by Pat Young
Gus batters his forehead with his fist. Why did he keep the T-shirt all this time? Why didn’t he wash it, or burn it, or whatever? Get rid of it. Passport too. He was stupid to keep that, looking back. But he’d so little time and none of this crap was planned. He just reacted to situations as they happened. What else was he meant to do?
Anyway, it’s time now for some planning. Bit late, but still, damage limitation at the very least. Starting with Charlie and frightening the shit out of him.
53
Friday 27 July
I open the back door and feel the warm air on my face. Nice day, I think, then pow!
He must have been waiting for me. Had it planned. Knew Mum and Dad had a meeting in town. Knew Joyce had gone to start on the toilets. Knew Natalie was in the playbarn. Knew I was going at nine o’clock to help her. Probably even set that up.
The perfect trap. Set it and wait, like a spider.
He slams into me, using his weight like a wrestler to force me back inside.
His hand’s round my throat with his thumb pressing hard on one side, like he’s going to throttle me to death. Pushes me against the wall and lifts me by my chin till my legs are dangling. I kick out and he leans into me, so close I smell his body spray. He traps my legs so I can’t kick.
I punch at his shoulders, try to get his face but he’s too big, too strong, too old for me. I stop struggling, like a fly wrapped up in spider’s web.
He says, ‘Morning, Charlie,’ nicely, as if he’s just met me crossing the courtyard. He even smiles.
‘You know, all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never been inside your house. Looks lovely.’
Even if I want to nod, I can’t move my head.
‘Big house too. Lots of good places to hide stuff, I bet?’
Try to make my eyes stay still and not show any reaction. Want to swallow. My mouth is filling up with saliva, like at the dentist.
‘Bet you’ve got your own bedroom, eh? That must be nice.’
I smile a little bit and feel some spit dribbling down my chin.
‘That’s where we’ll start then.’ He lets go of my neck and I drop to the floor and stagger a bit. He catches my arms to keep me from falling over. ‘Steady,’ he says.
I stand there rubbing at my neck trying to work out what to do. Looking around the kitchen for a weapon I could use.
‘Lead the way,’ he says.
I have two choices: hit him with a frying pan or do as he says.
I lead the way. Out into the hall and up the stairs. Number six from the top creaks twice. Quietly for me and loudly for him. Stop outside my room. He nods at the door, telling me to go in, and shuts it behind him. I’m trapped again.
He looks around, as if he’s thinking about buying our house.
‘Very nice,’ he says. He points to my bed. ‘Is that the same red fleece you lost on the hill? It’s come up nicely, hasn’t it?’
I know how a fly feels as it waits for the spider to eat it.
He takes a step closer and leans in, watching my face. ‘You took something that belongs to me, I believe.’
Shake my head slowly, keeping my eyes on his. If you look away they know you’re lying. Jonny McCreadie told me that and his big brother’s in the army.
‘Okay, let me put it another way. You took something I had that belongs to someone else.’
Try to stare at him but my eyes keep looking at the window then back to his face then at the window.
‘Thought so,’ he says, as if I’m admitting to stealing his stuff. ‘Okay, then. This is quite simple, Charlie. You know what I’m looking for. Hand it back to me, right now, and you can go and help Natalie. Oh, I’ve told her we’ll both be a little late, by the way.’
I don’t move.
‘No?’ he says. ‘Alright. There’s another way. We can look together, but that will involve me trashing your lovely room, cos I don’t have much time, you see.’
He rips the fleece off my bed, then the cushions and the pillow. I try not to watch as he throws them and the duvet across the room and tears the sheet off. I grab at his arm, feel the muscles and realise how much damage he can do. To my house and to me.
‘Ah, you want to help after all?’ He laughs a pretend laugh, kind of nervous. Something about it tells me I’m not the only frightened one.
He heaves the mattress up like it weighs nothing. Then raises the whole bed, checks underneath then dumps it down with a bang.
