One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  Natalie seems keen to help him explain. ‘See, he used to speak, quite normally, and then he stopped. All of a sudden, when he was about six or seven.’ She looks at their boss. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  The boss nods. ‘Yeah, just before he turned seven.’

  ‘What happened?’ asks Pim. Gus is grateful for the Dutchman’s lack of tact.

  ‘We don’t know, Pim. Not exactly.’

  It’s obvious from the man’s tone and his body language that he doesn’t want to talk about it. This is the best news Gus has ever had in his life, but he needs more details.

  He hopes Pim will be too thick or insensitive to read the signs. Sure enough.

  ‘Will he speak again?’

  ‘We prefer to believe it’s temporary, Pim. In Charlie’s case,’ says the boss, his voice upbeat. ‘So we treat him as normal and we ask that you do the same. Be kind to him, be patient with him and, above all, don’t get angry with him, please.’

  ‘Well, of course not,’ says Pim. ‘I imagine that would be back-setting for the boy.’

  The boss, to his credit, laughs and gives Pim a friendly clap on the shoulder. ‘You’re right. That would set him back.’ He turns to look at Gus, then Pim. ‘So, guys, even if you find his lack of communication irritating, please don’t show Charlie you’re annoyed or impatient with him.’

  Annoyed or impatient, thinks Gus. Bit late for that. He just gave this kid a front row demonstration of full-on ‘roid rage’. That should be enough to set him back alright.

  ‘Apart from that,’ says the boss, ‘the main thing is, don’t expect a response from him. Apart from nodding.’

  Gus remembers the boy nodding. Desperately. Poor little sod. Terrified and not able to say a word to stop the beating. Still, all to the good, by the sound of things. Gus can hardly believe his luck.

  He’s still sick about what happened. As in sick, ready to vomit. Even more so since he recognised the kid. But it’s happened. There’s nothing he can do to change that fact.

  Sure, he might have done things differently, if he’d had more time to think. If he’d been on his own. But having that kid there made things a thousand times worse. If the fuckin’ kid hadn’t been wandering around with a gun, none of this would have happened in the first place.

  So why should Gus run away?

  In any case, running now would look very suspicious. It might spark a manhunt for Sebastien Lamar. That’s the last thing Gus wants.

  ‘Feel free to have a lie-in tomorrow morning,’ says the boss. ‘It may be your last for some time. I’m a real slave-driver.’

  Natalie nudges Gus. ‘Don’t listen to him. The man’s a pussy cat.’

  This is a luckier break than he deserves. Gus decides to stay.

  27

  Wednesday 30 May

  Glad it’s a school day today. Don’t want to bump into that Sebastien guy. Stayed inside the house this morning till Mum started the engine. Then ran out and jumped in. Like a bank robber in his getaway car.

  Mum seemed surprised. Usually she has to keep shouting my name. She hasn’t worked out yet that I wait till she shouts, ‘Charlie. Come ON. We’re late.’ Same pattern every morning. We’re never late.

  It’s not that I don’t like going to school. School’s fine. Just prefer to get there when the bell’s ringing. Enough time to get out the car and run for the line. Not keen on hanging about.

  When I start the Academy, I’m planning on being late every morning. Not very late, just a minute or two. To avoid the bullies in their hunting ground.

  Easy for me to go in late. Nobody ever expects an explanation. Pretty sure it will be the same at the Academy. The teachers have all been told already that I’m coming in August. I’ll be on a list with the kids that can’t read yet, like Jayden Jeffries, and the ones with allergies, like Simon, who nearly died in Primary Two because nobody knew he was allergic to nuts and the teacher gave out mini-Snickers to everybody who got full marks. Now we don’t get prizes, just stupid stickers and certificates. The teachers all know we’d rather have sweeties, but it’s not allowed. Can’t have peanut butter sandwiches in our lunch boxes either, in case we breathe on Simon and he dies.

