The Neighbour

Christopher Cooper, professional loser, drawer of the short straw, and owner of the black marble. That would be an appropriate epitaph for me. It had been an inopportune thirty-five years. I had not even had the fortune to win a prize in a raffle. Now here I was, judged insane. Too insane to stand trial. My crime was the murder of innocent children and a sad old man. I was dispatched to my cell with the judge’s harsh recommendation that I should never be released, fresh in my memory. How I regretted ever meeting Harry Barlow, the cause of my misfortune.

    It all started on a blazing hot summer’s morning. I was lazing in my back garden, still moping over my recent divorce. Jenny had abandoned all hope of me making it as a writer, and my moods worsened, as refusal after refusal fell onto my doormat. The publishing world was so cruel. I was convinced that I had written a bestseller. What did the publishers know? “She was invisible to me,” was her comment. “You’re obsessed with your writing.” Perhaps she was right. I was not a very nice person to live with as I aspired to reach my ultimate goal.

     The chimes of the ice cream van roused me. Harry Barlow, God bless him. the Samaritan of Duke Street, hastily made his way to the van, the children following like the rats after the pied piper. Barlow was sixty years of age and a widower. He would do anything for anybody would old Barlow. He was a pillar of the community. I was not so sure. Granted, we are on speaking terms, but there was something about old Barlow. Something about the way he leered at children, and the way he touched them. Maybe I was imaging things. I was too engrossed in my novel to keep in touch with society.

    Today, I had made the decision to switch off my PC and take in the sun. I sipped my ice-cold beer and turned over onto my stomach. Barlow returned from the ice cream van with several children in tow. He had erected swings and a slide in his garden for the children to play; their parents happy in the knowledge of where their offspring were. Barlow stooped over to lick the ice cream cone of a young boy. I could see through the rickety fence the content children, screaming with glee; but what caught my eye was the hand of Barlow. It was caressing the bottom of the small boy.

   I rose from my sun lounger and leant over the fence. Barlow’s liver spotted hand was swiftly withdrawn when he witnessed my presence.

   “Ah, Mr Cooper. Isn’t it a wonderful day?”

   “Is it, Mr Barlow?… What were you doing just now?”

   “What ever do you mean?”

   “Young Peter Wilcox over there…you were touching his bottom.”

    The bald headed old man laughed, more of a cackle really. “You must have had too much sun, Mr Cooper. You should be careful what you’re insinuating.”

   “I know what I saw, Barlow. I’ve had my suspicions for a long time, and now they’ve been substantiated.”

   I crossed over the road towards a group of women, who were drinking wine in the garden, giggling and chatting about the latest chat show.

   “Mrs Wilcox, can I have a word with you please?” I asked.

   “Sure, what is it?”

   “Somewhere more private would be more appropriate, Mrs Wilcox.”

   “Whoa!” sneered one of the women. Others wolf-whistled. “You’re all right there, Pat. Your old man won’t be back until nine.”

   Pat Wilcox, a busty not unattractive woman led me indoors. I tried to deviate my eyes from her ample cleavage.

   “Well, what is it?” she asked.

   “It’s your son, Peter. I saw Barlow with his hand on his bottom earlier.”

   “Piss off. Old Harry? You must be mistaken.”

   “I know what I saw. It wasn’t an accidental touch.”

   “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Harry loves the kids. He even takes them to Whitby at the weekends.”

   “I can only relate to you what I saw, Mrs Wilcox. My advice to you would be to keep your eye on him.”

   The woman sneered. “Cheeky bastard. Are you trying to say that I neglect my kids?”

   “I’m saying nothing of the sort.”

   This was getting out of hand. She was in the mood for a fight and so I decided to make good my retreat. I left the house to a torrent of abuse. I knew when I was not wanted.

   Mrs Wilcox addressed the group of women. “Do you know what the cheeky sod said? He said that I couldn’t keep an eye on my kids. He tried to say old Harry was interfering with our Peter.”

   “No,” said one of the women, puffing on a cigarette, “Harry Barlow is the friendliest man on earth. Cooper’s jealous, that’s all it is, because he fires blanks. That’s why she left him you know? They couldn’t have children.”

  I heard the snide remarks as I made my way to my sanctuary. It was only half-true. It was Jenny who could not have a baby, but who knows? Maybe a baby would have cemented our relationship.
    I toyed with the idea of going to the police, but what was the point? I would only have to go through the inquisition again. I scowled at Barlow and withdrew to the safe haven of my home.

   The volume on my television was turned up, in order to drown out the screams of the children that were playing next door. The newscaster reported another child had gone missing. That was the third in as many months. The scene was of police and helpers searching a farmer’s field. Three children from the same estate were missing. That was too much of a coincidence. My thoughts turned to Barlow. Perhaps I was mistaken. Maybe it was just an innocent pat on the bottom from a senile old man.