He spots my desk and opens the top drawern. Pens and coloured pencils fly everywhere. He grabs a Tipp-Ex and throws it at me. I cringe and cover my head with my hands. He unzips my old pencil case and checks inside as if anyone would be stupid enough to try to hide a shirt in a thing like that. A colouring book skims past my face like a Frisbee and a couple of comics flutter to the carpet. He mutters the F-word and snatches at the handle of the second drawer. It pulls right out and lands at his feet. He kicks my stuff up in the air as if it’s rubbish then stands like a mad bull waiting to charge. He rummages through all the clothes in my chest of drawers, panting as if he’s in a race. His shaved head is all shiny and wet. I’m sweating too.
‘Get me a glass of water, Charlie.’
Can’t leave him alone for long in case he goes and looks in Mum’s room. I’d never get it back the way she likes it. She’d know if somebody has been in there.
‘Move!’
I run to the bathroom and fill the fancy glass my toothbrush sits in. Sure it tastes yucky but he doesn’t seem bothered. He drinks the lot and puts the glass down, his eyes fixed on something. The wardrobe.
He edges it out from the wall. Even for him it’s too heavy to move far. He peers in behind it.
‘Aha!’ he says, and tries to shove his arm into the space. It’s too muscly.
He looks at me, with a big false smile on his face. ‘Nice try, Charlie, but no cigar, I’m afraid, mate.’ The smile’s gone.
‘Get over here. Now stick your skinny little arm in there and get that out for me.’
Push my arm into the space, right up to my shoulder till my fingers touch the sheet of paper that’s stuck to the back of the wardrobe. Think about leaving it there but I know he’ll get it if I don’t.
Hand him the paper and start sorting my bed. Don’t want to watch him reading it.
‘A guarantee. Shit!’ He throws it away like a piece of rubbish. What did he think? I’d write a confession and hide it there.
He doesn’t look happy. I run for the door but he catches me by my sweatshirt. I give up right away so he lets go.
‘Charlie, it’s like this. I’m not going to be here much longer. I know you’ve got the passport and my T-shirt. You think they link me to the guy on the hill.’
Funny how he calls him ‘the guy on the hill’ as if he’s out there taking photos or enjoying a picnic. Not lying dead in a homemade grave. Shot and buried in half an hour. By us.
‘Now, surely you can understand why I feel a tad uncomfortable knowing you’ve got those things? How do I know you’re not going to take them to the cops the minute my back’s turned?’ He scratches the top of his head as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. I know it’s all an act.
‘Oh yes, now I remember. It’s because you can’t take them to the cops without them finding the gun and we know whose fingerprints are on the gun, don’t we, Charlie?’
Nod.
‘Maybe you think they’ll be washed off by now?’
He’s been reading my mind again.
‘Well, let me tell you, I’ve been checking, and they won’t. The oils from your grubby little paws will be on that gun for a long, long time.’
Know he’s right. I checked it too.
‘Something else I learned is that they can tell if a gun’s been fired. Anyway, we’ve talked about all this. You already know what happens if the gun gets found.’
Right again. But I still think it makes sense for me to have some evidence that proves he was there.
‘You probably think that stuf
f you stole from my room is some kind of evidence?’
How does he do that?
‘Well, it proves nothing. You can’t prove I took that passport and the blood on the T-shirt means nothing. So I got some guy’s blood on me? Big deal. I can say I had a fight with him the night before, in Ayr, when we were both drunk. Doesn’t make me a murderer, does it?’
He’s right.
‘But your clothes? Now that’s a different matter. Why would a boy like you have a dead man’s blood all over him? Why would your fingerprints be on the gun that killed him? Don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work that one out, eh, my dear Watson?’
He puts his arm round my shoulder, as if he’s my pal.
‘Here’s what I think you should do, Charlie. Because I think you need some friendly advice. I think you should get rid of all the “evidence” you’ve got.’
He makes his fingers draw little curls in the air when he says ‘evidence’.
