'Has anything been taken?' he asked.
'I don't think so,' said Thomas. 'But it's a bit hard to tell.'
Andrew looked around the kitchen and could see the boys point. It wasn't dirty as such, just incredibly cluttered with an overflowing bin and a sink full of washing up; the look of a household barely holding it together.
'Could your mother have lost her keys or locked herself out?'
Thomas had considered this, but surely she would have tried to wake either of them first before deciding to break in and then disappear without an explanation. He shrugged at Andrew. 'I suppose,' he said. Again the doubt in his voice told Andrew this was another unlikely scenario. 'But she still wouldn't just go without telling us. Or at least leaving a note.'
Andrew nodded, 'And where did you find her bag?'
Thomas pointed to the garden where the bag still lay. 'Her phone, purse and keys are all in there,' he said. 'There's also about thirty pounds.'
Andrew was liking this less and less by the second. He wanted to give the boys some encouraging words at least, but the more he saw, the worse it looked. He stepped into the garden and walked to the gate that was still standing open. The day was hot, but there had been rain two nights previous. The earth outside the gate was relatively soft and, after a moment of looking, he saw two very distinct footprints; both of which were made by a large foot (size twelve at least), with the deep ridged imprint of a sports trainer. Thomas was a tall lad, but Andrew put his shoe size in the eight to nine region. These prints were clearly a lot bigger.
'What do you think?' Thomas asked, joining him at the foot of the garden.
'Something is clearly not right,' he said, 'and you were definitely right to tell me. For now we need to go on the “no news is good news theory”. Are you sure there is no one else we could phone? Your father perhaps?'
'I haven't seen my father in over two years,' he spat. 'I wouldn't even know how to contact him.'
'Would your mother?'
'No. She's been chasing him for maintenance since he walked out on us. If she had contacted him, then I would've known.' There was a hint of doubt at this, but not enough to go on.
'Ok,' he said, 'I don't want to frighten you. Especially not your brother, but I think we need to call the police.' Thomas' eyes widened at this, but Andrew continued regardless, 'like I said, there's probably a simple explanation for all of this and she's only been missing a few hours. But I think we need to report the break in.'
'Ok,' he said, 'I'll call them.'
'Don't be ridiculous,' said Andrew. 'You've asked me for help and I'm not going to leave two kids to deal with this alone. Come back to mine, and I'll call them from there.'
'Are you sure?' he said, 'I really don't want to take up anymore of your time.'
Andrew was again struck by the inner strength the kid seemed to have. Probably stemming from years of bringing his brother up alone. 'Let's get this sorted,' he said, 'leave everything where it is, the police may want to take fingerprints.'
They walked back through the house; collecting Lucas on the way and closed the front door behind them. The couple at number three were out - presumably at work as neither of their cars were parked up - but he thought the old guy in number one was at home. It might be a long shot, but maybe he'd seen something that could shed some light on this. At the very least, it would give him a second opinion.
5
George sat on his favourite worn arm chair and folded the letter into the breast pocket of his shirt. The television was on and flickering silently in the corner. Rosemary always liked the daytime chat shows, but George rarely paid them much attention. It was almost a matter of habit that he put them on to remind him of the mornings they used to spend together.
She'd been dead nearly six years now. The hole it left still hadn't been filled. He did have a weekly call from Leslie, their only daughter, but even these were becoming shorter; more distracted. He didn't blame her though. Her life had sped up. Three children and a fledgling business meant that she and her partner, Daniel, had a lot on their plate.
Actual visits from Leslie and the grandchildren were even less frequent. A lot of this, he knew, was his fault. Rosemary was always the organiser. The arranger. George was very much a 'let things run their course' kind of a guy and since Rosemary had passed, there was no one left to pull the strings. He supposed he could make the call and invite them round, but he was keen not to be seen as the burden. If they needed him, they knew where he was.
Despite his age (he would be eighty eight this coming winter), George prided himself in his ability to remain self sufficient. He would take daily walks into the village to buy a newspaper; even though he knew it would be easier to get it delivered. But he enjoyed the walking. The exercise. The chance to get out of the house that was beginning to feel more and more like a prison everyday. They'd never had a dog (Rosemary's allergies wouldn't allow it), and he regretted this more and more each day. He didn't need an excuse to go out, but a dog would make it less creepy than an old man walking the streets. He supposed he could always get one, but with the clock ticking down, he wouldn't want the animal to be a burden after he went.
There. That word again. Burden. Was that what he was now, a burden? A burden on society. A burden on the community. He had never feared death. His time in the army during the last two years of the Second World War had made him immune to that. He seen enough death to last him a thousand lifetimes and the one thing that every death had in common, was peace. So what was there to fear? If, at the end of it all, you just slipped away into peaceful oblivion, then why fear it?
Rosemary had looked peaceful at the end. The big storm had woken him with a fright in the night and he'd rolled over to her for comfort, but she was cold as ice and stiff. He knew she was dead. He held her and cried (something he was doing a lot more lately) but he didn't panic. She looked peaceful. No longer a burden on the world. Deep down he knew it wouldn't be long until they were together again.
