FORTY-TWO

 

The American waited until a car drew near so that he could drown out the sound of his car door closing.

He walked slowly, careful that no one heard the crunch of footsteps coming to a stop outside the house. His eyes flicked to both sides of the street as he walked, checking for signs of neighbours checking on other neighbours. There was nothing. Just dark houses and the occasional streetlight, the wrap of a cool breeze making the leaves on the trees rustle and whisper.

When he got to the Garrett house, he didn’t stop. He turned and walked casually up the driveway, not pausing, not looking around, not panicking, just making like someone returning home. He walked up the side of the house, his steps silent, his movement fluid and invisible, melting into the darkness. Once he was at the back of the house, he paused. He was hidden now, the only light coming from the moon at the front. The house blocked out most of that, except for where the shadows shimmered at the end of the garden. He was still for around five minutes, his breathing light and measured, checking for the sound of doors opening, neighbours wondering who he had been.

There was nothing.

He moved slowly along the back of the house and got himself under the window. He knelt down and listened. He was low down so he would have a head start if anyone came to the door, not in their immediate line of vision.

He waited another five minutes. Still nothing. Not even a bored dog howling.

He checked his knife in his sock. He had cleaned some of the blood off it, but it had less of a gleam than earlier in the evening. His pepper spray was still in his pocket, and the handgun nestled snugly in the holster at the small of his back.

He stood up and put his hand on the door handle. He gave it the gentlest of pushes. It opened an inch, no locks, a light click the only noise. He stopped and smiled. He loved country people.

   

David Watts was in Manchester. He had felt himself drawn in. There were hotels by the motorway, and a retail park with American restaurants and English shops, but he wanted something more private. Traffic lights punctuated the flow of vehicles every fifty yards or so, and as he looked around he saw movement, the shuffle of traffic heading in or out of the city.

He drove on until commerce turned into housing, and then the closer he got to the city, the closer the houses got, until they were either lined up in rows or boarded up and derelict. He swung into a street he hadn’t driven through for more than two years, a long stretch of terraced housing, heading for a house that used to welcome him whenever he played in Manchester.

When he knocked on the door, he didn’t know what response he would get. When she opened the door, she looked surprised, pleased at first, but then her look clouded when she remembered how he had stopped calling.

‘Hi, David. Long time no see.’

He shrugged, smiled, tried the charm. ‘I was passing. Thought I’d see how you were doing.’

She looked suspicious, reluctant. ‘How do you know I’m not with someone?’

David was about to answer when a voice came from the top of the stairs.

‘Who is it, Mummy?’

She turned around. ‘Back to bed. It’s no one for you.’

‘I just guessed,’ said David, looking towards the stairs.

She turned away, looked angry, but left the door open so he could follow.

David followed her into the back room, trying to remember her name. He used to have a girl near every club, but he’d given it up when a girl from Newcastle sold a Saturday night to the papers.

Then he remembered.

‘How’s life, Julie?’ he asked.

She sat down, and then leant forward to the bottle of Smirnoff on the table. ‘I get by.’

David didn’t answer. He just reached into his pocket and tossed the bag of white powder onto the table. ‘We could have a real party.’

She smiled properly for the first time.

‘Sounds good,’ she said. ‘Sounds really good.’

   

I didn’t hear the noise.

I was hard asleep, my mind flitting through impossible scenarios, the sheet tangled around my body. I’d tried to stay awake so that I could go back to the story, get it finished before daybreak, but the wrap of Laura’s arms was too warm, too safe.

I woke when I felt Laura lift my arm and put it down on the bed. I felt her move and sit up, and then pause. I opened my eyes, the images coming in blurred at first. When it cleared, I saw Laura was still, her head tilted, as if listening for something. I reached out and touched her back, but she held up her hand so I stopped.

I rubbed my eyes and watched her stand slowly, her naked body framed against the window, curved and sweeping. My mind began to clear, sensing something wasn’t right. She pulled on her jeans, quickly and silently, and then slipped on her T-shirt. She put on her shoes and then crept towards the door.

I was about to ask her what was wrong when I heard it. It was a creak. Downstairs. But it wasn’t just that. It was a creak followed by nothing. A creak that had made whoever was down there halt, waiting to see if we had heard anything. Had they heard us? Had they heard Laura creep out of bed and put on her clothes?

