Nicholas Royle - Regicide

The streets changed again and now looked like the area around Annie’s flat. I could have been wandering about lost in Moss Side. Long low rows of terraces and back entries, whatever they called them around here. I was surprised to find myself in such a heavily built-up area when there had been no sign of it from the motorway.

But still there were no phones. I turned off my straight route once I formed the impression I was heading away from the centre of whatever town this was. I wasn’t even sure I would be able to find my way back to the motorway.

I felt a tickly sensation at the back of my skull even before I heard the muted rumble of the engines and then the sensation spread to the base of my spine. My mouth went dry. I looked about for a hiding place then stopped myself: what was I scared of? If there were vehicles approaching could I not stop them and ask for help? On a rational level there should have been nothing to fear, so why did I seem to have three small rats chasing one another’s tails in my stomach? The rumble got louder; I heard a gear change. I thought they were still several streets away, whoever they were, but my mistake became clear as two police cars turned the corner at the far end of the street and headed slowly in my direction. They were perhaps a hundred yards away. I flattened myself against the wall but they would still be able to see me.

I should have been able to ask them for help but I was frightened. There was no one else about, the air seemed unnaturally still, and the police cars proceeded so slowly it could only mean they were on the lookout for something or someone. My head was buzzing now and beads of sweat had sprung up along my hairline. I didn’t know which way to turn, where I could hide. The cars rolled closer.

Another movement caught my attention. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a man beckoning to me from a car parked in a side street. The engine was running. To get to him meant crossing the road in full view of the police cars. If they happened to be looking to the front their beams would probably just pick me out and I sensed that might mean trouble. I didn’t think it was a brilliant idea, to get into a car with a complete stranger, but if I stayed put I’d almost certainly get picked up by the police and I had no idea what trouble that might lead to.

I crouched low and ran across the road, ducked into the side street and jumped into the waiting car, which took off immediately, throwing me back in my seat.

‘What you doing out?’ the driver asked, his tone incredulous. He was short and dark, wearing a woollen hat pulled down over his forehead and a black bomber jacket. His gloved hands gripped the wheel. I was too shocked to know what to say to him. ‘What you doing out on the streets at night? You want to get shot? You must be mad.’

‘My car broke down,’ I said.

‘What do you mean, your car broke down? You shouldn’t have been out in it. Asking for trouble. Where did it break down?’ As he fired these questions at me he steered the black car around the most unlikely bends and corners at speeds that seemed out of all proportion, but he drove with such confidence that I trusted him. Even when we appeared to be heading straight for a lamppost it always side-stepped the car neatly at the last second.

‘On the motorway,’ I said.

‘On the motorway?’ he exclaimed. ‘What motorway?’

Fear spread through my insides like smoke. ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To a safe house,’ he said, leaning into another ninety-degree corner and tearing out of it like a bishop out of a brothel. I decided to shut up and let the man drive. Watching the side streets flash past I got the impression we were skirting the city centre. If any police cars came into view at the end of any street my driver quickly re-routed us down some unlikely alley, hurtling into the darkness without headlamps. There were no other cars or pedestrians about though I did glimpse dark blurs of movement around the base of buildings, which could have been dogs. At major intersections there were statues mounted on plinths. As far as I could make out in the dark they were all the same man: a tall, broad-shouldered figure wearing either a trench coat or a double-breasted suit with a trilby-style hat. Something about his deep-set eyes and square jaw unsettled me. This was no ordinary Midlands town. Frightened and confused, I began to find myself short of breath.

In a street of anonymous uniform terraced houses the driver emergency-stopped outside a derelict-looking building.

‘Safe house,’ he said. ‘Go in and wait. Someone will come.’ As I was hesitating, he explained, ‘Wait for someone to come. You might have to wait till dawn but they’ll come.’

‘Who are you?’ I asked him.

‘I’m Giff. If you need me, don’t ask.’

I turned and got out of the car.

‘Get some sleep,’ he suggested, and with that he accelerated out of the gutter, the passenger door flapping wildly until he took the corner on two wheels and it slammed shut. Feeling exposed, I tried the door of the house. It was locked. Panic threatened to rise in me. There was no access down the side of the house and the windows in the front room were all closed. I wondered about the houses on either side but Giff had been specific. Not knowing what else to do I took off my leather jacket and balled it around my fist and punched a hole in one of the windows.

I jumped in and landed in a crouch. Looking around to get my bearings I wondered if I should answer the phone. Then, seconds after, I couldn’t work out why I’d thought that. To start with, the phone wasn’t even ringing.

I had a look around. The house was in slightly better shape than its exterior had suggested; nevertheless, the carpets were threadbare, the balustrades rickety, and there was a fine film of dust stretched over all the surfaces. The floorboards upstairs sagged and groaned under my weight. I placed my boots as lightly as possible. When I was satisfied all the rooms were empty I lit a cigarette and watched the street from an upstairs window. It was dark and quiet. Only the stars allowed me to see fifty yards down the street where I noticed a curious stone or concrete seat fashioned into the wall at an intersection. It was too high up to have been designed for passers-by, so I wondered what its function might be. For all I knew, it could have been neo-utilitarian sculpture.

I could hear dogs barking somewhere off to the right but the house itself remained quiet. When my legs got too tired to allow me to continue standing by the window I went and sat against the wall. I was close enough to the window to hear if anyone came and I was determined not to fall asleep. Cupping my hand to shield the flame I lit another cigarette and waited some more. I concentrated hard on the environment of the house, listening for any sounds at all, and watched the sky for a change in the light.

When I was very young, maybe eight or nine, I came into the house one day to feed the hamster that we kept in a cage in a corner of the dining room.

My father was out at work and my mother was weeding in the back garden. I got down on my hands and knees in front of the cage and peered in. Sometimes, when he wasn’t running in his wheel, Cassidy would lie down behind his water bottle at the back of the cage. At first I couldn’t see him at all and I crawled closer to the cage. He was indeed lying at the back but something about him didn’t look quite right. There was something different about his tiny bulk; his coat was dull. I opened the cage door and gingerly reached my hand in — Cassidy had bitten my mother and me a couple of times. He didn’t move when I touched him lightly with one finger so I prodded him harder to wake him up. He rolled slightly, whereas I would have expected him to spring to life and turn quickly to see what was going on. I pushed him again and he just slid across the straw on the bottom of his cage.