looking at the other new guy.

  Dad says, ‘Thanks, Pim. Well, that just leaves you, Sebastien.’

  25

  He clears his throat, ready to say something, though he’s not sure what, when the boss says, ‘Sorry, hang on a minute. I forgot someone.’ He leans back in his chair so they can all see the kid sitting behind him. A boy, small and slight, who looks about ten. No one’s ever gonna make a rugby player out of this kid, that’s for sure. His head is down as if he’s sulking about something and his face is hidden under the skip of a baseball cap that looks far too big for him. The boy doesn’t want to be here and he’s making it obvious. He lifts a hand to swipe at his eyes. Poor little sod. Young enough to cry but old enough to feel embarrassed about it – a shit stage, but every boy has to go through it.

  ‘Everyone, please meet Charlie.’

  The boy sits staring at his feet, as if he’s just discovered them at the end of his legs. He does not respond or react in any way to his father’s words.

  In a patronising voice that would annoy any self-respecting kid, the boss says, ‘Charlie’s my son and my right-hand man.’ The boy doesn’t look up, even when his father says, ‘Smile, Charlie.’

  ‘Actually, Boss, he’s my right-hand man,’ says Natalie, as if she’s trying to lighten things up. ‘My second-in-command, aren’t you, Charlie?’

  Charlie’s ears flush crimson and it’s hard not to feel even more sympathy for him. He’s clearly got a crush on Natalie.

  She says, ‘Charlie’s a great help in the summer holidays. Wait till you guys see.’

  There’s still no reaction from the boy other than his chin turning a deep pink that matches his ears.

  Everyone seems to wait a moment to let the child say hi or something but he’s either in a really bad mood or tongue-tied with embarrassment. Maybe both.

  The boss gives them all a wave and announces, ‘Charlie says hi. You guys will get to know him later. He’s a great kid.’

  No wonder he’s got issues if they treat him like a moron all the time. The atmosphere is awkward and it’s hard to know what to do next.

  ‘Hello, Charlie,’ says Pim. ‘I am very pleased to meet you and looking forward to becoming your friend.’

  The kid doesn’t look up. Probably avoiding eye contact, thinking the last thing he wants to be is Pim’s pal. Who can blame him?

  Natalie comes to the rescue.

  ‘Charlie’s great fun once you get to know him, just a bit shy. But hey, I’m dying to hear about Seb.’

  ‘You’re right, Natalie. Time we heard what the swimming champ has to say for himself.’

  ‘Euh, ok,’ he says quietly, hoping he sounds at least a little bit French. ‘Hi, everybody.’ He raises his hand in a mock salute and reminds himself to smile. Make them like you so they don’t hate you. His motto in life. Handed down by his father. The only advice he ever got from the man. He speaks slowly and carefully. Partly so he can concentrate on what he says and how he says it, partly to fill the time and to hide the fact that he’s got nothing to say about ‘himself’.

  ‘I’m Sebastien, pronounced say-bass-tee-ang, but please call me Seb, it’s much easier.’ They laugh. He turns to Natalie, exaggerating the French intonation. ‘I thought we could be Seb and Nat? Better for the children? But then I say to myself, Natalie’s such a pretty name, you may not want to shorten it. It’s French, oui?’ Might as well find out what he’s up against here.

  ‘Aye, I mean, oui, it’s French, but not because of any family tie or cultural connection, sorry.’ Natalie wrinkles her nose. ‘Apparently, it was the name of a character in a book my mum was reading when she was in labour.’

  ‘You do not speak French then?’ he asks, his fingers crossed, trying his hardest to sound credibly French himself.

  Natalie looks at him as if he’s the most stupid person she’s ever met. ‘Of course I do.’

  He holds his breath, sure he’s going to be tested and found wanting, again.

  ‘Hors d’oeuvres, crème caramel, joie de vivre, déjà vu, aperitif.’ She stops for a moment, obviously thinking, then starts again, ‘Bon appétit, eau de cologne, boutique, croissant, baguette, souvenir, bon voyage.’

  ‘Enough,’ says the boss, with a groan. ‘We get it.’

  They all laugh, apart from the boy, of course, and Pim. ‘What about you, Pim?’ asks Gus. ‘Is French not one of your languages?’

  ‘At school, I tended in my studies to focus on English and German. Now, at university, I am learning Spanish and Mandarin Chinese – these are the most widely spoken languages in the world. Much more useful than French. No disrespect intended.’

  ‘None taken, my friend,’ he says, sending Nat a sly smile. ‘Well, I’m French, but my accent isn’t too strong because my father worked all over the world and I tend to pick up whatever I hear around me.’

