‘HELLO!’ it said.
‘HELLO!’ There it was again. Instantly recognisable as old, fragile, female. ‘HELLO! William? Is that YOU?’ A creak of the bottom step as the voice begun to make its way up. Both constables froze, Tainton rose to his feet, the carpet was sticky underfoot and Crouch took a step to the stairs, leaning over in such a manner so that he could see the intruder coming up but they wouldn’t see him.
She was making slow progress. 84 years old, it had been some time since she had needed to master stairs. She’d moved out of her beloved townhouse 12 years ago when it had been decided that she could no longer manage the size and the stairs. Not her decision, she would have stayed there til the end had it been, that was the house where she had lived with Geoffrey, raised three children, laughed, cried; loved. She smiled as she made it to half-way, old age bought with it far smaller victories and half way up a flight of stairs was one. Suddenly, a voice interrupted her concentration.
‘MA’AM!’ She looked up at the police officer now stood at the top of the stairs. The volume of his voice and the look on his face suggested that this wasn’t the first time he had tried to gain her attention. He looked tense, she wasn’t surprised, she had a Nephew in the police, she watched all the police programmes on the television now, ‘stressful job’ she would say to anyone that would sit and listen, ‘my son’s a police officer you know’ she would also say. People had long since given up correcting her.
‘Hello officer!’ Genuine delight in her voice ‘my son’s a police officer, Stuart Cearns, do you know him?’
PC Crouch took a few steps down to halt her progress. ‘You be careful on these stairs now, let’s get you back down shall we.’ He raised an arm to point the way back to the ground floor, the woman looked confused for a second, like she was unsure of the reason she had started to climb the stairs in the first place. She turned back though with no argument, 12 years in an ‘assisted residential home’ puts you in a mindset where you are used to being told what to do, used to following instructions.
‘Is William here? I called the police; I haven’t seen him for a few days. We always have a coffee, well I don’t drink coffee, tea really but he likes a coffee; is he here? My son’s a policeman’.
As they both made it back to the ground floor, Crouch placed an arm on her shoulder and pointed into the lounge. Upstairs, Tainton finally managed to step away from William Antrim. In an attempt to avoid stepping in any more blood he had moved with a jump and a stumble and the noise was heard downstairs.
‘What was that? Is William up there?’ The woman’s brow furrowed in confusion, her head snapped back to the stairs, a look of determination once again on her face.
‘No, no. We got your call and came round here to check on him, but he’s not here. That’s my colleague upstairs, he’s just finishing the search’ Crouch had been deliberately loud with his explanation for the benefit of Tainton who now appeared the top of the stairs. Managing some sort of composure he forced a smile and found his voice. ‘He’s not here, must have popped out’
The woman remained confused. William was not a well man of late, he’d had a fall just before the winter set in, seemed to have sapped all his strength, chest pains and a real inability to sleep had followed and then a refusal to visit ‘anymore bleeding quacks’. William Antrim was a man who seemed to be almost fuelled by pride, the one thing that kept him going was that despite his senior years, he was independent, his own man and still in the house that he had shared all his adult life with his beloved wife. She had gone, but he swore to her that he would look after it and that’s what he was going to do. No doctor could understand that, they had said to him that he would be more ‘comfortable’ in ‘supported living’. These were just words used to get old people in homes, out of the way so that the government can take all that they own, take all that remains of his wife. Well they wouldn’t.
The elderly lady now stood in his hallway had become a strong companion, they shared much in common, respected the same qualities, liked a hot drink together twice a week and both bucked and fought against the ‘system’ that was well established for pensioners like them.
‘Popped out?’ She repeated and let the words run through her mind. The last time William had ‘popped out’ was when the ambulance had come, his chest had become so painful it had bought him to his knees, tightened up he said, like someone was pulling a rope round his chest; ‘a flaming tug of war’ he had chuckled as his eyes twinkled over a fresh cup of coffee. She had smiled too, his eyes had a way of doing that, they would make you smile, make you want to put the kettle on again, make you not want to leave, not just yet, maybe not at all.