 

That evening, I was roused from my nap by a pounding on my door. As I opened it, I was flung backwards, and a fist powerfully connected with my nose, splaying blood all around.

    Colin Wilcox was standing over me. “Don’t you ever accuse my wife of neglecting the kids again, you arsehole. Stay away from her, do you hear?”

   I nodded my head. My inclination was not to upset this giant of a man. He departed as swiftly as he had come, leaving me to ease the swelling of my bloody nose with an ice pack. I think that is the time when I had decided enough was enough. This house held bad memories for me. I would sell it and split the proceeds with Jenny. It was time to leave Middlesbrough.

 
I had decided to inform Jenny of my decision to sell the house and set off to drive to her flat. I pulled up at the traffic lights and looked across at the puke green Volkswagen. Only one person could own such a car. Barlow. I peered into the dull interior of his motor and saw a young boy sitting beside him. I pondered. Who was this boy?      

   I was startled by the honks of the motorists, and as I continued on my way, Barlow turned towards the Cleveland Hills. Being both curious and concerned, I did a U-turn, to the dismay of the following motorists. I had no difficulty in catching Barlow up, as he crawled up the steep incline. He turned down a path and I followed, being careful to keep a respectable distance behind. The path was desolate and the wheels of Barlow’s car threw up clouds of dust  when he progressed further towards the beauty spot.

   He stopped and I violently veered to the right, concealing my car behind a hawthorn bush. I waited until I heard the car doors slamming before exiting my battered Ford Escort. I progressed quietly towards his vehicle, crouching down to prevent detection. There was no sign of Barlow when I reached his car. I stopped and listened. I decided to enter the wild undergrowth and forced my way through, receiving painful scratches to my arms and face for my efforts.     

              
   Again, I listened. I could hear the birds singing, but there was something else. It sounded like a scuffle, but where was it coming from? I pushed on further towards the source of the noise. The undergrowth was like a maze, as I progressed slowly. I fell over something underfoot and embarrassingly discovered that it was a couple of teenagers fumbling around.

   “Hey, you pervert. What’re you playing at?”

   “I’m sorry. I’m looking for somebody.”

   “Pull the other one, pervy,” said the spotty lad, giving me the one finger.

   I withdrew rapidly back to the path to find that Barlow’s car had gone. I ran towards my vehicle as the teenagers emerged from the undergrowth, arranging their dishevelled clothes. I decided to continue on my way to Jenny’s. I could phone the police from there and tell them of Barlow’s unscrupulous behaviour.

I thought I had entered the wrong flat when Jenny let me in, for it had been newly decorated. Entering the lounge, I met the decorator. He was dressed in a vest and jeans and lolled on Jenny’s sofa, drinking her beer.

   “Well, you know it had to happen, Chris. Life goes on.” she smiled.

   “Doesn’t it? I hope you two are happy together,” I lied.

   The boyfriend sneered at me. I left it at that. I suppose I could have hoped that he would straighten my nose, but I did not fancy the pain.  

    “What brings you here, Chris?” asked Jenny.

    “I’m going to sell the house. I’ve had enough.”

    “Sell it, but where will you go?”

    “I don’t know. Somewhere where my talents will be appreciated.”

    Jenny was dressed in a tight tee shirt and cut off jeans. She was obviously wearing no bra, and then I begun to appreciate what I once had.

   “By the way, Jenny, can I use your telephone?”

 She pointed towards it, and I dialled Middlesbrough police station. The desk sergeant took down my details and promised to get back to me. I returned home, and that is when the nightmare began.

 

I answered the door to two detectives, one being a female. It was the woman who spoke first. “I’m Detective Sergeant Scott and this is Detective Constable Proudlock. Do you mind if we come in?”

   “No, not at all.”

   The female detective’s eyes scanned my room. I suppose it was a force of habit.

   “Can you tell me where you were between four and five ‘o’clock this afternoon?”

   “I went to my ex-wives flat.”

   “And anywhere else?” added DC Proudlock.

   “Yes, I was in the Cleveland Hills for a short time. I’ve already reported this.”

   “You have?” asked DS Scott, her prying eyes now examining my duty free whiskey in the drinks cabinet.

   “Yes, when I arrived at my wife’s flat. I immediately reported the incident.”

   “What incident is this?”

   I was now confused. “Excuse me. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

   “We’re here because a eight year old boy was found murdered this afternoon in the Cleveland Hills, and your car was in the area at the time.”

   “Yes, I was following Barlow. As, I’ve said, I’ve already reported this.”

   “Barlow?”

   “Yes, he’s my next door neighbour. I’ve been keeping my eye on him. I caught him groping a young boy just this morning.”

   “We’ll check your story out, Mr Cooper.” DS Scott stroked her chin. I could feel her eyes burning through me. She was studying me.

