Mr Todd's Reckoning Read online

  “Truly scary, a fabulous dive into the mind of a classic, self-justifying psychopath … A fantastic book.” BARBARA NADEL

  “With stylish economy and a remorseless eye for detail, Iain Maitland’s Mr Todd lures us in to his moral abyss. The banality of evil … drip feeds us its shockingly tense story of unending horror … Riveting, terrifying.” PAUL RITTER

  “Hurls you through the secret underground tunnels of an insane mind bent on destruction … phenomenally dark and utterly compelling.” CHRIS DOLAN

  Praise for Iain Maitland’s previous books:

  “A compassionate novel imbued with a deep knowledge of mental health issues … Tense and insightful … A heart-stopping thriller with a powerful denouement.” PAUL BURKE, NUDGE BOOKS

  “Extremely well written and very frightening.” BARBARA NADEL

  “A breathless journey through fear and love, that explores how interdependent those two extreme emotions are.” EWAN MORRISON

  “Enthralling … makes us cold to our bones … a stunning novel.” BURIED UNDER BOOKS

  “Tense … astounding … dark and chilling … and shockingly realistic. Gripping and immersive … an intelligently written thriller that deals with the intricacies of the human brain, mixed up with the emotional ties of the family.” ANNE CATER, RANDOM THINGS THROUGH MY LETTERBOX

  “Taut, darkly humorous and heartbreaking, with an unforgettable narrator, Sweet William packs a real emotional punch.” LISA GRAY, DAILY RECORD

  “A dark, rocket-paced thriller.” JON WISE, SUNDAY SPORT

  “A story of danger, delirium and devastation … absolutely electrifying.” ALIX LONG, DELIGHTFUL BOOK REVIEWS

  MR TODD’S RECKONING

  Iain Maitland

  For Bernard, my pal.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  Part One: THE BUNGALOW

  SUNDAY 23 JULY, 7.22pm

  SUNDAY 23 JULY, 7.36pm

  MONDAY 24 JULY, 7.57am

  MONDAY 24 JULY, 9.49am

  MONDAY 24 JULY, 10.30am

  MONDAY 24 JULY, 1.25pm

  MONDAY 24 JULY, 1.53pm

  MONDAY 24 JULY, 2.43pm

  MONDAY 24 JULY, 7.55pm

  MONDAY 24 JULY, 8.26pm

  TUESDAY 25 JULY, 9.10am

  TUESDAY 25 JULY, 10.15am

  TUESDAY 25 JULY, 10.30am

  TUESDAY 25 JULY, 12.10pm

  TUESDAY 25 JULY, 1.35pm

  Part Two: THE HEATWAVE

  TUESDAY 25 JULY, 10.01pm

  WEDNESDAY 26 JULY, 2.57am

  WEDNESDAY 26 JULY, 11.07am

  WEDNESDAY 26 JULY, 12.01pm

  WEDNESDAY 26 JULY, 3.43pm

  WEDNESDAY 26 JULY, 7.46pm

  THURSDAY 27 JULY, 11.26am

  THURSDAY 27 JULY, 12.30pm

  THURSDAY 27 JULY, 3.20pm

  THURSDAY 27 JULY, 4.00pm

  THURSDAY 27 JULY, 4.42pm

  Part Three: THE AIR-RAID SHELTER

  THURSDAY 27 JULY, 4.59pm

  THURSDAY 27 JULY, 9.57pm

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 9.17am

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 10.06am

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 10.14am

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 10.20am

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 12.31pm

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 1.23pm

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 2.24pm

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 2.43pm

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 2.54pm

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 3.08pm

  FRIDAY 28 JULY, 10.12am

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 3.13am

  Part Four: THE RAINS

  SATURDAY 29 JULY 7.51am

  SATURDAY 29 JULY 9.23am

  SATURDAY 29 JULY 9.57am

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 11.42am

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 11.59am

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 1.22pm

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 1.42pm

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 2.22pm

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 2.49pm

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 3.01pm

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 3.06pm

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 3.43pm

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 4.09pm

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 4.16pm

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 4.26pm

  SUNDAY 30 JULY, 2.19am

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY IAIN MAITLAND

  COPYRIGHT

  Part One

  THE BUNGALOW

  SUNDAY 23 JULY, 7.22PM

  Snip.

  Snip, snip.

  Snip.

  It’s still close to 80 degrees even at this time of the evening. It’s been like this for weeks now and they say it will last all summer. It’s going to be the longest, hottest summer since records began. I can do without it; what with everything else as well.

  Snip, snip.

  Snip.

  Snip, snip.

  Adrian stands tight and tense at the side of the kitchen, hunched over, snip-snip-snipping away at the vegetables he’s laid out carefully, almost symmetrically, in a rainbow of colours, in the wok on a back ring of the oven.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  He does this every evening, cutting all of the ingredients down over and over again. By the time he has finished, and it will be a while yet, the wok will be filled with a mass of multi-coloured slivers.

  Snip.

  Snip, snip.

  I sit here, at the kitchen table by the back door, trying to write my diary, to record my thoughts and feelings, to work things through, drenched in sweat and listening to him slashing and stripping and trimming every single vegetable down as far as he can. It’s a wonder he does not cut himself.

