Cry Baby (14 page)

Stop it, Erin! Your belt’s fine. The floor is fine. Nothing will go wrong. Believe it.

But he could just decide enough time has passed. He will have become hungry for more killing – ravenous even. The demon will need feeding. It will have to summon its servant to bring its fast to an end in the only way it knows.

What will I do then? If he speaks to me now, what will I do?

He’s not going to,
Erin. You’ve got plenty of time. And even if he does, you say nothing. Pretend you’re fast asleep. He can’t question it. He knows how exhausted you were. Now get a fucking move on!

She gets to the door. This is going to be tricky. It’s going to be tight. Just a nudge and the door will move. And unlike the floorboard, this probably
will
squeak, because doors always squeak. And even if it doesn’t, the light will change. There are lights on in the living room – stronger than the lamp in here. If the door moves, shadows will shift in the room. They will pan across the ceiling and he will know.

She pulls her elbows as close together as she can manage while still allowing her to move. She edges her shoulders through the gap. So far so good. But now there are my hips. My fucking huge hips that I have always hated and that are now going to take out their revenge in retaliation for my neglect of them.

I promise. Get me through here and I will diet, I will exercise. I will turn you into the most shapely hips known to man. Please, just do me this one little favor.

She moves, the pain of expectation written on her face. She waits for the door hinges to betray her presence, squealing treacherously away. She waits for the boom of his voice in her ear – the school principal’s roar, demanding to know what the hell she thinks she’s playing at.

But then she’s through. She looks back to make sure. The door hasn’t moved. He has no idea she has left the bedroom.

You did it,
Erin! You fucking did it, you crazy bitch!

She rolls to one side, away from the door, and leans against the wall – let him try to see through a fucking wall! Only now does she allow herself to breathe just a little more deeply.

Don’t get cocksure now. Don’t get blasé. Don’t ruin this.

But she breathes. At least she can do that. She can suck up the oxygen of freedom, just as she imagines a prisoner of war might have done on emerging from an escape tunnel.

You can’t linger, though, Erin. Time isn’t limitless. You have to act, and you have to do it now.

And then she almost wants to burst into laughter. Mad, humorless laughter.

Act? I have to act? Okay, so tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.

Ha! Jesus Christ! You didn’t think this through, did you,
Erin? You were so obsessed with casting off those technological shackles, you gave absolutely no thought as to what you might do with your newly gained liberty.

There had been a vague intention somewhere at the back of her mind to get to the phone and call the cops, telling them her story in hushed but frantic tones. But now that she gets that idea out into the yellow lamplight, its flaws and cracks are all too obvious. Call the cops? Really? You want them to know what you’ve been up to for the past few hours?
Yes, Ma’am, this child abduction story is all very interesting, but you mind if we get back to these murders you mentioned?

So if not the cops, then who? Tick tock,
Erin. He’s gonna come calling soon. Was this all for nothing? Are you just going to slink back onto the bed without doing a damn thing?

She gets to her feet. Panic is starting to creep up on her. She needs help, and she doesn’t know a soul in this damn city. Here almost a month and she doesn’t really know anyone.

Kind of your own fault, though, don’t you think? You haven’t exactly gone out of your way to make friends here, have you? You and Georgia – that’s all you’ve thought about. Happy to exist in your own little bubble. Well now the bubble’s burst, Erin. Somebody’s poked a big fat finger into it, and left you exposed and alone.

Think,
Erin, think!

And then her feet start moving. Carrying her across to the apartment door. She’s got to talk to someone and she needs to do it fast. And the only person she can think of who is near enough and sympathetic enough to approach is good old Mr Wiseman. She doesn’t know what he can do, doesn’t know if he’ll even understand what she’s telling him, but what choice does she have? She’s out of time, goddamnit, and she can no longer think straight, but she has to talk to someone, has to let somebody know what she’s going through. She can’t do this alone anymore. Somebody has to help. Please, Mr Wiseman, please understand, please believe, please know what I should do.

She opens the apartment door as quietly as she can, telling her fingers not to fumble with the locks, not to permit the escape of any metallic snaps or rattles. She pulls open the door – not too wide, because she still maintains the belief that all doors have a perverse tendency to squeak when you least want them to – and slips out into the hallway.

It’s cold out here, made colder by the single naked light bulb casting a deathly glow. Pulling her robe tightly around her, she pads over to Wiseman’s door. She takes a deep breath and thumbs the doorbell. Hears the urgent jangling inside the apartment.