‘I can’t see where he would go. William doesn’t go out, son drops his shopping off, does his football pools, paper and milk are delivered? Strange. He wouldn’t just pop out. Did you know, William Antrim was also the real name of Billy The Kid!’ she paused, letting this sink in, waiting for the policeman to react, it was amazing, surely he would be impressed; Billy The Kid!
PC Crouch didn’t react. His hand was lifted back onto her shoulder, directing her back towards the front door he’d now decided that the best thing would be for her to leave. She went with it, the door was still ajar, Crouch pushed it open, two bottles of milk on the doorstep, she’d missed them on the way in. William was fussy about that, ‘milk should be ice cold’ he’d always said. Straight in the fridge. William would wait for the chink of the bottles, the same upbeat whistle from the milkman and he’d be up, meet him at the door so the bottles could be passed and he wouldn’t have to bend down to pick them up. Bending hurt his hips, pulled on his chest, ‘flaming tug of war’; his eyes twinkling.
‘He didn’t pick up the milk?’ she said to the constable still with his hand on her back. Her eyes moved from the unclaimed bottles ‘are you coming down?’ her question directed upstairs to Tainton who still stood leaning on the banister at the top of the stairs for support. ‘Why isn’t he coming down?’ back to the constable next to her, she tried to read any reaction on his face, her eyesight still very strong. Crouch turned away to his colleague, ‘come on down, we’ll lock up and get out of here mate, pop back later and check Mr Antrim’s home safe’.
Her eyesight picked up the wink, saw the officer at the top of the stairs check his trousers, hesitate then slowly amble down the stairs, not like a policeman, they didn’t amble, they were assured, confident. He reached the bottom step, made no eye contact, kept checking his shoes, seemed to force a smile at his colleague ‘let’s go then’ he had said, his voice monotone and featureless.
‘After you’ PC Crouch fixed a smile and helped her down the two steps onto the path that lead back to Blackhill Lane. Away from Billy the Kid and that twinkling smile, the untouched milk and the police officer with blood on his trousers.
She watched as the fading sunlight still managed a feint glint on the doors as they opened on the patrol car, heard the engine start, saw the driver lift a phone to his ear. She turned away, shuffled round the corner a little before patting her jacket and locating a small lump in her right pocket, she pulled it out and lifted her own phone to her ear. It was a simple design, her daughter had chose it specially for her; oversized keys and screen.
‘Just wait for the dozey old bint to get a distance away and we’ll make sure the door is secure. Get you changed, then we’ll pop back in a few hours, just before the shift is over and we’ll make the discovery. Call it in, lates will come on and take over the scene and we’ll be away. That’ll give us a bit of time to get ourselves sorted, clean ourselves up properly and by the time we come back in it will all be finished. No problem’ Tainton didn’t reply, he fixed his attention out the window, transfixed on a tree shaking gently in the wind opposite. He wasn’t as sure as his colleague, he could think of one massive problem, a dead body in a room, battered to death.
‘Hello?’ She was pretty sure her call had been answered. Her only weakness was her hearing, it was intermittent it seemed, sometimes she could barely hear a thing like when she was a little girl and her Dad used to take her swimming at the local baths. She would be in there for hours, loved the water and the night after when her Dad was tucking her in they would laugh about having water in their ears, her father playing on it and pretending not to be able to hear her mother, she would do the same. A shared joke, precious times with a man long gone and still missed every single day. He’d had those eyes too, eyes that wrap you up, drag you in and make everything ok.
‘Yes hello, this is 999 emergency, what service do you require?’
What service did she require? She looked round as though the answer might be scrawled on the pavement for her. It wasn’t, she was still unsure ’17; err... 17 Blackhill Lane; the police...’
‘The police Madam, do you need the police? Where are you exactly?’ The voice was becoming impatient, demanding answers.
She tried to find the words amongst the images of the policeman on the stairs, his legs covered in blood, the black stick in his hand, shiny, blood on that too, both of them, blood on their shoes, leaving bloody footprints, both with dead eyes, like they didn’t want to give away anything. Like something had gone horribly wrong. She was big on eyes.
‘No, it was the police, they killed... they killed my Billy; Billy the Kid...’
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