His mind snapped back to the present. He was stood in the doorway between the lounge and the kitchen. He couldn't remember if he was going to the kitchen or coming out. This along with the crying was also something that was happening with greater frequency these days. He put it down to old age, but other words - Dementia? Alzheimer's? - came with those thoughts too. He hoped it wasn't any of the latter as that really would be a burden.
He touched the letter in his pocket again. Bobby. Bobby was the last one left of his platoon. Now it was only him left. Corporal George Anderson of the 11th Armoured Division. He and Bobby had seen action in Holland and then Belgium during what was later be known as the Battle of the Bulge. There they had witnessed more death, destruction and depravity than they could stomach. Seen things he had never spoken to Rosemary about. Images that had also started to re-invade his increasingly erratic thoughts recently.
The letter had been very brief. From Bobby's daughter Isabella. It had been polite and sympathetic, but he felt it was written as more of a chore. Of necessity rather than love. But at least Bobby was at peace now. No longer a burden on his family. Or on the home he had lived in these last five years. George wasn't a burden on his family yet. But it wouldn't be long, and with the way his mind was working lately, he didn't want to get to a point where he didn't even realize he was being burden.
He glanced at the clock and wasn't surprised to see another hour had slipped by. He was no longer in the doorway, instead he was now in the bedroom sat on his bed. A bed that had hundreds of happy memories and a few not so happy ones.
He reached under and pulled out an olive green metallic box. He released the two clasps that held the lid in place and it sprung open with satisfying eagerness. Inside was a selection of letters, ration books and an assortment of memorabilia. He pulled out a glossy black and white photograph of a squad of young men stood in front of an impressive tank. He saw his young face smiling wearily back at him. Bobby was stood to his right with an arm around his shoulders grinning that inn
ocent grin he always wore. He smoothed out the photo and laid it on his bed. Next he laid out a small collection of medals he’d collected from various campaigns.
Finally he laid out his favourite picture of Rosemary. This was taken a few months before he met her. Dressed smartly in her formal military uniform from her wartime service working in the RAF headquarters. He loved this picture. He loved the combination of youthful innocence combined with her no nonsense resilience. A resilience that had kept him on his toes through over 60 years of marriage.
He stared at the small array of memories laid out on his bed. A thousand images raced through his mind of a life well lived. A life that was becoming a burden. A burden he was no longer strong enough to carry. He moved aside the remaining letters and photos at the bottom of the box revealing his treasured Webley Mk IV service revolver. He had a stash of other war memorabilia in his shed, but this revolver was his pride and joy. He'd only fired it twice before; once as a warning shot above the heads of a desperate crowd in Holland and once when he gunned down a German soldier who had surprised them out of the dense winter fog in the Ardennes Forest.
He kept the gun in mint condition and cleaned it the way he had been trained every few months. Rosemary never liked him keeping it, but he told her it was just a museum piece; never meant to be fired. He had been cleaning it much more frequently since rosemary passed, subconsciously preparing it for its final duty. Or maybe it wasn't subconscious at all. Maybe, deep down, he knew what he had been keeping the gun for. To let George decide when he wanted to go, before he came a burden.
He only had a handful of bullets stored with it and slowly he loaded the six chambers. The shells would have been over sixty years old themselves and a part of him wondered whether they would fire. But he knew they would. He had cared for the weapon the way he cared for his beloved Rosemary and he knew it wouldn't let him down. Just like George himself, it would perform its duty until it was no longer needed.
He finished loading the shells, snapped the barrel shut and cocked the firing pin. He placed the muzzle between his lips, the taste was metallic; like blood. Telling him it was time. It was right. He squeezed his eyes shut, applied pressure to the old trigger and was snapped away from his final suicidal thoughts by a series of sharp knocks at his front door.
6
At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him again. But when the knock came a second time he stuffed the revolver back in its box and slid it under his bed. He ran his hands through his thinning but still impressive head of white hair and hurried through the living room to the front door. He opened it just as the man was about to knock a third time.
'Oh, hello,' the man said, 'really sorry to bother you, but these two boys seemed to have lost their mother. I don't suppose you heard anything odd last night?'
George knew the two boys. They were Gillian's lads from number two. Thomas, the elder, always struck him as a decent lad. Not like the ones he saw in the village or the town, with their spitting and incessant need to swear every other word. He didn't know the younger one, Lucas, so well, but if was anything like his brother, then George thought he would turn out alright.
It took him a little longer to register where he knew the man from. His old mind took a few more turns of the cog and then it clicked into place. It was Andrew, his new neighbour. Apart from the meet and greet on their moving day, they had only spoken a handful of times; no more than daily pleasantries.
George looked at the two boys and then back at Andrew. 'Lost you say?' he said, 'how long has she been missing.'
Andrew relayed what he knew and then let Thomas fill in the details. He was thankful to the old man. It would have been easy to brush them off and send them on their way, but he listened to their story with great interest; especially the parts about the broken window and the handbag. He obviously knew the boys and their mother and acted in a manner that took the issue seriously yet put the boys at ease with his familiarity.
