BURN, BABY, BURN

by Jake Barton

  *****

  "Clive, Are you coming out to play?"

  The voice reached Clive’s ears moments after he woke to the smell of smoke wafting up the stairs.

  The voice was unmistakably that of Marcus, even though he’d not heard him speak since they were both children. He’d expected to hear that voice, expected Marcus to reappear in his life, every day, every night, especially every night. Now Marcus was here. In the house.

  Clive scrambled from his bed, eyes wide as he moved quickly to the door and listened for sounds of an intruder. He heard nothing, but was not surprised. A full-frontal attack would be too obvious. Marcus would want him to suffer first, flee from the horror of the burning house to his inevitable death. Clive snarled with sardonic humour at the thought that, at the end, he’d out-smarted his pursuer.

  Reaching up to the top of the wardrobe, Clive grunted with effort as he hauled a plastic bag over the raised decorative scrollwork. Inside the bag were short lengths of nylon rope, bought weeks previously and stored in readiness for this day. He tipped the rest of the contents onto the bed, a further piece of rope, very thin nylon, hardly more than cord, but immensely strong, an industrial strength plastic bag, thick rubber gloves, and a jar of cooking oil – Tesco own-brand, from their Value Range.

  Smoke leaked under the bedroom door, but Clive ignored it. It didn’t matter, not any more. He walked to the door and listened with his ear to the crack of the doorjamb. Nothing. As he walked away, he heard the voice again. Closer now. On the stairs?

  "Clive, are you coming out to play?"

  Clive sat on the hard chair that he’d placed against the wall with no other furniture within reach. Grunting with the effort, he bound his own feet together, then tied them securely to the legs of the chair that was firmly screwed to the floor, leaning into the knots until he could no longer feel his feet. Smoke was filling the room now, but he remained absolutely calm.

  This final meeting with Marcus had been envisaged for some time and he worked with total certainty. Pulling the plastic bag over his head, he tied it securely with the slim nylon cord. He grimaced as the binding cut deeply into his skin, but the pain was immaterial. It would not inconvenience him for long.

  His next breath would also be his last as he sucked the plastic against his mouth, using up the air trapped in the bag. Working quickly now, he slipped his hands into the thick rubber gloves and doused them with the contents of the cooking oil and dropped the empty container at his feet. He’d expected the panic that came with his next attempt to take a breath, but the strength of his reaction surprised him.

  Hands scrabbling vainly at the knots securing the bag in position, oily fingers failing to find any purchase, his lungs burned and his temples pounded like a kettledrum. From what seemed a vast distance, he heard the voice once more.

  "Clive, are you coming out to play?"

  Even as his open mouth sucked at the unyielding plastic, teeth ripping his lower lip, he was exultant at this final cheating of his tormentor. Hot salty blood from his ravaged lips trickling down his throat, Clive slumped, his upper body pitching forward from the chair. His bound legs twitching, he fell awkwardly, head slamming against the floorboards with a sickening crack.

  The first flames licked at the doorframe, but Clive didn’t see them. By the time his room was consumed by the fire, he had been dead for some considerable time.

  *****

  Not a soul about, and no signs of any house numbers either. Bugger! Pity the poor bloody postman. As Donna was looking for number 15, she’d guessed that the first on the left would be number 2, and walked round, counting aloud as she ticked off each house, 2, 4, 6, 8.

  When she got partway round she saw her first house number, set high on the wall. Number 9. She looked back to where she’d started and tried again, this time using the odd numbers.

  That didn’t work either. Starting from the other end was even worse. This time Donna came up with number 17. Cudgelling her brain, Donna eventually saw that the numbering system was nothing more complicated than 1, 2, 3, 4 and so on. Good job she didn’t work for the Post Office, she’d be out all bloody night.

  She walked over to what she was now certain was number 15, pushed open the gate and knocked on the door. She could hear the distant clamour of sirens, but that was nothing unusual, always police cars and fire engines about these days. Probably some cat stuck up a tree.