‘Destroy it, for good. You know how to do that? The only way to do it?’
Shake my head, even though I do know because I’ve been doing some research of my own.
‘You burn it. That’s the only way. You can’t wash out blood. You have to burn the whole thing. So, here’s what I suggest. You take yourself off somewhere that no one will see you and you light a fire, just a little one, you don’t want to attract attention, and you burn your shorts and shirt and you burn my tee and then when you’ve got a nice little blaze going, you tear up that old passport you found and you feed it into the flames one page at a time.’
He makes it sound like fun.
‘Might even be fun, if you like fires. I do, but you won’t give me the stuff to burn, will you?’
No, I won’t.
‘Thought not. Well, I’ll just have to trust you to do it, won’t I?’
Nod, really hard, to show I mean it.
‘Because you know it’s the best thing for both of us, don’t you?’
I close my eyes.
‘Don’t you, Charlie?’
54
‘Charlie not here, Nat?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Thought he was supposed to be helping us?’
‘I thought that too. Want to give me a hand boxing up this paper?’
‘Sure thing. Listen, before he comes in, I just want to say, I think you’ve done a brilliant job with Charlie.’
Nat looks at him and smiles. ‘Oh, thanks, Seb. That’s really nice of you to say so. But I can’t take all the credit. You’ve been helping him too.’
If only she knew. ‘No, the credit’s all yours.’
‘Rubbish, you’ve built a great relationship with Charlie. That’s why he’s talking, I’m sure. He trusts us. He won’t talk in front of Joyce, you know.’
Interesting. ‘Won’t he? I’m surprised. Thought he likes Joyce.’
‘He does, but maybe he just doesn’t feel as comfortable with older people as he does with us. I think he relates better to younger people. His mum tells me he loved Miss Lawson, his P7 teacher and she’s really young.’
Shit. ‘Did he talk to her?’
‘Oh no, he won’t talk in that school. His behaviour is too patterned there, he’s comfortable, everyone accepts him as he is. But what a difference it will make to his life when he goes to high school. I think he’s terrified, you know.’
‘Yeah, I can tell he’s afraid of something. But listen, this speech thing, I don’t want to burst your bubble but he doesn’t say a whole helluva lot to me. Does he really speak to you? Like, normal talking?’
She blushes and Gus panics for a second, wondering what the kid might have told her.
‘Well, obviously I can’t take all the credit, you’re deeply involved with Charlie too.’
Get on with it, he wants to scream, desperate to know what the boy’s been saying, or more crucial, what he’s capable of saying.
‘Not sure how to tell you this.’
‘Come on, put me out of my misery.’
‘Okay, to be completely honest, he’s making sounds.’
Gus laughs and regrets it. ‘Sorry to laugh, Nat. But you made it sound like Charlie’s reciting Shakespeare and now you tell me he’s just making noises?’
‘Not noises. Sounds.’
‘There’s a difference?’
She’s getting pissed off. He can tell. Time for some sweet talk. He gives her his best smile. ‘I’m forgetting you know about this stuff. You’re gonna make a brilliant teacher. You care so much, don’t you?’
‘I do care. How could you not?’
Don’t answer that one.
‘Listen, Nat, I can’t tell you how much I want Charlie to speak again. For your sake, as well as his.’
‘I know you do. I’m sorry if I made it sound better than it is. But he has said one or two words. That’s a start, isn’t it?’ She clasps her hands and lifts them to cover her mouth. She reminds Gus of a Disney princess. ‘Oh, Seb,’ she says, ‘I’m very optimistic.’
‘Well, that’s great. You should be. You’ve worked really hard with him.’
‘You have too.’
Gus shrugs. ‘What words have you actually heard him say?’
She blushes again but this time it doesn’t spook him. No wonder she’s embarrassed, claiming the kid’s ‘talking’. What a load of bullshit.
‘He says “yes”.’
‘What else does he say?’ Gus realises, a beat too late, that this isn’t the right reaction. ‘Does he?’ he says, trying to sound amazed and impressed.
