7.

Night fell with little preamble and the residents of Willow Road nervously drew their curtains against it as if the darkness was a seeing thing. It was quiet out there now, the journalists and TV men having long since departed, their notebooks and cameras crammed with the opinions and fears of the road's inhabitants. Even the sightseers had left, finding nothing in the ordinary, rather drab, road to fuel their curiosity. Two constables strolled the pavements, up the left-hand side, down the right, conversing in low tones, their roving eyes studying each house they walked by. At the passing of every twenty minutes, one would speak into his small hand-radio, reporting back to their station that all was quiet. The street-lights were inadequate, the gloom between them somehow threatening, each entry the policemen made into the shadowed areas briefly and secretly considered first.

At No 9, Dennis Brewer switched on the television set, telling his wife to come away from the window where she stood peeking through the curtains. Their three children, a boy of six and a girl of seven sitting on the carpet in front of the television screen, an eleven-year-old boy struggling with his homework on the living-room table, stared curiously at their mother.

'Just checking to see if those policemen are still there,' she said, letting the curtains drop into their closed position.

'Nothing else is going to happen, Ellen,' her irritated husband said. 'Bloody hell, there's not much more that can happen.'

Ellen sat on the sofa beside him, her eyes on the over-colourful shapes on the screen. 'I don't know, it's not natural. I don't like this road any more, Dennis.'

'We've been through all that. There's nothing for us to worry about all those other silly sods were round the twist. Thank God they've all been sorted out in one go, is what I say. Now we can have a bit of peace and quiet.'

'They can't all have been lunatics, Dennis. It doesn't make sense.'

'What does nowadays?' For a second his eyes flickered away from the screen to find the children watching them with rapt attention. 'Look what you've done,' he complained. 'You've frightened the kids.' Disguising his annoyance, he smiled reassuringly at them, then allowed his thoughts to return to the programme.

At No 18, Harry Skeates was just closing the front door behind him.

'Jill, I'm home!' he called out.

His wife came hurriedly from the kitchen. 'You're late,' she said and he was alarmed by her anxious tone.

'Yeah, had a drink with Geoff at the station. You all right?'

'Oh, I'm a bit nervous, I suppose.'

He kissed her on the cheek. 'There's nothing to be nervous about, silly. You've got the law walking up and down outside.'

She took his overcoat from him and hung it in a cupboard under the stairs. 'I'm okay when you're around. It's just when I'm on my own. This road's become a bit frightening.'

Harry laughed. 'Old Geoff was full of it. Wants to know who's going to be bumped off next.'

'It's not funny, Harry. I didn't know the others very well, but Mrs Rowlands was very nice the times I spoke to her.'

Harry shoved his dropped briefcase to the side of the hall with his foot and made his way into the kitchen. 'Yeah, what a way to go. Throat cut by a hedge-trimmer. He had to be potty, that bloke.'

Jill switched on the electric kettle. 'I didn't like him very much. I don't think she did either, the way she spoke about him. She said he hated her dog.'

'Well I don't like poodles much.'

'Yes, but to do that to the poor creature.'

'Forget about it now, love. It's all over and done with.'

'You said that last week.'

He shook his head. 'I know, but who'd have thought anything else would have happened after that? It's beyond all reason. Anyway, I'm sure that's the last of it. Let's have that cup of tea, eh?'

She turned away, reaching into the kitchen cabinet and wishing she felt as confident.

At No 27, the elderly man lay in his bed and spoke to the nurse in a quavery voice.

'Are they still there, Julie?'

The nurse re-drew the curtains and turned to look down at the old man. 'Yes, Benjamin, they've just passed by.'

'All the years I've lived here, we've never had to have police patrols before.'

She walked over to the bed, the table-lamp by its side casting her giant shadow against a corner of the room, creating a deep black void. 'Would you like some milk now?' she asked quietly.

He smiled up at her, his wizened old face parchment yellow in the poor light. 'Yes, I think so, just a little. You will sit with me tonight, won't you, Julie?'

She leaned over him, her full breasts pressing against the high-necked, starched dress she wore in place of a uniform, and straightened the bedclothes around his shoulders. 'Yes, of course I will. I promised, didn't I?'

'Yes, you promised.'

He reached for her plump, but firm hand. 'You're good to me, Julie,' he said.

She patted his hand, then tucked it back inside the blankets, rearranging them again around his frail old body.

'You will sit with me, won't you?' he said.

'I just told you I would,' she answered patiently.

He settled back into the bed, shuffling his shoulders more comfortably into the sheets. 'I think I'll have that hot milk now,' he sighed.

The nurse rose from the bed, tiny beads of perspiration glinting in the fine hairs above her upper lip. She crossed the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

At No 33, Felicity Kimble glared angrily at her father.

