by Chris Simms
Something soft banged against a window. The noise had come from downstairs. Turning her head, she stared at the timber beam just visible above her. Rattling, like the handles of the patio doors were being tested. She lifted her head clear of the pillow: did I really hear that? A cough. Light showed at the edges of the curtains. The exterior security light! Now she knew the sounds were real. Quickly, she climbed out of bed and lifted the corner of the curtain. The halogen lamp bathed the garden in a bright glow, but nothing was out there.
She heard the cough again, followed by a word, quietly spoken. Someone was directly below, trying to get in. Only by opening the window and looking down, would she be able to see the person.
Should she wake Owen first? There wasn’t time; he’d take a few seconds to come round. Instead, she turned on his bedside lamp and then reached for the window. A good aggressive shout. Hopefully that would scare them off.
But before her fingers curled round the handle, she heard the kitchen door start to creak. Oh Jesus, did I lock it? When I came in from the garden, did I lock it? ‘Owen!’ she hissed. ‘Owen, wake up!’
He turned his head, eyes still closed.
‘Owen! Someone is in the house!’
Now he started to blink, eyes bleary and unfocused. She opened the window and looked down. The kitchen door was wide open. Her chest felt like it was collapsing. The kitchen window went bright as a light turned on. She glimpsed a hand bang the door shut. ‘Someone’s in the kitchen! Owen, call the police. Call them!’
He sat up and reached for the phone at his side of the bed. ‘Are you sure, Laura? Did you –’
There was a metallic clatter as the cutlery drawer was opened too fast. Knives. Owen’s eyes widened and he started pressing the nine button.
She moved to the bedroom doorway and turned an ear to the stairs. She could hear a faint humming, a toneless series of notes repeated over and over. The Teletubbies theme tune?
Behind her, Owen whispered into the phone, ‘Police.’
The person was bumping around, making no attempt to keep quiet. His casualness terrified her.
Owen spoke quietly. ‘Lantern Cottage, Coal Lane, Oldknow. There’s an intruder in our house. Downstairs. The kitchen. Yes we are. OK, thank you. We will.’
Now the downstairs hall lit up. ‘Lock yourself in the bathroom,’ Owen whispered as he pushed past. ‘The keys to the Audi are in the kitchen!’ he called down in a tremulous voice. ‘My wallet is in there too!’
She looked at his outline, illuminated by the light shining up from below. He was peeping over the banister, pyjamas hanging off his thin frame. She realised she was stronger than him. Faster, too. She twirled round, entered her studio and grabbed the three-kilo dumbbells off the rack.
At the top of the stairs she yelled down, ‘Get out of this house! If you set foot on these stairs I’ll cave your fucking skull in, so help me God!’
A shadow appeared in the corridor. Heavy footsteps approached from the kitchen. Her breath dwindled as a youth came into view. Seventeen? Thick black hair in a side parting. A shapeless shirt and trousers failed to hide his bulky form. Muddy slippers were on his feet. There was something not right about the way he stared up. No one spoke. He seemed mildly surprised to see them looking down.
‘Did you hear me?’ Laura snarled. ‘Get out of –’ Thick fingers were struggling to remove a raisin from the little box in his hand. The same type of box she’d found in the garden.
‘Mummy?’ His front teeth stuck out when he spoke.
‘Oh my God,’ Owen said very quietly. ‘Is he disturbed?’
Not disturbed, she thought. Confused. He’s confused.
The person looked round, eyes criss-crossing the ceiling. ‘Twee-pies leap.’ He raised a forefinger to his wet lips. ‘Shhhh!’ Then he shuffled into the front room. A second later the television went on.
She turned to Owen, a barbell still clutched tightly in each hand. ‘I know who he is. He’s called William and he used to live here.’
Chapter 20
‘Nighty-night, big fellow.’ The policeman nodded amiably at William as a carer from the Skylark Trust guided him out of the front door.
‘Nigh’, nigh’,’ he mumbled, batting a big hand up and down.
They were lined up in the front hall, as if seeing him off on holiday.
