Nightmare Waiting

by Glenn McGoldrick

  What would they think at the inquest, if I told them what he said to Mr Green? Would they find him guilty? Of what? Murder? Manslaughter? He might have fucked up, but he isn’t a murderer.

  And no matter what happens – Mr Green’s not coming back.

  But I’ve got to get to work now. I take a look at my new name badge, smiling as I fix it to my jacket. It reads: Graham, Assistant Casino Manager.

  Dark Progression

  The duck floated lifelessly on its side, in weeds at the water’s edge. Its tail feathers fluttered in a light breeze. I crouched down and poked at it with a stick, nodding my head.

  Standing up, I noticed a man sitting at a wooden picnic table across the river; he appeared to be watching me. I scattered the last pieces of bread on the water, but the other ducks didn’t come to eat it.

  “OK,” I said. “You’re not hungry today.”

  I stuffed the empty plastic bag in my pocket, and set off home.

  The sky was a soft grey as I crossed the Infinity Bridge. I stopped halfway over, leaning my elbows on the safety rail, looking down on the river Tees as a light rain dimpled its surface.

  I saw a man on the riverside footpath below, walking quickly. He had a dark goatee beard, and I was pretty sure it was the man who I’d seen earlier at the picnic table.

  How had he got to that point so quickly? He must have crossed at the Barrage and ran. But why?

  He started to climb the steps to the Infinity Bridge.

  From the bridge I went left, walking towards the town centre.

  I walked quickly, checking over my shoulder occasionally. He wasn’t getting any closer, but he was still there.

  I stopped at the traffic lights, waiting to cross. Turning back, I saw him stop and look in the window of a bakery.

  He seemed to be around my height and size, but probably a few years younger – early thirties, I guessed. Was he actually following me?

  At the petrol station I circled the building, then walked back the way I’d came. When I returned to the traffic lights, I looked back; he emerged from the forecourt, and started walking my way.

  Fuck. He was definitely following me. But why? What did he want? Was it about the ducks?

  What was I to do? Stop and ask him what he wanted? What if there was a fight? Was it worth the risk?

  I’d be better off just losing him.

  I hurried to the end of the aisle, and looked through the window.

  He passed on the opposite side of the street, then stopped at the roundabout. He looked around him, shaking his head.

  I let out a deep breath as he turned onto Lawson Road, heading away from me. Then I heard a voice behind me, and turned to see a small Asian woman.

  “What?”

  “Are you going to buy that, sir?” she said, pointing at the tin of tomato soup I held in my hand.

  “Erm, yes,” I said. I couldn’t even remember picking it up.

  We went to the till and I paid for the soup, putting it in my plastic bag. As I left the shop, the air vent over the door felt very cool on my damp forehead.

  It was almost dark by the time I got home.

  As I opened my gate, I looked back and saw him coming towards me. About one hundred metres away. Shit.

  I bolted down the gravel path at the side of my house and hid behind the shed. My breathing seemed very loud as I waited. I heard footsteps on the gravel, coming to a stop near me.

  Before I could stop myself, I jumped out and swung my plastic bag at his head. He was looking at the garden, with his back to me. I hit him just above the right ear, the soup ripping out of the bag after impact.

  He fell to the ground unconscious. When my heartbeat slowed down, I dragged him into my house.

  I sat at the kitchen table, watching the rain make patterns on the window. Halfway through my second whisky, I heard screaming. I grabbed my neck-tie from the back of my chair and went downstairs.

  When I switched on the fluorescent light in the cellar, he stopped screaming and looked at me.

  He was sat on the floor, back against the wall, wrists tied behind him. I descended the steps and squatted next to him.

  “So you’re awake, huh?” I said.

  “Hey, man – what’s going on here?”

  “Stop making so much noise.”

  “No!” he said, shaking his head sharply. “Tell me what the-”

  I used the tie to gag him, then returned to the kitchen.

  Back at the kitchen table, I topped up my whisky and lit a cigarette.

  What had I done? I wished I hadn’t hit him. I panicked. But once I’d done it, I couldn’t just leave him on the gravel.

  And now he was tied up in my cellar. What do they call that? Kidnap? False imprisonment? It was fucking serious, whatever they called it. Not to mention hitting him on the head with a tin of soup.

  I tapped my finger on the empty glass and thought about my options.

  I placed a glass of water on the floor next to him, and checked the cable ties securing his wrists.

  “I’m going to remove the gag,” I said. “Don’t shout or scream. OK?”

  He nodded, and I lowered the tie from his mouth. He took a few deep breaths.

  “Do you want some water?”

  “No,” he said. “What am I doing here?”

  “Why were you following me?”

  He paused before answering. “I wasn’t.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying. I wasn’t-”

  I started to replace the gag, but he pulled his head away.

  “No. Don’t,” he said. “I’ll tell you.”