'But why can't I go out, Dad? It's not fair!'

'I told you, I don't want you out of the house tonight,' Jack Kimble said wearily. 'I don't want you stopping out late while all this business is going on.'

'But I'm fifteen, Dad. I'm old enough to look after myself.'

'Nobody's old enough to look after themselves these days. I'm not telling you again you're not going out.'

'Mum!' she whined.

'Your dad's right, Felice,' her mother said in a softer voice than her husband's. 'You don't know what sort of people all these goings on have attracted to the neighbourhood.'

'But what could possibly happen? We've got the fuzz on the doorstep.'

'The police, Felice,' her mother corrected.

'Anyway, Jimmy can bring me home.'

'Yes,' her father said, rumpling his newspaper, 'and that's another reason for not going out.'

Felicity looked at them both, her mouth a tight line across her face. Without a further word, she marched from the room, 'accidentally' kicking over her younger brother's Lego tower as she went.

'Perhaps we should have let her go, Jack,' her mother said as she helped her wailing son reassemble the plastic bricks.

'Oh don't you start,' Jack said, dropping his newspaper on to his lap. 'She can go out as much as she likes when things quieten down a bit. Providing she comes home at a reasonable hour, that is.'

'It's not the same for kids today, Jack. They're more independent.'

'Too bloody independent, if you ask me.'

Upstairs in her room, Felicity flicked on the light and flounced on to her narrow bed. 'Silly old twits,' she said aloud. They treated her like a ten-year-old. She only wanted to go down the club for a couple of hours. Jimmy would be waiting. She'd had enough of it, treated like a kid at school, treated like a kid at home. She was a woman now! She looked down at her ample swellings to reassure herself she was. Satisfied, she turned over on the bed and thumped the pillow with a clenched fist. Bloody silly street, people bumping each other off all the time! She thought a little wistfully of the two brothers who had lived further down the road, both blasted by a shotgun; the younger of the two had been nice looking, she quite fancied him. Not that Dad had a good word to say about either of them. Still, they were both dead now, the younger one having died of his injuries only the day before. He and his father had died within minutes of each other. What a waste! Felicity jumped up from the bed and went to her portable cassette player. She rewound the tape already settled in its deck, then pressed the play button. A soft, slow number began, the kind she preferred, the rhythm emphasized rather than exaggerated. She moved in time with it, lost in the meaning of the words, her resentment towards her parents forgotten for the moment. Her movements led her unconsciously towards the window where her own reflection against the black backdrop made her stop. She pressed her face against the glass, cupping her hands between its surface and her eyes, providing a dark tunnel for her to see through. The two policemen passing below glanced up and continued walking. Felicity watched their progress for a few moments until they disappeared into shadow beyond the street-light. She drew the curtains, her expression thoughtful.

Across the road at No 32, Eric Channing grunted in disappointment. A rectangle of muted light was all he could see of the window opposite. The girl usually left her curtains half-drawn, seemingly unaware that she could be seen from the bedroom across the road. Eric had spent many lonely vigils in his bedroom over the past year, his wife downstairs imagining he was in the small room next door tinkering with his hand-built railway set. He knew Veronica felt his trains were a childish pastime for a man of thirty-eight but, as she often said in company, it kept him out of mischief. It had often been a tricky business, his eyes glued to the window, ears pinned to the stairs, listening for her footfalls. He would rush silently on to the landing as though he had just emerged from the loo when he heard the living-room door open. She would give him hell if she ever found out. He had often sat there for hours in the cold while the miniature train next door whirred round and round on its tireless journey, scrutinizing the ten to eighteen inches depending on how wide she had left the curtains drawn of bright light across the road, tensing at the flicker of movement, heart almost stopping when she came into view. On a bonus night, she would suddenly appear wearing only a bra and panties. Once, and only once, on a super-bonus night, she had taken off her bra in front of the window! Occasionally he wondered if she really was unconscious of the interest her lush young body caused, or whether she secretly knew he was crouching in the dark as she flaunted herself.

Eric sat there for another ten minutes, his face only inches away from the parted curtains, where the light from the street could not shine directly on to him. He knew from experience that tonight was a minus night: there would be nothing more to see. He would pop up now and again to make sure a gap hadn't appeared in his absence, but he felt certain the evening's performance was over. He had jumped back further into the shadows when she had suddenly appeared at the window. His heart pounding wildly, he realized she was only watching the two policemen below. They must have been the reason for her closing the curtains. Interfering bastards! He reluctantly tore his eyes from the window and slunk dolefully from the room. Sometimes he wished he was Clark Kent and had X-ray vision. Or the Invisible Man and then he could actually be in the room with her.

