by Neil White
He checked his watch. She would be here soon. It was all moving too quickly. The girl didn’t seem ready to meet, but the time had to be now. It was what he had been told, that the end was close.
He closed his eyes for a moment as the memories of the night before came back. It was the arousal he was looking for, to make sure he didn’t back out. He could leave, he knew that. He was in a van, had wheels. He could drive away and keep going, because this wasn’t the ending he had planned. His ending had been so different, had all been for her, because love was like that. Sacrifice.
But he knew he wouldn’t do that. He’d gone too far. He’d been reminded of what he would miss and he knew he was too weak. He had always been too weak in relation to her. It was his soft spot, the churn in his stomach, the bounce in his step. He had tried to make it different, but she hadn’t wanted that.
He thought of Monica to keep him there. She had been the unexpected one, his treat, a deviation from the plan, and it had been all he had been promised. The feel of her hair in his hand, as soft as he expected, little crackles on his skin, just sparks he could feel. The fast rise of her breasts as she became scared.
His breathing quickened. That was his goal. His arousal kept him there. When it faded, the guilt came at him, almost too fast, like standing in front of a large wave, too powerful to control. He needed the passion to keep his nerve.
He opened his eyes and scanned the streets, making sure that no one was looking. This was the riskiest one. If the police had found out, they would be watching, because he’d given a time and a location. There was no one there. He had chosen a dead-end street, where he could see ahead along plain suburban houses that were far enough back from the road that the occupants wouldn’t notice him.
If they did, he was resigned to his fate. He would give himself up, allow himself to be taken. It was the right thing to do.
He wasn’t expecting the police though. Like all the rest, she kept the secrets, because he had some of hers. That was how it worked. Get the secrets and get the girl.
Then he saw her. She was there, walking towards him. Tall, gangly, her head down, her arms folded across her chest.
He flashed his headlights. She noticed and glanced upwards and then faltered. Don’t stop, he thought. She looked around, like he had told her. This was their secret. Keep watch.
She bent down to his open window and said hello.
‘I’m Billy’s dad,’ he said. ‘Did you get the message that I was collecting you?’
‘Yes, he mentioned it.’ She looked around again, nervous.
‘He’s excited about seeing you,’ he said.
She smiled, quick and nervous. He leaned across the passenger seat to open the van door.
‘Get in. We don’t want to keep Billy waiting,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘I’ve never met you before. It doesn’t seem right.’
‘Your family are being protective, that’s all, but you’re a big girl now. So come on, you’re old enough to make your own decisions.’
‘Yes, but, you know, it seems dangerous.’
‘Does Billy seem dangerous?’
‘Well, no. He seems nice.’
‘Do I seem dangerous? Is that what you’re saying?’
She looked flustered. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.’
‘So there you go.’ He patted the seat. ‘Come on. Do what you want to do, just for once.’
She paused for a moment, and then she climbed in. Her skirt rode up her legs, exposing her knees, her skinny thighs. She pulled at her skirt as he looked.
‘Did you do as Billy asked and delete all the messages?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘All of them?’
She nodded again.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ he said.
He reached across, making her flinch, but he touched her hair anyway, just moved it from her shoulders, exposing her neck.
‘Billy is a nice boy,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ she said, her voice timid. ‘So can we go?’
He smiled and then started the engine. ‘Of course we can, Ruby. Of course we can.’
Fifty-Eight
Sam looked back towards the front door, its solid wood blocking out the daylight, so all that he could see of the brightness outside was what came through the glass pane above.
‘Can’t we wedge it open?’ he said.
‘It looks too heavy, the hinges too strong,’ Charlotte said. ‘The whole place is a hovel. How can he charge rent?’
They were both on the stairs, edging upwards towards the flat where Terry Day lived, both using the light from their phones, but it was a glow, not a direct beam, so that the shadows of doorways stretched and shifted, revealed shapes and then hid them again.
‘Mr Day?’ he shouted. The words echoed. They waited for a response, but there was nothing.
‘He’s not here,’ Charlotte said. ‘We’ll come back later.’
‘No, he’s here,’ Sam said. ‘I know it.’
‘But why do we need to find out now?’
Sam paused as he thought about that. Charlotte was right, there was no urgency. It was just to find out what he had told Joe, to see if there was still a case against Ronnie Bagley. No urgency. They should turn back.
But there was something about the house that told him to keep going. It wasn’t just the darkness, or the quietness. It was too still, as if the whole house was holding its breath, watching them.
They both whirled round, startled, when there was a noise, a door closing. He heard it as a click, loud in the stillness of the landing. Sam turned his phone towards the sound, but there was just darkness.
‘We should go back,’ Charlotte said, fear in her voice. ‘Or at least call it in.’
‘No, keep going,’ he said. ‘Something isn’t right.’ He climbed a step, winced at the loud creak. ‘Why doesn’t he have lights?’
Sam stepped forward again. The stairs creaked some more, quieter this time, the carpet worn underfoot, loose in some places.
