Like This, for Ever

57




IT WAS TEN past nine when Lacey left the shed. Her shoulders were sore and her head ached. She’d pounded the punchbag till she could barely stand.

The rain hadn’t stopped all evening. It was cold, hard rain, the sort that seemed to seep through your skin, chilling your bones. How long would it take, she wondered, for blood to congeal in these temperatures? For the rain to wash away all traces?

As she locked the shed door she saw that the house next door was in darkness and she wondered, not for the first time, if Stewart Roberts had told Barney yet about his mother. When she’d met him that day at the university, he’d been vague and, knowing it was barely her business, she hadn’t pushed. Now, though, it was awkward and until she knew for certain, she couldn’t talk to Barney. For the past couple of weeks she’d been avoiding him, and she was pretty certain Stewart had been avoiding her.

It was all beyond her anyway. Whatever problems Barney and his dad had, they would have to sort them out for themselves. She couldn’t think about anything but the knife in the kitchen drawer. Four nights now, she’d managed to hold off. Another one just wasn’t in her. She’d take off her clothes – no point creating unnecessary laundry – switch off all the lights in her flat and stand in the garden, letting the rain wash over her body, just as long as it took for the bleeding to stop.

In her bedroom, she pulled off her trainers and socks. She’d left the conservatory door open and could hear rain behind her, bouncing on the tiled floor.

The front of her flat was never properly dark, too much light from the street seeped its way in through the curtains, but at the back, especially close to the house, no one would see her. What she did at the back of the house was her business alone.

The knife handle was so warm, the only soft, warm thing in the flat; it nestled in her hand like a small creature seeking shelter. Lacey walked back towards the garden, tugging at her shirt with her free hand. Cold air was pumping into the flat now and she could almost imagine the walls billowing out like a balloon.

There was a dark, human shape in her conservatory.

Lacey froze. Someone was standing at her desk, looking down, absorbed in something he’d spotted there. The computer was switched off; the intruder could only be reading the contents of one of the files she’d left on her desk.

Lacey took a step forward, gripping the knife, anger flooding through her at the frustration of a task unfinished. Maybe the blood she needed to see this evening didn’t have to be hers. The intruder was small, slim, jumpy. Wearing football kit! He heard her approach and started back, the file still clutched in one hand.

‘Barney?’

The boy, all eyes and quivering limbs, stared back at her. His mouth opened, a croaking noise came out.

‘Barney, what are you doing here?’

‘No!’

Astonishing, the way a strangled whisper could sound like a howl. What was wrong with the child?

Then she remembered. The file on her desk, which she’d never thought to lock away because no one ever came into her flat, was the file on Barney’s mother.

He was stumbling back. The rain was soaking his hair. Moving quickly, Lacey dropped the knife on her desk, pulled him indoors again and closed the conservatory door. She turned the key and slipped it into her pocket.

Barney stared back at her. She put a hand on his shoulder. He could have been made of stone, for all the reaction she got.

‘Barney, come and sit down.’ She pushed him gently, feeling resistance that seemed too strong for a child so young. ‘I’m so sorry you had to find out like this.’

He turned, looked at the door to the garden.

‘Come on, let’s sit down,’ she repeated, and he allowed her to steer him through the bedroom and into the living room. She switched on a light and turned to face him. God, it could be a different child. Lacey didn’t think she’d really appreciated until now the impact grief could have. Damn his father for not telling him.

‘Barney, sit down,’ she tried one last time and gave up. This boy was not going to sit down. He didn’t look as though he was ever going to move again.

‘I’m so sorry, Barney,’ she said again. ‘To be honest, I suspected it might be the case when we spoke last and I found out fairly quickly. I found the coroner’s report and some newspaper coverage that same night.’

No response, but the child had started moving. His hands were twisting together furiously, in a continuous motion that seemed to be a pattern repeating itself: clasp one way, then the next, bang knuckles together, stretch out fingers and slap, over and over again, faster and faster till it looked as if he might rip his fingers out.

She put a hand out to stop him, but he slapped her away and carried on. Lacey took a step back. She wasn’t afraid – how could you be afraid of an eleven-year-old? – but even so …

‘We need to go and talk to your dad.’ She tried a different tack. ‘We should go together, now. Come on.’ She gestured towards the door. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

‘I went to see your dad the very next day,’ she said, knowing that being less than honest now could be disastrous. ‘I told him about our conversation, what you’d asked me to do and what I’d found out. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t want me to, but when I found out what had happened to your mum, I had to get your dad involved. He had to be the one to tell you.’

‘He killed her!’

For a second, Lacey thought the boy had struck her, the way he’d dived forward, the ugly twist on his face. She expected to feel the pain of the blow, but no, there had been no contact. It was just words.

‘Barney, we need to go and talk to him. Come on, I’ll come with you.’

‘He’s out. He’s always out on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That’s when he does it.’

Does what? What the hell was going on with these two and why, why, did they have to drag her into it? She wanted to stand in the rain, feel cold streams run down her body and watch the skin part, the red bubbles burst on the air …

‘He killed my mum. Now he’s killing them. He wants to kill me, but he can’t, so he kills them instead.’

‘Barney, she was very ill. She didn’t really know what she was doing. The coroner’s report said she had post-natal depression. Lots of women get ill after they …’ She stopped. How could she tell him his mother had become sick after she’d given birth to him and never truly got better again? He’d think it was his fault she’d died.

‘He killed her. That’s why he never told me about her. He’s frightened I’ll remember.’

The room was so cold. Lacey couldn’t stop shivering. It was as though the walls had become permeable and the cold air outside was seeping through. And in front of her, an eleven-year-old boy was trying to remember the day his mother had died. His eyes were darting around, his breathing picking up pace, as he flicked through his store of early memories. She could almost see it herself. A small boy, alone and scared, hearing his parents arguing on the floor above. His mother screaming for help, wanting to get to her, trying to stop his dad. She could see the phantom memories forming, and knew he might never know whether they were real or not.