  When a figure shuffled down the passage, and opened the door, Donna took an involuntary step backwards. His pale face was a washed-out shade of off-white, almost magnolia and his skin was slack and wrinkly, like an old tennis ball that has been chewed by a dog and then abandoned. A wet chesty cough rattled deep down in his bony chest, his lank greasy hair flopping down over his bony forehead – corpse hair, grey and lifeless, like the rest of him. His lips twitched. It may have been a smile, it may have been indigestion, Donna couldn’t tell. The touch of violet under his eyes would have been exotic on anyone else.

  "What do you want?"

  "Can you tell me anything about Marcus Green?" All thoughts of easing her way in gently went out of her head. He looked at her solemnly, almost sadly, and then shook his head in resignation.

  ""You’d best come in out of the cold, love. You look bloody frozen." He stood to one side and Donna stepped into the hall. He closed the door firmly behind her, giving it a good slam.

  "It sticks a bit, need to make sure it’s closed or it’ll only blow open again," he said, before leading the way along a narrow passage into the kitchen.

  Kitchenette perhaps? Not much more than a table, two chairs and a gas ring.

  A small sink with a single tap and an antique gas water heater were the only other fixtures. A gas fire spluttered in the grate, but the room was still cold and damp. A black dog lay on a circular rug. Huge coal-black eyes swivelled in Donna’s direction, and she fought to suppress an involuntary shiver as the hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Seriously scary!

  The man caught her eye and smiled. "Don’t worry about that bugger there. He’s got his nasty side, but when it’s cold out he’ll stop by the fire all day. When he gets settled like that, he’s too bloody lazy to bite anyone."

  Donna could still hear the sirens wailing outside and also a car being revved to the point of destruction. Her host grimaced, indicating the window beyond which could be heard the sound of a highly revved car engine.

  "All bloody day I get that. On the driving test route, you see, so every sodding instructor in town brings his pupils to practise three point turns outside my house. I daren’t park within a hundred yards of here in case some half-blind granny backs into it."

  Donna nodded sympathetically, glancing at the window. Secondary double-glazing had been inexpertly fitted at some time in the recent past. As a means of insulation, it was virtually useless, and the inevitable condensation caused by the gas fire was clearly visible. Even worse was the trapped condensation in the out of reach area between the two sheets of glass. One of those ‘seemed like a good idea at the time’ kind of jobs.

  "Walter Frost. Sorry I didn’t catch your name."

  "Donna O’Prey, Mister Frost. Sorry to burst in unannounced like this."

  "Don’t you worry about that. I’m not doing anything special as you can see. And call me Walter. I only let people I don’t like call me Mister Frost."

  Donna grinned and took out her notebook. "Can I ask you about Marcus Green? I believe you used to know the family?"

  Walter nodded. "I wish I could tell you I’ve never heard the name, but that’s all it is, wishful thinking. I suppose you’ve got a good reason for wanting to know about young Marcus?"

  Donna nodded. "I’m hoping to find a missing girl."

  Walter sighed heavily. "I thought it would be something along those lines," he said, his expression grave. "Would you like a drop of tea while we talk? Or I could run to a bacon sandwich. Just the job on a raw day like this."

  Donna shook her head. "No thanks, Walter. I’ve had enoug
h bacon this morning to last me the week."

  She flipped over to a fresh page in her notebook, sliding her pen out from the spiral rings where it had been nestling snugly.

  Roper, the arch technophobe, was constantly urging his minions to make use of the pocket Dictaphones the firm provided, but Donna was an old-fashioned girl who preferred to write notes rather than risk losing everything by inadvertently pressing the wrong buttons, failing to replace the batteries, or just leaving the bloody thing on a park bench somewhere.

  If a notebook was good enough for Dexter, a confirmed Luddite, it should certainly be good enough for her. Taking notes was a chore, but was one of the few things at which Donna could truthfully claim any proficiency. She could spell, knew the rudiments of grammar, and how to express her thoughts on paper.

