Sweet William Read online

  Contraband is an imprint of Saraband

  Digital World Centre, 1 Lowry Plaza

  The Quays, Salford, M50 3UB

  www.saraband.net

  Copyright © Iain Maitland 2017

  All rights reserved.

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  ISBN: 9781910192917

  ISBNe: 9781910192924

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire Typography Ltd.

  For Tracey

  Contents

  Title Page

  Part 1: The Escape

  Part 2: The House

  Part 3: The Departure

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgements

  Part 1:

  THE ESCAPE

  11.10am FRIDAY 30 OCTOBER

  If I move, even ever so slightly, this stair will creak and they will hear me. They’re all around me and one of them will cry out, that’s for sure. Bound to. Then I’m done for. I’ll never get another chance like this to get away. And I need to get away tonight, come what may. No matter what.

  If I turn my head oh-so-slowly to the right and look up, I can see three doors on the first-floor landing just above me. All shut. Ainsley is in the room at this end of the landing, closest to the stairs. He’ll be sitting there now, rocking gently back and forth and mumbling to himself. He’s sharper than you’d think, though. If he hears me, he’ll shout out, “Who’s there?” at the top of his thin, whiny voice. And he’ll do it over and over, each time louder than the last.

  Sprake is in the middle room. He’ll be staring out of the window across the lawn. Absolutely motionless, he’ll be. I know. I’ve seen him. He sits that way for hours at a time. Like he’s in a trance. If I get out of here, I’ll have to stay round the side of the building to get away. If Sprake sees me he’ll start shouting and banging on the walls with his fists. He turns quickly, that one. He’s mad, proper mad. I’ve even seen him biting his toenails until they bleed.

  The last room on this landing is mine. It’ll be ‘was mine’ in a few minutes. I’ll be glad to see the back of it, to tell you the truth. I’ve been in the annexe for six months now and you can only take so much, even if you’re not locked and bolted in like you are in the big house. You’re still not free, whatever way you look at it.

  All of my weight is on this step. I’m four steps down now. Nine to go. Then four to the corridor and away with a bit of luck. Security’s piss-poor at the best of times, but it’s been non-existent during the renovations. And it just about disappears in the annexe at this time of night when we’re all supposed to be drugged up and in bed. Those who take the medication probably are. But I’ve been tucking my tablets under my tongue and spitting them out afterwards when I go to the toilet. They never notice. They think we’re all stupid in here.

  I’ve got to move my left leg down ever so carefully onto the next step. To do that, I’ve first got to shift all of my weight over to the right foot. I daren’t move the right foot yet. It’s got the creak waiting underneath it. I can feel it there ready to screech out.

  There, I’ve done it. I’m on the next step. And all without a single sound.

  They all wondered why I spent so much time moving up and down these stairs over and over. I spent ages on each step, just rocking to and fro. They think I’m as mad as buggery. I’m not, though. I know which stairs creak and which ones don’t. That’s why I’m going to get away tonight and the rest of these poor stupid bastards will be rotting here for years to come.

  The next three steps don’t creak at all. I know. I’ve tested them.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  There. I’m now just five steps from the bottom. Easy as pie that was.

  Smith the warden is at the bottom of the stairs, sitting in his so-called office on the left. He’s supposed to be security but he’s short and fat and bald and looks 70 if he’s a day. He’ll be sitting there with his back to the door, the lamp on and his paper spread out. Humming to himself and jangling his keys, he’ll be. I know. I’ve heard him night after night. World of his own, the lazy pig. He’ll never notice me slipping by; not if I’m quiet.

  On the right is the residents’ lounge. We’re ‘residents’ nowadays out of respect. ‘Human Rights’, that’s what we’ve all got. The press don’t call us residents, mind. Nor the locals. They call us psychos – and worse. They don’t respect our human rights at all. There’s always a huge hoo-hah whenever someone new arrives, especially if they’ve been in the papers like me. We’ve had demonstrations at the gates even though we’re medicals not criminals. That’s official, that is. Medicals.