‘Night, William.’ Laura managed a smile even though her heart was still thudding away.
The front door shut and the officer turned to her. ‘Not having much luck, are you?’
It was the same officer who’d called when the bird had become trapped in the house: his tone was light-hearted.
‘I need a drink,’ Laura replied. Some of the vodka in the freezer would go down nicely, she thought, but it’ll only keep me awake. ‘Anyone for a cup of tea?’
He shook his head and the remaining staff member from the Skylark Trust did the same. She still looked mortified at what had happened. ‘I really cannot apologise enough, Mr and Mrs Wilkinson. As I said, he’s totally harmless; but you weren’t to know –’
Laura held up a hand. ‘Really, it’s fine. The poor lad was just confused.’
The staff member looked dubiously from her to Owen. Laura guessed she was afraid they would press charges or make an official complaint.
‘He just wanted to watch telly,’ she added casually, trying to placate the woman. ‘Didn’t he, Owen?’
He adjusted the belt of his dressing gown. She could see his hands were still unsteady. ‘That’s right.’
‘Sounds like William,’ the staff member said. ‘He’ll watch it for hours if we let him.’
Owen coughed. ‘Tell me, has he done this kind of thing before?’
She gave a vigorous shake of her head. ‘Never. It’s totally out of character. I mean, he’s walked a good four miles down country lanes to get here. It’s incredible, really.’
Laura chose not to mention the empty raisin box she’d found in the garden the other day. ‘How old is he? In terms of mental ability.’
The staff member crossed her hands in front of her. Laura knew the question placed her in an awkward position; the information was probably confidential. But he had just broken into their house.
‘William has a mental age of around five. But there are other issues, too.’ The staff member cast an uncomfortable glance in the policeman’s direction.
He also looked eager to know.
Her fingers tapped a couple of times. ‘William registers on the autistic spectrum and, as is often the case, has other issues alongside that condition: co-morbidity, as it’s known.’
‘Like what?’ The officer asked, thumbs now hooked into the shoulder seams of his stab-proof vest.
‘Mild dyspraxia. And probably ADHD. But, as I’d like to stress, he’s not in any way violent. Obviously he needs full-time care and we provide that for him.’
Not, Laura thought, at a sufficient level to stop him wandering about at night.
‘I will be making a report and, I imagine, his sleeping arrangements will be reviewed in light of this. Once again, I am so sorry this happened. I work nights – I’m on duty from eight each evening. Call any time after that and I’ll be happy to answer any other questions you might have.’ She handed Laura a card and looked expectantly at them.
‘Mr and Mrs Wilkinson?’ The officer asked. ‘Are you happy with…’
Before Owen could reply, Laura stepped forward. ‘Perfectly. It was an unfortunate mistake. No one is hurt, everyone is safe, let’s leave things at that.’
The staff member’s relief was palpable and the police officer inclined his head. Laura realised she’d probably just saved him a pile of paperwork, too.
‘We’ll be off, then.’ The officer allowed the staff member to go first, speaking over his shoulder as he followed. ‘Really, you should set your burglar alarm at night.’ He tapped the panel by the front door. ‘Just activate the ground floor. You have motion sensors throughout.’ He pointed to the little blinking box set into t
he corner of the ceiling.
‘We’d prefer not to feel prisoners in our own home,’ Owen replied a little harshly.
‘Besides,’ Laura cut in, her tone more pleasant. ‘We’ve got a cat – so it would set –’ The kitten. I’d forgotten all about it. She turned round and hurried back to the kitchen.
The little thing was still in the travel case, backed into the far end, eyes wide and anxious. Bloody hell, Laura thought. It’ll never come out now.
As cars pulled slowly away outside, she opened a bag of treats and sprinkled a few inside the door of the travel case. ‘Come on, Scaredy-mouse. Have you even used your litter tray yet? Mummy thinks you haven’t.’
‘Very magnanimous of you,’ Owen announced behind her.