She turned round to look at me. My eyes were quickly adjusting to the darkness. I put my finger to my lips and then beckoned her back to me. She crept over to me, her light steps not making a sound, and knelt down by the side of the bed. She reached to the floor and passed me my clothes. I looked at her. I could see the fear in her eyes, could sense it in her urgency. Someone had killed my father. Now there was someone in the house.

I slipped on my pants, the bed springing as I did, and then put on my shirt, the one worn by Laura earlier in the night. I could smell her on it, a faint perfume.

I pointed at my camera, which had been on top of my bag on the floor. She looked at me, curiosity in her eyes, and then crept across to get it. When she was there, I whispered that she should open the window. She looked back at me, then at the window. She held her hands out and hunched her shoulders in query, but when I pointed again, she reached across the table and pulled on the window catch. It gave easily, and she was able to open the window, only a slight squeak giving her movements away.

She had a quick glance out and saw why I had asked her to do it. My room was above the bay window, giving a tiled slide to a seven-foot drop to the floor.

She crept back across the room and knelt down beside me. I explained what I wanted her to do. She shook her head, giving me the cop’s answer. I hissed at her that someone was in my house, and that gave me rights. She thought for a moment, and nodded.

Then we both heard a creak. I knew that one. I had heard that creak throughout my adolescence, an early warning to throw the cigarette out of the window, or for a girl to sit up quickly, to look like we hadn’t been doing anything.

Whoever was in the house was at the bottom of the stairs. We kissed, and then stood up. We knew what to do.

   

As David Watts lay back, he sensed how high Julie was getting. He had an urge not to get there with her.

He looked around. He’d forgotten how bad some of the bad places could be. The cream walls were browning with nicotine and the carpet looked worn, covered in stains. The kitchen stretched out into the back yard, an eighties extension. The wood-effect furniture was cracked and dirty, and when he looked down at the sofa he saw the holes where Julie had relaxed too much with a joint hanging from her fingers. She used to be fun, a party girl. It seemed like she hadn’t realised that the party had ended.

He thought about the American, wondered how he was getting on in Turners Fold. He couldn’t stand that he wasn’t in control. He sat back, looking at the ceiling. His eyes flitted around the cobwebs.

Julie came into view. She was smiling, swaying, dancing, her eyes closed, her dirty blonde hair swishing over her shoulders. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She gave a smile intended to be flirty. The glazed focus in her eyes made it look seedy and cheap.

He pulled out his phone and rang the American’s number. He needed to know. He heard two ring tones, and then it was clicked off.

He looked at his handset before throwing it into the corner.

*

We both heard the phone ring. We froze. The sound was clear and near. It was on the stairs. There was a rustle of clothes and a muffled curse. No hesitation. I hissed, ‘Now!’ and bolted for the door.

I could hear Laura running behind me, her breaths frantic and scared. She had to be right behind me. That was the plan.

I flung open the door and dashed across the landing, only as wide as the stairs. I was past in a flash and then I heard feet on the stairs, starting to run, missing out steps. Laura stayed in my room.

I crashed through the door into my father’s bedroom, my bare feet stumbling as I stopped to avoid the bed. My heart was thumping. All I could hear was the sound of my pulse and the blood rushing through my head. Time had slowed down. The footfalls on the stairs were loud, each step crashing as I scrambled round the bed and towards the window.

I saw the camera flash. Laura must have put her arm round the corner and fired the camera, the blue light making the stairs seem as in daylight. I heard a voice say, ‘Shit,’ and a stumble. I heard Laura rush back into my room. I heard a rush up the stairs, the flash had only halted the steps for a second, and then a slam as my bedroom door flew open. I heard Laura’s feet land on the table and then light screams. Laura was heading for the window. There was a crash as something hurtled against the window frame, and then I heard a thud on the roof outside. There was a shout of ‘Fuck’ from my bedroom, and then I heard the table clatter as it took a kick. It was a male voice. Laura had got out.

I rushed to my father’s window. That was the plan. Get a picture and split up. Laura would have the easier drop. I would have a straight fall from the window. But it was onto grass.