  “Good. Why were you following me?”

  “I just thought…”

  “What?”

  He tried to shrug. “That you might have been killing ducks.”

  “Now, whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I’ve seen you at the riverside a few times, throwing bread at them.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I just thought…”

  “What?”

  He looked at the floor, and said, “I thought you’d been poisoning the bread.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s stupid. I was probably wrong anyway.”

  I thought it over for a few moments. “What were you planning to do when you caught up to me?”

  “I don’t know. Just talk. I hadn’t really thought it through.”

  “Well,” I said, “your curiosity has put us both in a terrible position.”

  A flicker of understanding lit his eyes. “What? What do you mean?”

  I reached for the gag.

  “No! Don’t!”

  I gagged him and left.

  I selected a knife from the wooden block next to the microwave, and took a shot of whisky to steel myself.

  So he knew about the ducks, but that was the least of my problems. I couldn’t afford to let him go. If I handled it sensibly, then nobody would find out.

  He started shaking when he saw the blade, straining to free his wrists and screaming against the gag.

  “I’ll make it quick,” I said to him. And it was quick.

  And surprisingly easy, too, for my first time.

  The two days since have passed very quickly, and I’ve even managed to sleep well. I went to feed the ducks earlier, but they didn’t come to take the bread. It doesn’t matter.

  Maybe it’s time to stop fooling around with ducks. Now that I know there are bigger thrills to be had.

  Leaving The Table

  The news was as bad as we’d expected. On the drive home from the hospital we hardly spoke.

  I made coffee and sat next to Mary on the sofa. We sipped from our cups until she broke the silence.

  “Why me, George?” she asked.

  We talked, cried, and held each other, listening to the rain hit the window.

  “There,” Mary says. “I think that’s it.”

  I sit beside her at the kitchen table, and
angle the laptop screen towards me.

  “It looks good,” I say when I’ve finished reading the document.

  “It should be good. We’ve been working on it long enough.”

  I watch as she runs a hand through her hair. She’s sixty-eight, but there’s hardly any grey in sight.

  “Stop staring,” she says.

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Have we forgotten anything?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Shall I print it?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We can always give it a final check later.”

  “Look at all this crap,” Mary says, showing me the bunch of brightly coloured papers in her hands.

  We’re still sitting at the kitchen table, a large garbage bag open at our feet.

  “What are they?” I ask. “Restaurant menus?”

  “And takeaway flyers. And taxi vouchers.”

  “Bin them.”

  I look through some of my old payslips from the gas board, then tear them up along with some fuel bills and receipts.

  “Council Tax” Mary says, sliding the invoice to me.

  I take a quick glance and tear it up. The bag is almost full when we finish with the paperwork.

  “That felt good,” Mary says.

  “It’s amazing how much junk you collect over the years.”

  “I know,” Mary says. “Shall we go for a walk?”

  We sit on a wooden bench, looking out to sea, the sky almost dark, the sun a cold orange disk balancing on the horizon. To the south, the pier at Saltburn stretches out into the waves.

  We light our cigarettes and I watch as Mary exhales, staring at the smoke.

  “I’d forgotten what these things tasted like,” she says.

  When I first inhale it almost makes me cough. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Seventeen years, I think.”

  “Closer to twenty for me,” I say. “And they are so expensive now.”

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter anymore…”

  I turn her towards me, looking into her green eyes.

  “No tears today, love,” I say. “That’s what we agreed.”

  She nods and says, “I know.”

  We finish our cigarettes in silence, then we reminisce about our childhoods.

  “We were the first in our street to get a vacuum cleaner,” she says. “I must have been about fifteen at the time.”

  “I remember the first washing machine we had. You should have heard the bloody noise it made.”

  “Ha-ha. Happy times.”

  “It was,” I say. “Better times.”

  “Things were so much different then,” she says.

  “Simpler.”

  “And safer.”

  She rests her head on my shoulder.

  “We used to play out on the road,” I say. “No cars.”

  “And you could leave the doors unlocked at night without worrying.”

  I watch a seagull, as it picks at a paper coffee cup on the grass.

  “And then we got older,” Mary says.

  “Well,” I say. “I can’t complain.”

  “We did OK.”

  “We did more than OK, love.”

  She lifts her head and smiles at me, saying, “We did, didn’t we?”

  Last night we had dinner with David and Becky at their house. It was my 70th birthday, so after eating we chatted and drank a few glasses of wine.

  When we left we gave them big hugs and kisses, and told them that we loved them very much.

  “Dad - you and mum are acting very weird tonight,” David said.

  “We’re fine,” I said, while Mary put on her jacket, pretending not to hear him.

  “What are you thinking about?” Mary asks, cutting into her steak.

  “Nothing much,” I say. I add some butter to my baked potato. “Just last night.”

