by Neil White
‘Why did you stop? You’ve never really said.’
He regained some of his age and smiled, the lines around his eyes creasing back into life.
‘I wasn’t good enough. Simple as that. Enjoying it wasn’t enough for the clubs. I didn’t mind that. They weren’t there for my fun. They were there to build winning teams and mould young talent into football stars, ready to sell on to keep the cash drawer full. I thought I might have improved, but I stayed average and just got slower. I had dreamt of playing in the top flight, walking out at Old Trafford, looking into the shadows of the stands and seeing the ghosts of the greats, but passion isn’t enough.’ He smiled at me. ‘And then I met your mother and got tired of being away. I didn’t try as hard, wanted other things than a football career. You came along and I got to hate being away.’ He smiled, almost embarrassed. ‘I wanted to watch you grow up, so when my contract ended, I didn’t try to renew it.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘I don’t think I was going to get an offer anyway. I came to Turners Fold and joined the police.’
I blinked away an itch in my eye. ‘Any regrets?’ I asked.
He looked wistful. ‘Maybe that I’d been born with a better right foot, but I’m happy with the way things have turned out.’
He came out of the reverie and looked at me direct. Some fire had returned to his eyes. ‘Why are you writing this feature on David Watts?’ he asked.
My eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve told you. It’s because of the shootings. There aren’t many Premiership stars with British passports these days, so the paper wants the home-grown boy angle. I worked out an exclusive.’
‘Is that what you see when you look at David Watts? A Lancashire lad made good?’
I nodded. ‘Sometimes. It’s nice to know that we’re the same, deep down. He’s just a better footballer than me, that’s all.’ I shrugged. ‘The paper wants to humanise him, thinks it will be a good angle on the shootings, make it even more tragic.’
‘And because his face will sell the paper, especially with the shootings.’ My dad looked scornful when he said it.
I didn’t respond. My job was to write stories so that papers would sell. No point in trying to hide from it.
My dad sat back, looking up at the ceiling. ‘Do you want the real story about David Watts? None of this anecdotal crap you’ve been collecting?’
I cocked my head, surprised. ‘Depends on what you’ve got. If it doesn’t fit into the story, it won’t go in.’
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Forget the paper. What I have is real news, a story that has never been told. And someone needs to tell it.’
I regarded him closely. He looked passionate, bursting with something to say. I had nothing to lose by listening.
‘Okay, go on.’
He sat forward. ‘If you want to write a story about David Watts, if you want a real story, go back over ten years ago, to the night before he left town. That’s where you’ll find the real David Watts.’
‘Why?’ I asked cautiously.
‘You won’t name me as your source?’
‘No way.’
He stared at me hard in the eye. His look became angry, contemptuous, but he was contained, as if he was considering his words. He had one last wrestle with his conscience, and then said, slowly, deliberately, ‘David Watts is a murderer. A murderer and a rapist.’
She was at the window, her room in darkness, looking out over Liverpool. The lights from the street below seemed to brighten up the hotel, but the area was quiet, the office workers long gone home.
She looked down and saw the rifle propped against the wall. She knew she would have to be quick this time. Everyone was jumpy about the shootings. This would be the most difficult one so far. The shot would echo around her room and around her floor in the hotel. She reckoned on having two minutes before people worked out where the shot had come from. If she wasn’t out of her room by then, she would be in trouble.
The fire escape was only a couple of doors down. She was going to ignore that. If security got in a rush and headed to her room, she’d see them on the way down. She was going to wait for the lift. Once in there, she was okay. She didn’t think they’d be able to react fast enough to be waiting there, not expecting a calm exit that way, so she’d just rush out of the front door with her bag over her shoulder. Her car was parked away from the hotel, further along the waterfront, so she was going to cross the street and head for the river. She would sink into the shadows, and once in her car she would head out of town fast. She had done dummy runs, and she thought she could take the shot, dismantle the gun, and get to the lift in a minute. If she got unlucky with the lift, she got unlucky, but in every practice run she’d never waited more than forty-five seconds. It would be tight, but she thought she could do it.
But now it was time to call David Watts.
I didn’t respond at first. I was sure I must have misheard him.
He kept his stare. ‘You heard it right.’
I laughed nervously and then let the silence grow. I thought he was joking, but I knew my father, and glib comments weren’t his style.
A few more seconds passed, and then I said, ‘You need hard evidence before you say things like that.’
‘Get a recording machine. I know you’ve got one. I’ll give you the evidence, my evidence, right now.’
I paused for a moment. Whatever story there was, I didn’t want my father to be the source. But rapist and murderer? I dismissed it. You can’t keep things like that quiet. But then I thought about how serious he looked. And I liked the fire in his eyes, an excitement I hadn’t seen in years.
I did as he said and went upstairs to get my voice recorder. Before I came down again, I paused, wondering if this was really happening. I had a quiet sense of excitement, wondering what was going to come out. I looked down at my hands and saw a slight tremble.
When I came down again, he was pacing in front of the fireplace. I put the recorder on the table, clicked it on.
‘Tell me what you know.’