  "Before I say anything," Walter began, with a quiet emphasis, eyes fixed rather nervously on the open notebook. "I can see you’re not from the police, but I’m not making no written statements or anything. If it fell into the wrong hands, well…" His voice trailed off.

  Donna got the point and closed her notebook with a firm snap. As she sat there, knees together like a prim school-marm, waiting for Walter to speak, the dog came over and rested his heavy head on her knee.

  Walter smiled at the fearful expression on her face. "I think I can speak freely," he said. "If that old bugger likes you, who am I to argue?"

  He sat staring at a spot of grease on the floor, hands clasping his knees, until Donna thought she would have to prompt him or burst with frustration. Just as she was about to speak, he leant back in the chair and looked at her very solemnly, a single tear trickling down his cheek.

  "His mother, Mrs Green, was a funny woman. Before you ask, I don’t mean she was in any way humorous."

  Donna said nothing, having had no intention of asking any such thing. Dexter’s Law was absolutely certain on that point. Once they start talking, shut your trap and keep it shut. Simple really. Donna counted herself fortunate to have learnt this sort of thing from an acknowledged master.

  Dexter had taught her how to weed out the truth from a thicket of lies and evasions, when to rage and bluster, and when to play the best friend. True talent lay in deciding when to press and when to tease out the truth. He was at his best as the gentle inquisitor, softly persuading a reluctant informant to release the information he was withholding.

  The most important thing Dexter had taught was the value of silence during an interrogation – when to speak and when to keep it buttoned. This was one of the times when silence could be golden. Sit tight, say nothing, and see what happens. A nervous person, or one with something to hide, hates the empty void of silence.

  Dexter had perfected the art of sitting as still as the Sphinx while the person opposite gabbled away, incriminating themselves with every word. Donna would never be in Dexter's league as an interrogator, but she'd managed to pick up a few crumbs. Right now, it was time to sit still, keep her trap shut and let Walter do the talking.

  "I felt sorry for them, after Mister Green died. Lovely man he was, a real gentleman. I first met him when I went round the big houses looking for work. I used to help out with a few odd jobs, bit of gardening, servicing the car, that sort of thing. Couple of days a week as a rule. Been going there three years or so when it happened. Mister Green was missing for a while, big search for him there was. All the neighbours turned out, he was a popular man, and everybody liked him. When they found him in the well, I don’t know why, but I thought it strange. He wasn’t exactly a man of action, scrambling around in the woods, that sort of thing. I wondered what he’d been doing out there. Not that I ever said anything at the time."

  Walter paused, reaching over to stroke the vast head of his dog still lying across Donna’s knees like a furry bowling ball. "She never cried over him, I remember that. I’m not saying she carried on as if nothing had happened. You could tell she was upset, but as for Marcus…" He shook his head, squinting as if in pain. "I could tell he was pleased. Little bastard, even at that age. He’d be no more than six or seven. I know they say kids get over things easier than adults, but him, he acted as if his Dad dying was nothing of importance. He carried on as usual, reading those bloody books of his, never speaking to nobody."

  Walter stopped talking, lost in a world of memories. He’d started to cry again, large tears rolling down his leathery cheeks. Donna felt utterly powerless in the face of such obvious pain.

  "I’m sorry, love," he said gruffly. "Don’t know what you must think of me. I try not to think of them times. Too many memories. Then when my girl went off a few years later, well it nearly finished me."

  Donna looked blank.

  "My daughter, Susan. Walked out one day and never came back. We’d had a few words, bit of a row really, but I never thought…" His voice tailed away.

  "How old was Susan?"

  "Seventeen, nearly eighteen. I’ve never heard from her since the day she left, not Christmas, nothing. Not even a birthday card."

  His face was heavily creased. Laugh lines. Not that he’d been laughing much lately. A man who’d known joy in his life then lost it. A missing child can do that to a person. He walked to a battered bureau and returned holding out a photograph, gripping it by one corner as if reluctant to relinquish his hold.