I grabbed at the window and pulled it up, expecting it to spring upwards.

It didn’t move.

I looked down, panicking. There was a window lock. Shit.

I looked around for the key, scrambling through the drawer unit next to the bed, my hands flicking through clothes, throwing them around.

I couldn’t find it. I could hear pacing in the next room. I was trapped, cold sweat gathering on my lip. I opened the next drawer. If the key wasn’t in there, it was stay and fight or throw myself through the glass.

My hands scurried through the next drawer. Nothing there. I was starting to panic. The noise from my room had stopped. He had heard me. It made me pause for a moment and I looked around. There was no way out. A square room, a square bed, and one door out.

I opened the bottom drawer and tipped out the contents, my hands fumbling now, desperate. I dropped to the floor and pushed aside papers and photographs.

He entered the room slowly. He made no noise, but I could sense him blocking the doorway. The door was on the other side of the bed to me, and I was exposed, cornered.

I looked around my feet, at the mess I’d made on the floor. Then I saw something. It was a can of deodorant. I picked it up and shook it. There was some left in.

I rummaged through the clothes I’d thrown over the floor, looking for a cigarette lighter. There must be one in there. Dad had smoked in bed. Always had. I’d tried to tell him to stop. I hoped he hadn’t listened to me.

Then I felt it, a knock against my knuckles. My hand closed around it and I felt empowered.

I shot to my feet, pointed the aerosol, and pressed, my finger clicking the lighter alive.

My mouth dried in an instant. Nothing. No flame. Just two clicks. My eyes shot to the floor but there was nothing I could use. Just papers and pictures.

The intruder stood up straight and reached into his pocket. He filled the doorway and a sliver of moonlight from my room flickered against the knife he held in one hand. His other hand produced a canister. I thought I saw a grin, and then I noticed him put his arm across his nose.

‘This is what you want,’ he said. I spotted the American drawl.

He pointed the canister into the room and sprayed.

I copied him, covered my mouth with my arm, and fell to the floor, not knowing what it was. I dropped the canister I’d been holding.

It hit me straight away. My eyes began to burn, my nose streamed, and I began to cough. I tried to take a breath, but my throat flared up with fire. I spluttered and roared, and started to rub my eyes, but it made it worse. I felt like I was melting, my eyes pouring water, my throat burning. I buried my head in my father’s bed, tried to wipe it off, but it didn’t work. I was shrieking and coughing and wiping my eyes, my fingernails scraping at my face.

Then I heard footsteps. He was coming into the room. He was coming to get me.

I reached behind me on the floor, looking for something, anything, my hands scrabbling around under the papers. The footsteps got nearer. My search became frantic. I scattered whatever was there, and then I felt it, cold and round. A paperweight, nothing special. Just heavy and a good shape for the hand.

I shot to my feet, unable to see, and drew back my arm. There was one more footstep and I was able to get a bearing.

I threw the paperweight hard. A fastball, straight and high. I heard a yell, and then it dropped to the floor. I could make out a shape on the other side of the bed, bending down, holding his head. He was all in black, but I could see the pale skin, his hands over his forehead. The spray must have been clearing, because I could make out a dark patch around his hands, could hear him cursing, saw him trying to stand up straight.

I jumped onto the bed, screaming with rage now, and ran across in two steps. His head was still down, his face towards me as I got to the edge, so I swung my right leg and jumped off with a volley. I felt my foot hit something soft, my leg jarring, and heard a crash as he fell backwards. I fell on top of him, so I began to punch and elbow my way off him, stumbling over the falling body and landing just in the doorway, my feet scuffing at the floor, trying to get away.

I heard a rumble of movement and I caught sight of the shadow moving, something swinging through the air. I felt a slice on my leg, wetness, and then heat. I shouted in pain and kicked out in instinct, my foot finding his head again.

I rushed to my feet, a wince of pain, and then I heard another burst of movement towards me, so I kicked out again, catching just enough shoulder to stop him.

