The Night Caller: An utterly gripping crime thriller Page 10

  Moving awkwardly, she pushed herself to a standing position. The black water was all she could see, and she stretched her arms wide like an angel.

  All you have to do is take one step forward, she told herself.

  She lifted her right foot, took a deep breath, let herself lean forward. Already anticipating the water that would hit her, that would cover her, that would take—

  A great roar filled her head. She kicked out, connecting with nothing. Something grabbed at her jaw and she gasped, breathing as though it was her first breath.

  She was upright, she realised as she looked down. Her feet dangled inches off the pavement. The roaring wasn’t the water rushing in her ears, it was just the noise that filled her head. Martin’s hands clamped her arms to her sides as he stood in front of her, white faced and silent, staring. She couldn’t read his expression and internally she screamed at him.

  Why did you save me? Why would you kill him, yet rescue me?

  He took his hands off her and she wondered if she had spoken her thought out loud. She stumbled at the sudden absence of him holding her.

  Then silence again, a blissful nothing. She released the breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding. Looked up at him.

  He was pale, his eyes were huge and dark and… full of things she didn’t know.

  ‘I’m taking you home.’ His voice was gravelly, hoarse.

  Forcibly, with both arms around her waist, he guided her back the way they had come.

  All the way she twisted her head, to the left, to the right. Where was the boy, the beautiful, black-haired sad boy? Where had he gone, and what was he to her son?

  But the quayside was abnormally empty. The streets were deserted. The boy was gone.

  He made her drink tea, arranging her fingers around the mug and guiding it to her mouth. Briefly she wondered if he had drugged it, spiked the tea, intending to finish her off so there would be nobody left to tell his secret to those that mattered to him. She stared into the mug, found she didn’t care.

  All the while he had his phone between his chin and shoulder, and he barked out words as he was passed from person to person. Vaguely she wondered whom he was calling. His wife, to tell her he would be late home?

  She hissed out a laugh at the thought, ignoring the look he shot her. She sipped at the tea. It tasted of nothing.

  The knock at Jade’s door sent her heart flying in her chest. She covered the distance to the door, pulled it open. The man from earlier, Jordan’s father, stood there, but he was already moving away, back down the path.

  ‘You’re her friend?’ he called as he retreated.

  Jade nodded, her hands pulling at the neck of her jumper.

  ‘Come,’ he said, already almost at Emma’s door.

  Jade paused, ready to tell him she had a child sleeping upstairs, she couldn’t leave her alone in the house in the middle of the night, she would have to wake her, wrap her up and carry her next door. But he’d gone, vanished back inside Emma’s house, leaving the door ajar.

  Jade swore softly, picked up the baby monitor, and cradling it to her chest she ran outside, up the path, almost colliding with him as he stood motionless in the hallway.

  ‘I can’t stay long, I’ve got a child—’

  He put a finger to his lips and obediently she fell silent. In the light of Emma’s hallway she studied him for the first time. He was old, that was her first impression. In turn he seemed to be studying her. Finally, he removed his finger from his lips and gestured to the lounge.

  In the gloom she stared at her friend before looking back at the man, the words she was too afraid to ask on the tip of her tongue. Emma looked terrible.

  Jade looked up at Martin. What have you done to her?

  Instead, she moved over to Emma. ‘What did—’ with a glance behind her she broke off, started again. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, instead.

  ‘I wanted to die,’ Emma said, and it was more of a hiss, as though Emma’s mouth didn’t work properly, like she’d been numbed at the dentist or something. ‘I don’t want to live without him, can’t you understand that?’

  Jade took hold of Emma’s hands. ‘God, you’re freezing,’ she said, and looking around, spotting the mug of tea, she picked it up and put it in Emma’s hands. ‘Warm yourself, you can’t go getting ill.’

  Emma laughed, a horrible sound out of keeping with the dragged and haggard look on her face. ‘Ill? I don’t care about getting ill.’ She leaned very close to Jade. ‘I want to die, I want to end it all.’

