Midnight's Door

by Robert F Barker

  I knew where Vincent lived. I could be there in fifteen minutes. If I rang the police, even Carver himself, I could see a couple of hours disappearing before anyone rang the doorbell. Two hours is a long time when someone’s in trouble.

  Also, if the bloke Alan had seen was Vincent, then the way I saw it, Vicki's going missing was more than likely nothing to do with the murders at all. Vincent was a prick, and a nasty one at that. But there was no way I'd tag him as a serial killer. In which case what was the point of getting the police involved? If I'm scrupulously honest - and assuming Alan had his facts right - the way my mind was working at that time, I probably preferred not to involve the police, as I'll mention shortly. It was also probably fair to say that at that moment my mind was operating at the level of a five year old. Worry, fear, lack of sleep. Take your pick or all three together, I wasn't exactly thinking things through rationally.

  Maybe I didn't want to think rationally. Because at the end of the day, for all the excuses I might come up with, there was probably one overriding reason why I didn't ring Carver. It was a reason based on emotion. And that emotion wasn't fear, but something else. I wish to God I'd seen it at the time.

  Fully awake now, I dragged on jeans and a tee-shirt and headed out.

  Vincent's house was along the main road that runs through Appleton village. Bordering open countryside, all the houses along that stretch have long front gardens that fall in landscaped tiers - rockeries, ponds, exotic shrubbery - to the road below. Most of the drives had been re-done in block-paving long ago. Long and twisting, they run up from the gateways in sweeping turns to finish in turning circles outside the front doors. Only a few of the houses along that stretch are gated. I've always suspected that their owners like to be able to show off their good fortune to the envious M6-avoiding commuters who use the village as a rat-run each morning and evening. I must say that the first time I ever drove past Vincent's - the evening I just happened to find myself in the area where the club's new VIP hostess lived - I was surprised to see how open it was to access. In my experience, car dealers like Vincent are renowned for falling out with the sort of people whose first response to settling a dispute isn't always a letter from a solicitor. Then again, the open fields that I knew ran at the back of the houses meant that making the houses fully secure would involve spending thousands on fences, lights and alarms. Even then, all someone determined to gain entry needed to do would be to wander through a neighbour’s garden and hop over a wall.

  The sun was shining and it was a beautiful morning when I pulled up at the bottom of Vincent's drive. As I got out, birds were singing in the trees. At least I assume they were. Contemplating the beauty of the English countryside on a sunny day wasn't exactly what I was there for. I checked the house out from the road. The driveway was empty, which didn't really mean anything. A double garage was built onto the left hand side of the house and facing in to make an 'L' shape. The doors were closed. None of the windows had curtains drawn across which might have indicated an occupied room. Everything seemed peaceful, idyllic even. It wasn't how I was feeling. I started up the drive.

  The house was finished in white stone-paint with the sort of black fascia-boarding that's supposed to lend houses a 'period' feel, though which period is always lost on me. It had the look of an expensive, well-kept property. I remember thinking that if I ever won the lottery, it was the sort of house I might go for.

  I stopped outside the front door. There were still no sounds, apart from the birds. I looked about me, at what I could see through the trees of the houses either side, back down to the road. There wasn't a soul in sight. I decided to investigate before seeking entry. I headed towards the garage side of the house.

  Walking round the side and back of the garage I found a small window. Looking through I could see the black Beemer. Next to it was a Ford Mondeo. The fact the cars were there still didn't mean anything either. Vincent had access to any number of cars. But my instinct was that being the sort of character he was, Vincent would use the Beemer if he was out and about working around town. And Wednesday is, after all, the middle of the working week. I carried on round, down the side of the house and came out into the back garden. As I expected it was lush and looked-after, with a manicured lawn surrounded by borders with flowers and bushes. A row of trees screened the house and garden from the fields at the back which rolled away to give a nice view over Warrington town, nestled on the plain below. Over to the right, was a wide patio area with a huge conservatory. Along the back of the house there were sets of patio doors and windows, all shut.