  That makes me think of the dead guy again, for about the millionth time. Kept waking up last night, remembering. Mum came into my room, to tuck me in and say goodnight. I so wanted to tell her, but the words wouldn’t come. Now I’m worried I’ll never be able to talk again. All the experts have said I can talk, it’s just that I choose not to, at the moment. I’ve been believing that. Up till now.

  Robbie’s house goes past on the left-hand side. I try not to look, but it’s there. Always. Bits of wall, black and sooty. Bits of roof, like skinny skeleton bones, black too. Wish I could go back in time. Not to see gladiators or dinosaurs or any of that stuff. So I could stop what happened to Robbie and his mum and the wee baby.

  ‘Right, Charlie, jump out. Mind your lunch box and eat every scrap, please.’

  Get out slowly, trying not to hurt my sore bits. They’re worse today. Mum doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Bye-ee,’ she shouts as the car door shuts and she drives off. Bet she’s already thinking about something more important than me. I watch and wave, although she’s not looking. The car turns right. She didn’t tell me she was going into town. Again.

  First part of the day is assembly. Everyone, except me, sings a song and then the head teacher gives out ‘important information’. It’s usually boring stuff about remembering to bring back permission slips with a signature from whoever looks after us. One time, Jonny McCreadie had no permission slip and we all went to the pantomime without him. He had to stay behind with the crabbiest teacher. The one that doesn’t like pantos, or children.

  This morning it’s a little talk, with a PowerPoint about being kind to other people and not hurting anyone. I think they mean me. Wonder what would happen if I stood up right now. Everybody would look at me. Imagine if my voice came back with the whole school listening. Imagine if I said, ‘I can talk and I know where there’s a dead body buried.’ They’d all think I’m bonkers.

  After assembly we go to our classroom and work in groups. It’s language time. My group has to write a story about something interesting that happened at the weekend. Miss Lawson says a story is called an essay in the big school but we’re not to worry, it’s just a story with a fancy name.

  Copy the title from the Smart Board. The Long Weekend. Take a ruler and draw a neat line under the title. Put the ruler back in my pencil case.

  This is my chance. Could write it all down and then it won’t be my problem any more.

  Imagine Miss Lawson showing my story to the head teacher. The head teacher phoning Dad. ‘We’re a bit concerned about something Charlie’s written in a story. Can you please come in for a meeting?’

  28

  What a crap night’s sleep. Gus feels exhausted by everything that’s happened and wishes he could stay in bed. Even though the boss offered them all a bit of a lie-in, Gus doesn’t want to take the piss. He needs this job.

  He dreaded getting into bed last night. Was worried about lying there for hours, terrified to close his eyes in case the dead guy appeared. But all he remembers is hearing Pim fart, wondering if there was any chance of getting a room to himself and then nothing. Sweet merciful oblivion. Till two twenty-seven when he woke abruptly, had a second or two of not knowing where he was, then whammo! The face was back. The coppery hair, the blood.

  Gus got up, feeling like he might be sick, and went outside to use the campsite toilet block. The sky was clear and filled with stars. He stopped in the courtyard and gazed up at them. He’d never believed in heaven, but suddenly he was filled with a hope that the guy he’d shot might be up there, having a great time. Poor bastard deserved better than lying out there on that hillside. Gus shivered. There was a pale icing of frost on the roof slates. Or was it a trick of the moonlight?

  In the fresh, cool air his nausea passed, and he hurried back
to bed, keen to grab a few more hours’ sleep. But his feet were cold and he couldn’t get comfortable in the narrow bed.

  Pim was snoring. An owl was hooting in the distance. Then, as he got drowsy and closed his eyes, whammo! Wide awake again. He tried desperately to think of something else. Anything but the dead guy. The one who should be lying in this bed right now.

  The rest of the night he’d done his best to stay awake. He was as tired as he’d be after a mega training session, but he daren’t let his eyes close. He imagined the dead guy hovering beside his bed. Watching his eyelids, waiting for them to drop, so he could rear up and make Gus shoot him again and again.

  At one point he’d heard a baby crying, somewhere, plaintive, distraught. He couldn’t understand how any mother, or father, could sleep through that. Then the sound changed, and he remembered some talk of feral cats that came round in the night.

