‘I think he’s shy,’ he heard Sarah say, keeping his secret. Had he done the right thing? Hehadto tell, despite what his mother had said. Because this was just the beginning. There was worse to come.
10
Sarah had welcomed her chat with Maggie. It was a shame that they had grown apart, but it brought it home to her that she wasn’t alone. Her old friend seemed as lonely as she was. Maggie’s once blonde hair now had some slivers of grey, but time had been kind to her, and she was the same warm person Sarah had grown up with. It was tragic, what happened to Lewis. His heroism had made the papers, but it also broke his family apart.
Elliott had surprised her. Elliott, withthose eyesso dark and deep they spoke more than words could ever convey. The sight of him wearing his father’s medal was both sweet and comical as he stood in his Gruffalo slippers and too-small jeans. But his warning came with such a sense of magnitude, his concerns beyond those of a seven-year-old boy. Opening her police-issue notebook, Sarah sliced her finger on the page. ‘Bugger,’ she whispered, sucking the paper cut. She needed to commit the words to paper before she forgot.
The Midnight Man is coming,she wrote.The angel is dead.She stared at the page, stained by a drop of her blood. How did the poem go again? She beckoned it from her memory. It had been around for as long as she could remember and was resurrected by local teenagers every Halloween.
If you open your door to the Midnight Man,
Hide with a candle wherever you can.
Try not to scream as he draws near,
Because one of you won’t be leaving here …
Wasn’t there something about staining paper with your blood?she wondered, as the poem repeated in her mind. ‘I guess he’s coming for me now,’ she said on the breath of a sigh. She didn’t believe in silly superstition, but what about Elliott? He had uttered the words as if they were causing him physical pain, then one blink of those full moon eyes and he was gone. It wasn’t just his words that concerned her, it was the cuts on his mother’s arm, the bruises on her collarbone. They hadn’t come from a pet – she had scanned the room for signs. Cats left hairs and Sarah had a good sense of smell. Maggie was more or less a single parent, so it was just her and her son. She mentioned two local girls who babysat for her. Perhaps they had been feeding Elliott creepy stories over Halloween? Sarah exhaled. Of course. Children were like sponges at that age. They were probably messing with him. But the scratches and bruises? She made a mental note to keep an eye on things. She stiffened in her seat as a group of teenagers skateboarded past, whooping and cheering each other on as they raced.
Updating control, she attached her call sign to the address of Elsie Abraham, another school acquaintance she had lost touch with. Elsie had always been an outsider. Her Presbyterian parents had emigrated from America to start up a branch of their church in the UK. Sarah had tried to include her, but her odd turn of phrase and strange dress sense set her apart from the crowd. She first met her parents in Tesco Metro when she was packing bags to raise money for the Girl Guides. Their faces stiff with holiness, they quoted bible passages in between beeps as the checkout girl scanned their Weetabix and potatoes. She shook her head at the memory. She never realised how many oddballs lived in Slayton until that day. Elsie’s parents ranked in the top five … no, top three of the strangest people she had ever met. Her mother was a skinny, meek woman with a thick southern American accent and Nellie Oleson curls. As for her father … an overbearing lump of a man with X-ray eyes. As his gaze roamed over Sarah’s body, it felt like he could see right through to her mismatching underwear. The disturbing thing was, he had looked at his daughter in the same way.
She programmed Elsie Abraham’s address into the satnav and started the engine for the short drive up the hill. Elsie’s abode was on the outskirts of Upper Slayton and had yet to be included in the restoration taking place. There was no proper front garden at Elsie Abraham’s terraced home, just a rusty gate off its hinges, a concrete frontage and an overstuffed green wheelie bin. Next to it were recycling tubs filled with empty chocolate milk cartons and cardboard containers that once housed crisp and chocolate multipacks. As a pre-teen, Elsie had eaten for comfort. Now, she either had a huge family, or her eating habits hadn’t improved.