  I started along the back, keeping close to the wall. The first window I came to was the kitchen. It was empty so I carried on. The next window was a double French window into what looked like the main living area. Sumptuous-looking beige and tan leather sofas and chairs were arranged around a wood and glass coffee table that was littered with glossy magazines. A huge - and I mean, huge - plasma TV stood in the corner. Not that any of it registered with me at the time. Because I found myself staring at a bare-chested Vincent, dressed only in trousers and standing in the middle of the room. Vicki was cowering in the corner of the big sofa as he loomed over her, shouting and gesticulating at her. She was still wearing the blouse and skirt from the night before.

  She saw me first. Her mouth dropped open and she sat bolt upright. Vincent stopped his shouting to turn to see what had grabbed her attention. Seeing me, he froze. I don't know who was more surprised, them or me.

  Through the double glazing I just heard Vicki shout,' DANNY?' at the same time Vincent yelled, 'WHAT THE FUCK?'

  I didn't say anything. I was too busy focusing on the red, soon-to-be-blue-black, welt that was already spreading across the right side of Vicki's face.

  I felt myself going.

  'DANNY,' Vicki called out again, though what the message was I wasn't sure and in any case it didn't matter.

  Vincent immediately rounded on her and screamed, 'SHUT THE FUCK UP, BITCH,' before turning back to me. 'GET OFF MY FUCKING PROPERTY. I'M CALLING THE FUCKING POLICE.' Bending down, he picked up a mobile and brandished it, theatrically, as if he was about to start punching numbers. If it was meant as some sort of scare tactic or he imagined it would lend weight to his words, he was hopelessly misguided.

  For the first time since seeing them I moved. Stepping forward I reached out to try the handle to the French windows. They were locked. I called out, 'Open the door, Vincent,'

  'FUCK OFF.'

  By now I was conscious Vicki was becoming even more agitated. She was crying and sitting forward on the edge of the sofa as she looked, terrified, from me to Vincent and back again. She was imploring him to do something but I couldn't make out what. I thought she might be telling him to get out of the house and run. I think she was already beginning to see what was likely to happen. For his part, Vincent looked like he was trying to figure out what his best play was, shouting at Vicki to keep quiet while also trying to keep an eye on me.

  Behind me and across the patio, a set of solid-looking wooden garden chairs were arranged around a square table. I went over and picked up one of the chairs. It was even heavier than it looked. Good. Returning to the French window, I hefted it at shoulder level. Both Vicki and Vincent's eyes opened wide as they realised what I intended.

  'NO DANNY,' Vicki shouted, but to no avail, as they say. Vincent's mouth opened like he was about to say something but as I heaved the chair at the window he turned and legged it out of the room while Vicki turned away to bury herself in the sofa's cushions. I doubt that the explosion of glass shattering and wood splintering could have been louder if I'd driven a car through. Even before all the shards from what was left of the top half of the window had stopped falling I was through and crossing to where Vicki was lifting her head and beginning to sit up, though hesitantly, as if she half-expected the rest of the house might fall down.

  I reached out to take the hand she was stretching towards me. 'Are you-' I began. Our fingers never got to t
ouch as Vincent came roaring back into the room. He was wielding a length of four-by-four above and behind his head and screaming at the top of his voice, 'FUCK YOU, NORTON.' He gave it one wild swing which missed me by a mile as I took a step back and leaned out of the way. But it was only by the grace of God and a couple of inches that it missed taking Vicki's head off. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell he was ever going to get a second chance.

  The next thing I remember, something was pulling at my right arm as I tried to move it forward. At the same time, somewhere far away, someone was calling my name. I remember feeling irritated by it, the way you do when a fly keeps landing on your arm and you flick it away, only for it to land again a few seconds later. And like the fly response I tried flicking whatever it was away by jerking my arm back, sharply. My elbow connected with something and there was a scream. It was a woman's scream. I turned in time to see Vicki falling to the floor amidst the broken glass and wood, holding the side of her jaw where I'd caught her. It was the other side of her face to the one showing the welt.

  'VICKI.'

  Two quick strides took me to her. Kneeling down, I took her hand and with the other tried to lift her round the shoulders into a sitting position. She was dazed and mumbling, still pressing a hand to her jaw.

  'I- I'm sorry. Are you okay?' My stomach was turning somersaults at the thought I'd hurt her. She nodded, and mumbled something I couldn't make out. 'What? Here let me help you. Can you get up?'

  It was then I noticed she seemed to be resisting my help, like she was trying to shake loose from my grip. She mumbled something again.