  ‘Please don’t say that,’ Jade murmured.

  ‘If it was Nia, wouldn’t you want to die?’

  Jade shuddered inside, couldn’t even stand to think about that scenario. And yes, she would want to die, because without Nia there was nothing. But she couldn’t say that, because that was as good as admitting that Emma might as well end her life. She thought quickly.

  ‘I think,’ she began hesitantly, ‘that I would want answers. I would want to know who did this, and why.’ Jade pushed on. ‘Don’t you think you deserve answers?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Emma nodded, put the mug of tea back on the table. She looked at Jade and nodded again. There was a fire there now, in Emma’s eyes, only small, just a tiny glow, but upon seeing it Jade breathed a sigh of relief because that was what was needed to keep Emma here. A fire, an anger. Vengeance, even.

  The man crouched at Emma’s feet said, ‘I tried to call the police, to get some answers because… I don’t know anything, really.’

  Emma snapped her head up at his words and her eyes seemed to sear into him. ‘Did you?’ she asked, and Jade was sure there was a hint of disbelief in her tone.

  Jade turned to the man, the stranger, Jordan’s father, she reminded herself.

  ‘I don’t know anything except what’s been reported in the paper and on the telly. One of her friends said he’d jumped, but I think it was just hearsay… I don’t know, I mean, the Pusher is out there, you know that, we all know that.’ She felt a hand on her arm, looked down, saw Emma’s fingers closing around her wrist.

  She looked into Emma’s eyes, wondering what the silent message was that her friend was trying to send her.

  ‘Go home now, Jade,’ said Emma quietly. ‘Go back to Nia.’

  As she moved to the hallway the man unfolded his long legs and stood up. To Jade’s surprise he put his hand out. ‘I’m Martin, by the way.’

  ‘Jade,’ she replied, and squeezed his fingers. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ she said, and left. His touch left her cold.

  Sixteen

  THE PUSHER

  I watch her every day as she performs her vigil. From the shadows, from the broken windows of the abandoned buildings. She is looking, but she is lost herself. Drifting, confused, full of pain.

  * * *

  Later, when the canal is quiet and all the people have left, I come out again. I like this time when there is nobody but me and the vagrants and a couple of drunken stragglers around. I walk among them, loving my invincibility. Everyone is on the hunt for me, but none of them know it.

  I pause by the water of South Bay beside one lone man. Nobody comes here, to the gloom and the mist and the darkness. Everyone who is still out is over at Media City, where the lights glow brightly, and the drink flows freely. The only people who come here know what they want, and they know this is the place to get it. This man is not a vagrant, not a homeless guy looking to get his head down. He is a little drunk. He is seeking something, something he wants that he only admits to himself when he’s had a few jars.

  I know this man. I’ve watched him shout at men coming out of gay bars, attack them, backed up by his friends. Fag, homo, pervert, paedo.

  But now he looks at me, inside my hood. He looks at me in a way he shouldn’t, but in a way so many people do.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, and he rubs a hand through his hair, tries to make it presentable. Tries, with that one, stupid, single motion, to make himself appealing to me. As though he is un
sure if I want him or his wares, he sticks his hand in his pocket, moves it around inside. ‘Looking to score?’

  I feel my lip curling at the double innuendo.

  ‘Are you, uh…’ he starts to repeat his words, but something stops him.

  I move closer. His smile widens, showing bad teeth. I am offended. Does he think he stands a chance with me, with his unshaven face, bad teeth and unfashionable haircut?

  He stands now, his back to the railing. He leans his elbows on it, tries to look casual. His hands dangle near his groin. I can see what he hopes will happen; he is moments away from unzipping.

  I move closer, my hands out towards him. Let me, my actions say. He nods, very slightly. Be my guest.

