Neighbourhood Watch

by Lex Sinclair

  ***

  Darkness descended faster than anticipated because of the monstrous dark grey clouds filling the sky above Willet Close. It started to pick to rain as Michael, Joe and Jake departed Hugh’s house after watching England beat Wales convincingly at Twickenham. The three men stopped and gazed overhead. Then they hurried into their separate homes before the heavens opened and they got drenched.

  Jake made it inside his house, entered the living room, peeked through the curtains and watched the other men do the same. Then an inexorable shower hammered the rooftops with a ferocity that kept Jake from moving away from the front window. In what seemed like seconds the pavement was soaked and already forming great puddles; water rushed down the gutter in overflowing streams. Fortunately, it wasn’t autumn, because the storm drains were more often than not blocked with fallen, multi-coloured leaves.

  Emma was in the kitchen putting a pizza in the oven. Jake could smell the pepperoni wafting down the narrow hallway into the living room. It was a nice, welcoming homey smell that brought to mind the days when he worked at the Esso petrol station on the afternoon shift and arrived home to see Emma serving him his food.

  When the torrential rain finally ceased an hour later, Willet Close was illuminated by the soft glow of orange streetlamps casting round light on the glistening pavements.

  All the residents were locked behind closed doors, snug in their homes, watching TV, cooking, cleaning, reading... or in Joe’s instance, sitting in his director’s chair once again looking through the window in the attic with a pair of night vision binoculars, scanning every inch outside.

  Jake pressed his hands on the radiator, feeling the heat travelling through his hands, defrosting the biting cold outside which had frozen his fingers. When he was comfortable and warm, he closed the curtains and went into the kitchen to greet his wife.

  6.

  Naomi was spent by the time she picked Corrie up off the sofa where she’d drifted to sleep and carried her, as quietly as she could manage, up the staircase to her bedroom.

  A combination of her weariness and Corrie’s ever-growing body was making tasks like this one harder, with each passing day. Yet she still liked doing it. After all, it wouldn’t be too long in the future when Corrie would become too heavy and no longer required assistance from her mother. So what if her back ached the following morning; it was a small price to pay for doing something she’d only get to do for a short period of time; something her husband, Brian had taken for granted. He took no interest in his daughter, unless there was something worthwhile in it for him.

  The only thing good to come out of Naomi’s hellish relationship with her husband had been her daughter. It didn’t matter how many beatings she’d taken over the years, it was all worth it to spend precious time with her only child on a cold, rainy Saturday eating Dairy Milk chocolate and watching Beauty & the Beast on DVD. They were moments in life you could never get back if you missed them. Once they were gone, they were gone for good.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Corrie stirred awake. ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, hon?’

  Corrie didn’t say anything; instead she closed her eyes as her mum gently pushed the door open, crossed the room, pulled back the Cinderella duvet and tucked her in. She looked so small now that the covers were pulled up around her chin, Naomi thought.

  She leaned over and kissed Corrie’s forehead, said, ‘G’night, sweetheart.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Why doesn’t Daddy love me?’

  Naomi, caught completely off-guard by the question, didn’t know how to respond.

  When she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘Daddy does love you, hon; it’s just he’s not very well. That’s why he did all those awful, awful things to Mummy. One day, he’ll be better and be very sorry for how he treated us and you’ll see him again.’ Not if I can help it, but didn’t dare say aloud to her daughter, who was too young to understand that her father was a bully (and that was putting it kindly).

  ‘Will he come to hurt us again?’ she asked.

  God, I hope not. The thought of Brian coming near her or Corrie again brought goose pimples to surface on her arms. Regardless of what she told her daughter, Naomi hoped - prayed - that Brian never came after them. She didn’t think he would. They’d been living in Willet Close for a couple of years now and not once had Brian made any effort to stay in touch with either her or Corrie. He couldn’t give a shit about anyone else other than himself, that’s how selfish and heartless he was.

