by John Nicholl
Galbraith spoke to Davies in hushed tones, ‘Do only as I say. Stay behind me unless I tell you otherwise, and await my instructions. Do not speak until we have the boy secured safely in the vehicle and have driven away. Do you understand my instructions?’
As Davies nodded his reticent agreement, Galbraith gripped his face tightly between the thumb and fingers of one hand. ‘Right, Davies. Time to go, old man. Do everything quietly. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, I hear you.’
Galbraith glared directly into his hesitant accomplice’s eyes, and lowered his tone still further from a whisper to a hiss, ‘This is important to me. It couldn’t be more important. Be in no doubt, if you do anything at all to cock this up, I will kill you.’
The doctor left the van first, with Davies close on his heels, and made his way down the fragmented concrete path towards the Mailers’ front door. On reaching the cottage he walked rapidly to the right side of the building, which had the obvious advantage of being less visible from the road, but had no viable access point. He moved on quickly, with Davies in close attendance, and discovered a narrow path running along the entire length of the back wall. The cottage had been built against a high stone-and-earth bank, covered in various shrubs and small trees of varying sizes, with only a two-to three-foot gap between the bank and the rear wall of the stone building. The doctor swore silently under his breath as he squeezed his muscular frame along the path in the intermittent light of the half-moon breaking through the gradually dispersing rain clouds, until he reached an opaque window located halfway along the wall at ground-floor level. He paused briefly, carefully surveying the scene, before looking back at Davies and repeatedly pointing at the window with a jabbing digit. He leant his head close to his accomplice’s right ear and whispered, ‘Open it,’ with obvious urgency.
Davies was in reasonably good physical shape for a man in his late forties, but increasingly close to panic. He pulled himself together as best he could, and got to work. The window was a badly designed double-glazed type, in which the glass was secured in the white PVC frame by external beading. Davies immediately realised that he wasn’t going to need the glass cutter after all. He dropped the sports bag to the semi-frozen earth, and tore a hole in his paper overalls big enough to take a red multitool penknife from a front pocket of his jeans. He unfolded the longest blade and triumphantly prised the black rubber beading from one corner of the frame, before taking hold of the double-glazed unit and removing it completely, leaving ample room for the two men to climb through the resulting gap into the cottage’s little ground-floor bathroom.
Galbraith tapped Davies on one shoulder, and pointed to the various cosmetics and toiletries on the narrow white-tiled sill, and then to the path at the far side of the gaping opening. Davies understood immediately, and picked up each item in turn with increasingly cold, numb fingers, while simultaneously reaching for a chrome freestanding shaving mirror located on the far corner of the sill. His triumph was short-lived, however. Davies misjudged his grip, causing the mirror to topple forward into the sink located directly below the window with a loud clang. Galbraith somehow managed to maintain his silence, but he grabbed Davies’ shoulder aggressively, and glared at him with an expression that left him in absolutely no doubt that he had failed miserably. Davies mouthed the word, ‘Sorry,’ in an attempt to appease his antagonist, and waited anxiously for his next instruction.
Galbraith rushed forward and pushed Davies roughly aside, before placing his head through the open frame. He listened intently for a full minute before his initial alarm abated. There was no sound of stirring. Just silence, glorious silence. It was time to continue with the night’s work.
The doctor took a leather case containing the sedative drug, syringe and needle from the sports bag, and unzipped his paper overalls to tuck the case into the rear waistband of his tailored trousers. He climbed head first onto the windowsill, and pulled his body through the open gap, inch by cautious inch. He placed his hands firmly around the sink, and levered himself forwards until his weight suddenly acted as a fulcrum, and he fell forward, landing heavily on the hard quarry-tiled floor of the tiny room. He hurriedly pulled himself to his feet with the aid of a heated towel rail, and listened anxiously for the second time. To his relief, no one stirred.
