Those who broke the boy: The Sons of Charlemagne Book One

by Richard Hathway

  To get to the house I had to cross the gravel driveway. The crunch beneath my feet seemed to echo off everything like the boom from a three-inch world war two anti-aircraft gun announcing my arrival. I stepped as lightly as I could, keeping my torch pointed downwards to see my way and avoid lighting the sky like the searchlights used to pin point the gun’s targets. After what seemed like an eternity of creeping across no-man’s land I reached enemy territory. The gravel of the driveway ran the length of the front side of the house. Past that the grounds were laid to lawn around the other three sides. My legs and back ached from the tension so once I was around the back of the house and onto soft, silent grass I took a moment to sit down and stretch out. I didn’t take long, I couldn’t afford to hang about. Keeping my torch pointing down I made my way along the back wall of the house, peering into the windows as I went. I couldn’t see anything and was beginning to feel that sting of defeat again when I got to the back door. It was a stable door, the flaking light blue paint bouncing torchlight back to me. I peered through the small window in the top half. Nothing. I remarked to myself that we had the same stable door leading from the garage into the back garden at home. The thought of this murderer having the same door as us made me angry. I didn’t want to have anything that he had. Even the most tenuous link to him made me feel sick. I wanted to smash his place up right there and then. I didn’t care about getting caught. I was going to make him pay for what he had done.

  “Do it.” The voice whispered in velvet command. “Actually fucking do something for once. What’s the point in being angry if you don’t do anything? You may as well just cower in your bed as fucking usual. He deserves it. Do it. Do it. DO IT!”

  I turned towards the garden and started to look for a large enough stone to smash his windows with. I shone the torch around wildly with none of my previous regard for anonymity. Light flashed across a rockery at the far end of the garden. Perfect. I strode with quick determination across the lawn, picked up a sizable stone and turned towards the house again. The stone was too large to hold in one hand so I had my torch in my mouth so as I moved towards the house the light bobbed up and down. As I neared the house the light moved up and down on the stable door. I stopped dead when I realised. This was the same stable door that we had at home. The very same. Our stable door wasn’t made to very exacting standards and sometimes the two halves didn’t close enough to line up the bolt and the staple of the lock. This meant you couldn’t lock the two halves together. My father had told me once it was to do with the tolerances for expansion and shrinkage of the wood being too small. I didn’t really know what he meant but he did know about wood so I believed he was right. What I did know, what hit me like a bullet to the brain right there and then, was that there was only a door frame lock on the top half of the door. if the two halves weren’t locked together the bottom half would just swing open. I stood for a moment and considered it. It had to be worth a go. I put the stone down on the grass next to the back door, wiped my hands on my trousers, took the torch from my mouth, took a deep breath and gave the bottom half of that flaking stable door a gentle push.

  It opened.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My aching legs protested as I crouched to get under the top half of the stable door. I shuffled through the doorway and found myself in the kitchen. I stood up and took in my surroundings. I didn’t want to shine the torch around too much so had it pointed at the floor. The wooden floor boards reflected enough light for me to see that the stable door was the only thing this kitchen had in common with mine at home. A marble worktop ran across the top of the huge expanses of cream cupboards. A central island rose in cream from the floor like an iceberg that had broken away from a glacier. The cabinets on the walls stood out against the green paint that had been used to bring something of the outside inside. Inside the glass fronted cabinets, I could see good quality plates and plenty of wine glasses of various sizes. A tall, double fridge hummed in the corner. It was so clean and tidy, everything had a place. There was no evidence of children living there, not even a hint of grandchildren. Our kitchen was a mess of washing up, miss-matched plates and mugs, even a few crappy drawings we had done at nursery stuck all skew wiffy on old, worn cabinet doors. The carpet in our kitchen was wearing thin in high traffic areas and most days the smell from the chip pan that sat permanently on the hob would permeate the room. This place was like a showroom. It smelt of lemon. I wondered if anything had ever been cooked in this place.