'Would it be alright if I took a look,' George asked. He aimed the question at Thomas, but Andrew knew it was meant for him.
'Of course,' said Thomas, 'but I think Lucas should stay here. I think he's getting quite upset.'
'That's no problem,' said George. 'Why don't you two lads come on in and watch some TV for a bit. I'm pretty sure there's a box of Jaffa Cakes in the kitchen. Andrew and I can go take another look. See if it throws up something new.' He shot a look at Andrew who gave a quick nod. 'I'm sure there's nothing to worry about boys. Bound to be a simple explanation.'
Without hesitation, Thomas took Lucas into the house. Andrew thought he saw an element of relief on the boys face. That innocent ideal that adults will always be able to put things right.
If only that was the case, he thought.
'Nice boys,' said Andrew.
'Real nice,' said George. 'So is the mother to. Had a rough patch a couple of years ago with an idiot husband. He's long gone now. But Gillian would do anything for those boys.'
'That's the impression I get. Thomas seems to have his head screwed on. That's what makes this all the more odd.'
They both set off towards the Wharf house at a trot. Despite his years, Andrew was impressed with how the old guy kept up. When they were clear of his own house, George piped up.
'What's the story here, Andrew?' he asked.
'Looks like an attempted break in. But Thomas says nothing seems to be taken. At the moment it's registering an eight on the odd scale. Think I just need a second opinion. Especially from someone who knows the family a little better. Did you hear anything last night, or maybe early this morning?'
'No, nothing,' he said, 'I've always been a light sleeper, but nothing woke me last night. Doesn't mean that nothing happened though.'
'Indeed,' said Andrew. He liked the old guy. Liked the fact you didn't have to spell things out like you did with some people. George had the ability to read between the lines which made conversations much easier. Despite his sharpness though, he felt the old guy was holding something back. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was, but he thought there was a great sadness in him and this little puzzle was just what he needed as a distraction.
They neared the Wharf's cottage and George opened the garden gate for Andrew to go first. The door was unlatched and they both walked in. Everything was just as it was before; a normal family home with shoes and bags and clutter filling the hallway. Andrew lead George through to the kitchen, showed him the damaged door and discarded bag.
'What do you think?' he said.
'I think your odd scale may have just gone up to ten. Did you see those footprints at the end of the garden?'
'Yeah. Whoever made them was a big guy. I reckon size twelve at least. Know anyone round here with feet like that?' It seemed an odd question, but in a morning of oddities, it felt at home.
'I don't think so. Did you follow the tracks?'
'No. The little one, Lucas? Was starting to get freaked out. Thought I'd get him out of harm's way.'
'Not a bad call,' said George. 'But those tracks lead that way.'
He motioned along the path that ran behind the cottages and, sure enough, the prints carried on to the right, away from Andrew's and George's houses and in the direction of the dilapidated mansion. They followed them to the last cottage which Andrew remembered was the Hatton's; strange woman with an even stranger son. There, the footprints seemed to get confused and went in different directions; as if the owner was undecided which way to go. Out of the jumble the footprints continued around the side of the final house and up to the rusted gates that guarded the mansion's driveway.
George stopped and placed his hand on the padlock holding the gate together, 'This lock is new,' he said, giving it a fatherly rattle.
Andrew saw that George was right. The padlock was solid, brand new and in stark contrast to the rusted and sorry looking gates. Peering through the railings he saw that the giants footprints had continued their trek up the driveway and presumably all the way to
the mansion.
'Looks like our friend took a stroll in the night,' he said.
'Yes it does,' said George, 'and I don't like it one bit. Especially if he's gone in there.' He cocked his head towards the run down building that stood at the end on the drive, 'Nothing good has ever been linked to that place.'
'Why? What’s up with it?'
'Just stories I've heard over the years. Stories some of the villagers have told me. It's been empty since I moved here.'
'Looks like it's about to fall down,' said Andrew.
'May not be a bad thing if it does.'
'What do you think?' said Andrew.
'What I think is that something doesn't add up here. Gillian is a good mother and wouldn't leave the boys. She would do anything for those lads. Something happened here last night and I don't even want to hazard a guess as to what. Whatever it was though, it ended up in there.' He cocked a thumb towards the mansion.
'Do you think she's been taken?'
'I hope, for her sake and for the sake of those boys, that she hasn't.'
'What do we do then? Do we call the police?'
'Looks like someone already has.' George was looking back away from the gates and when Andrew followed his gaze, he saw what he meant; a police car was pulling up in front of the line of cottages.
7
Since she was a little girl, Karen Pomeroy had always wanted to be a policewoman. She had no idea where this particular urge came from. Neither of her parents were in the force, in fact her father was a market trader and knowing some of the dodgy deals he put together, you could say he was as far from a policeman as could be.
She did well at school, studied Sociology and Psychology at college; qualifications she was told would help her progress through the ranks. Then, aged nineteen and straight out of college, she joined the force. She graduated top of class in the initial training and easily passed the subsequent probationary period. Within two years of leaving college, she was a fully fledged police constable.
Meadowbank: A dark fantasy thriller (The Shael Chronicles Book 2) Page 3