  ‘Well, in that case, it’ll no be long till you pick up a great glottal stop, pal,’ says Nat, her Scottish accent suddenly so much broader than before.

  ‘I have no idea what a “glottal stop” is.’
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br />   ‘The glottal stop is a consonant formed by the audible release of the airstream after complete closure of the glottis,’ says Pim.

  ‘Are you for real?’ says Natalie, shaking her head.

  ‘Yes, of course. I am merely sharing with you the definition we were taught in phonetics. The glottal stop is a plosive created by complete closure and then opening of the glottis, which is part of the larynx. The symbol for this sound is a sort of question mark.’

  ‘Thanks, Pim,’ says the boss, ‘very interesting, but I think we should move on and hear a bit more about Seb here.’

  Damn, it was handy letting Pim fill the time with his drivel.

  ‘I thought you sounded a bit South African,’ says Natalie. ‘When I first met you, that is, but now I can hear the French coming through. Much nicer accent.’

  ‘Well spotted, Nat. Yes, I lived in South Africa for a number of years.’

  ‘Ah, do you speak Afrikaans?’ says Pim.

  Afrikaans. Dutch. Not much difference, some would say. This could be tricky. ‘Nah, not really.’ He does but the more general he can keep all this stuff, the easier it will be. ‘A few phrases, here and there. Do you, Pim?’

  ‘No, but since it is largely based on Flemish, Dutch and German, I imagine I could learn it very quickly.’

  ‘No need for that. We’re both here to improve our English, no?’ He turns to the girl. ‘Anyway, Nat, you’re right. I’m French by birth. I’ve been living in France for some time – the south, Toulouse, and then Paris.’

  ‘I am not fond of the French,’ says Pim. ‘Especially Parisians. They are very rude people, in my experience.’

  The Dutchman’s starting to get on his nerves; plus no self-respecting Frenchman would let anyone get away with that remark. He can’t let it go and seem credible.

  ‘Hey, who asked you, buddy?’ It comes out harsher than he intended and in his own normal voice.

  Chair legs scrape on the floor with a screech that makes Nat cover her ears. The kid’s on his feet.

  Gus sees the boy’s face. Sees the boy staring at him, recognising him.

  He waits for the kid to point an accusing finger and say, ‘That’s him, Dad. That’s the guy I was telling you about. The one who shot the hiker then made me bury the body.’

  Gus’s head is filled with a noise that no one else in the room seems to hear. He thinks back to the beating he gave this kid, who suddenly looks much smaller and more vulnerable than before. Gus wonders, for the first time, how badly he hurt the little boy and prays it was enough to make him say nothing.

  Gus contemplates getting to his feet, making some excuse to leave, when suddenly, like a startled animal, the kid turns and runs. Out the café door and gone.

  ‘Well, I wonder what that’s all about?’ says the boss, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘Hormones, probably,’ says Nat.

  ‘Already? He’s not even twelve.’

  ‘That’s about right. Primary Seven it usually kicks in. Sometimes sooner.’

  ‘My god, I thought we’d years to go before we hit all that stuff.’

  ‘Children grow up very fast these days,’ says Pim.

  ‘I suppose they do. Even Charlie,’ the boss says, with something like regret. ‘Actually, it’s just as well he’s gone.’ He nods at Natalie. ‘It will give us a chance to explain about his condition.’

  Gus hopes the ‘condition’ is not one that will be made worse by a kicking or he could be in even more trouble than he ever thought possible. He wonders if he can get to his room and grab his stuff without bumping into the kid. He needs to get away from here and head for London or Birmingham, Glasgow even, any big city where he can disappear. But he has to be fast. Before the kid tells his dad and the cops arrive, looking for him. And a dead guy.

  26

  ‘Right,’ says the boss, looking at his watch. ‘Time’s marching on.’ He gathers his papers and says, ‘Let’s show you around Brackenbrae. We can talk about Charlie as we go.’

  ‘Prepare to fall in love, boys,’ says Natalie. ‘This has got to be one of the ten most beautiful places in the world.’

  ‘I think, Natalie, you must be hyperbolising. What about Petra and New Zealand and Victoria Falls and–’

  ‘Och, shut up, Pim,’ says Natalie, with a smile that guarantees she’ll be forgiven. Gus and the boss exchange a look. It’s clear that Natalie has voiced what they were all thinking.

  As they walk across the ‘original cobblestones’ of the courtyard, the boss recites figures and facts about Brackenbrae. The old stone buildings are thought to have been erected as early as the late-thirteenth century by the Kennedys of Carrick, a powerful family who ruled over much of Southwest Scotland. The Ayrshire coastline is dotted with castles, most now, like Brackenbrae’s tower, fallen into a state of disrepair.