She knew he wasn’t talking about giving the kitten some little fish shapes. ‘Was there any point in kicking up a fuss?’ She sat back on her heels. ‘Really?’
He ran his hands through his hair. A familiar gesture when he was stressed or tired. ‘No, I suppose not. That staff member knew she was lucky: I could see it in her face.’
‘Exactly. And the police will have logged it. That’s automatic when you call them, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, you’re right.’
She leaned forward to look into the travel case again. ‘Come on little thing, mummy is here. Won’t you come out?’
‘How were you so sure it was the son of the couple who lived here?’
The box of raisins in his hand, Laura almost said. Evidently, Owen hadn’t even noticed them. ‘Sorry?’ she replied, playing for time.
‘You knew it was William. How?’
‘Oh.’ She sat back on her heels once more. She didn’t want to admit what she’d been getting up to trying to find out about William. Owen would only worry. ‘After we got that letter about travel arrangements, I happened to pass the estate agent in the village. So I asked for details of the previous occupants. He mentioned a teenage son who’s in care because he can’t look after himself. At the facility up the road…it just clicked.’
Owen stared down at her for a moment longer. ‘I see.’ His gaze shifted to the clock. ‘Shit – it’s after midnight. Are you coming up?’
‘In a minute. I need a camomile tea first. You go.’
‘OK.’ He came over, leaned down and placed a kiss on top of her head. ‘What a night.’
She reached up and squeezed his hand. ‘One thing after another, isn’t it?’
‘Seems to be.’ He set off for the stairs. ‘Kitchen door locked?’
‘Kitchen door locked.’
‘Kitten OK?’
‘Far as I can see.’
‘Night, then.’
‘Night.’
She flicked the kettle on and, once the ceiling started to creak above her, quietly opened the laptop. The screen sprang to life and she saw a new message waiting. Thank God! Tamsin had got back.
You poor thing, Laura. Here’s me sending you a huge hug. Don’t worry, OK? You mustn’t worry. Oh gosh, it’s horrible what you’re going through. It’s worrying, distressing, even frightening – all those things. But you must listen to me, OK?
Don’t let your T control you.
Show the dammed thing who’s boss. Many doctors will tell you that nothing can be done about tinnitus. Just forget about it, they’ll say. And although they’re ignorant, they happen to be right. You must try not to let it affect you.
The kettle clicked off, but she didn’t care about a drink. This woman, she thought. This lovely woman living half-way round the world, I only care about what she has to say.
I’ve seen so many people about my T. I let it drive me indoors and cut me off from the world. I let it put worry creases in my face. I’ve been poked and prodded and put through so much in hospitals. But it was a fellow sufferer who said to me that there is only one person who can truly do something about your tinnitus – and that is you. Laura, you’ll have to find ways to live with your T. Make the best of your situation. The more you can force yourself to forget about it, the less you’ll notice it and the easier you’ll be able to cope, believe me.
Laura wanted to cheer. She was right. She was so bloody right. It’s canary song. So bloody what? A little bird singing. Big deal. Laura climbed off the stool. Sod the tea, she thought, I’m having a proper drink. Frost made the neck of the vodka bottle stick against her fingers. She closed the freezer, grabbed a shot glass off the shelf and filled it with liquid made lazy by the cold. Bloody marvellous, she thought, knocking it back. Bloody marvellous. She refilled it then turned to her laptop. This woman who I have never even met is absolutely right. Her attitude is what I need. Bless her, bless her.
I’m signing off now, OK? But contact me any time. There’s a lot more about your symptoms I would like to know. Birdsong is quite rare, you know? You need to get more advice. (Personally, I think your current doctor sucks.) Make use of your wonderful health service: book an appointment with a consultant at your local hospital’s ENT department. Demand answers. Let me know how it goes and don’t worry. You’ll survive this, just like me and millions of others have. All my love, Tamsin.
Laura felt light-headed. There were tears in her eyes as she typed an answer.
Tamsin, your words are a tonic to me. As if by magic, they appear on my screen and transform my spirits.
She knew she was gushing but didn’t care.