  “David and Becky?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s lovely, but she’s not much of a cook.”

  “Well, David seems happy,” I say.

  She steps into the kitchen and returns with a salt cellar, sprinkling some on her food.

  “He’ll be OK, won’t he?” she says. “He’ll understand?”

  “I think so. We’ve explained it all in the note.”

  “He won’t blame himself?”

  I sip some water and shake my head. “No. He’ll realise this was best for everyone.”

  “Will he?”

  “Yeah, I think he will. Eventually.”

  She puts down her fork and says, “And he’ll understand why we couldn’t tell him?”

  “Yes, love, it’s all in the note. He’ll understand.”

  “I hope so. I just don’t want to go through all the pain, the treatments, losing my hair…”

  “We both think the same, Mary,” I say. “It’s all in the note.”

  “OK.” She laughs nervously. “I’m just being silly, I know.”

  “No, not at all,” I say, holding her hand. “If you’re having second thoughts about this…”

  She thinks about it.

  “No. I think it’s for the best.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She tries to smile. “I’m sure,” she says.

  After dinner we sit in the conservatory and smoke another cigarette.

  When we’re finished, Mary says, “Right, I’ll make sure the windows are closed.”

  After locking the back door I go to our bedroom, take the canisters from the wardrobe and place one on the floor, either side of the bed.

  We sit at the kitchen table, re-reading our note.

  “I think it’s finished,” Mary says. “Right?”

  “Yes, that’s everything.”

  I fold the note and place it in a white envelope, writing David’s name on the front.

  Mary’s handwriting is a lot better than mine, so she writes the sign. She uses a black marker pen on a piece of cardboard, about the same size as A4 paper.

  She puts the cap on the pen and turns the sign towards me.

  “How does that look?”

  “Good,” I say. “I’ll put it by the front door.”

  She stands up and runs her hand through her hair. “What now?”

  “Go and have a lie down, love, and I’ll be in shortly.”

  I place the sign on a chair facing the front door, so that it will be seen by whoever comes in.

  The sign reads: Danger. Do not enter. We’ve committed suicide using poisonous gas.

  Now I’ll go and join Mary.

  Just Keep Walking

  Harry stood in the kitchen, wearing only boxer shorts and socks, staring at the washing machine as the wash cycle began.

  “Bit late for laundry, isn’t it?” I said from the doorway.

  “Jesus!” he said, startled for a moment. “How long have you been there?”

  “Just now. I heard you coming in. Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” he said, shrugging. “Actually…”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been here all night with you.”

  “Have you?”

  “If anybody asks, that’s what you say.”

  “Who’s going to ask?” I said. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing,” he said, then pointed his finger at me. “Just remember – I’ve been here with you all night.”

  I looked away from him, watching as the clothes in the washing machine tumbled in red-stained water.

  I got to the casino at 1 p.m. for my shift, and it was a slow day; as I inspected two dull games of Roulette my mind wandered.

  What had Harry been involved in the previous evening? He’d went off the rails a bit since I’d split from his mother Shirley. He’d been cautioned by the police on a number of occasions, usually for shoplifting or petty vandalism.

  He lived with Shirley, but she mostly left him to do what he wanted. His real dad wasn’t part of his life, so in the five years since we’d separated he’d got into the habit of vi
siting me a couple of times a week.

  “Wake up, Derek,” Pat said. “It’s your break.”

  “About time,” I said. “You’ll fall asleep watching this nonsense.”

  He looked from one Roulette table to the other, nodding at some of the regular customers.

  “Enjoy,” I said as I walked away.

  “Bollocks,” he replied.

  When I returned from work that evening, I sat across the kitchen table from Harry.

  “Last night?”

  “Yeah,” Harry said.

  “Well. I watched Eastenders first…”

  I told him what I’d watched on TV, as he listened and scribbled in a notepad.

  “Then I started watching a film after the news. I was watching it when you came in.”

  “What film?”

  I told him, he asked a few questions and made some notes.

  “Did you eat?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I had pizza.”

  “What kind?”

  “Margherita.”

  He tapped the pen on the table and said, “What time?”

  “I don’t know, Harry.”

  “Think.”

  “About nine,” I said. “More or less.”

  “OK.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  He stared at me for a few seconds.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, why-”

  “So,” he said. “We had margherita pizza, sat on the sofa and watched telly all night.”

  We went over it all again, getting the story straight.

  “This dayshift is really dragging,” Pat said.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “Look at these two pricks,” he said, nodding at the two young guys sat at the end of the Roulette table. They whispered to each other, then one of them placed a single chip on the layout.

  “Trying to make twenty quid last forever,” he said, shaking his head.

  I had my long break at 5 p.m., buying a sandwich and the Evening Gazette from a newsagent. It was warm and bright, so I sat on a bench in the park, eating and reading the paper.