Come on, come on. Wake up. Open the door. I haven’t got long.

She wants to pound on the door. Yell at Wiseman to get his lazy ass out of bed and open this fucking door, doesn’t he know there’s a girl here in trouble, doesn’t he realize he’s the only one in the world who can help her?

But there’s no sign of him. Not the slightest noise from inside. So she raises her hand again. Puts her thumb out in readiness for leaning on that doorbell. Prepares herself for the sounds inside the apartment, the insistent alarm that is her only voice right now. Her cry…

Her cry.

Georgia’s cry.

That’s what she hears. Over her earpiece.
Georgia crying. Georgia screaming.

It comes as a terrifying jolt that threatens to blast her apart. And in the split-second it takes for all her wily plans to drop into the infinite blackness that has just opened up beneath her feet, the horrifying, petrifying implications strike into her heart.

He has seen something or he has heard something.

He knows.

He knows!

6.32 AM

So now he’s interested, thinks Doyle.

His lieutenant. Cesario.

Marching into the squadroom with this sudden sense of urgency in his step. Where was that when Vern was at the center of interest? Who was hitting the panic button back then?

He knows how Cesario would answer. He’d say the same thing that all the white shirts above him would say:
It’s not about who the victims were, or what they did. In our eyes they get equal treatment. It’s about numbers. The fact that we’ve now got two connected homicides, maybe more.

Yeah, right. All equal in the eyes of the law. Homeless black wino and respectable looking white businessman who owns a car and wears a suit. Both the same. Right. It’s purely the numbers that’ve made Cesario leap out of bed and hightail it over here.

Still had time to dress, though. No throwing on the nearest things to hand for Cesario, oh no. He’s as immaculate as ever and smelling of roses. Not a crease or a stray hair to be seen. No chance of him being mistaken for one of the disheveled, unshaven bums under his command, some of whom haven’t seen a bed in what feels like a week.

But maybe I’m being too hard on him, thinks Doyle. Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. I should stow the cynicism, at least until he does something more to deserve it.

Cesario barely breaks step as he barks an order. ‘Everyone. My office. Now.’

Which is nice. Which is a great way of thanking his loyal detectives for the hard hours they’ve put into this so far.

Cynicism, you can come back in now.

6.34 AM

So what she does now is to drop everything. Her thoughts of escape, of seeking help, of talking to Wiseman – all gone, all abandoned in a bat of an eyelid. All she can think about now is saving her baby, her
Georgia, God what have I done, what danger have I put her in?

And then she’s running. Back into her apartment and flinging the door closed behind her. Dashing across the living room, into the bedroom. Flying onto the bed and grabbing hold of the brooch. Bringing it to her face. Showing him that she’s here, she’s right here where she’s supposed to be, and she’s not causing any trouble, not calling the cops or doing anything that would endanger her baby, because that would be stupid, wouldn’t it, and why would I do such a thing?

‘Stop it!’ she yells. ‘Don’t hurt her. Please. Don’t hurt her. I’m right here. I didn’t mean anything. I didn’t talk to anyone. Please. I just needed to… I just needed a little freedom, okay? Just a little time to myself. Please.’

‘
Erin? What—’

‘Is she okay? Please tell me she’s okay.’

‘Erin. You broke the rules, Erin. You know what happens when you break the rules.’

She can still hear
Georgia’s wailing in the background. It’s breaking her heart. She doesn’t know what he’s doing to her baby, but the sound is killing her.

‘No! Please don’t. I won’t do it again. I promise. Stop hurting her. Stop it!’

‘Where did you go to, Erin? Did you make a phone call, is that it?’

‘No. I swear. I thought about it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t bring the police into this. They’d find out about the people I killed. I didn’t call them or talk to anyone.’

‘I don’t believe you, Erin.’

Again she doesn’t know what he does next, but
Georgia’s screaming suddenly intensifies. How can he be doing this?

‘NOOO! I’m begging you. Stop! In God’s name, stop. She’s just a baby. I swear I didn’t do anything. I took off the brooch, that’s all. That’s all I did.’

And then she loses it. Despite all the crying she has done in the past few hours, she manages to step it up now. She sobs so hard it feels her chest could burst. It’s like a huge fist is gripping her heart and squeezing every last bit of emotion out of it.

‘
Erin,’
says the voice.
‘Listen to me. I’m not hurting her. I’m not doing anything to Georgia. I should, because of how you’ve behaved, but I’m not. She’s hungry, is all. That, and I think her diaper needs changing, judging by the stench in here.’