In Britain we call it vim. I think you use the word chutzpah? It’s your chutzpah that I’m drinking in now. I was being cowed by this horrible condition. But no more. Now I’m fighting back. Thank you, Tamsin. I will get a second opinion, and I will be demanding a referral to an ENT consultant. Thank you with all my heart, Laura.
After pressing send, she sat back and took in a huge breath. She felt so alive. If it was light outside, she thought, I’d put on some trainers and go running over the hills. Run for miles.
The card from the staff member at the Skylark Trust was by the computer. William. Her mind switched to him as she raised her glass and took a contemplative sip. Why, she thought, didn’t I remind Owen about the box of raisins in the garden? Why did I also keep it back from the staff member? She pursed her lips: stop fooling yourself. You know why. You kept that quiet to smooth everything over. To minimise the fuss. She thought of William again, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking around and then holding his finger to his lips. It was conspiratorial. Like the gesture would make sense. And right before that, he had said something. She couldn’t make out what, but he had said something. She wanted to know. Lifting the card, she examined the address printed in the corner. Tomorrow, she decided, I’ll try and find out.
Chapter 21
‘You’re sure, now?’ It was the third time Owen had asked.
She nodded her head. ‘I feel exhausted, darling. I don’t think I really got back to sleep. Maybe after your concert? We could have a day together in town then.’
He glanced at the clock on the wall, satchel in hand.
You need to go now, she thought. Or you’ll hit the morning rush on the A6.
‘Besides,’ she added. ‘It’s really not fair on the kitten. It’s still too young to be left alone. Not for an entire day.’
He sent an unsympathetic glance towards the far corner. Its food had disappeared in the night and the litter tray had been used, but it was back in the travel case when they came downstairs.
‘So your daily schedule’s now dictated by a small animal?’ His tone was light-hearted. Just.
‘No.’ Smiling pleasantly, she sat on the bar stool and waved towards the door with her fingers. ‘Go on! You’ll be late.’
He turned to the window immediately behind her. She knew where he was looking. The church. ‘So what will you do today?’
‘I don’t know. Probably go back to bed for a bit. And I need to get some shopping. There’s that big Waitrose near Cheadle.’
‘You won’t go back to the church, will you? I don’t think staring into the grave of a dead child is…it’s not a health
y thing to do.’
‘No, I won’t go over there. OK?’
He started to go then turned back to her. ‘I…I meant to ask. How’s your hearing been with this viral infection? Have you…?’ He left the question unfinished.
You mean have I been hearing more birdsong, she thought. ‘It’s been fine, darling. There’s no discomfort. I’d never have guessed I even had a virus, to be honest.’
‘Good.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I feel like I’ve dragged you up here to simply abandon you.’
‘Owen, don’t be silly. We both know the score. You concentrate on making the performance perfect.’
He nodded. ‘I’d better go.’
A few seconds later he appeared beyond the kitchen window. She could see him out of the corner of her eye but didn’t want to look properly. That might make the horrible thoughts start. He was standing by his car, one arm raised. Damn it, he was waving goodbye. Trying to look relaxed, she glanced up and waved back.
Last night, he was pathetic. The sight of those thin arms, all the muscle wasted. So weak, so helpless. He couldn’t defend you, the useless man, he’s a failure, a sad excuse, an invalid. He won’t last much longer and soon you’ll be alone, alone and childless –
She ducked from his sight and slapped herself hard across the face. The voice died away and she looked across at the kitten. It was watching her from the shadows.
Once she was sure Owen’s car had disappeared from view, she got up and looked over at the church. No sign of anyone in the field. She rested her forehead on the heels of her hands. What is happening to me? The dream came back after she returned to bed. The same figure, bent knees jutting out, a forearm jammed behind its head. She could remember puzzling over its posture in her sleep – part of her brain analysing images being produced by a separate part of her mind. Strange.
She’d come to some sort of conclusion but now, in the cold light of day, it eluded her. A vague impression of realisation. Something about how the figure was lying.