He stopped pacing and put his hands on his hips. He took a deep breath and then started to tell me the tale.
‘I was on nights, as ever, just driving around, checking that everything was all right. We didn’t always go down by the high school, but school had just finished for the summer, and the place is a magnet when it’s closed down. I drove down the side of the football fields and ended up at the bottom of Victoria Park. There was nothing happening, so I was just turning the car around when I caught her in the headlight beam.’
‘Who?’
‘A girl called Annie Paxman.’ He looked sad. ‘Really sweet girl, if you ask the people who knew her. Same school year as David.’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘She was on the floor in front of the aviary. Her dress was pulled up around her waist and ripped across her chest, with a scarf around her neck. She was dead. Hadn’t been dead long, but she was past the point of being saved.’
‘What had happened?’
I’d guessed the answer from what he’d said before, but I had to ask.
‘David Watts,’ he said, his voice rich with contempt. ‘Your hometown hero had raped her, on a stone floor overlooking the town, like he was collecting his last trophy. Once he’d done with her, he killed her, strangled her to keep her quiet.’
I exhaled loudly. The story bounced around my head, somehow unreal. It took me a few moments to regain my thoughts.
‘Why haven’t I heard of this?’ I asked. ‘I’d remember a dead girl at the aviary.’
‘You were away at university. I don’t think I saw much of you then.’
‘Tell me more,’ I said. ‘I’m here now.’
My dad sat back down in the chair and sighed, and I watched him roll back the years.
‘There’d been a party at a farm,’ he started. ‘Bailey’s farm.’
I nodded that I knew it.
‘The party was for David Watts because he was leaving town the next day, off to start his football career, but it seemed
like half the high school was there.’ He shrugged. ‘Just kids and a few parents. Everyone behaved themselves, but David was drinking like he was trying to flush out the town before he left.’
‘So who was Annie Paxman?’
He sat back and put his hands behind his head. ‘I suppose the prettiest girl in the school, if that matters for anything. Her problem was that she was the only person in town who didn’t see that. She wasn’t from a wealthy family, and she didn’t hang around with the in-crowd. She was one of the few black kids in school, but I don’t suppose that mattered too much either. She went to school, worked hard, and made her parents proud. Had an offer of a place at Leeds University studying law. She was dark and skinny and bright and shy, eyes like frantic fireflies. But she didn’t sleep around. She was a good girl.’
‘She was a challenge.’
‘That’s right,’ Dad said, pointing. ‘A challenge for the high-school hero. And David Watts wins at everything, that’s the rule.’ He paused for breath, and then, ‘So Annie’s at this party, and she has to go. She hadn’t planned on staying out late, and was about to call her dad to pick her up, according to witnesses, when David offered to walk her home.’ My dad looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘David always got the girl. Another rule. He was good-looking, he was the local football star, and whatever David wanted, he got. He wanted Annie Paxman. And he wanted her because no one else had had her. As soon as she agreed to let him walk her home, he had the green light.’
He shook his head and took a drink.
‘No one saw them leave. But he wouldn’t have needed long, just enough time to walk her half the way home, try it on, get refused, and then lose his temper. Next thing anyone knows is that David doesn’t look good, he’s got his head in his hands and is looking all emotional. People put it down to the beer and the fact that he was leaving town and someone took him home. No one knew that Annie Paxman was dead on the park floor.’
‘How do you know David Watts did it?’
He looked at me. I saw certainty in his eyes, a resolve.
‘Because I saw him, running away across the fields,’ he said. ‘He was a hundred yards away. I couldn’t have caught him, but I knew it was him.’
‘At night, from that far away?’
He nodded. ‘I know what a defence lawyer would make of that, and I suppose the prosecution would agree, but that kid was going to be the next big thing. I’m an ex-player. I had watched him, studied his every movement, the way he ran, the way he kicked a ball, the way he held himself. So when I saw him running, I knew damn well who it was.
‘It was brutal. When I found her, her clothes had been ripped apart and her heels were raw as she’d thrashed against the floor. The scarf had come loose, but I could see the mark around her neck where it had been pulled tight. There were fingernail gouges in her skin where she’d tried to get her fingers underneath. There were deep fingernail gouges on her legs, on the inside of her thighs, where he’d forced her.’
I didn’t know what to say. No one in London knew about this, not even as a whisper.
‘Had you missed him by much?’ I asked, coughing lightly.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He must have seen me coming down the track by the fields.’
‘What’s your theory?’
He grimaced. ‘It’s a timeless tale, but I suppose he thought she would do whatever he asked, and because he was drunk, he didn’t listen to what she wanted. She struggled, so he fought harder, and then when it had all finished, with Annie screaming rape, crying and upset, he sees his football career disappearing like sand running through his fingers. He panics and grapples with her. She struggles, fights back, but he’s too strong. Before he has time to think straight, she’s dead.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s pretty much it. The prisons are full of that kind of story. David Watts wasn’t the first. He won’t be the last.’
I stood up and walked to the window. I felt the need to see some daylight. I saw dusk was settling in, the sky turning lilac as the sun disappeared somewhere towards Blackpool.