  Christmases and Birthday’s would come and go without a word from him, nor a card for Corrie with money or a gift to celebrate the occasions. It made Naomi’s blood boil, seeing Corrie’s face collapse when she asked if Daddy was going to make an appearance, and she had to tell her that no he wasn’t.

  Even after all Brian had done, Corrie still found a place in her heart for him, and yet he chose to neglect her every single time. That alone was enough to make Naomi wish he was dead or suffering the worst kind of pain life could dish out.

  A man who ignored his own child didn’t deserve to live in Naomi’s opinion.

  ‘No, hon. He won’t hurt you or me ever again; not any more.’

  Corrie forced a smile. Then she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

  Naomi got up from the edge of the mattress where she’d been perched, glanced over her shoulder when she reached the threshold at her daughter’s undisturbed face, before pulling the door closed. She stood in the hallway, listening to the rain on the rooftops, running down the eaves. She liked the pitapat sounds overhead and on the windows, relentless, but unable to penetrate. Naomi liked the rain, because no matter how hard it came down it never seeped in. Her house was a fortress. It didn’t look like a fortress, granted; however, if she made sure all the doors and windows were locked, nothing or no one could get in.

  That included Brian.

  ***

  Joe watched an upstairs light in Naomi’s house go dark, behind pink curtains. You didn’t have to be an investigator to work out that that was the little girl’s bedroom, he thought, putting the night vision binoculars on the rug.

  He stretched his arms and legs away from his torso, letting out a loud yawn, surprised at how tired he was when he’d spent the best part of the day relaxing. This sitting about watching TV and keeping an eye on his street made him feel his age. The only thing keeping him awake was thinking about all the information Hugh had given him and the others today. He wondered how Inspector Sark was coping after the news of his partner being found dead in his own home. He also thought about what he’d said to Hugh earlier on.

  What would happen if the police cordoned off their street, just like they did down the road? Where would they go then?

  Joe’s nearest relative lived in Cardiff. He couldn’t travel all the way up to his aunt’s, until this whole episode was resolved.

  But that was stupid. They only cordoned off Thorburn Close because five residents had gone missing (two of them discovered) and the others presumed dead, just like Cathy and Paul Sheldon. And if the detective inspector’s death was related, then there were six victims in total with no indication that the perpetrator - or perpetrator’s - were going to stop.

  Joe knew he shouldn’t be spying on his cordial neighbours’. Nevertheless, it cleared his conscious every night lately, knowing he was doing his part to be vigilant in case he saw something that was out of place. Furthermore, he believed that if his neighbours knew the reason why he was secretly watching their street, they would be glad. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell any of them unless it was absolutely necessary.

  What happened at Thorburn Close and today in Seven Sisters, just a few miles up the road, rarely happened around this area. Murders occurred in cities where people seemed to jostle together on the streets, b
lending in with the others in the crowd. Anonymous.

  He recalled the first time he went to New York, to defend his WBC title in a Super-Middleweight bout at the famous Madison Square Garden. Stepping out of a yellow taxi cab, he was almost knocked over by a man well over six feet tall, striding in the opposite direction, mindless of him stepping onto the sidewalk - and didn’t even have the decency to apologise. Annoyed and slightly embarrassed, Joe had initially considered marching down the street in pursuit of that ignorant imbecile and snapping a sturdy jab on his beak, making him think twice about doing that to someone else again.

  He cared about these humble, decent people who lived on this suburban street with him. They’d all welcomed him to their neighbourhood. He couldn’t bare the thought of any one of them having their ribcages broken, their hearts ripped out of their chests and being skinned alive.

  No one deserved to die like that.

  ***

  Hugh Green removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and rubbed his nose where there were red indents. The house was quiet now; the friendly atmosphere created by the three other men had dissipated out the front door with them, leaving Hugh alone once more. He sure did enjoy the company of the others; it made him feel young again. It reminded him of a time when he trusted his eyesight and didn’t have a limp.