  Snip.

  This endless snipping is something that would irritate many people, anger them even. I often wonder what would happen if someone with what might be termed a ‘hair-trigger’ temperament had to listen to this time and again. And again. And again. And again. There would be some sort of violent incident for sure.

  Snip.

  I do not say anything, no matter what. I am a calm man. There is very little that troubles me. I am in control.

  Snip, snip, snip.

  He is my son. He is 25. He still lives at home. He always has. I think he always will.

  Snip, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip. Snip.

  He is unemployed. I believe he is probably unemployable. He has what are called ‘issues’. He is on medication.

  Snip, snip.

  Snip.

  Sometimes, there is a long pause, an agonising wait before he carries on or stops, finally satisfied with his relentless shredding. But that will not be now. Not yet. He still has much to do. He still has to go on. And on. And on. And on.

  Snip.

  Snip, snip.

  We live in a small two-bedroom bungalow. It is on a busy main road between Felixstowe and Ipswich. I have the back door open tonight, yet again, as the heat is unbearable when it is shut. Having the door open means I have to listen to the noise from the road and the pavements and the neighbours and the children in the gardens to either side of me and all along.

  Snip.

  The children should be indoors by now, having had their tea and getting ready for bed. But they are not. They are left out all through the evening to shriek and yell as they please. To do whatever they want.

  Snip.

  One of them has something wrong with it and just grunts and screams at intermittent intervals. Grunt (pause), scream (long pause), scream (slight pause), grunt, grunt, grunt. That noise and its randomness are almost as unbearable as the heat. Night after night after night.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  The bungalow is too small for two grown men living on top of each other like this, while trying to lead separate lives, especially wit
h the eternal heat. Two bedrooms at the front, a bathroom to one side in the middle and a living room and a kitchen-cum-dining room at the back. The hallway, from the front to the back of the bungalow, is no more than twelve strides. I have measured it out. There is room for a little storage in the loft and a garage too, just to the side of the bungalow at the end of the driveway. Even so, there is not enough space for everything.

  No matter where I go, I can always hear Adrian. Each cough and wretched sniffle. Every visit to the bathroom, both short and long.

  Snip.

  I do not mind what I call the humdrum noise of everyday matters, however unpleasant. That does not trouble me unduly. It is the unnecessary noise, and the non-stop repetition of it, on-off, stop-start, on-off, stop-start, that I am constantly aware of.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  Having eaten my main meal at lunchtime, with a sandwich and a piece of fruit at six o’clock, and having been polite to Adrian for just about as long as I can bear, I have now gone into my bedroom to finish my diary.

  It is no cooler even with the window open. There is no breeze. There has not been one for days and I can smell the bins from here. A rancid, decaying smell, however much I sprinkle carpet freshener over the rubbish. I can always smell it. It’s even worse than the pig farm and the fields of cauliflowers and cabbages over the way. And I can still hear Adrian, no matter what, my ears somehow straining for the sound of that endless snipping.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  I am 55 years old this autumn and I have stopped work. I am at home almost all of the time other than my morning and afternoon visits to the local shops for fresh air and groceries and, as often as not, to choose a microwave meal for my lunch.

  I write throughout the day – letters to people, little notes to officialdom, jokes and bons mots for myself; all to keep busy. I have my diary to fill in the gaps. I am not yet so old or befuddled as to watch daytime television with its endless procession of life’s flotsam and jetsam.

  Adrian has been at home for most of the time since I stopped working; other than when he has to go into town to sign whatever forms he has to fill in for his benefits. But he has been going out more lately, during the days, and I have been wondering what he’s been doing. It worries me. More than I can say.

  I should not have to put up with all of this at my age, really I shouldn’t.

  Snip, snip.

  (50, 51.)

  My diary is a hobby, of sorts, which I hope will keep me busy during these long summer weeks ahead. I think about things, some serious, others amusing, and write something every day, sometimes several times. I try to write at least two or three pages; it’s a home-made notebook, so I can write as much as I want when I want. I am not limited to a single page as other diarists are forced to do with an A4 desk diary. I write about what I have done, along with my musings on life.

  Snip.

  I will write more now.

  Snip.

  Some of what I write, my general thoughts, is thought-provoking and would make people stop and think if I were to read it out loud to them. Other entries would, when I am ‘on form’ as it were, make them laugh heartily. I can be most amusing when I put my mind to it.

  I have kept a diary regularly for a while now. The GP I see for my blood pressure said that it is good for me as it is a way of staying calm and lowering my stress levels. He is about my age, perhaps a year or two older, and I feel he understands me better than the young female GP I used to see. She would sit there looking down her nose at me (when she could bring herself to look my way). I did not like her very much. Little Ms High and Mighty. Nor her me, truth be told.

  Snip.

  (Was that 53 or 54?)

  He also told me I should use my diary to go over those events of the past that have troubled or upset me in some way, to ‘work through them’, the GP says, so I can understand things more clearly and feel more at ease about what has happened. What has been done to me. How I have come to this.