  I scan the area, note that it is still deserted. From the empty, rat-ridden buildings on the quayside there may be eyes watching. From the homeless, or from those who are high or low. And when this gets going, they will avert their eyes, they won’t watch, they won’t tell. They don’t get involved.

  I stop within a foot of him. With my left hand I peel back my hood. I let him see me and I watch his face change.

  He appreciates what he sees, at first, like I knew he would. I look good, despite my current living conditions, I know I still look fine.

  Two seconds later his expression changes.

  He knows who I am.

  I move fast. My right fist smashes into his face, cracking even more of his already broken teeth. It’s time he knew what it feels like. His head moves backwards, his upper body slams into the railing. Before he can react I grip the front of his coat and pull him forwards at the same time as drawing my left hand back. My palm connects with his throat, a well-rehearsed move. A genius move; no prints left with a palm.

  Limp, he goes down without a fight as I lower him gently and with a kick I nudge him into the dark canal.

  Nothing – not him or the water – makes a single sound.

  Seventeen

  DAY THREE

  Emma watched as Martin stood by the door long after Jade had left. She saw his head turn, first one way, then the other. What did he think of her home, of her street? Did he live in a place like this, in another road in another part of town, in a two up, two down with a wife and two children? Or had he moved up in the world, to reside in a location like the one Jade’s parents came from?

  Slowly he turned away from the door. He turned until he was facing back into the lounge. He didn’t look at her: instead his eyes travelled around the room, his gaze landing on the fire, the sofa, the window.

  What was he looking for?

  ‘Are you coming in? Close the door; you’re letting the heat out of the room.’ She found her voice, fixed him with a stare. Visibly his chest heaved and with that deep breath he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  ‘I wish you had told me, Emma,’ he said as he took a seat on the sagging sofa across from her.

  She shrugged, not meeting his eye, her hands patting around her legs, sliding underneath the cushion.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

  ‘My fags,’ she mumbled. She stood up, poked around the cushion behind her, but it was too much effort and she fell back to a sitting position.

  He loomed over her, suddenly. She flinched back, screwing her eyes into slits before realising he was simply holding her cigarette box out to her.

  She took them from him, fumbled with the box as she pulled one out along with a lighter. She lit up, inhaled deeply and he moved back to the sofa, away from the cloud of smoke.

  ‘I don’t usually smoke in here,’ she said, staring at the glowing red tip of the cigarette. ‘Jordan hated it.’

  A moment of white noise, of nothingness before she heard his inhalation. ‘Can you tell me about him?’ Martin asked. ‘I mean, what’s he like? Is he like…?’

  She picked up where his words tailed off. ‘Was he like you, do you mean?’

  A strange sensation came over the room, as though the heating had timed off and in its place came a blast of cold air.

  She looked up and over at him, her eyes clear, narrowed, as though trying to see into his soul. ‘Was he like you?’ she mused, repeating his words, almost to herself, and she leaned forward.

  He matched her position, angled himself towards her.

  ‘You tell me, Martin. I don’t know you. Are you a stranger to me, like my son?’

  In the silence that followed, she let it wash over her, the truth of her words. She tasted the truth on her tongue and realised she had never said it before, never even really let herself think it. Any time the thought had come to mind she had pushed it away, put it in a box in a place she didn’t go to, sealed it up and locked it tight. And now it was out there, spoken out loud and she knew how it sounded, especially to a man she no longer knew. If it had been Jade or Nan they would have understood. Because they had witnessed all the things he did and all of them – well, Jade and Nan, anyway – had still loved him.

  She regarded Martin carefully, rolling the thought around that she already knew.

  Warily she moved further back into her chair.

  ‘Did you see him?’ she asked, and her voice was weary now. It was like being back on the canal side, dazed by its murky depths.

  ‘Emma,’ he said, and his voice was calm, cool, and… practised? ‘I didn’t know any of this, I never saw him.’

  She wanted to press it, press him, and push him. But she would have to be stealthy, cunning, in order to get him to talk. She tilted her head to rest against the back of the chair.