‘Barney, please stop doing that with your hands, you’ll hurt yourself. I know your dad should have told you, but he didn’t want you to be upset. He was trying to protect you.’

‘My dad is the murderer. The one they call the Twilight Killer. I’ve known for ages. I wasn’t going to say anything because if the police take him away I’ll have no one to look after me, but now I know he killed Mum I don’t care.’

He was hurling accusations around, trying to hit out as he’d been hurt.

‘Barney, you’re upset, you’re not thinking properly.’

‘He knows all about vampires. He reads about them all the time on the computer. We have three copies of that Dracula book.’

‘Barney …’

‘He takes them to the boat. That one at Deptford Creek. He was there, that Saturday night I sent you the text. That’s why I wouldn’t admit it was me – I didn’t want you to find out he was there. He’s never home on Tuesdays and Thursdays but he brings sheets home to wash because they’ve got blood on them. There’s a drug in his bathroom. I can’t remember what it’s called but it makes blood clot. And I found a glove. A kid’s glove that wasn’t mine. He took it from one of the boys he killed.’

‘Barney, stop this now!’

Lacey reached for the boy, hardly knowing what she was going to do except that she had to stop him pulling his hands apart and she had to try to calm him down somehow. Seeing her move, he struck out and caught her off balance. As she stumbled back, he pushed her again and shot to the front door. The chain was off, the lock turned and Barney was gone.

Still barefoot, Lacey stepped outside. No Barney. She ran up the steps, cold and slippery beneath her feet, to the front door of the next house. Still no sign of Barney anywhere.

Banging on the front door brought no response. She waited a few seconds and knocked again. Then she pushed open the letterbox and listened. No sounds at all from inside the house. Christ, it was nearly half past nine at night, a child of Barney’s age should not be running around on his own.

Back in her own flat, she found the number of the university. The number rang and switched to other extensions several times before there was finally a response.

‘’Lo?’

‘I’m trying to find Stewart Roberts. He’s one of the lecturers in the English department. It’s a family matter.’

‘Yeah, I know Mr Roberts. He’s not here though.’

‘Are you sure? It’s really important I find him. I understood he had lectures or tutorials on Thursday evenings.’

‘Lectures finish at five o’clock. There are one or two late tutorials, but none on a regular basis. In any case, Mr Roberts left at six, like he always does. Has a young kid, from what I understand, doesn’t like to leave him on his own too much.’

‘Thank you. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

Just a few minutes outdoors had soaked Lacey to the skin, and she was freezing. Could she just leave it now? Trust in Barney’s common sense, hope he’d calm down and bring himself home? It really wasn’t her problem. She barely knew the boy or his father, had certainly never asked to be dragged into their affairs.

The file on Barney’s mother was on the conservatory floor in a puddle of rainwater. She bent to retrieve it, to tuck the loose papers back inside. The poor kid, to find out like this. And he’d be freezing, too – as wet and cold as she was. Only he was still outside.

Nothing she could do. She had her own problems. Other people’s pain couldn’t drown out her own, all it could do was distract her for a short while. Her own soon came flooding back. And the knife was where she’d left it on the desk.

Too cold now to go back outside, Lacey picked up the knife. In the bathroom, white porcelain gleamed at her. Scarlet drops on white, like blood on snow. She gripped the knife more tightly and held her arm out over the bath.

Damn it, Barney had to be found. Lacey dropped the knife into the washbasin and went back to her desk. She had no way of contacting Stewart other than at the university. She’d have to talk to her colleagues at Southwark. If she explained, they’d probably keep the search for Barney low-key, but somebody had to be out looking for him.

She picked up the phone.

My dad is the murderer. The one they call the Twilight Killer.

Boy, she really didn’t want to be a fly on the wall when those two got together again.

He takes them to the boat. That one at Deptford Creek. He was there, that Saturday night I sent you the text.

He’d admitted it. Not only had Barney been involved in finding Tyler’s body, as she’d been pretty certain all along, but he’d lied to protect his father. He, too, had been at Deptford Creek that night. But the police at the scene would have talked to everyone on the boats. If Stewart had been there, they’d know about it. There would have been no need for Barney to keep it a secret.

I found a glove. A kid’s glove that wasn’t mine. He took it from one of the boys he killed.

Stewart had dropped a child’s glove in the chapel the day she’d been to see him at work. She still had it in the flat somewhere.

He wants to kill me, but he can’t, so he kills them instead.

Good God above, it wasn’t possible. Was it?

‘Lacey, it’s not a great time.’

Pete Stenning’s voice was unusually low, as though he was whispering into the handset, maybe even had his hand wrapped around it to muffle the sound. It sounded as if he was at work, though.

‘Sorry, Pete. I can talk to someone else. I’ll try Gayle at home.’

‘Gayle’s here. We all are. But I don’t think anyone … Lacey, do you not know?’

‘Know what?’

‘Jeez, hang on.’

Footsteps. A door opening. Sounds fading. For the whole team to be at Lewisham at this time of night could only mean one thing. Another child had either disappeared or been found dead.

He’s never home on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Mr Roberts left at six, like he always does.

He brings sheets home to wash because they’ve got blood on them.

‘Lacey, there’s no easy way of telling you this, and I’m probably going to get murdered just for talking to you.’

Fear sliced into Lacey like a blade. And she’d thought nothing could really hurt her again. She was about to find out how wrong she’d been.

‘What?’

‘Mark Joesbury’s son went missing a couple of hours ago. No one has a clue where he is.’