I fucking will
.
His door slammed. Then came silence. Just the heat and the smoke from someone's barbecue drifting in through the window. More dead meat, Louis thought. More uncalled-for memories.
21
The Ishmael's were moving furniture overhead, Rita could tell. Scrape, drag, scrape and the occasional raised voice. They'd woken her up, and now she sat on her bed, blurred by tears, not caring that the kids hadn’t eaten anything cooked since Tuesday evening or that both now fretted for attention. Freddie in his cot in the back bedroom, Kayleigh by a cold TV.
She couldn't move. Didn't want to. What was the point? Nothing was, any more.
Suddenly a knock at the front door made her cry out in surprise. Who the heck? Straightaway she thought police - they'd already been round twice, and that reporter from
The Gazette
. This sounded different though. Even more urgent.
"Mrs Martin? Please answer."
Rita forced herself upright and went to the window. Her neighbours from upstairs were on the point of turning away from her front door when she tapped the glass. She'd never seen them before without their umbrellas. They looked old and shabby. Weary of life, just like her.
"Hold on. I'm coming."
"It's your husband on the telephone,” said Mr Ishmael. “He wants to speak to you."
"Tell him from me to bog off." She began to close the door.
"He sounded very worried." Her neighbour frowned. "Very worried indeed."
Rita gave a wry laugh. "Give us a break. 'He can go and boil his head and the rest of him, for that matter. Thanks anyway."
She closed the door and instantly felt better, but Kayleigh had heard every word.
"I want me Dad. Where is he?"
"I don't know and I don't care. Just leave it, will you?"
"Freddie's sicked up again. I can smell it."
"He'll have to wait."
"But Mu-um... "
Then Rita did something she'd never done before in her life. She clipped the child round the head and sent her squealing into what had been Jez and Freddie's room, slamming the door behind her.
She gripped that same door handle unable to go in, as new tears hurtled down her cheeks. It was as if a great, black void had opened and was swallowing them up into its bleak nothingness. Those who were left, that is. On their way to Hell.
*
“You know that Pete Brown boy wot called for Jez," Kayleigh said, spreading Value margarine on her white sliced bread half an hour later, as if nothing had happened. "He 'ad the weirdest eyes. I'll never forget them."
The Marmite sandwich Rita had made for herself, suddenly tasted weird in her mouth. She got up and spat it into the bin.
"Sorry. Go on..."
"It was just the really scary way he gawped at me. And then all of a sudden, Jip goes missing don't he? I've been thinking about it loads."
"Jip shouldn't have gone wandering off like that. Maybe he had a lady friend, who knows." Rita rinsed out her mouth under the kitchen tap, an idea forming. "Tell you what, though. If I fetch your crayons, can you make a drawing of that lad's face? Like you get on
Crime Watch
?"
“Course.”
*
Her daughter duly laid out her colours and, as the minutes passed, Rita watched that same, strange boy reappear. The brown and yellow crayons had to be sharpened for his untidy hair, also white which made a good base for the skin tone.
"Don't forget his specs and that grubby PE shirt." Rita said. 'He looked a right mess."
“I won’t."
Kayleigh resolutely crayoned in the outline, then got to work. When she’d finished, Rita held it up in front of the old mirror in her bedroom. A sudden chill coursed through her clothes and she accidentally let the drawing fall to the lino from where that cruel mouth seemed to be smiling up at her.
*
It took twenty minutes to sort Freddie out and push his buggy with Kayleigh alongside to the Police Station. She had to get new nappies anyhow, seeing as her youngest had suddenly forgotten all his potty training. Nevertheless, he watched other kids of Jez's age cycling, mooching around – things his brother would do – which she found too much to bear. So, to spare herself more anguish, she focussed instead on the top of his head.
Like a spilt, rogue egg, the sun lay in its own scarlet pool in the sky, turning both kids’ faces an eerie colour, making giants of their shadows. Rita stood by the Police Station’s outer door and gave her details to the intercom. It was here that she'd first met Sergeant Fraser, and she was just wondering if she should contact him about Jez, when a young, uniformed police woman with scraped-back hair looked up from the main desk and asked if she could help.
From her patchwork bag, Rita produced Kayleigh's vivid drawing, smoothing it down on the ledge. "Constable Jarvis might like to see this,” she began. “But I'd appreciate a colour copy of it first, if that's possible."
"Who is it then?" The officer whose ID said PC Jane Truelove, stared at the image.
"Pete Brown. The boy who called on my Jez last Monday morning. Kayleigh here just drew it. I’m sure he’s something to do with Jez being missing and our dog drowned..." She pressed an outspread hand where she thought her heart was.
"I must say, she's a proper little artist." The policewoman gave Kayleigh an admiring smile then tapped into the switchboard and asked for Constable Jarvis.
However, moments later, she turned to Rita looking genuinely disappointed.
"I'm afraid he won't be back till tomorrow morning, but I'll certainly show it to him. You never know."
She took the portrait and disappeared round a corner, leaving Rita staring at advice on security, lone female drivers and drug abuse dangers. It was as if the whole world beyond that drab cord carpet, those barred windows festered with evil.
Truelove returned to the reception area and handed Rita the copy, still warm from the machine.
"Thank you,” she managed a smile, “but when's a real search for my son like you see on TV, going to start?"
"Once we've ascertained a few more facts. Maybe Jez is hiding, ashamed of something he's done. It does occur with boys that age, believe me."
Rita shook her head.
"'He's never gone off like this before. I just know something bad’s happened, and if you don't start looking soon, I'll organise things myself."
"I wouldn't advise that just yet. Important evidence could be damaged."