  ‘Martin.’

  He looked up. ‘Yes, Emma?’

  ‘Are you staying here tonight?’

  His eyes darted left and right, his hands twisted the sides of his trousers.

  She smiled, nastily, and said, ‘Your wife still waiting?’

  He shook his head. ‘We divorced, seventeen years ago now.’

  There was triumph in his tone, as though he’d been waiting all evening to say those words. She ignored them.

  ‘I have to sleep, for a little while, just until it is time to go out again, so you need to go.’ She cocked her head, glanced towards the window. ‘Actually, I didn’t do it properly, I should probably…’ she tailed off as she got up.

  He was up too, in front of her, his hands on her forearms. ‘No, not tonight, tomorrow I’ll come out with you but now you should sleep.’ His eyes searched hers, looking for what, acceptance, agreement, an argument? Half-heartedly she tried to pull away from him, not liking his force, not wanting him to manhandle her. But he was strong, always had been.

  She nodded because it was easier to accept, to give in, and he moved beside her, steered her into the hall, positioned himself behind her to guide her up the narrow stairs. He stalled, gestured with his elbow to a closed door. Jordan’s room. She shook her head vehemently, moved of her own accord in the direction of her own room.

  Inside she sat on the bed, planted her hands in her lap and looked down at them. Taking shoes off, coat, jeans and jumper and the shirt underneath, looking around for a vest and shorts to sleep in or a dressing gown, it was too much, far too much for her to think about.

  To her surprise he knelt on the floor, untied her laces and pulled her trainers off, first the left, then the right. He placed them together neatly by the bed. Reaching up, he unzipped her coat, slid it gently off her shoulders, folded it up and put it on the chair behind him. She thought she might lay back then, in her jeans and jumper, close her eyes for a few hours until the sun came up, but he kept going, peeling off her socks.

  Distractedly she watched him, thinking simultaneously of how unclean she must seem right now, for she hadn’t showered since Dina had left, but also remembering how he used to do this, twenty years ago, removing her clothes piece by piece. Not often, because they hadn’t had the chance to be together like that much, what with her age and his marriage and—

  She gasped, a light sound, and one that if he heard he ignored. She put a hand to her chest, felt he
r heart thudding, concentrating on the rhythm of the beats as he pulled her jeans down, held her ankles with large, gentle hands as he eased them off. Memories pulsed at her, of all those times before, when he had peeled off her clothes. Slow, sensual, so different to the boys her own age who jabbed and fumbled and finished in minutes.

  But when she was left wearing only her shirt and underwear Martin put his hand to her shoulder and eased her back. With a single motion he pulled the duvet up and over her.

  ‘Sleep,’ he said, his eyes burning into hers. ‘I’ll be just downstairs.’

  * * *

  She hadn’t thought she could sleep, but when she rolled over and looked at the clock it was morning. She rubbed her eyes, sticky and crusted, and wondered if she’d been crying in the night.

  Turning to lie on her back she jerked up at the sight of Martin lying fully dressed next to her. He had his hands behind his head, one foot folded over the other. He stared at her, a small smile playing around his lips.

  ‘W–what are you doing?’ she whispered, her blood running cold to see him there on her bed.

  ‘That sofa wasn’t very comfortable,’ he replied, softly. His eyes never left her face.

  She clutched the duvet around her, suddenly scared. She wanted to cry, she’d never been frightened of Martin before.

  ‘I’m getting in the shower,’ she said, her voice soquiet he had to strain to hear her.

  In the shower she scrubbed every part of her, letting the shampoo suds sit in her hair, then standing under the hot water, her wet hair dripping in her face as she watched the unseen dirt go down the plughole.

  Back in the bedroom she noted he was off the bed, at the window, one long finger hooking back the net. He was fully dressed. What if he hadn’t spent the night here?

  Silently she dressed, her back to him, pulling on fresh clothes, dragging on her coat and slipping her feet into her trainers.