  'I can't hear you. What are you saying?'

  She removed her hand and looked up at me. 'Ambulance... Call an ambulance.'

  She was breathless and it seemed like it was all she could manage just to get the words out. I must have really caught her one. I looked her over. I could see some red staining on the arm of her blouse, near to where I'd taken hold of her, but I couldn't see she was bleeding from anywhere. 'Where are you hurt? I think you're okay. Let's just get you up off the floor.'

  I reached for her again but she jerked away and there was something like anger mixed with fear in her eyes as she shouted, 'LEAVE ME. Just call the ambulance. DO IT.'

  Her reaction stung me. I was confused by her reluctance to let me help her.

  'Hey, you're okay. I don't think you’ll need an ambulance.'

  She shook her head and lifted the hand off her jaw again, at the same time wincing with pain. She lifted her arm. Her hand was shaking as she pointed at something behind me. 'Not for ME. For HIM.'

  I turned to see what she was pointing at.

  Vincent was on the floor beyond the sofa. He was on his back, lying still and with his head turned to the side towards me. His face was a mass of blood, some of it already soaking into the plush carpet. I stared at him, blinking, for several seconds, like I was trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The last time I'd seen him he was trying to recover for a second swing at me with the pole. But I knew right then what had happened. I looked down at my hands, to confirm it. They were covered in blood, the knuckles grazed and raw.

  After all this time, it had happened again.

  CHAPTER 27

  According to the psychologist-lady I began seeing shortly after my ninth birthday, the first 'documented' episode arising from my condition occurred when I was four. It happened, apparently, at the play-group me and my cousin, Howard, used to attend. One of the other boys, a lad a bit bigger and older than me, wanted to play with the big yellow Tonka Truck Howard and I were using to build our M6 extension. He just came over to where we were playing, pushed Howard over, grabbed the truck from under my nose and made off with it. I didn't cry or anything but just went straight for him. According to the account in the play-group incident book, it took two staff and another mum to drag me off, one staff member holding onto him, the other me, while the mum had to pinch the back of my hand, hard, in order to get me to let go of his hair. After much brouhaha - the worst of which for me was my Dad not believing me when I denied knowing anything about it - things settled down and eventually they let me back into play-group.

  Nothing else of any real note happened after until I was in the second year of primary school. This time we were playing 'ball-tick' and a lad threw the ball at me way too hard, deliberately I thought, and caught me square on the nose. By this time I'd learned what fists were for and was making good use of them when one of the male teachers picked me up and carried me to the staff toilet, which was about the only place he felt I might not do further harm to someone or myself. When afterwards I again denied any knowledge, my Mum and Dad began to worry. Since play-group there'd been a couple of minor incidents - one involving my sister, Laura - which had set them thinking, but it wasn't until the school headmistress began asking questions of the, 'Has-he-ever-done-anything-like-this-before?' variety, that they began to wonder if something might be wrong. Again, the enquiry came up with nothing other than a recommendation that staff should keep an eye on me and report any incidents. When, eighteen months later, I blanked out again with the result that a boy in my class who had been winding me up for a long time ended up in hospital needing stitches to a cut lip and torn ear, the balloon really went up. I remember at the time wondering what all the fuss was about. I was still only eight. I had this vague notion that I might be ill with something. But seeing as how I didn't feel ill, my attitude to the monthly counselling sessions that began just after my ninth birthday was, I seem to recall, reasonably positive. This may have had something to do with the fact that once a month I had an extra day off school. Also, the psychologist, whose office was in Chester, was a nice lady with big, funny spectacles and grey frizzy hair and smelled of fresh-baked scones. Mary Oakley her name was. She spoke quietly and kindly, which was a bit different from what I was used to at home. She had this huge sweet-jar on her desk which was always well-stocked with lemon sherberts, lollipops and packets of Love Hearts, Refreshers and pastilles. It wasn't until many years later I twigged that her invitation to, 'Help yourself, but you're only allowed one go,' was a test to see how long it took us to figure out the best way of getting as much out of the jar as we could in one 'dip' without our hand getting stuck.

