by Paul Johnson
“You coming, Bill?” one of his mates called.
“I’ll see you in the Crown,” his father said, blowing out smoke.
The boy waited until the others had all left. Then he moved forward on all fours, keeping beneath a low wall.
“Who’s there?” Billy said, mild alarm in his voice.
“The devil,” his adopted son said in the most frightening voice he could manage. He knew that Billy, a lifelong Catholic who hadn’t been to confession since he was a boy, had the weight of his many sins on him.
“What?” Billy said, dropping his cigarette and getting to his feet.
“The devil, and he’s come to take you!” Les said with a wild yell, running forward with his head down.
He heard Billy’s breath as it was expelled in the impact, then watched as he fell headfirst to the concrete surface at ground level. His body lay limp down there, the head shattered, but Les knew that Billy Dunn’s soul was plummeting far deeper, into the very pit of hell.
The watcher saw the lights come on at St. Katharine’s Dock across the river. To his left, Tower Bridge stood out in all its ridiculous grandeur. Vanity, he thought, all is vanity.
He glanced at his watch.
It was time to tighten his grip on the writer.
4
“Hello, Matt.”
The voice made me start. I looked round and saw my good friend Dave Cummings’s wife. She was a stooping, thin-faced woman who had never approved of our involvement with the rugby league club.
“Oh, hi, Ginny.” I had to force myself to make conversation. “How are things?”
She gave a weak smile. “You know, same old same old. Kids, cooking, cleaning, ironing.”
I didn’t show any sympathy. This was Ginny’s way of complaining that her husband didn’t pay her enough attention. My loyalties, tested hundreds of times on the pitch and in the pub, lay with Dave.
We watched as Lucy approached with Ginny’s kids, Tom and Annie. Tom was in my daughter’s class and they got on well. As soon as I could, I drew Lucy away.
“Daddy, can I have an ice cream?” she asked, trying it on. I wouldn’t usually have given in to her, but I needed to keep her sweet. This wasn’t going to be a normal afternoon.
“All right, darling,” I said, leading her across the road to the Italian deli in Dulwich Village. “Did you have a good day?”
“Yes, thank you.” She gave me a blinding smile that made my heart skip several beats. My little girl’s hair-raven like her mother’s-was in a plait and her face was covered in freckles.
God, I loved her. I couldn’t let anything happen to her. For all I knew, the bastard was watching us right now. I looked around as casually as I could. There only seemed to be the usual crowd of mothers and grandparents, even the odd father, but no one suspicious. Then again, this guy was smart. He wouldn’t be standing in full view with a pair of binoculars.
As we walked up the hill, I went over the course of action I’d worked out. I was going to take Lucy back to Caroline’s place first. I had no choice. If I took her straight to mine, her mother would be instantly suspicious. Lucy was only supposed to be taken there at weekends. I didn’t want to raise any suspicions that, by changing the routine, I might have had something to do with Happy’s disappearance.
The difficult part of the plan was if Lucy noticed Happy’s absence. She often went to the garden fence and called the dog.
When we got to the house, I tried to shoo her straight upstairs.
“No, Daddy.” She headed for the back door. “I want to say hello to Happy.”
I bit my tongue. The less I said the better.
Outside, after calling the dog numerous times, Lucy gave me a puzzled look. “Where is she, Daddy? Do you think something’s happened to her?”
“No, of course not, darling. The Rooneys probably just kept her inside today. Maybe they thought it was going to rain.”
Lucy peered up at the blue sky and frowned. “No, she was outside this morning. I remember.”
I was beginning to regret the plan I’d chosen. “Well, maybe she’s just having a sleep. Come on, do you want some juice?”
Lucy followed me in reluctantly. I managed to get her to the piano to do her practice, and later to sit her in front of kids’ TV. She didn’t have any homework. But she kept going to the window and looking out, trying to see over the fence.
“Come on, Luce,” I said, “let’s go to my house.”
Her eyes widened. “But Mummy says it’s dirty.”
Thanks a lot, Caroline, I thought. “No, it isn’t. And I’ve got a new DVD you can watch.”
“Which one?” she asked excitedly.
“Surprise, surprise,” I said. I’d picked up a Disney she hadn’t seen on the way to the school. The trick was to get her out of the house before either of the Rooneys got back. Fortunately she was now sufficiently distracted. I also mentioned that I had alphabet spaghetti for her tea, a foodstuff banned by Caroline.
At last we were out on the street. As we walked away, my heart was pounding like a drum.
Did I have the nerve to keep up this kind of pretense?
The phone rang at half past six.
“Matt, where’s Lucy?” Caroline sounded anxious.
“Hello,” I said, trying to lower the tension. “Nice to talk to you, too. Did you have a good day? She’s here, of course.”
My ex-wife wasn’t to be pacified. “You know she’s not meant to be round there during the week. Has she done her homework?”
“She didn’t have any. She’s done her piano.” I tried to keep my voice as neutral as I could. “You sound uptight. What’s the matter?”
“I’ll tell you what the matter is. Happy’s gone missing.”
“What?”