‘Isn’t that amazing? Are you impressed?’
‘I am. S isn’t the easiest letter to say, is it?’ A picture of Charlie comes into his mind, that day when he tried to force the kid to say sorry. It was like his tongue was paralysed and he couldn’t get the word out.
‘No, the s sound is a difficult one. I got three million results on the web when I went looking for advice. Some kids don’t master it till age seven, and some of them never.’
‘But Charlie’s got it? Well done, you.’
‘More like well done, Charlie. You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘You tell me.’
‘It means that he can say anything he wants, if he wants.’
‘If. Is that important?’
‘So important. Charlie chose not to speak, all those years ago, for whatever reason. It’s not that he can’t, it’s that he won’t. He’s just proved it. All he needs now is encouragement and there’ll be no shutting him up.’
55
Friday 3 August
‘Good morning, Brackenbrae Holiday Park. This is Pim speaking and I am at your service.’
Catherine wonders, while she waits for him to finish his spiel, how on earth Sebastien can stand working with this idiot.
‘How may I help you on this lovely day?’
She smiles as she imagines Sebastien telling them all about Pim. He does very funny impersonations and Pim sounds like an ideal candidate for ridicule.
‘Good morning. This is Catherine Lamar.’
‘Ah, Seb’s mother. How are you?’
The young man has remembered her. Catherine feels guilty for thinking mean thoughts of him.
‘I’m well, thank you, Pim. Just a little frustrated by my son. I don’t suppose you deal with the mail as part of your job, do you?’
‘Indeed I do. In fact, I am somewhat of a Johnny-All-Jobs.’
‘A Jack of all trades?’
‘Yes, that too. Do you have a specific reason for asking about the mail? If it is appropriate for me to answer your enquiry, I certainly shall endeavour to help you.’
‘Thank you. I sent Sebastien a new phone as a birthday gift. Do you know if he got it?’
‘Oh, I am so sorry.’
‘That it didn’t come?’
‘No. That it was Seb’s birthday and he did not mention it. I would have enjoyed the pleasure of buying him a pint of beer.’
It’s strange that Sebastien hasn’t told anyone about his b
irthday. He has always enjoyed his birthday. As a little boy he thought the special day was his alone and had been quite put out to learn he wasn’t the only one ever born on 9 June.
‘Did the parcel arrive?’
‘Certainly, a parcel came for Seb and, if my memory serves me correctly, the dimensions were similar to those of a mobile phone box. I hope that information is helpful to you?’
‘Yes, thank you. I wonder, could you please render me another small service?’ Why is she speaking like Pim? His verbosity must be infectious. ‘Can you ask him to use his new phone to call me, please? Tell him his mother’s getting frantic.’
‘Frenetic?’
‘Either one will do, as long as he gets the message. Thank you.’ She hangs up and scowls at Eric hovering in the bedroom doorway, knotting his tie.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work by now?’
‘Meeting clients at their hotel, Le Bristol.’
‘Very nice.’
‘So he got the phone? Why isn’t the little bugger calling us? Oh, don’t cry, darling. He’ll get round to it. Typical boy.’
‘That’s what my friends were saying. Boys never keep in touch. Girls, yes. Marie-Claude’s daughter calls her every day. That must be nice. Then again, Pauline says her son only gets in touch when he needs money. They say I shouldn’t worry, and that Sebastien is simply too busy working and having fun to think about his old mum. The consensus is that I need to chill out and get used to it before he disappears to university.’
Eric tilts his head and raises his eyebrows.
‘I’ll try, all right?’
56
Sunday 5 August
The phone’s been charging all night and now it’s decision time.
Seb’s mother’s ‘frenetic’, according to Pim, whatever the hell that means. Doesn’t sound good. He doesn’t want her doing something that blows his cover. Not when he’s got this close. The ticket’s bought and he’s good to go. One last wage packet to give him some spending money for the journey, a few goodbyes and he’s outta here.