  There won’t be any of us residents in the lounge at this time of night. It’s way too late. I know who will be in there, though. Maureen Fucking Spink and her crony, Fat-Arsed Eileen. That’s my names for them, by the way, not anybody else’s. They’ll be smoking. They’re not supposed to, it’s a fire hazard. That’s why they hide away in there. And they’ll be talking quietly under their breath about us.

  Spink will be out of that lounge like a shot if she hears anything. And she won’t hold back, I can tell you. I’ve seen her hit Tosser Gibson when no one was looking. Really hit him, not just pushing and pulling him about like she does with the rest. She thought no one was around at the time. But I was and I saw it all. I keep my eyes open, see? Eyes open, mouth shut, that’s me. I take it all in. I’m clever like that. I’m smart. Dead smart. Just you wait and see how smart I am.

  These final few steps don’t creak at all, except for the second to last one. I move down. Onto step five, then four and then three. I pause, miss step two to get to one and then I’m on the ground floor. Corridor straight opposite and down there at the end to the left is the unlocked side door.

  There’s no one down that corridor. Nobody to hear me. Just walk along and open that side door and I’ve another corridor and a locked door, maybe two locked doors, to get through after that and then I’m out and running for the wall and freedom.

  I’ve never seen much beyond the side door to be honest. I only dared open it and look down the next corridor once. Couldn’t risk being spotted checking it all out. It will be all quiet there though for sure. No one about. Once I’ve gone through the side door, I can force open as many other doors as I have to and I’m away – too late for Spink or anyone else to stop me.

  I pause.

  Draw breath.

  Think for a moment.

  I’m leaving because of William. My little boy. My wife died, you see. ‘A tragedy’, the papers called it – ‘a shocking waste of a young mother’s life’. That was the quote. Horrible it was. Really horrible. And they blamed me for it. That’s why I’m in here. One year in the big house, six months in the annexe so far. Lots more to come if I stayed.

  The judge didn’t send me to prison, though. I fooled him good and proper. I’m smart. I told you, didn’t I? Sectioned and assessed under what’s called section 37, that’s what I got. A cushy enough number. Being here’s better than prison, I can tell you. Easier to get out, too. You just wait.

  Since the wife died, her sister and the husband have been bringing up my little William. I’ve got to go and get him now, though. Tonight. Right now. It has to be this weekend, see? Halloween. It’s the time the family gets together at Aldeburgh in Suffolk. Nice, quiet, back-of-your-arse Aldeburgh.

  Just the sister-in-law and her husband, his fat old father and that bitch of a mother. And my lovely little William. Saturday night they go to the Halloween carnival parade on the seaf
ront. I move in from the shadows. I take William. I move out and off we go to a new life. And it’ll leave the sister-in-law and that husband back where they started. Childless.

  As I told you, I’m smart.

  Dead smart, me.

  You’ll soon find out just how smart I am.

  Me and the little one can get away somewhere. Europe. France, maybe. It’s nice there, especially in the south. I’ve seen pictures. And it’s very sunny, so I’m told. I can get a job cleaning or something, and we can start a new life together. I’ve worked it all out in my head. Got it all planned. I’ve thought it through good and proper.

  I wait. Listening for old Smith in his room. I’ve got to be careful.

  Still waiting. Yes, and still listening.

  Got to wait. Be sure. Feel absolutely certain.

  It’s okay. He’s quiet, not moving at all. He must be reading. Just like I told you he would be. I take two steps. One to the door, which is open no more than an inch.

  He’s not there.

  Smith.

  Must have gone for a smoke.

  The second step takes me to the corridor. I want to run, just go as fast as I can. I daren’t, though. Not yet. I force down the panic surging up inside of me.

  I hear a door open.

  Voices. Women’s voices.

  It’s Spink and her fat-arsed mate coming out of the residents’ lounge.

  I wait. There’s nothing I can do. If they turn and come towards this corridor, I’m fucked. Well and truly. I’ve no reason to be here. No reason at all. Not at this time of night. They’ll know what I’m doing. They’ll shout out.