“Did you see her when you were round here? Shami’s going spare.”
“No,” I said, feigning sudden enlightenment. “Now you mention it, we didn’t.” I glanced at Lucy. She was engrossed in Hercules. “I thought she was inside.”
“No, they left her in the garden this morning.”
“Oh, right. I didn’t notice.”
“Look, it’s probably better if you keep Lucy round there for another half hour. I don’t want her to be upset by this.”
“Okay.”
“Have you got something she can eat?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Something that isn’t full of artificial preservatives and E numbers?”
“Yes.”
“All right,” Caroline said doubtfully. “I’ll see you later.”
“Look,” I said, suddenly realizing I couldn’t face the Rooneys, “you can come and get her, can’t you? I’m actually trying to write something this evening.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Cow.
I had the computer on when Caroline arrived, the screen showing a couple of lines of an unsolicited album review.
“Hello, sweetest little girl in the world,” Caroline said, kissing Lucy. She was wearing a black skirt and a matching woolen cardigan that set off her bobbed dark hair. Black was apparently color of the day in the City.
“It’s the God of the Underworld,” our daughter said, pointing to the TV. “He’s funny.”
James Woods’s voicing was indeed a cracker, but I had other things on my mind. Seeing the two of them together brought home how fragile they were; how easy it would be for the maniac who’d sliced up the dog to move on to them. At the same time, I felt a burning desire to share my burden with someone, to lighten the load that the bastard had saddled me with. But I restrained myself. Maybe if Caroline had been on her own I’d have summoned up the courage, but with Lucy there it was impossible.
“What’s the matter with you?” my ex-wife said in the blunt manner she’d got used to taking with me over the years.
I shrugged. “Work. You know…”
“Lack of work, more like.” Her eyes flared. “God, you’re so indecisive, Matt. Why can’t you just write a
different book and sell it to a different publisher? Why do you have to take everything so personally? It’s not their fault you wrote stuff they couldn’t sell.”
“Spoken like the caring soul you are,” I said, unable to hold back. “Since when did you know anything about the publishing business?”
I realized too late that I’d given her an open goal.
“I’m an economist, stupid,” she said, touching her temple. “It’s what I do.”
Lucy looked round from the sofa. “Mummy, Daddy, stop arguing,” she said plaintively.
I felt something break inside me. It seemed that Caroline had a similar experience. We nodded to each other and declared a silent truce.
There was an uneasy silence while Lucy watched Hades get his comeuppance and I pretended to write about the new Laura Veirs album. Then they got their things together and headed downstairs.
I followed them, fear welling up inside me. “Do you want me to walk round with you?”
Caroline stared at me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“All right,” I said, bending down to kiss Lucy. “See you in the morning, sweetie.”
“Good night, Daddy,” she said, glancing at each of us in turn. “It would be so nice if we could all sleep in the same house sometimes.”
Both Caroline and I failed to come up with a response to that.
I watched them down the street as far as I could see them, and then went after them, skulking in the dark areas between the streetlights. They got home without incident. As I turned to go home, I saw an elderly man in Ruskin Park with his dog.
He glared at me as if I were a stalker.
The irony of that did not make me feel any better at all.
When I got back, I opened my e-mail program. I’d managed to put off doing that while Lucy was there, but now I had no excuse. I felt my stomach constrict as the receiving mail icon flashed. The process went on for some time.
When the chime went, I saw that I had a message with an attachment from 1612WD via another mail provider. The bastard. I now understood what he was calling himself, but I had no idea why. What was in the attachment? I downloaded a digital image. It showed me carrying the wrapped remains of Happy to the Volvo. Shit. He’d been there, judging by the angle and trees at the far side of the park. He must have had a camera with a seriously good zoom. I couldn’t remember anyone taking pictures in the vicinity when I was loading the car.
I went back to the message.
It’s me again, Matt. Thought you’d like to see one of my snaps from today. There are plenty more, some from inside Lucy’s bedroom before you got there and others from Farnborough. I don’t think your ex-wife or her neighbors would be too happy if they saw them, let alone your daughter. She was very fond of the dog, wasn’t she?
How the hell did he know all this? He must have been staking us out for weeks.
I’ve also got some e-mail addresses that I won’t hesitate to forward the photos to if you start being uncooperative, Matt. I read on. He’d somehow managed to get hold of Caroline’s company e-mail, as well as Jack’s and Shami’s at their places of employment. I don’t imagine your ex-wife would be impressed if she found out that you’d disposed of the neighbors’ dog. She’d take it as an indirect threat to Lucy and get her lawyers on to you straightaway. No visiting rights, no nothing. You get the picture? Sorry, that wasn’t funny.
It wasn’t, but he’d nailed me very successfully. The divorce had been a bad one, with Caroline wanting rid of me and me not wanting to put Lucy through the mangle. This would be just what Caroline needed to get me out of her life. But how did WD know? Or was he just guessing?
I’ll be in touch again tomorrow, the message ended. That’s when you’ll be starting work for me. Get a good night’s sleep.
I hit Reply.