  Now it’s morning and he needs to make a move. He pushes up on one elbow and looks across at the other bed. It’s empty, made up perfect as a barrack bunk, as if no one’s ever slept in it. Pim must be up already and have gone to work.

  He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits there with his head in his hands till he hears the door open.

  ‘Good morning, Seb. I have brought you coffee.’

  Seb. That means him.

  ‘Hey, thanks, Pim. You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘You’re right. I don’t have to do this, but Nat suggested it. How could I say no?’

  Gus takes the cup. ‘Well, thanks anyway, mate. Appreciate it. You been up long?’

  Pim consults a large watch. ‘One hour and thirty-seven, no, thirty-eight minutes.’

  Gus sighs. This guy could be hard work for a whole summer. Especially sharing a room. ‘Yeah, I was kinda looking more for a rough guess as an answer, you know?’

  ‘I prefer to be precise when at all possible. It is my way.’

  ‘Great.’ Gus raises the mug in a toast. He slurps at the coffee. It’s hot and strong. ‘Thanks, buddy,’ he says. ‘Hey, was I asleep when you got up?’

  ‘Well, of course, I did not look closely to check, but yes, I think so. Before my ablutions, I did seven sun salutations. It is my morning routine.’

  ‘Great,’ Gus mutters again. Well, either the guy was very quiet, or Gus has been in a deep sleep. That’s good. At four o’clock this morning he feared he might never sleep again.

  ‘I must go back to work now. Please return the mug to the café.’

  ‘Sure thing. If you see Nat, will you tell her I’m on my way?’

  He finds Nat in the playbarn, rubber-gloved and surrounded by a dust cloud.

  Gus coughs and waves a hand in front of his face. ‘Isn’t there some health and safety law against this?’

  ‘Och, shut up. I get enough of that shit on teaching practice. Grab a duster and get going. Didn’t expect to see you this early. Our esteemed employer said we could have a lie-in this morning.’

  ‘I prefer to be early.’

  ‘Well, don’t go making a habit of it. You’ll only make the rest of us look bad.’

  ‘Excuse me, but where does it say in my contract that you’re my supervisor?’ Gus frowns and tilts his face so she’ll know he’s kidding.

  ‘It doesn’t, but I’ve worked with guys before and in my experience, they require strong leadership.’

  ‘Hey, hang on. That’s a bit sexist.’

  Nat grins at him. ‘Prove me wrong.’ She throws him a duster, which he catches at the top of its arc. ‘Fast reactions,’ she says, nodding.

  ‘Not always a good thing,’ says Gus, thinking of that trigger he pulled yesterday.

  ‘Hey, smile! I’m impressed. Now let’s see if your dusting’s as good as your catching.’ She dangles a pair of pink rubber gloves in front of his face. ‘Marigolds? I’ve got a spare pair.’

  ‘Not my colour. Yellow, maybe. But pink? Not so much.’

  They work in silence for a while, Gus following Nat’s occasional instructions. He clears each shelf so she can dust and wipe it down. Then he replaces the piles of paper, boxes of paints, cartons of felt tips and they move on to the next.

  Half-way through a row of old cupboards, he decides it will be okay to ask the question. ‘What’s the deal with Charlie?’

  Nat stops dusting and looks at him. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I want to get it right. Poor little sod.’

  Nat smiles and he relaxes a bit.

  She reaches for her phone and checks it. ‘Yeah, near enough,’ she says. ‘Come on, I could use a break from all this dust. Let’s go over and see if Mark will make us a coffee.’

  The coffee’s rich and bitter, and Mark has a good line in banter, but Gus is glad when a buzzer goes off in the kitchen and the big chef disappears through the swing door.

  ‘So,’ says Nat, leaning forward to lean on the little table, her chin resting in her hand. ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard about kids like him. Never met one though. I’d hate to get it wrong and make things worse.’

  Nat shakes her head. ‘I don’t think there’s a chance you’ll make things worse, Seb.’

