Mummy's Favourite (10 page)

His voice was low, guttural, filled with rage. ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.'

Climbing in, he inhaled, letting the dampness of the soil fold itself around him. He pulled the door down over him and exhaled, closing his eyes against the darkness. The space was small but not so small that he couldn't move. Light chinked through the gap between the two doors and he pushed himself away from it, against the side of the pit, as far away from the light as he could get.

The voice was filling his head. He curled his legs up to his chest and clung on to them, pulling them tight into him. His breathing was shallow. He held his breath to stop any tiny noise from coming out, holding himself stiff and tight against the wall, trying not to be heard. And then she was there, laughing at him.

‘Come out you little bastard. You think you can hide from me do you? Well I'll show you, you little shit. I'll show you.'

And he was falling, falling out from the cupboard on to the hard floor, while she kicked out at him. Screaming, screaming, and the noise filled his head. He was only five. He remembered his nice teacher at school, how his mummy had spoken to her, told his teacher that he was a naughty boy who needed to be punished. But he wasn't and he had said that he wasn't. His mummy had not been pleased. So he had run away and hidden. But now she was there, dragging him across the floor, kicking him. She was turning him over, slapping him across the face.

‘Mummy, please don't. Mummy.'

‘Think you can tell your teacher lies, do you?'

He was on his back and she was sitting on him, laughing at him, slapping him.

‘I'll show you.'

‘Please Mummy. I'm sorry.'

But she wasn't listening. She never listened. She was undoing his clothing, pulling his T-shirt up over his face, unbuttoning his shorts. She was going to hurt him again like she always did. She was going to smack him and smack him until he was bruised and sore, until his bottom hurt to sit on. And he squirmed to get free but he couldn't because Mummy was pinning him down, but she wasn't hurting him this time. She had her hand down his pants and he didn't know what was happening but it didn't feel right and it sort of felt nice but strange. She was laughing as she touched him.

‘You want to be a good boy then, do you? Well do you?'

He couldn't see her for the T-shirt across his face but he nodded. He wanted to be a good boy, like Tommy, his brother. He wanted to be good, but he wasn't a good boy. Mummy kept telling him he was naughty. Mummy told everyone he was naughty, but he really wasn't.

Mummy was still laughing as she stroked him and he was afraid to say anything. And then she stopped and grabbed his hand and pushed it down inside her clothing. And she pulled the T-shirt off his face and she was smiling down at him now and he didn't know whether to smile back.

And everything felt strange. His Mummy felt strange and was moving in a strange way, and she wouldn't let him take his hand out. She was pulling and pushing at his hand and smiling, and staring down at him.

‘Now who's a good boy then?'

And he was pleased that he was making her smile, pleased that he was being good, even though she was making strange moaning sounds.

Then just as quickly, she stopped moving and stopped smiling and he didn't know what was wrong.

‘I'm being a good boy.' He wanted to make her smile again but instead she was frowning. Then she punched him and the blow to his tummy hurt and made him feel sick. He started to cry but that just made Mummy more cross.

‘Shut up you little bastard,' she was shouting at him now.

And he looked up and there was Tommy standing at the door, watching. And he didn't know how long Tommy had been watching or what Tommy had seen.

‘Tommy,' he called out to his brother. Mummy had turned from him now and was going towards Tommy, scooping him up in her arms and kissing him.

‘Hello, my beautiful boy,' she whispered to Tommy and he knew that she would never whisper that to him. Never. And he curled back up into a little ball and started to cry again. And then she was gone and he was all alone.

But that was the start of it. That was the beginning of his special times with Mummy. The times that Tommy didn't know about; the times when Mummy smiled at him. But those were the only times when Mummy smiled at him. Tommy, his older brother, was always her favourite. Tommy, her beautiful boy, her smartest, handsomest, cleverest boy…

He could feel the anger surging again now; the rage was building as he lay in his pit. He loved her but he hated her. He forced himself to think of his mummy smiling as she touched him, smiling as he touched her. Nothing else he had ever done had made her smile. That was why, next time, when he had a different mummy captured he would make her strip off. So he could feel her, make her smile too like his mummy used to every time when she did it to him. He reached down into his underwear and felt his hard-on. It made him angry to feel it because his mummy had gone now and it was supposed to be for her, only her. But it was throbbing now, aching to be touched, and he knew he would be thinking of her again as he grasped it.