Charlotte reached out briefly, her hand on his back as reassurance. As they got to the top of the stairs, he tried to get the feel of his surroundings. Charlotte shone her phone around to look for a light source. He shone his straight ahead. There was a small corridor to a room further down. A kitchen, it looked like, the light catching the metal edges of drawers. There was a room just before it. The thin gleam of a cord gave it away as a bathroom.
Sam went to it and pulled the cord. Nothing. ‘There’s no power,’ he said.
He felt Charlotte’s breath on his neck. ‘Let’s go back,’ she said.
‘No, forward.’
‘We shouldn’t do this alone,’ she said. ‘We don’t know what’s up there.’
‘And if there’s nothing?’ Sam said. ‘All the trouble for some loner who’s run out of coins for the meter?’
‘I get it,’ she said. ‘We keep going so we don’t look stupid.’
‘If you really can’t face going up there, you go back, but I’m carrying on.’
Sam could hear her breaths in the stillness, both of them silent, until she said, ‘Isn’t there anything up here that we could use to prop open the door downstairs?’
He turned to look, but they were immediately put on edge by a noise further up in the house. A groan, and the sound of something heavy being moved, like loud scrapes on the floor.
‘What was that?’ she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.
‘I don’t know, but it was that way,’ Sam said, and then set off again, his phone in one hand, the other feeling along the bannister. He was now facing towards the front of the house, and his phone caught the shadows of two doorframes, as if the middle flat had no front door, just rooms spread along the landing. He pushed at the first door, ready to shine his torch inside. It was locked.
‘Mr Day?’ he called again. Still silence.
His hand went around the
bottom of the rail and looked upwards. He was at the foot of the stairs that rose to the top floor. They were narrower, steeper. He shone his phone upwards. There was movement. Or was it a shadow created by the beam from the phone?
His breaths were shorter, his stomach turning with nerves, the darkness amplifying his fear.
‘I’m going up,’ he said, his mouth dry as the words came out.
‘I’m going to call this in,’ Charlotte said. ‘Something’s going on here.’
Sam stepped forward as she backed away to make a call. He held his phone out in front of him. The way ahead went up to a glass door on a landing. It was dark behind it, because the glow from his phone reflected off the glass, turning the door into a white sheet. He started to think that perhaps Terry Day was out, and so all they’d heard were the creaks and groans of an old house. But then there was a click.
He pointed the phone forward, more direct, his arm outstretched, looking for the source of the noise. Charlotte was speaking on hers, asking for a uniformed patrol. He took another step upwards but then stopped. A dark shadow appeared behind the glass door.
Sam paused. There was another click, and then the door opened slowly, creaking. A figure stood in the doorway. A man, judging from his height, his hair tousled in silhouette, but he appeared slumped, his head hanging forwards.
‘Mr Day?’ Sam said, concerned now, no longer trying to alert him. He went up one more step.
There was a screech. The figure at the top of the stairs moved forwards quickly, but it was unnatural, the head still slumped, moving towards the top step as if he was running, except that his feet were dragging. There were noises of exertion and the figure kept on moving.
Sam tried to step backwards as the man seemed to take off from the top step, his arms flaccid, his head towards his chest, tumbling forwards. Sam put his arms up, but it wasn’t enough.
His head hit Sam in his chest. He fell backwards, felt the rush of air as his feet lost contact with the stairs, everything happening too quickly. He braced himself for the landing, in that half a second knowing that it could end badly, the weight of someone on top of him, his body at the wrong angle, his head like a spear going towards the ground.
Sam’s head hit the wall, and then his shoulder crunched. He gasped in pain but then was smothered as the falling man landed on him. There was wetness on him, sticky but cold. Sam’s lungs were fighting to get his breath back, the person like a dead weight.
There was a noise from further above. The same screech he had heard before, except it was angrier this time, running down the stairs, feet moving quickly. Sam pushed at the body but it was too heavy. He heard Charlotte’s voice, shouting. His phone had fallen onto the landing, the glow shining upwards. It caught the glint of metal. He tried to move away but was pinned beneath the weight. Another screech and then there was a downward slash. Sam felt heat across his arm, and then it felt like he had been punched in the side, his breath leaving him.
There was more noise. Charlotte shouting, moving quickly. Everything was just shadows. Footsteps on the landing. A struggle. Then there was a scream of pain, of fear, before it was cut short, replaced by a gasp, and then a cry.
Sam tried to make out what was happening but it was too dark. He saw someone falling towards him. In the light from his phone, he saw Charlotte’s curls. She landed next to him, making a loud thump, heavy and lifeless. He reached out for Charlotte, to take her hand, to help her, but his hand touched her face. His hand went to her mouth, searching for the warmth of her breath on his fingers. It was faint but still there. His hand moved across her body; her shirt was wet with what he knew was blood.
He looked for his phone. It was just out of reach, further along the landing. He pulled himself out from under the body and pain shot from his shoulder, making him cry out. He collapsed back but he caught sight of Charlotte again and knew he had to keep going. He scrambled towards the phone once more, shards of agony making him gasp every time his right arm touched the floor.
Sam reached the phone. He dialled for an ambulance and then let himself sink to the floor, exhausted, his own view of the world getting fuzzy, his own shirt also wet. The floor seemed to welcome him, and he let reality slip away as he waited for the wail of the sirens.