Why are you calling yourself the White Devil? What’s John Webster’s play of that name, first performed in 1612, got to do with anything? I clicked Send.
There was a chime soon afterward.
You got it eventually, Matt. I am the White Devil. Da-da. Cue doom-laden music. What’s the play got to do with it? Come on, you can do better than that. But get some rest now or “Our sleeps are severed.” Good night.
I sat back and looked up at the cracked ceiling. Jesus. This guy really knew how to get to me. “Our sleeps are severed”-The White Devil, act 2, scene 1; Brachiano divorcing Isabella, in Webster’s great work of revenge and violent death. It was behind my novel The Devil Murder, the title being another quotation from the play. I’d studied Jacobean tragedy at college and been fascinated by it. There was a primitive inevitability to the plays that shook me-the mask of civilization was much flimsier and the seething bedlam beneath much closer than in Shakespeare, apart from Titus Andronicus. When I was searching for a plot to hang my third Sir Tertius novel on, I came on that of The White Devil-hypocrisy and corruption being justly punished. I even gave John Webster a small part. Most of the critics thought that was a neat touch. Some lunatic was taking his admiration too far.
Then I had another thought. In The Devil Murder, the villain, Lord Lucas of Merston, is done to death by the crazed father of a girl he has raped. The father happens to be a farmer and he kills the criminal by hacking him apart with a skinning knife. Sir Tertius finds the lord in the crucifix position, with his entrails hanging out.
Just like Happy’s.
I put down the empty glass by my computer. The big slug of single malt had finally calmed me down. It had even brought a sense of perspective. This was all crazy. What was I doing, letting a nutter implicate me the way he had? It wasn’t as if I was the one who’d killed Happy. It wasn’t as if I’d extorted the five grand out of him. To nip this in the bud, all I needed to do was phone the police. They’d take some time to be convinced, but I would give them the money and show them where Happy’s body was. I’d have a job explaining to Caroline and the Rooneys what I’d done, but I would think of a way. I had the e-mails, after all. Yes, that was it. I was putting a stop to this.
The phone rang before I got any further.
“Hello?” I said hesitantly, wondering if the White Devil had somehow discovered my ex-directory number.
“Matt, is that you?” My mother sounded perturbed.
“What is it, Fran?” I asked, the words coming out in a rush. “Are you all right?” If the bastard had done anything to her, I’d make him pay.
“Of course I’m all right, dear,” she said, her voice softening. “You’re the one who sounds worried.”
That was typical of my mother. She could construct an entire mood around a few words. That was maybe why she was still a published author and I wasn’t.
“Sorry. You know, problems with the writing…”
“Do you want to talk about it?” When I started out, I’d often spoken to Fran about the technicalities of fiction, but in recent years I’d kidded myself that I’d got beyond that stage. It would have been a good idea to get back to the basics with her, but I had other things on my mind tonight.
“No, it’s all right. I’ll sort it out.” I remembered my initial fear. Could the Devil have got to her? “Is everything okay at home? No one’s been…been bothering you?”
“Are you sure you’re well, Matt?” she asked solicitously.
“Please, just answer the question.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath. “As a matter of fact, you asked two questions.” She paused to put me in my place. “Yes, everything is okay. No, no one’s been bothering me. What’s this about, Matt?”
“Nothing,” I said, casting around for a get-out clause. “I saw something in the paper the other day about a prowler in your area.”
“Really?” She didn’t sound too bothered. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Anyway, you know I always keep the doors and windows locked, and put the alarm on when I go to bed.”
“Yes,” I said, realizing that all I’d done was give her a reason to worry. Still, under the circumstances, it would be good if she took ex
tra care.
“Anyway, I phoned to ask if you’d like come round at the weekend. Bring Sara, too.”
I’d forgotten all about Sara. She was supposed to finish the story she’d been working on and come round to my place to spend the night.
“I’m…I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ll give you a ring. Good night.”
The way Fran returned the greeting made it clear that she thought I was losing my grip.
Which was true.
Before I could move from the phone, I heard the key turn in the lock. Sara appeared, her brown hair tousled and her face lined. The furrows had been getting deeper in recent months. She worked too hard, and I knew I didn’t always give her enough support.
“Hello, stranger,” she said, dropping her bag. She peered at me. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Um, no,” I said, getting up and going over to kiss her. I’d been frantically trying to remember if I’d left anything around that would alert her to what had been going on. The screen saver was on the computer. I thought about switching the machine off, but that would only draw attention to it. I would shut it down normally when she was in the shower. She always headed straight for the bathroom after work.
“Hello, Sara,” she said, giving me an encouraging smile. “It’s lovely to see you. I’ve missed you so much.”
I repeated the words, laughing. Sara had the ability to make anyone smile, not a quality widespread among journalists. It had helped her break some major stories.
“Sorry,” I added. “I’ve had a hard day at the typeface.”
Shit. Now she was on her way over to the screen.
“What have you been working on?” She looked at me hopefully. “Not the new novel.”
I wasn’t quick enough to dissemble. “Uh, no. Just some reviews.”
The smile didn’t fade. “Never mind. I’m sure it’ll come together soon.”