  The GP has emphasised that writing everything down along with my thoughts and feelings is therapeutic and that I must do it regularly and come back to ‘the main issues’ as he calls them, at something like three-monthly intervals. Sometimes, the way he speaks to me makes it sound like an order. As though I have to do it.

  Snip.

  (I think that was 55.)

  I do go back to the events that have upset me and write about them again. The GP says it will help me if I look back over previous entries to ‘compare notes’ and to see how far I have progressed with my feelings and how well I am now compared to how I used to be. To see how I am coping with the stress of everything.

  Snip, snip.

  (55, 56?)

  Things have not been at all easy for me for some time and they have taken another downturn recently. I lost my job. ‘Made redundant’ was the phrase used formally. That and, occasionally, ‘early retirement’ (although I am not old enough for that to be strictly correct).

  I do not think either description is accurate, but I do not like to make a fuss, even when I feel extremely angry about something. I will say I lost my job; ‘taken away from me’ is a more accurate description, though.

  Snip, snip.

  Snip.

  Living with someone like Adrian is not easy. He is a fully grown man and he does not do any sort of work at all. He does not do anything as such. When he is in, he sits somewhere or other tap-tapping away and knock-knock-knocking and get-get-getting on my bloody nerves.

  When he is out, I wonder what he is doing, making trouble and being a nuisance, bothering people, and more. I feel sick at the thought of him and what he gets up to. Up to no good.

  It’s a wonder I can stand it all.

  I did not see my life turning out like this. By Christ, I didn’t.

  I deserve better.

  I do not know what will happen next nor what will become of us this long summer.

  I am beginning to wonder how this will end.

  It’s so hot and cramped and noisy and frustrating all the time. I cannot bear it.

  Really, I can’t stand it much longer. I feel as though I am going stark staring mad.

  SUNDAY 23 JULY, 7.36PM

  I am going to work through how I came to have my job taken away from me. I will then compare what I write now with what I wrote last time when, I have to admit, I was angry (with full and complete justification, it has to be stated). I am calm now.

  I worked, for almost 30 years, for Her Majesty, HM Revenue & Customs as it is known these days. I had a variety of roles, mostly as a tax inspector, at different grades. A great many people among the general public do not understand the difference between a tax inspector and a tax collector. They often think they are one and the same. They are not. They are different. I always take the opportunity to correct people whenever I can. It is really quite simple and easy to remember.

  (Adrian has stopped his snipping. I cannot hear anything. Waiting to discover what he’s doing next sets my nerves on edge. But I will ignore the nagging silence and carry on writing.)

  A tax inspector, as the name suggests, inspects tax returns. They check to see that all is correct and in order. That Mr and Mrs John and Joan Smith – and Mrs and Mrs Lesbian and Mr N’gog these days, of course – are paying exactly what they should be paying. “Not one penny more, not one penny less,” as I used to say to taxpayers with a little smile as they sat opposite me at my desk.

  A tax collector, as the name implies, collects tax. They have to make sure that everything, including fines and interest, is all gathered up and paid in full and on time or as soon as possible thereafter. The difference is distinct. I liken the former to forensic work and the latter to manual work. One uses a scalpel. The other works with a sledgehammer.

  (I think Adrian must be eating now. What a drama he makes of it all with his sniffs and twitches and endless routines. I cannot bear to watch or even
hear him at times. I must focus instead on my writing. I have lots to write.)

  I am not being immodest if I state now that I was a very good tax inspector, if not an excellent one. I had what I like to consider a ‘nose’ for it – I had something of a sixth sense for spotting returns that didn’t quite add up in some way. And those higher up in the Inland Revenue, as it used to be known, recognised that.

  (Adrian has to have everything a certain way when he eats, all ‘just so’. I sit calmly through it all, regardless.)

  I was, in later years, an investigator. I did that for almost 15 years; 37 days short, in actual fact. Whenever I was asked what I did for a living, I would, of course, always say “the civil service”, suggesting some bland administrative-type work. A pen-pusher! That is what is known as a non-confrontational statement. It, or something much like it, is what should be said by all Revenue & Customs employees to members of the public at all times when ‘off duty’.

  (I hear beeping. Adrian’s mobile phone. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.)

  I had to look at what was presented in tax returns. I needed to do my research to see if what was in front of me was likely to be true. Most often, it was not. Those who work in ‘cash’ businesses, for example, and there are very many, almost always under-declare what they earn. It can be by as much as half on occasions, I have found.

  It is the same with tips. “This is not free money,” I once stated to a man who seemed to think any tips he received were all for his back pocket. He feigned deafness. I raised my voice to get his full and immediate attention. “Money is due to the Crown.”

  (Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. For God’s sake, answer it.)

  As part of my job, I would often have to interview taxpayers, usually several times, until they would, under my mild but persistent questioning, admit to some wrong-doing or other. I would always uncover something eventually.

  “Is there anything you would like to add,” I would ask, turning over a page in their file and looking at the next one carefully. I would then look up and smile at them (although few would meet my steady gaze). That was a very effective tactic. Everyone who sat in front of me had something to hide. That is a fact. My job was to find out what it was.