The tears were starting again. His mummy had gone. He had seen to that. And all the other women were nothing in comparison. They were all bitches that let him down time and time and time again.

But he would show them. He would show them next time and the time after that. He needed to start the process again soon. He couldn't wait much longer. And he knew who the next woman would be. He knew her favourite. He could see it in the eyes of the rejected one. He could see it in the eyes of the chosen one. Soon they would be his. Soon the bitch would lie where he was lying now knowing her favourite was dead beside her. Soon she would die, slowly and painfully and agonizingly.

He could feel the excitement building at the thought. He could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks. And as he spat out his hatred into the soil of his pit he knew it wouldn't be much longer.

The evening was closing in as Charlie jogged towards the station.

She heard a shout and saw Hunter pulling up across the road in his Jag, a choice of vehicle that always amused her. He looked so diminutive and out of place in the seat of the sleek, dark green executive car, his tweed peaked cap pulled firmly down over his balding head. He would have suited the Escort RS2 or Cortina Ghia far more, the cars of
The Sweeney
, the age of policing which suited him best.

‘Hop in. I'll give you a lift.'

She ran across towards him, immediately tempted to jump in. A lift with Hunter was always guaranteed to be action-packed. Things always happened when they were together. The light on his mobile pulsed on. His wife was calling. He left it to ring.

‘Aren't you going to answer it?'

‘She'll want to know what time I'll be home.' He smiled a little sheepishly. ‘You know Mrs H. Ever since the bloody doctors mentioned high blood pressure she thinks I'm going to drop dead if I'm not home by ten.'

He pulled a packet of fags from his pocket and lit one, blowing the smoke out through the open window.

‘I'll be in trouble if she finds out I'm doing this too. She's got a nose like a sniffer dog when it comes to Rothmans. Even if I chewed through a whole packet of extra strong mints she'd still notice it on my breath.'

She grinned back at him. It was her turn to act the adult.

‘You know she's doing it for the right reasons though, guv. She's just concerned.'

She'd met Mrs H, as Hunter always referred to her, several times and there was no mistaking the genuine love they had for each other. They were both on their second marriages and she was obviously determined that this one would last as long as humanly possible. Having frog-marched him to the doctors for a check-up the previous year, the ensuing diagnosis of hypertension had shaken her to the core. He'd been warned to lose weight, stop smoking and do more exercise, all of which he was failing to do spectacularly. Tablets were keeping his blood pressure down, but Hunter knew best and she couldn't change him, however hard she tried.

It was just a matter of time before his condition worsened but as he stubbornly refused her request to retire, they had come to a compromise whereby he went along with a little over-protectiveness from Mrs H , in return for remaining in post without too much being said, too often.

‘I know she is. Had an earful of her concern several times today.' He grinned and tapped the passenger seat next to him. ‘Come on, Charlie, let's go for a spin.'

‘Gonna have to turn you down, guv. I've been promising my body a bit of a work-out after all the sitting down I've been doing recently.' She thought about the secret promise she'd made to Mrs H to look after him, last time they'd met. ‘Besides you'll only get us both into trouble if I get in the car with you.'

She nodded towards the job radio propped up in the centre consul and the old, ripped grey donkey jacket spread across the rear seat. Charlie had seen him in action many a time on and off duty. He'd slip the radio into his jacket pocket when he was out and about and no one would bat an eyelid at him; he was just an old down-and-out. Little did anyone know, when he came across a crime, he would utilize the radio to call in more troops or, if necessity required, as a very effective weapon.

‘Your choice then, but who knows what fun you might be missing.'

He winked and put his foot hard down on the accelerator and she watched as the Jag shot off like a bolt of green laser light, wishing she'd agreed, after all to the ride.