Galbraith pointed to the bag outside, on the freezing ground, and silently mouthed the word, ‘Torch.’ Once Davies handed it over, the doctor motioned to him to enter the cottage as he had. Davies climbed through with apparent ease, and was soon standing closely behind the doctor in the cramped room.
As Galbraith’s eyesight gradually adjusted to the semi-darkness, he picked up a white facecloth that had fallen to the floor next to the sink, and used it to mask the torch, before switching it on and smiling. It offered sufficient light to navigate without the risk of drawing unwanted attention from neighbours or unlikely early hour passers-by.
Galbraith opened the bathroom door gingerly, and made his way into the short corridor that led to a family kitchen. Davies followed tentatively, fearing that he might throw up at any moment, as he reluctantly urged himself onwards.
The doctor pointed the torch down at an approximate forty-five-degree angle, and led the way through the kitchen and dining room, and into the red-tiled hall, from where the ancient wooden staircase led to a landing, three bedrooms and a second larger family bathroom. He placed his foot onto the first step, causing it to creak alarmingly, and pulled his leg back, relieved to hear no sound of movement from any of the bedrooms. He moved his right foot back onto the first step, but this time he placed it precisely to the far side, so that it was almost touching the white-painted bannister. Slowly but surely, he proceeded to silently climb the stairs, utilising the method all the way to the top.
Davies waited at the bottom of the staircase until Galbraith finally reached the landing. He stood in a quandary, staring at the steps. Should he go up? Should he follow the doctor? Or should he stay where he was and wait?
The doctor made increasingly frenzied hand gestures directing Davies to join him on the landing. As Davies ascended the stairs with exaggerated care, he experienced heights of anxiety that were entirely new to him. The doctor saw the signs of panic in his eyes, and fearing his accomplice may compromise the operation, urgently pointed at the edge of each step with outstretched arms, in the style of a flight attendant indicating the location of escape routes during a preflight safety briefing. To his relief, it had the desired effect. Davies lifted seemingly leaden legs slowly, one step at a time, until he eventually reached the landing, with the comparative relief of a climber who had reached the summit of Everest. He stood at the top of the stairs, staring at the floor and unable to move an inch. When the doctor gave a further hand signal, this time indicating it was high time to search the first bedroom, Davies remained static with tears running down his morose face. He had lost control of his bowel, and could feel the warm loose faeces running down both legs and into one shoe. He sank to his knees as the rancid smell of human excrement filled the air.
Galbraith bit his lower lip hard, with sufficient force to cut the skin. He leant down urgently, fought the virtually overwhelming temptation to strike his accomplice in the interest of the mission, and placed his mouth immediately next to Davies’ ear. ‘Get a grip on yourself, Gary. Get a fucking grip! Only ten more minutes, and this will all be over. Now get the fuck up.’
Davies, who was temporarily incapable of independent thought, was relieved to be told what to do. All he had to do was follow orders. Just follow orders.
He rose to his feet and followed the doctor as he approached a bedroom door and pushed it open, providing them both with a view of the entire room. As Molly tossed and turned under her heavy winter-weight quilt, dreaming of happier times, she was totally oblivious to the strangely dressed men who had invaded her home. Galbraith resisted the temptation to attack, he fought the impulse to inflict terrible suffering. He had to maintain his focus on the night’s primary purpose.
Stay in control, man. Focus. When the time was right, her time would come.
The doctor turned away and crossed the landing towards the second of the three bedrooms. The door was already slightly ajar, allowing a relatively unobstructed view of the room. As he directed the torch beam around the bedroom in a gradual sweeping arc, his chest tightened and his head began to pound. The bed was empty. The fucking bed was empty.
He looked again, more carefully this time, his eyes darting from place to place. There were no boys’ toys. The quilt cover was pink. There was a denim dress draped across a chair. All was not lost. It clearly wasn’t the boy’s room. Everything was going to be fine, just fine.
Galbraith stood perfectly still for an instant, controlling his increasingly heavy breathing, and then turned to approach the third and final bedroom. Would he be there? Would the little bastard be there? He just had to be there.