  He collected the cans of Diet Coke and bottles of Budweiser from the table, tossed them in the recycling bag, and checked the time by his wristwatch, surprised that it was fifteen minutes to ten o’clock, so soon. It only felt like twenty minutes ago since the boys had taken their leave.

  Time flies by when you’re having fun, Hugh, he thought.

  When he’d put all the rubbish in the bin, washed the dishes and turned the lights off downstairs, Hugh made the slow, steady climb up the stairs and into the bathroom. His right leg and hip hurt the most when he was bending down to pick something up or climbing, like he was now. It put too much pressure on his joints, and he even heard crunching sounds in his shins. The first time he’d heard that awful sound, he thought he’d imagined it. Then it kept on happening almost every single day.

  He flicked the switch for the bathroom light and made his way over to the medicine cabinet above the sink, showing his haggard reflection. The light bulb directly above the medicine cabinet left no mark or detail hidden. Standing by the sink with the yellow glow illuminating his face made him see the bags under his eyes mapped with wrinkles all around his face. It was also where he got to see his lazy eye up close.

  This is how all the guys see me, he thought.

  Hugh wasn’t one of the boys any more. He couldn’t go downtown binge drinking with the rest of them and find his way home in the early hours of the morning, even if he wanted to. He could barely walk when he was wide awake and sober; never mind after a few drinks. Those days were over, he realised.

  The mirror wavered beyond his gaze, swallowing him into a pond of hurtful memories; memories which came to him ever since the day death had brushed past him, very nearly taking him to another place far away from Willet Close; far away from the suburban neighbourhood into another realm.

  He sees himself getting out of a Royal Mail van and closing the door, then making his way around to the rear of the van, ready to fill his pouch up with letters for Queen Street in the village of Skewen. Hugh sees himself lifting the heavy pouch up off the ground and putting the strap over his shoulder, slamming the rear doors shut, whirling around to start delivering at the opposite end of the street where the pharmacy is located, enabling him to work his way back to the van, before moving onto the next street.

  He remembers squinting because the sun is so bright. (That might have been one of the reasons why what happened on that fateful day inevitably changed his life for ever.) Had the sun not been so dazzling, he might have been able to foresee his fate in time to save himself. But that hadn’t been the way it worked out.

  All things happen for a reason, Martha had told him.

  Perhaps what befell him that day was supposed to happen, he thought. For what purpose, though, he had no idea.

  Hugh had been thirty-two years old on that frosty January morning. A day that started out going to work at half past five, and which he ended up seeing the last of in a hospital bed in the emergency room, fighting for his life.

  He remembered the white transit van, tires screeching as it came around the sharp corner off Tabernacle Street far too fast and onto Queen Street. The driver obviously didn’t pay any heed to the ten mile per hour traffic signpost nor the speed humps on the road that had been put on the road to stop ignorant drivers from racing around these quiet streets, where a doctor’s surgery was opposite the pharmacist, old people walking to and fro getting their prescriptions from their GP and then going to collect their medicine across the road.

  The flashbacks came to him over the years in no particular order, like reels of film on a projector. Yet what he made sense of was that he’d been crossing the road when the van sped towards him. In spite of this he couldn’t very well run because the pouch was leaden with bundles of mail, and because it was broad daylight, Hugh expected the driver to slow his vehicle down, realising he was not adhering to the rules of the road. Instead, Hugh felt something collide with his body so hard it didn’t seem real. He was sent flying through the air on an invisible cloud, supporting his weight, carrying him up and away, defining gravity. That was to be a mistake on his part, because when he did hit the ground, he both heard and felt the bitter, muffled snapping of his bones. Then the pain shot through him like a lighting bolt, from his feet all the way to the top of his head.