His wife looked away from the television screen and her knitting stopped momentarily when he opened the door. 'Not playing with your trains tonight, darling?' she said.

'No,' he replied mournfully, 'I'm not very interested tonight, dearest.'

In the street outside, the two policemen strolled in step with each other.

'Bleedin' cold tonight, Del,' one said, blowing into his gloved hands.

'Yeah, don't know why they didn't put another Panda on.'

'Can't waste a car on one street every night, can they? We haven't got enough to cover the whole patch anyway.'

'Plenny of helmets, though.'

'Eh?'

'Not enough patrol cars but plenny of helmets. I've had three new ones this year. Keep getting them dented at the matches.'

'Go on.'

'Every time I'm on duty. It's about time they slung those little bastards inside for a couple of weeks instead of lettin' them off with piddlin' fines.'

'Yeah, I used to enjoy the old football duty. So you've had three helmets then?'

'And a new radio. One of the bastards ran off with the last one. Crowd opened up in front of him like the partin' of the Red Sea. Soon came tumblin' down on top of me when I went after him, though.'

They walked on in silence for a few moments, their own unisoned footsteps a comfort to them in the quietness of the road.

'Yeah, plenny of 'em,' Del observed.

'What, helmets?'

'Yeah. Not enough recruits coming into the force, you see. Lots of helmets to go round. And radios.'

'Not enough patrol cars.'

'No. Not enough of them. Beats the old whistles.'

'What does?'

'Radios.'

'Oh yeah. Bit before my time, whistles, Del.'

'Yeah, s'pose it would be. Still handy to have them on us though. You never know when your radio's going to pack in.' They walked in silence for a few steps. 'Too many, you know.'

'What, helmets?'

'No, you silly bastard. Soccer hooligans. Too many of them, not enough of us. We can't control 'em any more. There used to be just a few troublemakers at a match, now it's most of 'em. Too many for us to handle.'

'Yeah, nutters, the lot of 'em.'

'No, most just go along with the ringleaders. They get carried away with the atmosphere.'

'I know what I'd like to do with 'em.'

Del tutted. 'You're not allowed to, son. They're only victims of their environment.'

'Environment? I've never seen one of 'em with rickets yet. A bloody good hidin' would do 'em a lot of good.'

'Now, now, that's not the attitude. Mustn't upset our friendly neighbourhood social worker.'

The younger policeman's sneer of derision was hidden in the shadows as they passed beyond the feeble circle of light. He glanced to his left, squinting at the huge, detached building looming up from the general gloom.

'Gives me the creeps, that place,' he remarked.

'Yeah, I don't care for it much, either.'

'Another bunch of lunatics.'

Del nodded in agreement. 'This road seems to have its share.'

The younger policeman looked back down the road. 'I wonder whose turn it is tonight?'

Del grinned. 'No, it's due for a bit of peace and quiet, this road. It's had its share of troubles. I don't think there's any more murderers left in those houses.'

'Let's hope you're right,' the younger one said as they continued their watchful journey, the sound of their footsteps fading as they strolled beyond the house called Beechwood. Julie poured the lukewarm milk into the cup, then drank a little to test it. She wouldn't mind if it burnt the old bastard's throat except it would mean a night of whining. And she wasn't sure she could stand much more of that.

Six years she had been with him: six years of fetching and carrying, nursing, placating, cleaning up his filth, and . . . the other thing. How much longer could he last? When she had first arrived from the private nursing agency, she had expected him to survive for two or three more years at the most. But he had fooled her. Six years! The temptation to slip something into his soup or milk was almost irresistible, but she knew she had to be careful. The circumstances would be too suspicious. His Will would immediately point the finger of suspicion directly at her; there was no one else it could be pointed at. And no one else he could leave his money to. He wasn't wealthy, she knew, but he had enough to pay her salary all these years without any visible means of income, and he owned the property they lived in. Christ, when he went, she would turn it into a glorious house. Perhaps a small residential nursing-home for the elderly. It was certainly big enough. There were a few other similar properties in Willow Road old Victorian houses that had seen better, grander days, but they, too, had become immersed in the general drabness around them. Yes, it would make a fine nursing-home. Just five or six old people, none with complicated illnesses that would be too much trouble. And a small staff to do the work. No more skivvying for her! She would merely supervise the running of the place. How much money did the old man have? Her eyes glinted greedily in the dim kitchen light. He'd hinted often enough about his 'little nest egg' that he was saving just for her. She had tried to find out surreptitiously, of course just how much that 'little nest egg' amounted to, but the old fool would only grin slyly at her and touch a withered finger to his nose. Cunning old bastard.