  I moved through the kitchen and onto the flagstones of the hallway. I had no idea where I was going, what I was looking for, what this brazen crime would yield. I knew if I was caught my life would be over and this spurred me on to try to make the most of being there. I probably wouldn’t get another chance to get inside the killer’s house so if there was evidence here I had to find it tonight. I stood in the hallway and assessed my options. To my immediate left was a dining room and past that was a front room, it’s windows opening on to the driveway. The very windows at which I had seen the girl. I disregarded the dining room and made for the front room. Flagstones gave way to bare boards. I stopped short and shone the torch across the floor. These were not the smart, stained and varnished boards of the kitchen. These floor boards were tatty and old. The rest of the room was smartly decorated in creams and cool yellows. Expensive looking paintings hung on the walls, two beautiful sofas lay against opposite walls with a long, low, dark wood coffee cable between them and yet the floor looked unfinished. As I moved into the room I shone my torch around the edges of the floor and, sure enough, I saw carpet tack strips up against the wall. The same strips I had seen the carpet fitter put down when we had had new carpet put in our front room. There had been a carpet in this room. Judging by the rest of the room I guessed it was probably cream and probably deep and fluffy. Exactly the sort of carpet it would be impossible to get blood stains out of. That’s why the police found nothing, the man had taken the carpet up! I walked over to the window and looked for any traces of blood. There were none. I looked out of the window, down the driveway and out across the hedge to the road. So, this was the last view she had before he had killed her. I was more determined than ever to find out what had happened in that house. I had to find evidence of who she was, what she was doing here, and what had been done with her. I went back to the hallway. Straight across from the front room was what looked like a study. Perfect. If there was going to be any evidence it would be there. I crossed the hallway quickly and into the study. I felt the welcome silence of the dark blue carpet beneath my feet. I noticed that the walls were festooned with pictures of the man shaking hands with different people in different places. I didn’t recognise any of them but every one of them held the same fixed smile that the man wore.

  I sat at the desk. For a brief moment, I marvelled at how comfortable the chair was, I could do with one of these for doing my homework. Unsurprisingly the desk was a large dark wooden affair. Three deep drawers at each end and a solid top inlayed with a swooping carving around the edge. A further, slim, shallow drawer lay underneath the top. This was the only drawer that was locked. I went through the other drawers first but found nothing of note. Bills, invitations to dinners, scribblings for a book about Colonel Blood and a diary filled with appointments about nursing home budgets and parking meters. I pulled at the slim drawer but it didn’t open. I considered breaking it open but that would be very noisy and sure to get me caught. Even if I found damning evidence of murder in there I would be apprehended before I had a chance to use it. I sat back in the very comfortable chair and thought. I thought hard. There was clear evidence of the carpet being removed but that wasn’t enough. I had broken into someone’s house and had nothing to show for it. I swung around in the swivel chair and caught my knee on the corner of one of the deep drawers. I managed to stifle my involuntary vocalisation and catch the metal desk lamp that was wobbling and threatening to crash down onto the desk top. As I grabbed the lamp something fell from the underside of the ba
se. I carefully placed the lamp back in its rightful place and picked up the piece of card. It was a business card but had no name on it. On one side was a crest of some sort with an address and a phone number. The address was on Blackboy Hill, here in Bristol. On the reverse of the card was hand written “#16354298”. This had to be significant, why would he hide it under a lamp otherwise? I decided to take it with me. I didn’t know what it meant, even if it meant anything, but it was the best I had. I pocketed the card and, checking for signs of movement, slid back through the hallway and kitchen and ducked under the stable door into the cool night air. The adrenaline that had been carrying me through my criminal endeavour was beginning to wane and I suddenly felt exhausted and terrified. I pulled the kitchen door back into place and turned to leave before spotting the stone I had taken from the rockery. As I carried it back up the garden I considered how the voice had almost cost me dearly. I had to get him under control if I was going to see this through. I quietly placed the stone back amongst the others and left. The crunch of the gravel under foot was as loud as ever but I took longer strides, determined to get away without detection. I turned the torch off so I cut a shadowy figure as I rounded the hedge onto Grove Road and jogged off into Arbutus Drive.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first day of school after the summer holidays is always a tough one. Getting three children from bed to out the door requires a well-oiled family machine. Every cog must know it’s role and its timings precisely or a gasket blows somewhere and the whole thing explodes. After six weeks of holiday the machine is rusty, the calibration is off and the machinist is out of practice. Our machinist shouted at us to hurry up and stop arguing over who was using the bathroom next. She sharply reminded us that if we had put our uniforms away when asked six weeks ago, we would know where our school shoes were. My sister and I fended for ourselves whilst mother helped our younger brother get ready for his first day of big school. I felt the stiff constraint of shirt and tie close around my neck as she told my brother that everything was going to be alright, he would enjoy it, all his friends from infant’s school would be there. More by luck than judgement by seven fifteen we were all ready, if not prepared.

