by James Barrie
‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do,’ he said, cuffing him.
Theodore watched from the forecourt of a house as Michael was dragged to his feet and walked towards a police car. Rocky was trotting up and down the street, his tongue lolling, while Irene called for him, ‘Get here now!’
Theodore watched as Michael was put in the back of a police car. More police cars and vans had arrived; their sirens blaring out a symphony.
Later the police would discover Philip’s dismembered body in the bin bags in the back alley. Later, his bashed-in head would be fished out of the muddy waters of the Ouse, tied up in a Waitrose bag for life.
His fingers and teeth would never be recovered.
Poppycock!
‘Clementhorpe Killer Caught!’ the headline in The Press shouted the next day from Wendy’s kitchen table.
Wendy was sitting at the table with Irene.
‘Well, at least you can move on now,’ Irene said.
‘Aye suppose so,’ Wendy said. ‘Talking of moving on, I saw a For Sale sign outside Diane’s. Reckon she’s moving back to Lancashire.’
‘It’ll be bought and let out like the rest of them.’
‘Craig Foster’s house too. He must have decided to move on too.’
‘Investors,’ Irene muttered. ‘They’ll soon snap them up. They keep putting leaflets through my door. Can’t wait for me to pop my clogs.’
‘You’ve got a good few years left in you,’ Wendy said.
‘I’ve got my dog to look after,’ Irene said. ‘I have to keep going for him.’
Irene opened the paper and began to flick through the other stories.
‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘The Lucky Twin takeaway has been closed down.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘They’ve been done by Trading Standards for spicing up their food with opiates.’
‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ Wendy said. ‘Sounds like a lot of poppycock!’
She slapped the table and laughed.
Irene laughed too and Wendy laughed even harder.
After Irene had left, Wendy had another visitor.
Her daughter pushed her pram through into the kitchen. On top of the pram was wedged a cat carrier.
‘What’s that you’ve got in there?’ Wendy asked.
‘What do you think it is? It’s a kitten,’ Laura said. ‘It’s for you.’
‘But I don’t like cats,’ Wendy said. ‘You know that.’
‘Dad never liked cats,’ Laura said. ‘But that doesn’t mean that you can’t like them.’
Wendy shook her head.
‘It’ll keep you company,’ Laura said. ‘Go on.’
‘You’d better get him out so I can have a look at him.’
Laura parked the pram in the backyard and made herself a coffee, the kitten purring on Wendy’s lap the whole time.
They sat at the kitchen table.
‘Joseph will be waking shortly,’ Laura said, ‘and I don’t have any food with me.’
‘I’m sure I’ve got something here you could give him. Porridge oats. I could make up some porridge for him.’
At that moment Joseph began to cry.
‘I should really get going,’ Laura said. ‘But I’ll call round tomorrow to see how you and the kitten are getting on.’
She turned to her mother: ‘Best to let bygones be bygones.’
‘Aye,’ Wendy said. ‘Best to let sleeping dogs lie.’
Later, Theodore watched as the kitten kneaded Wendy’s stomach, purring loudly. It was a tortoiseshell: a mishmash of colours: white, marmalade, grey and black. Wendy stroked the kitten as she watched her soap opera. ‘I’ll call you Splodge,’ she said.
Theodore got to his paws and stretched. Before returning home, he paid a visit to Zeynep and Ahmet’s. From inside the house, the new baby cried.
Ahmet was standing over the Moses basket.
‘You can pick him up, you know,’ Zeynep said.
‘I’m afraid to,’ Ahmet said, peering down at the pink shrivelled baby with bruised eyes. ‘He’s so small.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Zeynep said. ‘Just don’t drop him!’
Ahmet picked the baby up and held him to his chest. He thought of the dolls’ house he had made for the baby. The little house that Zeynep had smashed up.
‘I will make him a railway set,’ Ahmet said. ‘For when he is bigger. It will have tunnels and bridges, and a station and station master…’
‘You can make it in your shed,’ Zeynep said and smiled.
From the back bedroom window Bal and Belle peered out. They would soon be removed from the bedroom which would become a nursery. They blinked hello at Theodore.
Theodore blinked back.
He understood that Bal had been the key to unlocking the mystery. The Lucky Twin had held the key. Zeynep had hit Peter Morris over the head but had not killed him. She believed she had taken a man’s life but she had actually brought life into this world.
Theodore closed his eyes.
Who was ultimately responsible for killing Peter Morris?
Zeynep had hit him with the cobblestone. Wendy had ignored his cries for help. Then Michael had finished him off with his baseball bat, a Souvenir from Louisville, wherever that might be.
But if Peter Morris had not made the racist remark to Zeynep, he might still be alive. If he had been a little nicer to his wife, Wendy, he might still be alive. If he had not insulted Michael, he might still be alive. So, in a way, Peter Morris had been responsible for his own ending.
He just hadn’t reckoned on having a psychopathic killer living behind, and who does?