It takes a while, but the words eventually percolate through to
Erin’s consciousness.

‘What? You’re not… She’s not hurt?’

‘No, she’s not. No thanks to you, Erin. You put her in danger. Maybe I should do something about that.’

‘No. Please don’t. I’ll be good.’

‘You’ll be good? You won’t try anything like that again?’

‘No. I swear. She’s all right? She’s really okay?’

‘She will be when I feed and change her. What were you thinking, Erin?’

What was I thinking? I don’t know. I didn’t think, did I? Not properly. I had no idea what I was doing. More importantly, he doesn’t know either. He has no idea.
Georgia crying – it was just coincidence. She’s all right. He hasn’t hurt her. Oh, thank Christ for that.

She almost wants to laugh with the relief. From the most profound sorrow to the most maniacal laughter in a heartbeat. That’s the control he has over her. That’s his power. She knows that now. There’s no escape.

‘I don’t know. It was stupid. I just wanted to run away from all this.’

‘If you run away, then you run away from
Georgia. You do understand that, don’t you?’

‘I… Yes. Yes, I understand. I’m sorry.’

She means it. She’s not saying this just to mollify him. She feels sincerely apologetic and grateful and all the things she hoped and promised herself she would never feel toward this man.

‘All right,
Erin. Just this once, I won’t punish you. But you have to—’

He is interrupted by the sound of a buzzer. In
Erin’s apartment.

‘What’s that?’

Oh, God, no. Not Mr Wiseman. Please don’t ruin this after I’ve just mended it.

‘It’s… there’s somebody at the door.’

‘Who? Who’s at the fucking door, Erin?’

She can hear his anger building, his distrust of her returning. That can’t happen. For
Georgia’s sake she has to forestall it.

‘It’ll be Mr Wiseman. My neighbor.’

‘Why? Why’s he here?’

‘I…’

‘Erin.’
Stern now. Threatening. A simple utterance of her name that drips with the promise of harm to her daughter.

‘I called at his apartment, okay? While I was out of the bedroom.’

‘You did
what
?’

‘I… It’s okay. He didn’t answer. I changed my mind. I came straight back.’

‘Oh, Erin. You weren’t going to tell me that, were you? What else haven’t you told me? Because I swear, Erin. If you—’

‘Nothing. There’s nothing else. I didn’t mention Mr Wiseman because I didn’t think it was important. He didn’t answer his door when I called. That’s the truth.’

The buzzer sounds again. More insistent, it seems.

‘All right. Answer the door. Get rid of the old Jew. But before you do that, pin the brooch back on. No more games,
Erin. No more slack.’

Erin
puts the box of tricks back in her pocket and re-attaches the brooch. Wiping the tearstains from her face with her sleeves, she gets off the bed and walks through to the apartment door.

The buzzing starts up again. Cuts out when she noisily puts the chain in place. She doesn’t want him barging in here. If he seriously believes she’s in trouble, he might push his way in and search the place. He would find the bloodstained clothing, and wouldn’t that give her some explaining to do?

She opens the door the few inches the chain allows. It’s Wiseman, all right, and he’s wearing the edgy expression of someone who’s on the verge of calling in all the emergency service personnel in the city.

She smiles at him. The most reassuring smile she can muster in the circumstances.

‘Samuel! Hi. It’s so early. Is everything okay?’

This throws him. He was probably planning to ask her the exact same thing.

‘Okay? Yeah, I’m okay. What about you? I thought I heard…’

‘What?’

‘I… Someone just called at my door. That wasn’t you?’

‘Me? Call at your apartment? No. Why would I be trying to see you at this time in the morning?’

Look at me, she thinks. Ignore the red-rawness in my eyes and see instead how they emanate pure innocence. How could someone like this be guilty of lying?

He appears flummoxed. He tries to see past her into the apartment, but he’s got only a few inches of space to push his gaze into, and she’s blocking most of it.

‘Somebody did,’ he says. ‘And then a door slammed. Sounded like your door. And then there was your voice. Like you were crying again – no, not just crying. Like you were begging. Was that you, Erin?’

Was that you, Erin?
He says it with such softness in his voice, such charity.
Can I help you? Do you need me?
Her lip wants to quiver and her chest wants to heave and she wants to let it all out. Pour out all the hurt and the sorrow inside her. Let him see what a devastated human being this is in front of him.