  The name jars but he knows he’s going to have to get used to it. Fast.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure. The fact that you’re taking the time to ask advice shows you’re a caring person. You wouldn’t hurt a kid if your life depended on it. I can tell.’

  Gus smiles, feeling like the world’s biggest hypocrite. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m a regular superhero. Now we’ve got that out of the way, are you gonna tell me about Charlie before this coffee break’s over? You sound as if you know a bit about the condition?’

  ‘I’ve been studying it for an optional project. I’ve got a five-thousand-word paper to write for the start of term. It’s fascinating. Some kids just stop talking.’

  ‘What did you call it? Something mutism?’

  ‘Traumatic mutism. That’s the official term. Something horrendous happens and the child closes in on himself. Or herself. Can’t speak about it and won’t speak about anything else. That’s very simplified, of course.’

  ‘Fine by me. I’m a pretty simple guy. Does anyone know what caused Charlie to clam up?’

  Nat grimaces at his choice of words. ‘His parents think it’s related to the death of a school friend. One day the boy was here playing with Charlie, the next, sadly, he was dead. His mother and baby brother too.’

  ‘How?’ asks Gus, hoping there was no gun involved.

  ‘A fire. Dodgy electricals, they think. All three died of smoke inhalation, apparently. Ghastly business.’

  ‘Charlie stopped speaking?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately.’

  ‘Double tragedy,’ says Gus, thinking the very opposite. ‘Will he ever be able to talk, do you think?’

  ‘He could talk right now, Seb,’ says Nat. ‘If he wanted. There’s no physiological reason that he can’t.’

  Her face is very serious. ‘I saw a wee girl with it last year. Similar situation. Her grandfather was driving her and her wee sister to school when he suffered a fatal heart attack at the wheel. Ploughed into a bus queue. It was carnage at the scene, I was told.’

  ‘Christ! What a thing to witness.’

  ‘Can you imagine anything so awful? For everyone concerned. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘And the girl won’t ever speak again?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid she won’t.’

  Gus thinks he sees tears in Natalie’s eyes. ‘What? Never? How can they tell?’

  ‘She died, Seb. She took her own life. Suicide at eleven.’

  There’s no doubt now about those tears. Gus touches her shoulder.

  Nat sniffs loudly. ‘Sorry, I can’t get my head round it. That’s why I’m determined to help Charlie.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘The best thing we can all do is talk to him, as much as we can. Especially if he seems comfortable with you.’
/>   ‘What do you mean by comfortable?’

  ‘Charlie seems to take to some folk and not others.’

  ‘Not sure he’ll take to me.’ The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

  ‘Oh, he will, Seb. He might not get Pim, but I’m certain you’ll be a hit. He just seems to like some people more than others. For example, he adores Joyce.’

  ‘He adores you even more, I imagine.’

  Nat smiles, as if she doesn’t want to take any credit for being adorable. Gus doesn’t doubt for one minute that Charlie loves her. Charlie and all the other kids she meets.

  ‘What do I do if Charlie doesn’t like me?’

  ‘Just carry on as normal. Talk to him as often as you can. He might act a bit weird, like he did yesterday, running off for no reason. But he’ll come around.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Gus, trying to sound sincere, ‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

  ‘You know what? I’ve got a feeling that, between the two of us, we’ll have Charlie speaking before the summer’s over.’

  29

  France

  Monday 4 June

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lamar. No sign of the post yet.’

  Catherine tries not to look devastated. The sad frown on the face of the young concierge tells her she’s failed.

  ‘I’ll bring your package right up the moment it’s delivered. Promise.’

  ‘Sorry, Adrien. I don’t mean to be a pest. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Not at all. With pleasure.’

  Catherine says goodbye and turns to wait for the lift. She looks at her watch. It’s only 10am. How will she get through another day if the parcel doesn’t arrive? Afraid she won’t, she decides to make a call to Scotland.

  Mrs Wilson answers with a cheery, ‘Hello, Dumfries 252971?’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Wilson. It’s Catherine Lamar, Sebastien’s mother. I’m wondering if you were able to post the phone?’