Michael Butler had stored up his grievances inside. He had wanted fame and fortune for his art but they had not been forthcoming. He had spent his hours dwelling on the unfairness of life. Hatred for his fellow man festered inside with no outlet. Now, in a high security prison, he would get the therapy he needed through his art. He would produce masterworks which would never be seen outside Her Majesty’s Prisons.
Then Theodore realised that he had been blinded by his own first impressions of Michael to make him a serious suspect in his investigation; his own prejudice had shielded Michael. If Theodore had acted sooner, he might have put an end to Michael’s murderous ways before he had killed Philip.
Dried leaves blew down the back alley.
Theodore wandered restlessly home.
Jonathan and Emily were in the front room.
‘To think I modelled for him!’ Emily said.
‘I think you had a narrow escape,’ Jonathan said, putting the newspaper down. ‘We both did.’
‘Don’t you mean all three of us?’ Emily said, nodding and smiling at Theodore, now standing in the middle of the room.
‘Yes,’ Jonathan said. ‘I’m not sure what would have happened the other night if he hadn’t turned up.’
The telephone in the corner began ringing.
‘It’ll be my mother,’ said Emily.
They let it go to the answerphone.
‘I can’t believe it was the man from down the hill who did it,’ Emily’s mother said into the machine. ‘I heard on the news that he’s homosexual too. Well, I never thought you could get homicidal homosexuals!’
Emily snatched up the telephone. ‘What about Ted Bundy?’ she said.
‘Pardon?’ her mother said, surprised that the telephone had been answered. ‘Who’s this Ted Bundy?’
‘He was a gay serial killer,’ Emily said. ‘Targeted young men. He used to dress up as a clown too.’
‘Did he now?’ her mother said. ‘Well, I guess it takes all sorts.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ Emily said. ‘I guess it does.’
‘Don’t they say: it’s always the ones you don’t suspect?’
‘They do indeed.’
After Emily had finished speaking to her mum and had said hello to her dad, she turned to Jonathan.
‘After everything that’s happened here,’ she said, ‘
I think it might be an idea to move. After everything that’s happened, I don’t think I’m ever going to be comfortable round here again.’
‘What do you mean move?’ Jonathan said. ‘When were you going to tell me?’
‘Well, I’m asking?’
‘Asking?’
‘Asking if you’d like to move in together. With me and Theodore. It makes sense. We need somewhere bigger… You’re paying rent for your place and spending half the time round here anyway. It just makes sense.
‘And I’m sure Theodore would love a garden. He might not get into such mischief if he had a garden to play in.’
‘So, you think we should all move in together and play happy families?’
‘Why not?’ Emily said, chewing on her thumbnail. ‘What do you say?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Jonathan said. ‘Where were you thinking?’
‘I think a different area,’ Emily said. ‘After everything that’s happened in Clementhorpe, I think we should move somewhere different.’
‘Like where?’
‘How about Acomb?’
‘I’m sure you get more for your money in Acomb,’ Jonathan said.
‘It’s a bit suburban but perhaps the suburban life is better than having your neighbours knocked off.’
‘Let’s do it then,’ Jonathan said.
‘Yes, let’s,’ Emily said.
Jonathan bent towards Emily and, as they kissed, Theodore slunk outside.
◆◆◆
He sat on the back wall as the sun sank behind South Bank. He gazed over at the brick walls of the alleys and houses. Further up the hill they had begun to lay tarmac over the cobbles, the black blanket covering over a hundred years of history. Further down the hill a street lamp bathed the remaining blue cobblestones in golden light.
Theodore knew that it would soon be gone. He sensed the massive change that was to come. He did not know the specifics, but he understood that everything familiar was about to change. The back alley would be gone. The people he knew on the street would be gone. He would be yanked out of this world and plonked down in another. A world of suburbia and gardens, and new neighbours…
But Theodore liked it here. He liked the alley. He liked napping in the front window in the afternoon sunshine. He liked Clementhorpe. He didn’t want to move to Acomb. Whatever Acomb might entail.
He raised his head and began a low mewling, becoming higher pitched before breaking into full wail.
He sang his lament to the cobbles of the back alleys; the weathered bricks that made up the walls; the worn slate roof tiles; the satellite dishes perched under eaves pointing south; the old ladies nattering over tea and biscuits; the men busy in their sheds or jogging up and down the street; the cats sleeping under hedges or basking in the sun on flat felt roofs; the dogs whining for walks in backyards; the pigeons gathered on the ridges; the black and white geese flying over, en route to Rowntree Park, the solitary magpie perched on a television aerial…
He sang his song: his farewell to Clementhorpe: his home.
Windows up and down the street were abruptly pulled shut. As everyone knows, the singing of cats is not to everybody’s taste.
May 2012 – December 2016, York
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
This edition published by Severus House
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author
The right of the author has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
Copyright © 2017 by James Barrie
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