Luke Delaney - The Keeper

‘You’ve got a lot of land here,’ the heavier one remarked. ‘Must have cost a fair bit, eh?’

‘Not really. It was land the council repossessed. Nobody else seemed to want it. I got it quite cheaply.’

‘You should sell it to a developer — make a fortune.’

‘Maybe,’ Keller answered awkwardly, unused to small talk.

‘Do you mind if I take your name, sir?’

‘Why do you want to know my name?’

‘Just so we can have a record that we’ve spoken to you about the prowler.’

Keller’s eyes darted around, spooked by the thought of giving his name to the police, suspicious they knew more than they were telling him, trying to convince himself that, if that was the case, they would have sent a small army, not two uniformed policemen. ‘My name? My name is Thomas Keller.’

‘Do you have any ID?’ the heavier one asked.

‘ID? Why do you need that? I’m not the prowler — this is my land.’

‘Of course you’re not,’ the policeman agreed. ‘It’s routine when we’re doing an inquiry like this to ask for ID from anyone we’ve spoken to. It’s just procedure. Nothing to worry about.’

‘OK,’ Keller told him. ‘Wait there.’ He turned and walked back into the house, his hand momentarily resting on the stock of the shotgun. The desire to lift it, walk out into the courtyard and blow their heads off was almost overpowering, but he managed to pull his hand away and step further inside the kitchen, where he began to rifle through another cluttered drawer until he found his driving licence. He moved quickly, desperate to stop the police getting too close to the house or wandering off, sticking their noses into places he couldn’t let them see. As he stepped outside, fear squeezed the air from his chest when he realized the taller one was no longer standing by the car. His head twisted in all directions as he searched for the missing policeman, finally seeing him casually wandering towards the abandoned battery chicken shed, peering inside then ducking out, moving deeper into the courtyard and its derelict buildings.

Keller glanced over his shoulder at the cottage entrance; the shotgun was close, but too far away to grab and point in a single motion. Besides, the policemen were now too far apart. By the time he’d shot one, the other would have escaped into the surrounding woods to radio for help, then it would be over for him. Even if he managed to chase the cop down and shoot him like a dog, the world would know.

‘Are you looking for something?’ he called to the policeman in the courtyard.

‘The prowler, remember? You don’t mind if I have a look around, do you? There’s a lot of places a man could hide out here.’

‘No,’ Keller managed to lie. ‘Look all you want. Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, trying to imagine what would be a normal thing to say. ‘I could make some tea, if you like.’

‘We’re fine thanks,’ the heavier one dismissed him. ‘Do you have any underground buildings on the land, sir? Any bomb shelters or coal cellars?’

Keller swallowed hard before lying. ‘No. No I don’t.’

‘Probably best,’ the heavier uniform replied. ‘Those old shelters can be dangerous — especially for kids.’

‘I suppose so,’ Keller managed to answer, forcing himself to step away from the door of his cottage and walk to the cop asking the questions, handing him his driving licence. ‘Will this do?’

The policeman studied it for a few seconds then handed it back. ‘That’s fine, sir.’

They stood next to each other, silently watching the taller policeman as he crossed the courtyard heading for the shed-like construction that concealed the staircase leading to the cellar. In his anxiety and terror Keller had a moment of clarity, a vision of exactly what he would do if the tall one reached the padlocked door, if he asked for the key to the lock. He would tell him the key was inside and that he’d fetch it. Once in the cottage he would retrieve the shotgun and slowly walk back into the courtyard. He’d kill the heavier one, but he’d let the other one go, let him tell the world what he’d found. It wouldn’t matter any more. He’d do what he had to do to the women in the cellar and then he’d go on to take care of the other business he needed to attend to.

The taller one was only feet away from the cellar door now, and the calmness of resignation swept over Keller, making him feel more at peace in that moment than he’d felt in years, maybe in his entire life. Suddenly a disembodied voice cut through the silence and shattered his tranquillity and certainty. ‘All unit response please. Police officer requires urgent assistance in Keston High Street. Repeat, urgent assistance Keston High Street.’ Their radios sounded in stereo, the distance the policemen stood apart producing a slight echo effect. They looked at each other, the heavier one nodding to his colleague to confirm he understood their telepathic message. He pressed the transmit switch on his radio and spoke.

‘Kilo Kilo Two-Two will take that. We’re only a couple of minutes away.’

‘Thank you, Kilo Kilo Two-Two, we’ll show you running.’

The taller one was already moving quickly back to the car as the heavier one began to climb into the passenger seat. ‘Looks like we’re on our way,’ he said, ‘but thanks for your help. Remember, if you see anything suspicious, let us know.’

‘I will,’ Keller lied, his heart almost exploding inside his chest as he waited for them to leave, the thrill of seeing them drive away instantly replaced by utter terror and rage at the thought they might know who he really was, that they might just be playing games with him. He ran inside and grabbed the shotgun without breaking stride, pacing across the kitchen to the main cupboard, filling his pockets with as many cartridges as he could find before storming from the house and heading towards the cellar and the woman who’d somehow managed to betray him to the police, his plans for what he must do running through his darkening mind as he walked. He saw himself raising the shotgun, aiming it at the treacherous bitch’s face, his finger smoothly pulling the trigger, the bitch’s brains and pieces of skull exploding from the back of her head.

Then would come the hard part, the thing he had to do more than wanted to, but he wouldn’t leave Sam for them to take again, to fill with their poisonous lies. He would get close enough to shoot her through the chest, leaving her face untouched. He prayed she wouldn’t move as he pulled the trigger, unable to stand the thought of her screaming, wounded and in agony. Better for her if she doesn’t move, if she understands why he has to do it for her.

Then he would get in his car and drive to work where he would hunt down his tormentors one by one, dragging them from their hiding places and blowing them all to hell. But he’d have to keep moving, stay ahead of the police, make sure he still had enough time to reach his old school, and then the children’s home before paying his mother a final visit, at the place where he’d discovered she worked, saving the last cartridge for her, shooting her through her hateful face. And then all he’d have to do is sit down and wait for the police with guns to arrive, wait for them to call to him, demand he throw the gun out and walk towards them with his arms raised. But he wouldn’t do that. He’d walk out with his shotgun pointed straight at them, and then it would be over and everybody would know his name.

As he neared the cellar his pace began to slow and with it his mind and the dark thoughts of revenge against those who’d wronged him. The idea of having to kill Sam just as they were growing closer to the time when they would be together, when she would love him and accept him, was unbearable. Maybe he was being too hasty, assuming they knew much more than they did. He stopped and stood in the middle of the courtyard, listening for unfamiliar sounds, his body turning through three hundred and sixty degrees as he searched the surrounding trees and scrubland for signs of the police closing in on him. He could see nothing, hear nothing. He exhaled, expelling stale air and the anger that had almost driven him too far, and headed back to his house, calm and in control, assuring himself he wouldn’t be panicked into attacking before he was ready. It was fate that the police had left without finding the cellar, a clear sign that things would happen as he’d seen they would — as he’d planned they would. He, and only he, would decide when everything would end.