  Downstairs my father was making Ready Brek for everyone, the slightly cardboard smell of it had wafted up the stairs as we scrabbled around for books and pens. We sat around the dining table, in silence, ate our breakfast and dutifully cleared away our bowls and spoons. My mother told me to take my hand out of my pocket when I was at the table, I hadn’t realised I was clutching the card from under the man’s desk lamp in my trouser pocket.

  My sister and I left at seven thirty to walk to the bus stop a few streets away. We walked side by side but in silence. Neither of us was fully awake and didn’t want to waste precious energy on their annoying sibling. We got on pretty well but all brothers and sisters are annoying at some point, aren’t they? The love you have for them never fades but your tolerance of them sometimes does. The first day of school was one of those times. So, we walked in silence. At the bottom of our road we turned down Westbury Lane before crossing the road for the short stretch of Compton drive. On a day when you were running late Compton Drive was where you could see your day fall apart. It was a short road that ran between the parallel hills of Westbury Lane and Sylvan Way. The bus to school went down Sylvan Way. If you were late you would see the green and yellow double decker flash past the end of Compton drive and you knew you were sunk. There was only ever about six people on the bus stop at the bottom of the hill and most of them were kids with bus passes who just showed the driver and got on. The bus was never stationary long enough to run down Compton Drive, make the tight turn onto Sylvan Way and get to the bottom of the hill to catch the bus. I had run as fast as I could one day the previous term when I was late. I was quick, second fastest in my year at the hundred metres, so I went for it. By the end of Compton Drive I had so much speed I understeered through the corner onto Sylvan Way and was almost on the other side of the road before I started turning back. I guess I was lucky not to get knocked over that morning. I kept my foot in though, determined to make it, to dispel the myth. I pumped my legs and ignored the burning in my throat and chest and powered down the hill towards the waiting prize. I was about twenty feet away when the bus started pulling away. My closing speed was good though and I made it to the doors as the bus was beginning to get up to speed. The driver didn’t even look at me, he just kept on driving. I saw the laughing faces of my friends pass by as I stood, panting and angry. Maybe the driver knew something I didn’t or maybe he was just a wanker but him not stopping turned out to be a good call when I started throwing up Ready Brek all over the pavement. No kid wants to be known as the porridge puker. When you’d missed the number twenty-eight from Coombe Dingle you had to walk through to Sea Mills square, a mile away, and get a number twenty-seven. That bus didn’t come until eight fifteen and took a different, longer route to Bedminster so a trip on the number twenty-seven was a trip to a late mark on the register. Three late marks meant detention so it was to be avoided if at all possible.

  On that first day of school my sister and I were on time. We walked in silence to the bus stop and once there stood in more silence. The other kids on the bus stop all went to our school but we didn’t know them, they were in different years. Garret was in the year below me and Harry was in the year above me but they were both driven to school. My sister and I had friends that we would see on the bus so the silence was just a prelude to the fun, like the quietening of an audience before a show.

