The Sister(96)

As if, I could forget.

He didn’t want her to call him for something in the night if he could avoid it, so once he was sure she had everything she might need within reach, he said goodnight. If she disturbed him once he’d consumed his nightly half-bottle of whiskey, and she found out what he did when she was in bed, she’d put a stop to it. The oblivion it brought was his only respite, losing it, did not bear thinking about.

She’d been bedridden over a year, and he was once again reflecting on how cruel and indiscriminate life can be. What she suffered with was late onset Muscular Dystrophy. Late onset, for that small mercy they were both grateful, but it was a cruel twist because it happened within a month of his retiring. She would often ask him what he thought she’d done to deserve such a life.

‘There are plenty of people out there, far worse off than you or me,’ he’d tell her.

‘We all have our cross to bear,’ he whispered into his whiskey; he did not want her to hear. Raising his glass high, he toasted silently. To my cross!

The cross she bore was bigger than the one he carried; lately it seemed to affect her mind. She called out, suddenly scared. ‘John! There’s someone in the house! I’ve just seen them go by!’

‘You saw someone?’

‘A shadow went through the door down the hall…’ She looked panicky. Something was always spooking her. Being helpless, sometimes she resorted to attention seeking.

He began a systematic search of the house, thankful it was a bungalow and there was no upstairs to worry about. Going through the motions purely for her benefit, he didn’t really think she saw anything at all, but sometimes she succeeded in spooking him, too.

Going down the hall to Johnny’s old room, he felt a draught on his face. His door was ajar.

I don’t remember leaving that door open and she couldn’t have done it. Someone is in there!

John picked up a walking stick from the coat stand in the hall, gripped it tight, took a deep breath and pressed his back against the wall. His heart thumped erratically as it cranked up to a level it hadn’t been at for years; he thought his chest might burst, but he was ready for anything. Pushing away from the wall, he jumped through the open door – head turning left and right – half expecting to see someone there.

There was no sign of life. If it weren’t for the net curtain, a gossamer sail billowing slowly into the room on the breeze of the open window, there would have been no sign anyone had been in through it at all.

The window was open a crack; he knew it hadn’t been before, and she couldn’t have done it. Someone had been in and then left the house that way. The window frame, on close examination, revealed no sign of forced entry. Nothing seemed to be missing, although he thought perhaps Johnny’s baseball bat had gone. That would be crazy. Why would anyone break in to steal a baseball bat? Then he started thinking his son might have even taken it with him, when he left years ago, he only knew it used to be there once. He couldn’t quite recall the last time he saw it.

He silently cursed his growing old; he hated what it did to people and their faculties. When Johnny phoned, he’d ask him about it, but would do it in a roundabout way. The last thing he wanted was to be asked, ‘What’s wrong with you, Dad? I took it with me when I moved out years ago.’

The sound of her voice shook him back from his thoughts. ‘John? It’s gone quiet, answer me, John. I’m getting scared,’ her voice was higher and more fragile than usual; a slight quiver betrayed her fear.

‘It’s all right, love, nobody’s here.’

‘But I saw someone.’

‘Nobody’s here!’ he growled.

He thought about calling Johnny, but now wondered if he might have opened the window and simply forgotten to close it. She’d managed to spook him; that’s all it was.





When John junior called that night, he didn’t mention it.





Chapter 78



The night following the Kennedy break-in, he returned to their house. An hour after they'd gone to bed, the intruder crept back inside through the loft, dropping down onto the coffee table. He closed the hatch above and removed a clear plastic sleeve from inside his tunic. It contained a sheet of plain white paper with a boot print on it.

‘One I prepared earlier,’ he whispered, smirking. The paper slid out of the sleeve as he tipped it onto the white cloth on the table. He put the sleeve back inside his top – it wouldn’t be long before the old detective was awake again, checking the whole house, finding the print he’d left for him.

Taking the same route as the previous night, he climbed out of Kennedy junior’s window, pushing it home to make it appear closed. The roof temporarily reinstated; he stowed the ladder back behind the shed.

The night was still and quiet; the moon hidden behind clouds. A broom leaned against the wall by the kitchen door. He grabbed it and then held it high above his head, pushing it against the edge of a roof tile, moving it up, so that it grated noisily against the one below it. Inside the roof the noise would reverberate nicely, he was about to do it again, when he heard the tinkling of a bell coming from within. He guessed that must be her summoning the old drunk.





John senior was slipping in and out of wakefulness; he opened his eyes, lay listening on the pillow, unsure if it was an aural hallucination. He was halfway down a darkened country lane in his head, about to check on the activities of two people he saw up to no good in their parked car – Ting! The sound of her little bell ringing drew him back; he blinked his eyes. Must get up! Allowing one leg to flop to the floor, he rolled out of bed.