I ran across the landing and into my room. Instinct told me to avoid the stairs, too much like a shooting range, even a flying knife wouldn’t miss. I kept running, the footsteps behind me starting up again, fast and earnest. I jumped onto the table and made a leap for the window. The table moved as I jumped. It rocked on its legs and my kick for the window pushed it backwards. I heard running footsteps enter the room. I made it into the open window, my ribs hitting the window frame hard, and I fell forward, my feet kicking out at the sills to get away. I felt something hit my foot as I went through.

He had missed. Just.

I landed with a thud, my head crashing against the tiles. I kept rolling, and then I was falling through the air, landing with a jar on the driveway. My head hit the ground as I landed and I grunted in pain. I was dazed, the graze stinging, but I knew I couldn’t wait.

I picked myself up and began to run. I had no shoes on, so I ran across gardens, shouting in pain as I hit each driveway, shingle and concrete shredding the soles of my feet. I heard his feet on the bay window and then a neat thud as he landed feet first. Then I heard running.

I was fifty yards away from the end of the street. I knew where I was headed. I’d told Laura to head for the fields on the other side of Accrington Road. Lie low and wait. Once in there, it would be easy to lose a stranger. I had my head back, going as fast as I could, heading for there. I gritted my teeth as the tarmac cut into my feet.

I looked back. He was running. Then I saw him stop suddenly and reach behind his back. He came up with a gun. I saw him raise it, taking aim.

I looked forward and tried a surge. The end of the street crept closer.

I cut across a lawn and then onto the street, making a sharp left. I screamed as I ran, hollering, bawling, trying to get people to their windows. The tarmac on the road was tearing my feet up. I could feel the skin getting raw, but still I ran, moving from side to side, trying to make a hard target. I was twenty yards away. My lungs were screaming at me, mouth open. Just a few seconds more. A light went on. Then another. I carried on yelling.

Then I stumbled.

I went to my knees, the road cutting through my pants, my knees scraping on the floor. I just hauled myself up again, making a swift dart to the left as I did.

A gun was fired. A car windscreen shattered where I’d just been.

I sprinted for the main road and a dark patch between two houses. I knew that behind those were the fields. Once in there, it would be darkness. It would be soft underfoot. The moon would cast shadows, would light up the open spaces, but I knew where there was a line of trees.

I could hear engines on the main road, a lorry, moving slowly. I could tell it wasn’t far away. I looked through the gaps in the houses, and I could see it would pass me at the same time as I reached the road. It would block me off, make me stop.

I tried one last burst, a bolt for the road.

The wheels rolled into view, the front of the cab large and red, chrome grilles, all moving towards me. I couldn’t stop. The truck kept moving, and I screamed, my feet tearing, my legs pumping, chest heaving. I ran into the road, my bare feet skidding over the tarmac, my toes scrubbed raw. I felt a rush of warm air, heard the blast of a horn, and then the wind from the passing truck shoved me just out of the way, its cab missing me by inches.

I was in between houses on the other side of the road before the dust in its slipstream had settled. I ran through the yard and vaulted the wall at the back, my hands slapping at the dark coping stone. A dog barked in the yard and ran towards me, jumping against the wall.

As I hit the grass, I stayed down. I took deep breaths, sucked in air, tried to get calm. I looked back, peering over the wall. I could see him running so I got to my haunches, ready to go again, but he wasn’t coming for me. He had his gun in his hand, pointing upwards but visible, a warning to the neighbours. He looked in my direction, but then turned away and walked back down my street. He walked to a car at the end, jumped in and fired up the engine. I saw neighbours on my street at their windows. He left the car lights off and reversed hard until he got to the Accrington Road, swinging it around with a hard left lock, and then screeched his tyres as he floored it, the car disappearing quickly into the distance. The rear lights flicked on as he got to a red light, but he didn’t stop. He went through it at around seventy miles an hour, his rear end sparking as he bumped over the junction, lighting up the street for a second.

I sat down in the grass and put my head in my hands. I stayed like that for a few minutes, coughing, retching, the taste of the gas still hot, and then the pain from my calf began to creep through. I reached down to where it hurt, and I yelled when my hand found the spot. I felt warm liquid on my leg and I knew I’d been cut.

I stood up and gasped as the pain shot through my leg, the adrenalin subsiding. I knew I had to find Laura. But then something struck me, and it made me sit down.

I realised that I had just seen my father’s killer.