  Spink? I could take her if I had to. Easy. But I couldn’t keep both of them quiet. And Old Smith as well. Not three of them. He’s got some sort of truncheon he carries round with him. From when he was in the force. He’s the sort who’d use it too. Bastard.

  They’ve turned left. To the bottom of the stairs. 13 steps up and another turn onto the landing, that’s what. No, sounds like they’ve stopped. They’re saying something about someone. Me, probably. Can’t make it out. They’re speaking softly. One of them chuckles. A piss-taking sound, that. They’ve said something nasty about me for sure. They don’t like me much. I don’t kow-tow to them like the rest of the dribblers.

  I can hear them at the top of the stairs.

  It’s 18 steps down this corridor. I have to walk normally. Not panic. 18 . . . 17 . . . 16 . . . 15 . . . 14 . . .

  Spink will go to Ainsley’s room first.

  Opening his door.

  Checking him.

  Spink will stand there looking at Ainsley.

  Maybe say something clever to him, wanting to make Fat-Arsed Eileen laugh.

  “And h-h-how are you, Mr Ainsley?” mocking his stutter, most likely.

  I walk, one step at a time, down the corridor, slowly, quietly, so I can hear what’s happening upstairs. 13 . . . 12 . . . 11 . . . 10 . . .

  Spink and Fat-Arsed Eileen will then move to the next room.

  Checking on Sprake, I wouldn’t wonder.

  I pause, wait, straining to hear.

  I know Sprake, the stupid fucker. He’ll try and engage them in conversation. Like he’s normal. But what he says is gibberish. I know. He talks to me sometimes. You can’t understand a word. Spink and her mate will listen and she’ll smile and nod for a moment or two, taking the piss. Then she’ll put on that sneering smile of hers and say, “Well, we can’t stand here all night talking with you, Mr Sprake”, and all with that exaggerated politeness. She’ll snigger and slam the door in his face and they’ll all have a right good laugh at the poor confused prick.

  I’m more than halfway to that side door. 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . .

  They’ll turn and go to my room. Spink will be thinking of something clever to say to me. She tries hard to make me react, I’ll give her that. Very hard. But it never works, not with me. I just smile and act polite, like nothing ever bothers me. She’ll have some snide comment ready as she walks up, puts her hand on the handle and opens the door.

  I take the final steps to the side door, 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  I put my hand on the handle, pull down, step through. Breathe a sigh of relief. Ready to break down the next door . . . and the next . . . and the next. No matter what, no matter how many doors, I have to get away.

  Now.

  Tonight.

  To get my sweet William.

  Smith is leaning against a wall at the far end of the next corridor. He’s near a half-open window, smoking, just like I said, and he’s looking at something on his mobile phone, turning it first this way and then that. He glances up and I see the shock on his face as he recognises me.

  I look at him and his keys.

  The keys to my freedom.

  And I give him a lovely big smile.

  11.25pm FRIDAY 30 OCTOBER

  “All done?” the young man asked, rolling over and putting his glasses next to the newly opened paperback on the bedside table.

  “Almost,” the young woman replied, walking into the room and pushing the door to behind her. “He struggled a bit, as usual, but then nodded off . . . his levels are still high, a bit more than yesterday. We just need to pack all the paraphernalia in the morning – and find Mr Jolly.”

  “I think you’ll find Mr Jolly’s here, ready and waiting for you.”

  “Ha ha, not now, Rick, exhausting day, long drive tomorrow – what time do you want to leave?” She sat down on the side of the bed.

  He sat up, reaching out for her, “I don’t know, Nat. My dad really wanted us to go up tonight to get the place ready. If they’re going to arrive at lunchtime, we should get there for, what, 11.00, just to freshen things up? So how about we leave at 8.00 and stop on the way to get something to eat?”

  “Seriously?” She laid down, pushing his hands away, “Not now . . . I want Will to lie in as long as possible and then check him again and get him jabbed and fed before we leave . . . at 10.00.”