  Overhead the sun shone down on him. Squinting, but this time unable to shield the rays from his eyes, Hugh genuinely believed that the brilliant light overhead was not the sun, but the light showing him the way into the everlasting. All he had to do was to reach up towards the light and it would embrace him.

  Before he knew it the light had disappeared and had been replaced by the loss of sight. His body was apparently floating again, but he could hear distant, faraway, unfamiliar voices close by, and then a shudder that rocked him... although he didn’t feel any pain like he’d done the first time.

  ‘... no this is our call. We arrived here first, not you,’ a voice said somewhere next to him.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! Look at the fuckin’ state of his hip; it’s hanging off him,’ a male voice exclaimed, exhaling.

  Hugh spent the better part of a month in hospital, tubes all over him; IV poles by his bedside, connected to monitors reading his heart rate. The doctors informed him that he’d broken three of his ribs, his left ankle and needed to have a hip replacement. Altogether he had three operations, and even though he was constantly told by doctors and nurses he was very fortunate to be alive and to have made full recovery, he sure as hell didn’t feel lucky or as if he’d made a ‘full recovery’.

  Everyone who told him this jargon, smiling at him and shaking their heads, as though this was all his fault, had never been involved in a near-death incident, so how the hell they knew what ‘feeling lucky’ and a ‘full recovery’ was anyone’s guess.

  Yes, he could’ve died. Yes his head could’ve slammed the concrete a little bit harder and killed him instantaneously - but it hadn’t. Furthermore, he shouldn’t have been knocked down in the first place. That arsehole of a driver ought to have his licence revoked (which he did, along with a two year prison sentence) and had the same thing done to him. Then everyone could sit at his bedside while he was lying in bed, wondering why everyone became more of blur the closer they got to him, and why it felt as though ever since he first stood up after the accident, he was standing on someone else’s legs.

  Walking a couple of paces had been excruciating for him. Hugh thought about how he would never be able to stand up on his own two feet and walk again, as he was pushed down the long corridor outside in the fresh air, in a squeaky wheelchair.
>
  Even now, many years later, Hugh still snapped his eyes open in the morning wondering the same thing: Was this the day he would roll out of bed, try to stand only to fall over, and keep falling over, until a doctor came to give the horrible news that he was an invalid.

  The “full recovery” everyone talked about, never truly existed. Sure, he could walk, and every day when Hugh woke, he thanked God for that much. Nevertheless, the pain never went away. There were days when he did feel like he could jog into town and back and not get out of breath, but for every good day, he endured two bad ones. Those days were hell. It would be less painful to crawl on his hands and knees through shards of glass, because at least with the shards of glass and cuts he could see where the pain was, precisely. Instead he would be striding out of one room to another and all of a sudden he’d have to stop and lie down, take two painkillers, take two Paracetemol with a glass of cold water and wait for the pain to subside.

  Thankfully, ever since his accident, Hugh had been given light duties in the delivery office on part-time hours. But ever since that day he had developed a lazy eye, which he could feel twitching by itself in his head, his eyesight got so bad that in the end it was unwise for him to be at work any longer. He was making too many mistakes; inadvertently putting mail in the wrong places. His manager called him into the office and gently explained that he had no choice but to let him go. It was the first time in his life as an adult that Hugh had cried.

  He opened the tub of painkillers, tossed two pills into his mouth and washed them down, then put it back in the cabinet, brushed his teeth and gave his ageing face, losing the battle to gravity more and more every time he stared at himself, a scrub.

  Full recovery my arse.

  Hugh fell to sleep not five minutes after his head touched the pillow and he closed his eyes.

  For reasons unknown to him, he dreamed of four hooded figures with no faces.

  7.

  Homer was eating his food from the dog bowl in the kitchen - like a good boy he was, as Martha told him - when his fur stirred in a breeze, not caused by any draught of the natural kind. He lifted his head from the bowl, swallowing the mouthful with some difficulty, peering through the darkness, listening for the flip-flop of his owner’s footfalls on the tile flooring.