  Donna looked carefully at a dark-haired girl, her features slightly rounded by the last vestiges of puppy fat, and knew with a burning conviction that she was looking at the face of one of Marcus Green’s victims. The glorious woman she could have been was there for all to see. It was not to be and Donna felt her own anger build at this tragic waste of a life.

  " She’s lovely, isn’t she?" Present tense.

  Donna said nothing. What could she say?

  He shook his head. "It’s still hard to admit that she’s gone." He eased back in his chair as if sitting for a formal portrait.

  Donna patted his gnarled hand. No Florence Nightingale at the best of times, just now she was more confused than anything else.

  "A bad time for me, one way and another. I try not to think about it too often."

  "Take your time, Walter."

  "Oh, I’m just a soft-headed old man, don’t take any notice. The thing is, I always thought Marcus knew all the time that his dad was in the well. Stupid I know, but I happened to be there the day the police came to say he’d been found. They’d asked me to be there actually. A friendly face, you know?"

  "I know."

  "I was watching Marcus when they were telling his Mum what they’d found in the well. Not a trace of surprise. I thought to myself, you bloody well knew he was there, you little bastard. I never said anything at the time, not for quite a while, actually. Then, one day, I was in the kitchen, waiting for Mrs Green to fetch my wages, and Marcus was there, eating a piece of toast. I came straight out with it. Asked him how he’d known his Dad was dead in that well and why he’d never said anything to anyone about it. He said nothing, nothing at all, just carried on eating his toast, but he looked at me with that creepy stare of his and I’m not ashamed to tell you, I was scared stiff. Felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. You might think I’m being fanciful, but I was a tail-gunner in the War. Shot down twice and any amount of near misses, but never felt so scared as I did when that little kid stared at me. Mrs Green came back with my money and I took it and scarpered. Never went there again."

  "Oh?" Donna exclaimed in surprise. "How come?"

  "Oh bugger me, that’s when my life changed. A couple of days later it was. I had a bad reaction to an injection and was in a coma for weeks on end. As you can see, I’ve never been right since."

  "I’m sorry, I’m not with you."

  "I’m diabetic. Had it since I was a kid. If the Germans hadn’t have been knocking on the door, there’s no way they’d have let me set foot in a Lancaster, but I could cope with anything as long as I remembered to take my insulin. Anyway, this day I had a bad reaction. The postman saw me lying on the floor through the kitchen wind
ow. Lucky for me or I wouldn’t be here talking to you now. I never found out what was in that injection, but one thing’s for sure, it wasn’t insulin. When I heard Marcus had been put away, I breathed a sigh of relief, I can tell you. I knew that injection was something to do with him."

  "How could it have been?"

  "I tell you. It was him. I bloody well saw him."

  "Where?"

  "Right here. The day it happened. I came in and saw the back door was left open. I never did that, not when I was at work. I went over to shut it and saw Marcus climbing over that wall at the back. I never thought much about it at the time. It was when I came to in the hospital all that time later that I put two and two together. Reckon I got off lightly, considering how he set fire to those little kids. I’m glad he’s put away, where he belongs."

  "He’s out now. Back here. Didn’t you know?"

  She couldn’t help it. The words were out of her mouth before Donna could think. Walter gasped for air, hands paddling feebly, and slid unconscious to the floor.

  *****

  Donna returned to her car, splashing through the puddles without worrying about the state of her clothes. She’d got the ambulance out to Walter and they’d carted him off to hospital but the paramedics reckoned he’d be okay.

  The biggest problem was the bloody dog that had started howling as they took Walter out and she’d had a real job on her hands trying to find a neighbour who’d look after him. An old dear round the corner eventually took him in and fed him the piece of chicken she’d intended for her own supper.

  Donna left her a tenner for dog food and promised to keep in touch until Walter was well enough to come home and take his dog back. All she could think about was getting home, changing out of these awful clothes and having a nice warming cup of tea.