  “9.00.”

  “9.30 at the earliest, and you’re doing the ‘freshening up’ if we get there before them. I want everything calm and peaceful, otherwise he’ll just get agitated and fretful and it’ll be hell for all of us, especially with your mother sitting there taking it all in. Have you told them about Will yet?”

  He shook his head.

  “We’ll have to over the weekend, early on, when we get there, otherwise it’ll just be a nightmare and he’ll be edgy and tired and hungry and God knows what and your mother will just give me that look of hers all the while . . . but if we tell her he’s diabetic, she’ll be sitting there thinking I’ve screwed up and don’t look after him properly. Like I’m not a proper mother.”

  “Don’t say that Nat, you couldn’t be better.”

  She sat up straight, “I wish we weren’t going. I’m not in the mood to play happy families this weekend.”

  “It’ll be just fine; we’ll get there, have lunch together, a stroll to see the fireworks, early night, breakfast, a cycle on the prom for Will when it’s nice and quiet and we’ll be on the way back mid-morning. You can get started on your OU work on Sunday evening, I’ll sort Will out.”

  He sat up too, “Do I have to wait until Sunday night? You’ll be even more tired then, especially if the journey sets him off.”

  “God’s sake,” she said, pulling her T-shirt up and over her head, “get on with it then.”

  They both laughed.

  12.19am SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER

  Got to keep moving.

  They will have called the police straightaway, had to. 11.25 I’d guess. What happens then? I don’t know. Does it go straight to CID or does the local plod come in first? Plod, I reckon. How long’s that take? 20 minutes? They’d have arrived at 11.45 then.

  Must keep running as best as I can.

  Spink would take charge when the coppers turned up. She’s like that. She’d explain what’s happened. Who I am. Why I was there. Probably show them the newsp
aper clippings, knowing her. She’d have no mercy, that’s for sure. So the coppers call for assistance? When? 11.55?

  Have to keep going as fast as possible.

  How soon before the police are all over the roads? 12.15? 12.45? Am I too late already? Will they set up roadblocks? They’ll have to, won’t they? Especially when they know who I am. Spink will make me sound evil. She’ll say I’m dangerous without the tablets. Nonsense of course – I don’t really need them at all. They’ll have to put up a show to placate the locals, though. Lots of cars. Loads of roadblocks everywhere.

  Got to get to a main road, hitch a lift and get well away before they can do all that.

  Will they send in dogs? I can’t outrun dogs, can I? I wouldn’t know how. Could hide up a tree. But they’d have the scent, wouldn’t they? No rivers round here to wash it off.

  Just have to keep going, got to run flat out.

  12.15 now I’d guess, has to be. Been running for an hour at least. It’s killing me.

  I’m still in the woods. What would have been Sherwood Forest I reckon, hundreds of years ago anyway. Not much of it left these days. I’m sticking to the wooded parts, going as quickly as I can, and keeping under cover. I don’t think they’d use a helicopter, but you never know. Best be careful.

  I can’t run fast. Not as I’d like. It’s dark and there’s only a half-moon. And I’m only shuffling along really. Trotting at best – in bedroom fucking slippers. Thing is, I had to break out wearing my dressing gown over a T-shirt and trousers and my usual slippers – think about it, if anyone had seen me on my way out in proper clothes, with a coat and shoes, they’d have known what I was up to, wouldn’t they?

  Got to stop for a moment.

  Get my breath.

  I’m drenched in sweat.

  Shouldn’t be hot in October. Late October at that. The clocks have gone back. It’s the dressing gown that’s doing it really. It’s making me sweat. But I can’t ditch it. The dogs will find it. They’ll know where I’ve been. And you can’t hitch a lift just in a tee shirt, trousers and slippers, can you? No matter how respectable you look, who’s going to stop for someone looking like that in the early hours of the morning? My dressing gown could be mistaken for a mac, in the dark anyway, if I pull it round me tight.