Sarah pressed her finger on the stiff plastic doorbell to hear a quirky rendition of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’from inside. ‘Just a minute!’ a high-pitched voice shrieked from within. Sarah was about to lift the letterbox to check she was OK, when a shadow filled the door pane. It was Elsie – or at least, she thought it was, as she was greeted at the door. Sarah kept her expression fixed, her shock hidden behind the smile she portrayed to the world. Elsie wasn’t just overweight now; she was morbidly obese. Sweat-shiny and panting, she could barely stand. Her hair was pulled back into a long thin pigtail, her polyester smock stretched to its limits across her chest.
‘I’m DC Sarah …’ she began to introduce herself, proudly raising her warrant card in the air. It had been years since she’d last seen her. Would Elsie recognise her now?
‘Sure, sure, come in and close the door. You’re letting all the good air out,’ Elsie wheezed, turning left to the living room. As Sarah closed the door she was overwhelmed by the pungent odour of ammonia. Judging by the overfull litter trays, the stench was cat pee. She pinched the top of her nose as she held back a sneeze. She would not stay long. A hospital-style bed took up most of the living room. The surfaces were littered with religious pictures and cat ornaments, old mahogany furniture, cat beds and a variety of books. On every wall hung a mirror, covered in a thin layer of dust.
She watched as Elsie manoeuvred herself onto the bed. She must spend her day there, Sarah realised with a mix of shock and sympathy, thinking of the sweet wrappers in her own sofa at home.
‘Christian – he’s my son – usually lets people in.’ Elsie grunted as she hauled one leg, then two onto the mattress. Her calves were mottled purple, her ankles swallowed up by excess skin. ‘Not that we get many visitors.’ Elsie tugged on the overhanging handle as she tried to shift her weight. ‘Mother of pearl …’ she groaned, before looking to Sarah for support. ‘Can you fix my pillows? I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spat out today.’
‘Sorry for getting you out of bed.’ Sarah plumped her pillows, wedging them against the metal bed frame. A trail of sweat bloomed down Elsie’s back. The folds in her skin appeared itchy and raw. Judging from the staleness of the bed linen, it hadn’t been changed in a while. Elsie scooted back on each buttock as she sat up.
‘Don’t apologise. It’s nice to have visitors at any time of the day. I know you, don’t I?’ Slicing a square of kitchen tissue paper, she pressed it to her forehead to absorb the sweat.
Sarah nodded in response. ‘Yes, we went to school together many moons ago.’
‘That’s right,’ Elsie said, the air between them cooling. ‘I remember you. Have you moved back to Slayton or do you just work here?’
Sarah was staring at the empty crisp packets littering the bed. Heat rose to her cheeks as she realised she’d been caught out. ‘I live here, I’ve been here for almost two years.’
‘I don’t get out anymore,’ Elsie explained. ‘Are you Upper or Lower?’
‘Lower.’ The question wasn’t about her location, it was to judge her social status. Elsie’s terraced row of houses bordered Upper Slayton. They weren’t an accepted part of the well-to-do community, but they shared the postcode just the same. Judging by the smile creeping onto Elsie’s face, it was something she took pride in. ‘Not everyone’s lucky enough to live in this part of town.’
As she looked around the room, the last thing Sarah felt was envy.
‘Keep off the bed!’ Elsie warned as she leaned against it. ‘Not unless you want those fancy black pants of yours covered in flea powder.’
Sarah bit back a smile. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, stepping back. ‘I didn’t realise.’ As for her fancy pants – hardly, given an elastic band connected the button to the buttonhole concealed beneath her shirt.
‘It’s Gregory and Officer Dibble,’ Elsie explained. ‘Those dirty purdys are out hunting all day long.’
‘I’m sure,’ Sarah said, presuming the ‘dirty purdys’ were her cats. ‘A clowder of cats,’ Sarah mused, pointing to the felines winding their tails around her legs. ‘It’s the term for the collective,’ she continued, in an effort to bond with the woman who had regarded her with suspicion since she had entered the house. ‘I’m owned by Sherlock myself, a ginger tom. He doesn’t like me very much, but he’s company.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Elsie sat with legs spread wide to accommodate her extra flesh. ‘Mine are presents from my son. Christian’s got a soft heart. He keeps bringing strays home.’ She pointed to a nearby stool. ‘Take a pew.’ It seemed Sarah’s cat had earned her acceptance.