The doctor peered into the darkness with Davies standing at his shoulder, again taking the precautionary measure of masking the otherwise powerful torch beam with the facecloth. The Swansea City lampshade, the posters of sports stars covering the walls. It had to be the boy’s room. Didn’t all young boys love sport? Yes, there he was. There he was!
The pounding in his head subsided immediately, and his breathing became easier. Almost there, but he had to be careful. There was no room for errors. Not when he was so very close to achieving his goal.
Davies watched from the virtual darkness of the landing as Galbraith crossed the single bedroom in two strides, moved a plastic box containing several toy cars and an Action Man dressed in deep-sea diving equipment to one side with the edge of his foot, and stood triumphantly at Anthony’s side. The doctor smiled and resisted the impulse to laugh. Now he was in control. Where was the bitch mother when her son most needed her? The boy was finally at his mercy.
Galbraith unzipped the front of his overalls and took the case containing the sedative from his rear waistband. He placed the syringe on top of the quilt at the bottom of the bed, tore open the paper packaging covering the needle, and picked the syringe up to fix the needle carefully in place. While holding the injection in one hand, he took a glass vial containing the strong drug from the case, and broke off its top with a barely audible snap that made him flinch. He inserted the needle precisely through the mouth of the vial, and slowly drew the clear liquid into the syringe chamber. Finally, he pressed the plunger gently with his thumb, forcing out the air, until a tiny drop of the clear liquid squirted reassuringly from the tip of the needle. He was ready.
The doctor took a deep breath, and lifted back one corner of Anthony’s black and white quilt, so that the left side of his body was uncovered. As Davies looked on open-mouthed, Galbraith plunged the needle through Anthony’s pyjama trousers and deep into his thigh, administering the adult dose of the drug to be certain of rapid results. The sudden sharp pain of the injection woke Anthony for an instant, but almost immediately he was unconscious.
Galbraith pulled Anthony’s quilt from his comatose body, and threw it to the floor on top of a box of building blocks at the far end of the bed. He turned to his accomplice and mimed an urgent instruction to pick their victim up in a fireman’s lift. For a second, Davies hesitated as if frozen to the spot with the fear of it all, but the doctor wasn’t about to let him jeopardise the abduction when they were so very close to success. He stepped forward and jabbed Davies hard in the chest, before pointing repeatedly at the boy with an urgent index finger. Davies tensed, took a gulp of air, and gave a thumbs-up gesture. The quicker he was out of the cottage, the happier he’d be.
As Galbraith stood aside to allow him sufficient space, Davies lifted Anthony’s insensate body effortlessly from his bed despite his dead weight, and held him easily over one shoulder. The doctor pointed to the bedroom door and followed Davies onto the landing. He tapped him on his free shoulder, pointed to the stairs and cautioned continued silence by putting a finger to his lips and holding it there until he was certain that Davies had taken on board the instruction.
Davies had no problem descending the stairs, despite adopting the same cautionary technique utilised when ascending. The doctor sensed imminent success, and was about to follow when he glanced in at Molly on passing her bedroom door. He felt his entire body tense, his heart rate increased sharply, his blood pressure suddenly soared, and his face took on an angry animalistic snarl that contorted his otherwise handsome features. Should he punish the bitch? Surely he should punish the bitch. She’d placed obstacles in his way time and time again.
Molly woke with an unexpected start, and was about to scream at the sight of the strangely dressed intruder looming above her, when the doctor abandoned all thoughts of caution and lifted the heavy torch high above his head. He smashed it down onto Molly’s forehead, using all of his strength and weight to maximise the impact. The first blow left her dazed and close to unconsciousness. The second shattered her nasal bones, causing blood to spray from broken skin and pour from distorted nostrils. The doctor hit her repeatedly, time and time again. He kept raining down blow after blow until Molly’s face was an unrecognisable bloody mess.