  I had put the business card in the left inside pocket of my blazer but kept reaching for it to make sure it was still there. I must have looked like an anxious traveller constantly checking he had his passport at an airport. For reasons I couldn’t fully explain I needed to have it with me. I felt it was an important clue, even if I didn’t understand it yet. I couldn’t risk it being lost or destroyed so I had kept it with me since that night.

  The bus appeared over the hill and we all reached for passes or loose change and shuffled into a shabby queue. The fat kid at the front of the queue stopped shovelling cola cubes into his mouth just long enough to put his hand out and our transport back to algebra and tectonic plates pulled to a stop. I got on and sat with my school mates. I called them my school mates because I only saw them at school. I never saw them at the weekend or in the holidays because I had the boys in Coombe Dingle. It wasn’t really that I favoured one group over the other, though if I’m honest I’d have picked the boys every time over my school mates. It was more that I saw my school mates as part of a different life, a different me. It’s difficult to explain but if the school me was orange squash, the real me that I was with the boys was like the concentrated cordial. School me was still me but diluted to suit a broader taste spectrum. My school mates were undoubtedly doing the same so the friendship between us was always going to be a bit watery. Nevertheless, we got on well and had fun together. Safe, diluted fun but it was still fun. On the bus, they were all chattering away about what they’d done over the summer, holidays they’d been on, all the usual stuff. I joined in briefly, my story about the keg hitting the dog got a lot of laughs, but I wasn’t part of the show this time. I was a distracted audience member half watching it all happen in front of me. I kept thinking about the only thing that had happened that summer that meant anything. The one story I couldn’t tell, the one thing that according to the police hadn’t happened. I felt for the business card in my blazer pocket, sat back in the corner seat of the back row of the number twenty-eight and stared out of the window.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The first day of the autumn term always started with a church service. After registration, the entire school, over a thousand children and all teachers and support staff, would de camp to St. Mary Redcliffe church. There wasn’t enough seating to accommodate everyone, a reminder of how big the school was that it could overflow in one of Bristol’s biggest churches. At every service, Christmas, Easter and the
start of term, one unlucky year had to spend over two hours standing, or perching on the cold stone of the tombs that lay on the perimeter. The advantage of being on the outskirts was that you couldn’t hear the droning of the service, and no teachers wanted to stand for that long, so there was a little freedom for whispering and eating sweets. On the downside, you were sure of aching for the rest of the day after a few hours standing in a cold church, now and again briefly resting a third of your arse on the very edge of a cold marble chest tomb for some long dead benefactor of that dreary place. On that day, my year was spared the outlands and so, after registration and the slow march up the hill, I found myself sat in a thin pew about three quarters of the way back from the front. At least it was warm that day, coats were not permitted for the service as they obscured the school badge on the boys’ blazers and girls’ jumpers. I never understood the logic as it was only school people there but I sense it was more about control than image. I was second in from the end of the pew that led into the central aisle. Seated at the end three pews further forward, on the opposite side of the central aisle, was Mrs Wigram. She was a slim, small German woman in her early thirties. She had hair like Toyah Wilcox and the angular face to go with it. She carried herself with the self-assurance of a pop star and lit up any classroom she was in. Her Geography classes, for some reason she didn’t teach any German classes, were fun and a bit loud and rebellious and we loved her for that. What the boys loved more though was her body. Mrs Wigram wore a pair of low heels that gave enough shape to her calf, drawing the eye up the pedal pushers that clung to her thighs and framed her perfect arse. She was careful never to wear a top that hung below the waist, no point covering an asset. Underneath the jacket with the sleeves rolled up, she wore the least she could get away with. Vest tops that seemed a size too big so they hung loose and afforded a tantalising glimpse of breast and bra as she deliberately leaned on the desk to talk to you. She knew exactly what she was doing, she did it to the male teachers as well. I was glad to see her so close, her arse would give me something to focus on every time we had to stand for a hymn.