M. Arlidge - Little Boy Blue

Had Paul Jackson been banished to the garage? Surely not. There were plenty of bedrooms in the house, so even if his wife didn’t want anything to do with him… Charlie looked over at the garage again. Paul Jackson’s sons were elsewhere and his wife had stormed off upstairs, meaning he was in the garage alone. And had been for thirty minutes or more.

Charlie now found herself opening the door and stepping out into the rain. It settled on her face, gentle and cold, but she didn’t bother pulling her hood up as she marched towards the garage. If she was wrong, then she wouldn’t mind getting a little wet. But if she was right…

She walked straight up to the metal garage door and put her ear to it. A motorbike roared past in the road and a couple of news hacks now shouted at her, ribbing her for doing their job for them. She waved at them to shut up but it made no difference. Furious, Charlie dropped to all fours, her knees soaking up the moisture from the ground. She placed her ear at the bottom of the metal door, where the narrowest chink allowed a little light to escape. She was listening for the sound of the engine, but it wasn’t the noise that struck her first. It was the smell.

Now Charlie was on her feet, yanking at the garage handle. But it was locked from the inside and refused to budge. She re-doubled her efforts, but still nothing.

‘Get over here now,’ she roared at the startled photographers.

The look on her face made them comply.

‘Get that open now.’

As they grappled with the door, Charlie raced up the steps. She rang the doorbell once, twice, three times, then opened the letterbox and yelled through it. There was no time for hesitation, no time for caution. This was a matter of life and death.

He was straining with every sinew, but getting nowhere. The fabric of the suit was smooth and the wooden floor so perfectly polished, that the more he moved, the more he spun in pointless circles. He couldn’t get any purchase and his attacker watched now as he exerted himself in vain. It was strangely moving to behold. This was what somebody looked like in their death throes.

It had all gone to plan. The only moment of danger had come when Paine had screamed to be liberated. That had been a surprise – a testament to his instinct for danger or perhaps his innate lack of trust in his new ‘client’. It was a mistake, but a small one. Duct tape had been quickly applied to the mouth and the danger had passed.

The foreplay had been completed, the preparatory work done – now it was time for the coup de grâce. Had the thrashing figure on the ground made the connection to Jake Elder’s death or was he as clueless as the rest? By the looks of things, he was still in denial, desperately trying to belly-slide towards the door. What was he going to do when he got there? Open it with his feet? It was a crazy last throw of the dice, but there was a possibility that his banging might alert a neighbour. So, crossing the room quickly, the figure lowered the rope from the ceiling pulley and slipped it through the hog ties, tying them together in a secure, grapevine knot under Paine’s wrists.

Alerted by the sound of the pulley, Paine bucked even more wildly, but, in the end, what could he do? His attacker yanked the rope tight and Paine lurched up into the air. He was only a few inches off the ground but this sudden development clearly alarmed him – he swung back and forth on the rope, as he made one last, desperate push to escape. It was hard to hang on, but his assailant moved steadily backwards, pulling sharply with each step, until Paine was safely suspended in mid-air. Securing the rope firmly to a wall hook, the figure then stood back to admire its handiwork – Paine, covered from head to toe in spandex, spinning in the air like an obscene mobile.

This had been more arduous than expected but the hard graft was done. Moving quickly, the figure now walked in and out of the bedroom, lifting a tablet and smartphone from the bedside table and popping both of them in a zip bag.

Satisfied, the figure headed for the doorway, flipping down the white plastic flap on the thermostat by the entrance. Casting a last look at Paine, his attacker punched the central heating up to the max, then quietly slipped out of the door.

The doors burst open and the medical team hurried through in the direction of the intensive care unit. Paul Jackson lay on the hospital trolley next to them, an oxygen mask secured over his mouth and nose. His ashen wife ran alongside, occasionally laying a hand on his, but he didn’t react. He had been unconscious when they found him.

Charlie followed a few feet behind, keen to see what was happening, but anxious not to get in anybody’s way. Paul Jackson was dying and every second counted. She had eventually roused Sally Jackson, who seemed stupefied at first, barely believing what the desperate police officer was saying. When she had finally unchained the front door, Charlie had raced straight past, navigating her way by instinct towards the internal door that connected to the garage. Jackson had locked it from the inside, so Charlie had had to kick it in.

As soon as she had done so, great clouds of noxious fumes swept over her. Visibility had been poor, but the smell even worse. Clamping her scarf over her mouth, Charlie had pushed through the lethal haze, feeling her way towards the car. Fortunately, Jackson hadn’t locked the doors – if he had, it would have been all over for him. As it was, she had managed to manoeuvre the comatose figure on to the floor, just as the journalists on the other side finally levered the garage door open.

Putting her hands underneath his armpits, Charlie had dragged him out of the garage, laying him in the recovery position in the fresh air outside. Moments later, the ambulance had arrived and Charlie’s leading role in events was over. Leaving Sally to join her husband in the ambulance, Charlie had hurried over to her car, receiving a few respectful nods from journalists as she went – their mutual hostility suspended for a few hours at least.

The paramedics had done their best, but Jackson remained unconscious as the medical team now pushed through the double doors and into ITC. Sally Jackson hesitated, aware that this was as far as she was allowed to go, turning to Charlie as if looking for guidance. Charlie knew from experience that family members in this situation always wanted to do something to help, but the truth was that there was very little they could do. It was in the hands of the doctors and surgeons at South Hants Hospital now. Putting her arm around her, Charlie shepherded her towards a vacant chair. Greater tests lay ahead and she would need to preserve her strength.

As she did so, Charlie reflected on her earlier irritations. She realized now how unworthy those thoughts were, how petty her complaints. Life had its frustrations, but in reality she was blessed. She possessed one thing that Sally Jackson might never experience again – a happy, healthy, loving family. And for that she was eternally grateful.

Helen laid down her flowers and kissed the headstone in front of her. It was gone 2 a.m. and the driving rain raked the lonely cemetery, but still Helen lingered, pressing her forehead against the cool stone. She had been on her feet for nearly forty-eight hours, but was too wired and upset to return home. She would rather be doing something – anything – than pace her flat, and, besides, this was a duty she never shirked. Marianne was family, so every Thursday night after hours Helen came here, to tend her graveside and leave flowers for the sister she had loved and lost.

Offering a few final words of love, Helen turned and walked down the path. She had hoped a simple act of kindness, of remembrance, might dispel the darkness growing within her – but her conscience weighed heavily on her tonight. She had only just got back to base when Charlie rang. She was racing to the hospital, panicking and upset, and her news had hit everyone hard. Paul Jackson had been a decent suspect, but now he was fighting for his life.