Fifty-Nine
Joe had been driving back to his office when he got the call from Alice. He had been calling Sam but his phone had been switched off. When Alice told him that Sam had been stabbed, he turned round and raced to the hospital, cursing as he tried to find a place in the car park.
The hospital was like most, a large ugly block of brickwork and glass, blue signs and the hum of air-conditioning fans, although this was at the end of a quiet suburban road, as if it didn’t want to let anyone know it was there. The paths around it were busy with nurses and doctors walking between units, along with patients displaying the reasons for their visits. A young man hobbled past on crutches, his foot in plaster. A man in his fifties was attached to an oxygen canister, with plastic tubes going into his nostrils, sitting in a wheelchair, smoking, the purple hue to his cheeks giving away the lie that giving up would help. His habit had already killed him. He was just waiting for the end.
Joe was running as he followed the signs for the A&E department and burst into a waiting room of bright blue carpet and magnolia walls, occupied by the wounded and worried relatives. He saw Alice standing by the wall, clutching a handkerchief, staring at the floor.
‘Alice.’
She looked up and started to sob immediately, as if she had been holding on for too long, just waiting for someone to be there so that she could let it all out. Joe put his arms around her, put his hand on her head as she burrowed herself into him. His shirt turned wet as she cried into him.
‘What’s happened?’ he said, his stomach a violent churn of nerves and fear. ‘How’s Sam?’
She pulled away, wiping her face with the heel of her palm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘They said he’s going to be all right, but I can’t get near him. One of his colleagues was badly injured. A young woman. Stabbed in the chest. They were in a house. They were attacked. Sam was stabbed, but in the shoulder.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘That’s all I know and they won’t let me in.’
‘They? Police or doctors?’
‘Police. A doctor told me that they have treated him. They are just keeping him in a room.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Near ward six.’
Joe set off walking.
‘They won’t let you near him,’ she shouted after him.
Joe didn’t reply. Alice would have backed off when her way was barred. Joe wouldn’t take a refusal.
He walked along the hospital corridors, following the numbers, skirting past porters pushing trolleys or patients in wheelchairs. Joe had a scowl on all the way. He hated hospitals. They were all about sickness and weakness. He knew one day it would come to him, but he couldn’t face that day yet. Not until he had achieved what he had set out to do in life. Further along the corridor he saw a group of uniformed officers outside a room. It made Sam easy to find.
As he got closer one of them broke away from the group and walked towards him, his hand out. ‘Go back. You’re not allowed along here.’
‘Is Sam Parker in there?’ When the officer paused, Joe added, ‘I’m his brother.’
‘I don’t care who you are. Go now.’ The flat of the officer’s hand struck Joe in the chest, rocking him back on his heels.
Joe felt the rush of blood to his head. His brain was telling him to walk, but the anger pumping round his system was telling him not to be pushed around. Before anything else could happen, a detective left the room, and as the door swung open, he saw Sam on the bed.
‘Sam!’ Joe shouted.
As the door swung closed, Joe said, ‘That’s my brother. He’s a patient in a hospital and I’m going to see him.’ He walked towards the door. The officer gripped his arm, his fingers tight around the bicep, but Joe was able to push at the door ag
ain.
Sam saw him and shouted out, ‘It’s all right, let him in.’
Joe shrugged off the arm as the grip slackened and then went inside.
The mood in the room was sombre. There were two detectives with Sam: the female detective he had met at court at the start of Ronnie’s case, DI Evans, and a male detective who wore his anger in the tightness of his collar. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, a large bandage around his chest and his right arm in a sling.
‘I heard about the other detective,’ Joe said. ‘I hope she’s all right. I hope you catch whoever did it.’
‘So you can get the job of defending him?’ the male detective said.
Joe didn’t respond. It wasn’t the time for the usual argument.
‘How are you?’ Joe said to Sam.
‘Alive.’ He looked towards the other two detectives. ‘Can I talk to my brother? In private?’
They paused, exchanged glances, and then went towards the door.
‘Don’t discuss the case unless you’ve got something you want to share,’ Evans said on the way out.
‘He’s my brother,’ Joe said. ‘It’s not always about the job.’
At that they left the room, leaving Sam and Joe alone.
Sam grimaced as he tried to get comfortable. ‘This is all a bit shitty,’ he said, his pain evident from the way he gritted his teeth.
‘Alice is outside. They wouldn’t let her through.’
‘Can you tell her I’m all right?’
‘Where were you?’
‘I was at Terry Day’s house,’ Sam said. ‘You spoke to the prosecutor about Terry seeing Ronnie’s girlfriend alive. We’d gone to take a statement after we left you.’
Joe closed his eyes and pinched his nose with his fingers. Sam didn’t say anything until he opened his eyes again.
‘Did Terry Day do this?’ Joe said, and nodded towards the bandages.
‘No. Terry is dead. Murdered. We must have got there just after he was killed. His body was thrown down the stairs at me.’
‘His body? Jesus.’ Joe shook his head and then said, ‘Ronnie Bagley didn’t want me to pursue what Terry reported, that he had seen Carrie.’