"Evidence? So something is up?"
PC Truelove kept calm as she'd been trained.
"I didn't say that. We're still investigating, and doing everything we can. Meanwhile, if there's anything practical we can do for you..."
"There is," said Rita promptly. "And I hate asking, but I need a new mobile phone in case Jez does get in touch. He must have taken mine when he left, and I can't afford the outlay…"
"I'll chat to Social Services first thing in the morning. It's not a problem."
With that, the doors glided open into the heat and Freddie began to wail as if the weight of his mother's grief and uncertainty had suddenly landed on his tiny shoulders.
22
Still no prayed-for rain. Still the Friday sky uniformly blue with no-one enjoying it any more. Thus the playground at North Barton Boys’ School remained strangely silent at first break, save for two Year 10's sharing a roll-up by the greenhouse, where Louis noticed most plants behind its grimy glass had died. Good.
‘Waddle’ had tried pinning up a watering rota for the last week of term which had been totally ignored. Who'd want to go in there and fry? Louis reasoned seeing his name at the top. Fucking cheek. Gone were the days when he'd have offered to pick litter or man the Lost Property table at each end of term, besides, since the rabbit business, he had an excellent excuse. He was suffering from stress and not least because he'd found out The Maggot had nicked his coveted Orange mobile and taken it to College.
*
He was about to leave the greenhouse, when another all-too familiar male voice behind him made him jump. Louis spun round to see his sweating form teacher, advancing.
"Well, well, well,” sneered Mr Plummer. “If it isn't Louis Claus Perelman studying biology. My, my."
Louis was just about to object to the twat using his middle name, when a Tannoy announcement eked from the main building.
"All pupils are to report to the Main Hall at once," the alien whine began. "Prefects will check all lavatories and the Sick Bay for any strays. Please leave all belongings in your form rooms and do not run…"
Minutes later, George Plummer still pink-faced and ratty, was attempting to marshal the rest of his form into lines. Why had this second assembly been called? Nick Weaver, the candy pusher and the rest of 8JP were all messing about. Parping loudly, their pong hung in the stale air. Darshan Patel ran by, cheap aftershave in his wake. Neither made eye contact. The deal had been done. Finito, and he, Louis, was twenty quid the poorer. But so what? Twenty quid for such a small but crucial lie, was nothing.
Yet Louis frowned as the dark-skinned boy disappeared round the corner. Trust was too new for him. He was beginning to wish he'd never used that stupid alibi about the swimming trip. He hadn't thought it through...
His anxiety deepened as he joined his class processing into the hall.
"Bags and satchels in form rooms only. You've been told." Plummer was alongside, plus his dog-breath.
“My satchel is my property,” Louis reminded him.
"And someone kifed my iPhone last week," Nick Weaver grunted.
"Serves you right for bringing it to school." Plummer shuffled away, defeated and the two boys nudged each other, grinning victory.
Meanwhile, the stage had filled up. Serious stuff, obviously, but then in the middle of the senior staff, stood a figure that made Louis blink.
Constable Derek Jarvis.
After the Head's introductory spiel giving nothing away, the pig stepped forward to the microphone and adjusted it to suit his shorter height. Louis fixed on the cracked lips, every shift of his gaze which too often settled on him.
"I'm here today as your local police Community Liaison Officer," the constable began, then wiped a jacket cuff across his wet forehead. "We need your help to solve two recent mysteries, both of which you've probably read about in the papers, concerning a missing schoolboy, Jez Martin who lives on the Scrub End Estate. Also a murdered sixty eight year-old man who I'll deal with in a moment."
“Diddler,” sneered someone from near the back, but the visitor pressed on. “Mrs Martin is convinced that the boy calling himself Pete Brown, who’d not only phoned her son, but turned up at his home last Monday morning, is a pupil at Scrub Lane Comprehensive. However, we must let all the youngsters in the area know of our concerns, especially as that particular name isn't listed at any local school. However, we do have this." From inside his uniform jacket he drew out a piece of paper and unfolded it.
When he turned the coloured drawing to his audience, a hush descended. "We’ve every reason to believe this is an accurate representation of the twelve to fourteen year-old boy whom she saw. The white PE shirt is probably his own."
"Who drew that, sir?" Someone asked.
"I can’t say."
Those carefully-coloured brown eyes behind black-framed glasses seemed to follow everyone in the room. Soon one pupil was turning to another. Sidelong glances becoming overt stares. Mutterings and finger pointing growing to actual names called out, but thankfully not Louis Perelman’s.
He sighed with relief, steadying himself as the Head called for order, but his stomach was in free-fall. Supposing those Martins remembered more about him? The two thick brats left in that dump could be right gassers. And what if another e-fit was doing the rounds? Or if someone had been hiding in the trees at Black Dog Brook? And just as bad would be if her son had mentioned Pete Brown as living in Meadow Hill. Even though he’d been told it was a fib.
Louis hit on a plan. He'd need the chemist quick, and luckily still had Jez's fiver intact for his intended purchase.
Jarvis then repeated
The Gazette
's description of the ginger to the audience whose eyes were beginning to glaze over.
"Was he into drugs, sir?" A lad from 9NG piped up. "Maybe couldn’t pay..."
"Fair point." The pig looked round the hall. "But so far we've no evidence to suggest this. Now then lads, if you can help, please call us." He held up a piece of card bearing the same Freephone number in thick black felt pen. "You don't have to give your names."
It was then Louis noticed Darshan Patel's dark, cropped head turn; those treacle-coloured eyes staring his way.
"What's up, you?" Louis mouthed across the hall.
"Forty."
"What?"
"Forty quid. OK?"