She decided to head along the Thames towards Blackfriars, for a change, mulling over the events of the day. Jogging was the time she thought the most about everything.

The clouds were threatening, rising up in huge towering blocks of darkness rimmed by an edge of light from the failing sun. It had been a strange day, particularly the visit to Dana Latchmere, obviously on edge, and wanting to say more than her domineering husband would allow. Now the evening seemed strangely perturbed too. She passed Lambeth Bridge, turning right towards Westminster Bridge with the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben standing guard. The atmosphere was anxious, the calm before a storm, a few birds flitted around and the water of the river moved silently seawards in small, menacing whirlpools and black eddies. She shuddered at the sight of it. She hated water, the way it stealthily changed its character before you had time to realize; one minute calm and inviting, the next minute full of malevolent fury. She felt her pulse quicken at the thought. For an instant she was being tossed and turned in darkness, fighting to come up for air, thrashing about with every last ounce of energy. The trouble was whenever she did come to the surface she knew the panic would only get worse, a thousand times worse.

A Victorian-style lamp flickered on, reacting to the darkening sky. She stopped underneath it, bathed in a halo of light. She closed her eyes and for two minutes allowed the screaming inside her head to quieten.

When she'd recovered sufficiently, she turned her sight away from the river and started to run again, moving swiftly and noiselessly, save for the soft rhythm of her breath. Past St Thomas's hospital and then she was crossing the road leading to Westminster Bridge, still littered with snapping tourists. Onwards towards the London Eye, illuminated against the darkening back-drop, its pods moving silently on their never-ending, relentless daily loop. The South Bank seemed quieter than normal, the evening's activities confined to hastily booked seats within restaurants, with fewer people than normal wandering the walkways.

She heard a commotion within the confines of the riverside skateboard park and turned to see a figure sprawled on the concrete, with three or four people, silhouetted against the graffiti-covered walls, bending over him. A set of crutches lay at angles to the man on the ground, out of his reach and he was calling out. He sounded slightly drunk, the tempo of his voice rising and falling and his words slurred. His tone resonated more with anger than distress. She decided to keep going. It didn't look to be any more than a drunken accident and there were obviously enough people dealing with him. They didn't need another to further antagonize him.

‘Charlie. Help me.'

The words stopped her in her tracks. Spinning round, she stared in the direction the voice came from, and suddenly everything was clicking into place. It was Ben Jacobs lying on the ground, his face turned towards her. One of the supposed Good Samaritans bending over him pulled his hand out of Ben's jacket pocket and punched him square in the face. She heard the thud of bone on bone from where she was and saw Ben's nose explode, blood spurting out on to the pavement.

She reacted instantly as she always did; with no concern for her own safety. Screaming loudly, she ran straight at the group, who turned towards her open-mouthed with surprise, before splitting up and sprinting away in all directions. But not before the man who had punched Ben aimed a well-placed boot into his rib-cage. Ben cried out in pain. The man laughed, and as Charlie neared them, he spat on the ground and shouted.

‘This is what he deserves. Help for Heroes? He's no hero. Look at him. He's just a drunk.'

Side-stepping Charlie, he delivered a hard shove at her shoulder, catching her off balance, and darted away across the pavement, before turning the corner and disappearing. She went to go after him, but as Ben let out a long groan, she changed her mind and doubled back to help him instead. She'd got a good look at his attacker's leering face and she knew she wouldn't forget it. She'd rather catch the guy later than go after him now and return to find Ben choked to death on his own blood.

He was in a bad way. His nose was slewed to one side, obviously broken and both eyes were swelling even as she looked. Quickly, she dialled 999 requesting an ambulance and police, before bending down to tend to him. His broken leg stretched out in front of him, the plaster cast cracked and broken, as if it had been stamped on. The other leg was folded underneath him at a strange angle, his shoe lying some distance away. To pick on a war hero was despicable, even more so when they were obviously injured, and even worse when so badly outnumbered.