No sound came from my father now. But that couldn’t have been the end of the story. I turned around.
‘What happened to her family?’ I asked. ‘Are they still in Turners Fold?’
My dad shook his head. ‘No, they left.’ He looked down. ‘I went to the Paxman house after a month, just to see how they were doing. I spoke to Annie’s dad. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were red and heavy, and his skin looked drawn. I didn’t see her mum. He thanked me for everything the police had done, but said they were leaving town.’
‘Did he say why?’
He shook his head. ‘Not really, but he didn’t need to. He just couldn’t stand to be in the same town any more.’
‘Did they know about David Watts?’
My father gave out a joyless laugh. ‘This is the part I find hardest to take.’
‘He was arrested, though, wasn’t he? I mean, his knees would be scratched and scuffed, right, maybe scratches on his face?’
Dad looked at the floor. ‘We let him go.’
‘What?’
He nodded. ‘That’s a whole different story.’
I got the feeling I was getting to the worst part.
TWENTY-TWO
He ignored the telephone. He tried to sit it out. It would only be the press, or Karen. He could do without her bending his ear right now. He’d turned off the answer machine when there had been another message from the reporter, so it just rang out, each ring cranking his mood upwards. He clamped his hands over his ears and growled.
He felt hollow, his eyes heavy. He needed some coke, needed something to lift him.
He gritted his teeth and tried to last out the rings. But whoever was at the other end wasn’t letting up. He got up and marched over to the phone, stepping over a couple of empty beer cans on the floor. He snapped up the receiver and barked, ‘Yeah?’
‘David, I thought you’d never pick up.’
It was her. It had gone round in his head, that same metallic distortion, the disguised tones emotionless, but soft and seductive at the same time, mocking him, unpicking his seams all day like soft flicks with a knife. He went to sit down, his legs suddenly weak. His stomach turned over and he fought back an urge to scream.
‘What do you want?’ he answered, his voice quiet and creaky.
‘Liverpool tonight. Tottenham are staying at the Crowne Plaza. When they arrive, I shoot. It’s your choice, David.’
He swallowed, his mouth dry.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Call Radio Five and confess. If you do it, I’ll fade away.’ There was a small laugh. ‘If you’re feeling brave, call the police in Liverpool. Tell them I’m looking at the hotel now. If I hear the sirens, I’ll know. But give your name. If they ever catch me, they’ll know all about you, so you might as well get your version in first.’
David started to get angry and his grip on the receiver tightened.
‘Look, you bitch, do you know who you are fucking with?’
There was a click, and then a hollow silence.
His hand dropped away. He felt helpless, sick. He looked around the room, but it was like looking through water. He was out of focus, off-kilter. Then he began to feel a seething rage. It welled up inside him, moving through his body, until his grip on the telephone turned his knuckles white and he bared his teeth in an angry snarl. His eyes went wide, his nose screwed up and red.
He screamed and smashed the telephone hard against the coffee table. It didn’t break, so he did it again, and again, until his knuckles were torn and bloody, the receiver a tangle of plastic and wires. He stood up and kicked the table, and then hurled the telephone against the opposite wall. It smashed on impact.
He stood there panting, his rage subsiding. As it left him, he began to shake. He felt his insides churn and cold sweat crackled over his forehead. He sat down with a heavy thump and put his head back. The room seemed to spin s
o he gripped the chair and concentrated hard on getting calm.
He felt himself even out, the room slow down. Then he remembered the phone he had in his pocket, the one given to him by the American.
He turned it on. He scrolled through to the address book and pressed dial on the only number programmed into it, his fingers shaking as he did so. It rang only once before he heard the cold, clear voice of the American say hello.
‘It’s David.’
There was silence.
‘It’s David. Are you there?’
A small laugh. ‘Yes, I’m here, Mr Watts. Have you got something to tell me?’
‘No, well, yes.’ He was breathing heavily. ‘I’ve just had a call from that crazy bitch. She says she’s going to shoot some more players tonight.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Watts. I’ll start work tonight.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m on my way to Turners Fold.’ A pause. David could almost hear the smile. ‘Sounds like a nice part of the world.’
‘But she’s not in Turners Fold. She’s in Liverpool.’ He sounded desperate, his voice high and frantic.
‘But the trail starts there, Mr Watts. Don’t worry. I’ll find her. It’s my job.’
And then the line went dead.
He looked at his phone in disbelief. He’d been cut off twice now. He wasn’t used to this. If he went somewhere, people jumped for him. It was how he lived. In charge. At the top.
He put his head in his hands. Why had everything gone so wrong so quickly? He rocked lightly and gripped his hair in his hands. He tried hard to stay rational and consider his options.
He could do as she said. Call the police in Liverpool and tell them to stop the coach.
He shook his head. That was no good. All roads would then lead to him and she might still be bullshitting, riding pillion to the real psycho out there.
He took his head out of hands, wincing into the light. Patience. That was all he had left. If he could just sit out the night and nothing happened in Liverpool, he’d know it was bullshit and he could forget about her. He could call off the American, make a goodwill payment, and then just forget about it all.