  Gus’s brain can’t focus on historical stuff, even on a normal day, and he zones out. All he can think about is how quickly he can get to the dorm, grab his stuff and get out of here. It was crazy to think he could pull off a stunt like this. He should have stuck to his original plan and dumped the dead guy’s bag – by this time tomorrow it would have been in landfill somewhere. Gone forever. Like its owner.

  Gus should have disappeared, got far away from here while he had the chance. While he was just a random, passing stranger that no one could possibly identify. Least of all a traumatised kid.

  He could be in England by now. Heading for a city full of immigrants, with lots of little businesses happy to take on a guy with his build. No questions asked, no papers needed.

  Or he could have sent out an emergency message on Facebook. A call for help. Maybe he could still ask everyone he knows to send him some money so he can buy the cheapest ticket home. Or anywhere. He could even go back to France. As long as he gets out of the UK.

  The boss doesn’t give Gus much chance to consider his options in peace. It’s obvious he expects a reaction to every little detail he tells them about his business. He seems to be waiting for Gus to say something. He smiles, nods, and tries to pay attention. No point in causing suspicion.

  They hear how the boss spotted the tower from the main road one day and came to investigate. How he bought the whole place for next to nothing because no one else could see the value in a derelict tower with a few humble barns and dwellings around it. His eyes burn with commitment as he shares his dream: that one day Brackenbrae will be in all the good travel guides as an upmarket holiday destination on the beautiful Ayrshire coast.

  ‘It is already very highly rated on Trip Planner,’ says Pim. ‘Every comment is a positive one. I took the liberty of checking before I took this job.’

  Natalie nudges Gus in the ribs. When he looks at her she rolls her eyes.

  ‘Unfortunately, there are only a few comments. Is that because you are not generating enough business?’

  ‘Does this guy not know when to stop?’ whispers Natalie.

  The boss coughs and shuffles his feet a little. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head there, Pim. We’re up against it with that huge place along the road.’

  ‘Two, in fact. I could not help noticing a second place for large caravans. Both with access to the beach.’

  ‘Seriously, Pim?’ says Natalie. ‘Can I get you a shovel? Help you with that hole you’re digging?’

  Like a flashback in a movie, complete with an explosion effect, the dead guy looms in front of Gus for a nanosecond then disappears. Gus feels for the barn wall to steady himself, then leans against it. Natalie notices and touches his arm.

  ‘You okay, Seb?’ she asks gently.

  He pushes away from the wall, fighting the adrenaline-like after-effects of whatever just hit him. ‘Yeah, it’s cool. Didn’t sleep too well last night. That’s all.’

  ‘If you’re nervous about working here, there’s no need. Trust me. You’ll love it.’

  The boss is explaining his business plan, telling them how he plans to erect tipis and build safari houses. Expand the place by develo
ping Phase Five and adding value to the property.

  ‘Don’t forget the posh pods,’ says Natalie. ‘I think they sound brilliant. En suites and everything. Now that’s what I call glamping. It’s going to go astral, this business. You’ll see. Keep the faith, Boss.’

  The boss rubs at his cheek, the skin moving under his hand. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Wish the locals were as enthusiastic as you. The application for the tipis has been blocked by the council. “There’ll be nae wigwams here,” was the comment from one councillor apparently. “Whit dae they think they’re playin at? Cowboys and Indians?” That’s the mentality we’re dealing with.’

  This is a man under pressure. A man with more worries than he can count. He’s not going to be looking for anything else to add to his stress. What if the kid hasn’t told him yet about what happened on the hill?

  Maybe if Gus sticks around and does a good job for a while, keeping an eye on the kid, he can get away with this.

  He’s busy telling himself not to be crazy, the only solution is to run for it, asap, when he hears Natalie say, ‘Don’t you think you should tell the guys about Charlie, Boss? Before we bump into him and there’s a misunderstanding?’

  ‘You’re right, Natalie. Thanks.’

  The boss gives a throat-clearing cough and Gus wonders what’s coming.

  ‘Charlie doesn’t speak. At all. That’s it in a nutshell.’

  Pim strokes his thin, patchy beard. ‘He is muted?’

  Natalie laughs. ‘Mute, Pim. We say, “mute” not “muted” – that’s only for televisions, not people.’

  Pim looks puzzled.

  Gus is desperate to know more but is scared to ask. He waits.

  ‘Well, he’s not mute, Natalie,’ says the boss. ‘Not really. Is he?’ It’s surprising how vulnerable the man sounds and how he seems to be deferring to Natalie.

  Natalie shakes her head. ‘By the way, mute is a term best avoided, Pim. It can cause offence.’

  The boss inhales noisily, as if it will be an effort to explain. ‘Charlie has what they call traumatic mutism. As far as we know.’