  I can't remember much at all about the sessions themselves. There were questions of course and I recall being shown lots of pictures and asked what I felt about little stories she told me, but I forget the details. I was also put through various tests, including some sort of brain scan which, for a lad of nine, was pretty scary. The end result was that Mary declared there was nothing wrong with me, physically or mentally, other than I appeared to suffer from a condition which she described, in a way my Mum and Dad could understand, as a sort of, “Lone Ranger Complex”. According to her, my 'episodes' were triggered when I encountered a situation in which my brain perceived that someone was behaving 'badly' towards me or someone close to me - bullying being typical - and was therefore deserving of some sort of punishment. This would have been okay, perhaps even praiseworthy, were it not for the fact that - and this is the ironic bit - I also had a deep-rooted abhorrence of violence - where from God only knows - so that my brain switched off when I was actually meting out the 'punishment.' This meant I didn't know when to stop, hence the need for third-party intervention on such occasions.

  After another incident at school when the threat of exclusion loomed, my Dad hit on an idea. He'd done some boxing in the army and knew Joe Ryan from his school days. He signed me up at Joe's gym. Despite my dislike of violence, I took to it at once. I can only put this down to the fact that Joe's philosophy was based upon his view that boxing is nothing to do with violence. In Joe's book, boxing is an art form that just happens to involve the application of certain physical skills, allied with extreme self-control and used against an opponent to best him in a sporting contest where he is attempting to use the same skills against you. Joe likened boxing to chess, only with blood, and pain. I'm sure now it was Joe's
training that sorted my problem out, at least while I was boxing. Joe's method left no room for loss of self-control. If Joe ever saw signs of one of us losing our temper, he would stop the fight/training and send the 'offender' home. 'The boxer who loses his temper will always lose the match,' Joe used to say. He always used, 'match', rather than 'fight'. And the likes of me and Ricky Mason believed it, one hundred percent.

  From the day I began to box and right through my schooling I never had another episode, which I can only put down to Joe's training. When, on Joe's advice, I gave up chasing boxing as a serious career option, I came away thinking my 'condition' had been cured. For several years that seemed to be the case. I was wrong.

  I was twenty two and had been working doors for a couple of years when the event I now have to live with for the rest of my life happened. It was a Saturday night and I was on the door of The Red Dragon in Woolton. Up to then, I'd never had a problem, despite being in plenty of situations where people tried to have a go at me, or one of my mates. Around half-ten, a local lad by the name of Kevin Campbell turned up with his girlfriend, Kathy. I already knew both of them, though separately. Kevin had trained at Joe's along with me and Ricky, only he didn't last as long, while I knew Kathy from when I'd helped out at the Odeon Cinema in Sankey where she worked as an attendant. Kevin was a nice-enough lad but was prone to turning nasty after too much ale. This particular night he was already well-oiled when he showed up at the door, too much so for me to allow him in and I told him so. Once he realised I was serious and that despite knowing each other, I wasn't going to budge, he began to turn. Kathy saw it and started trying to talk him into coming away, but he wasn't for listening. I knew Kevin was handy with his fists so I kept a close eye on him and made sure my oppo - who that night just happened to be Dave Charnley - was on hand to back me up. When Kevin threw his first punch I was ready. With his arm up his back, Dave and I had him under control and as I began to talk him down, I thought he was listening. Kathy was becoming a bit hysterical by then, which is par for girls who can see their boyfriends either ending up getting a good hiding, or in the back of a police van before the night's out. Once Kevin had quietened down, I checked he was okay and let him go. He even shook my hand and apologised. As he let Kathy start to walk him away I thought it was all over and turned to talk to Dave. I never did find out who it was who shouted, but I turned in time to see the blade in Kevin's hand as it flashed towards my face. I just managed to take a step back but it was close enough that I felt it zip past my nose. My first response was instinctive. This wasn't boxing. Knives are life and death stuff. I'd learned that much in the time I'd worked doors. I hit him once in the face, hard. He went down but to my surprise got up again straight away. Drink and other substances can have that effect. Straight off I could see that at that moment he was on another planet. Before I could do anything Kathy jumped in between us to try and stop him. He lashed out, hit her full in the face and sent her sprawling backwards into my arms. I still had hold of her when he came at me again and I had no option but to take the hit. He caught me with an upper-cut to the jaw and I felt a dull pain in my upper right arm where he got me with the knife. That was it.