Davies stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening aghast to the sounds emanating from upstairs. Murder was never a part of the plan.
Despite Davies’ escalating fear, he somehow summoned sufficient courage to yell, ‘What the fuck’s going on up there? We need to get out of here.’
Galbraith froze, as if suddenly awoken from a trance, and walked away from the bloody scene as if nothing at all had happened. He was out of breath, panting hard and sweating profusely, but he had a broad grin on his face. Noise was no longer an issue, and with adrenaline surging through his veins, he bounded energetically down the stairs, two or three at a time, before tripping on the last step and crashing heavily onto the hard tiles. The mix of dopamine and endorphin in his system acted as an extremely effective painkiller, and he lifted himself off the floor with apparent ease, before unlocking the front door with a key left in the lock.
Galbraith moved to one side to allow Davies to exit first. He pushed his accomplice repeatedly in the back to hurry him down the path towards the van as he went. Davies got the message immediately, and moved as rapidly as he could, with the doctor following close behind, staring at their unconscious captive while drooling like a rabid dog.
Davies kicked open the rusty gate leading from path to pavement and hurried to the back of the van, where he stood waiting for a brief moment until the doctor opened the rear doors. Davies was in the process of gently lowering Anthony onto the floor of the vehicle, when the doctor snarled, ‘Throw the little bastard in, Gary. Throw the bastard in! We haven’t got time to piss about. It’s time to go, man.’
Galbraith was already in the driver’s seat when Davies opened the passenger door and got in next to him. He turned the ignition key, the engine turned over but didn’t start. He pounded the dashboard with the side of his fist. Start, you bastard, come on, start!
He tried for a second time, and this time the engine spluttered into life. He quickly executed a proficient three-point turn in the quiet road before pushing the accelerator to the floor and heading back in the direction of Eden Road.
Galbraith broke into a broad smile, but kept his eyes firmly focused on the road rather than turn to face his companion. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this moment, Gary. A long time. The job’s nearly done, but now isn’t the time to take your eye off the ball. You need to stay focused. Do you hear me?’ He banged the dashboard hard with the palm of one hand to emphasise his point. ‘There’s more work to do. Once we’ve got the boy safely in his new home, then you can relax. Not before!’
Davies began whimpering like a young puppy separated from its mother, but didn’t say anything in response.
The doctor gritted his teeth and resisted the temptation to hit out. The man was fucking pathetic. ‘Come on now, Gary. You’ve done well, man. Try not to worry. You’ll be able to head home as soon as we get the boy saf
ely back to the house.’
Davies felt slightly better for a time. But mere words were never going to be enough.
There was very little traffic on the streets at that time of the morning, and they made good progress despite occasional patches of perilous black ice, which the doctor chose to ignore. Davies hadn’t spoken since leaving the cottage, but he now asked if he could put the radio on. He felt ridiculously, disproportionately pleased when Galbraith acceded.
Davies broke his silence for a second time as Galbraith turned into Eden Road. His voice broke with trepidation as he hissed, ‘There’s a fucking police car behind us.’
Waves of vicious stabbing pain fired through the doctor’s head like recurrent bolts of electricity, and cymbals crashed in his mind, as if trying to drown out his thoughts. He clawed at his scalp with one hand. Come on, man. Focus, focus. Davies was incapable of holding things together. That was blatantly obvious. The man was a slug, a rodent, an intellectual sub-human. He had to rescue the situation himself. No one else was going to do it.
The patrol car was driven by a young probationary constable only eighteen months into his journey from comparative innocence to experience, after leaving a polytechnic degree course prematurely to join the local force. It had been a quiet night, and PC 143 Kieran Harris was looking for almost anything to do to break the potentially mind-numbing monotony of early hours semi-rural policing. He contacted his control room on the car’s two-way radio, requested a police national computer check on the van’s index number, and pondered whether or not to stop the vehicle in order to examine the driver’s documents before receiving a response.