But she doesn’t. She holds her false smile in front of her and says, ‘You know what? I heard a bang too. In the hallway. It woke me up and I yelled something. That must have been what you heard. Sometimes I don’t know what the hell’s going on in this building. You think it was Grace again?’

‘Grace?’

‘Miss Frodely. From downstairs. You know what she’s like with her Alzheimer’s. Always wandering around the building at night, knocking on doors and stuff.’

Wiseman sighs and shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t think it was Miss Frodely. And it didn’t sound to me like you were yelling at someone to keep quiet. It sounded like you were upset. Maybe even a little… afraid.’

Oh, God, you are such a wise man, Mr Wiseman. A little too perspicacious, if that’s the word I’m looking for here. Why can’t you just be like everybody else – insular and not at all interested in the affairs of your neighbors? Why do you have to be so nice to me? So nice that you make me want to cry?

‘Afraid? Really? Is that how it sounded to you? No, not at all. It’s just that… Well, to tell you the truth, I’m having a tough time of it lately. Clark – he’s my ex-husband, the one I was telling you about? – he’s been saying things to me. Hurtful things. About how he thinks I’m a bad mother, and that maybe it would be better if he had custody of Georgia.’

‘Oh,’ says Wiseman. ‘That must be tough on you. I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Yeah, it’s tough. It’s driving me crazy, if you must know. My emotions are all over the place, I’m not sleeping right… The slightest thing makes me cry and go nuts.’

Wiseman nods like the sage old owl he is. ‘You want my advice, you should see a doctor. They can give you pills for things like that. These days, they have a pill for every problem under the sun.’

Except for this one, Mr W. Oh, if only there was a pill for my problem here. One little pill to wipe away these horrors. What a miracle cure that would be.

‘I’ll do that,’ she says. ‘Thank you. Talking to you has made me feel a lot better.’

‘Any time,’ he says, but continues to study her.

She knows what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that this woman isn’t just mildly distressed; she’s off her rocker. She’
s lost it. Her behavior puts Miss Frodely in the shade. Here she is, running up and down the hallway, pressing buzzers, waking people up, slamming doors, yelling and crying, going out at weird times of the night. Two tablets with a glass of water won’t help her. This sorry sight should be in a mental institution.

Well, let him think that. Better that than he should suspect the truth. A few minutes ago, yes, she would have told him everything. But not now. That bridge has been well and truly burned down. He can’t help me now. Nobody can.

She says, ‘I think… I think I’ll go make myself some tea. Can’t see myself getting back to sleep now.’ She dredges up another weak smile – see, everything’s hunky-dory.

It should be a conversation closer if ever there was one, but Wiseman is still on a scent. ‘What about your friends? Do they know about what’s going on in your life?’

‘Uhm, well, I don’t really have any—’ She stops dead, suddenly aware that she’s landed herself in a trap of her own making. ‘Oh, you mean, the people I went out to meet in the night?’ She emits a laugh that even she thinks is thin and unconvincing. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t drop my petty little problems on them. Besides, they’re all so successful and happy. I wouldn’t want them to know my own life is so crappy compared with theirs, you know what I mean?’

She’s not sure if that was a save or not, but suddenly it doesn’t seem to matter, because Wiseman doesn’t appear to be listening. His gaze has dropped from her face to her chest area. For a brief and embarrassing moment she wonders whether her robe has come open and flashed the old guy. But then she realizes it’s worse than that.

The brooch. He can see the brooch. Who the hell pins a brooch to a bathrobe? Moreover, what kind of brooch has a thin black wire trailing from it – a wire which then disappears into a pocket?

Shit.

She moves back behind the door. He won’t know what it is, she tells herself. He’s old. He’ll think it’s some new kind of music player or something.

‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I should go. Thanks again for your concern. It’s really good of you.’

She doesn’t wait for him to complain or ask another question. She just shuts the door, then leans against it and breathes a sigh of relief.

‘I told you before. You should whack the old guy. He’s nothing but trouble.’

Sure, she thinks. Kill Samuel. Then she’d have to kill his son too before he raised the alarm over his missing father. And then why not kill Miss Frodely too? Throw in the building super and she’d have her six-pack. Just an hour or so’s work and she’d have her baby in her arms again.

Right. Because the cops would never figure that one out, would they? Wouldn’t dream of questioning her if everybody else in her building got wasted.

She figures that keeping out of the way of the cops is going to be hard enough as it is, without bringing them right to her door.

She wonders what trail of clues they’re following right at this minute.