   DC Proudlock broke in, “Mr Cooper; two teenagers reported that a man answering your description was spying on them. They said that he looked a little shocked when they saw him.”

   “Of course I wasn’t spying on them. Wouldn’t you be bloody shocked if you fell over them?”

   “Can you tell me where you got those scratches from?” asked DS Scott.

   “In the undergrowth. I followed Barlow and the boy into there.”

   “And did you find them?”

   “Obviously not, but I heard noises, as though there was a scuffle.”

   The detective continued his probing. “The teenagers said that there was only one car on that path, and that it was yours. You see, they had the sense to take down your registration number.”

   “Hold on a bloody minute. You don’t think that I killed the boy do you?”

   “We’ll check your report, Mr Cooper. Don’t leave the country. We’ll be in touch.”

   My head was in a muddle, and my mind worked overtime as I tried to comprehend what trouble I was in. Two witnesses had placed me at the murder location. I had some serious thinking to do.   

 

Early the next morning, the detectives called at my house. This time they brought a uniformed officer with them.

   “Mr Cooper, we would like you to accompany us down to the station. I’m afraid your story doesn’t hold up,” stated DS Scott.   

   “Doesn’t hold up?”

   “You see, Mr Cooper; Harry Barlow, whom you say you followed, never left the street yesterday.”

   “That’s impossible. Someone is lying.”

   “But, that’s just it, Cooper. Half of the street gave him an alibi. He was hosting a garden party for their children. Why would they give him an alibi? A mass conspiracy against you perhaps?” she smirked.

   “I want to see a solicitor,” I demanded. This is an outrage.”

    My mind was racing. Barlow was definitely the driver of the car. What was going on? Why would they give him an alibi?

   At the police station, I was grilled and grilled again in the presence of my solicitor. I was to be released, only because no DNA samples or other evidence was found at the crime scene. The victim was eight-year-old Tommy Dawes, who lived just off the estate. He had been sexually assaulted, before he was strangled.

   Word had soon spread about me being in custody. I had decided to vacate my house, when a brick was thrown, smashing my front windowpane and narrowly missing me. I made up my mind to pay Harry Barlow a visit, even though the police had forbidden any contact between us.

   I waited for nightfall and prepared for my foray. I wore gloves as a precaution. I could always deny entering Barlow’s house, and I did not want to leave any incriminating evidence. Besides, I thought it was highly unlikely that he would go to the police, as he would not want to attract attention to himself.

    I climbed over the rickety, back fence and tried his door. It was surprisingly open. I entered his kitchen and saw him eating beans from a tin.

    He was startled when I confronted him. “What is the meaning of this? Get out of my house this minute or I’ll call the police.”

   “How’d you do it, Barlow? How’d you get all of those neighbours to give you alibi’s?”

   “You’re sick, Cooper. You should be locked up.”

I grabbed him by the lapels. My inclination was to give the old man a beating, but I kept my dignity. “Piss off, Barlow! You killed those children. It was you all along, admit it.”

   “Get out of my house!” he yelled.

   “Where have you buried the other children, Barlow, you sick bastard?”

   “Right, I’m phoning the police.”

   “Don’t bother. I’m going, but I promise you, that I won’t rest until you’re locked away.”

 

I moved away from the ill-fated estate. Nevertheless, I was still targeted by the hate mob. The house that I was allotted by the local council was covered in graffiti. Child killer and other obscenities covered the walls. Eventually, the police moved me on again for my own safety.
    I was now a nervous wreck, looking over my shoulder on every street corner. I was still the prime suspect in the eyes of the police. That I had put my house up for sale did not exactly aid my pleas of innocence.
   It was while in custody, being questioned yet again by the relentless DS Scott, that I had my first stroke of luck in years. Another body had been found, and it was still fresh. The young boy had been found lying in a stream, strangled, just as the others had been strangled. He had been murdered while I was in custody, and I was promptly dismissed with not even an apology.

   News of my innocence quickly spread, and I decided to return to my old house until I could sell it. People’s attitudes had changed towards me. I had now more friends than ever. When I arrived home, my house had been redecorated and the house refurnished by the neighbours. They had even landscaped my garden for me. Those hypocrites; did they really think that they could buy my friendship? My intention was still to leave the area; to disassociate myself from the charlatans.

    I was now living like a recluse and my computer lay idle. I could not find the inspiration to write. I was becoming obsessed with Barlow. I would spy on him at every opportunity, even resorting to taking photographs of him playing with the children. That as I later found out, was a big mistake.

  One afternoon, when I eventually did venture outdoors was the turning point in my miserable life. The rain came down with such force, the black clouds overhanging my garden like a sea of ink. What compelled me to go outdoors, I do not know. My recently landscaped garden, courtesy of the neighbours was a sea of mud, the brown silt washing away over the lush, green lawn. My eyes settled on something protruding from the ground and I made my way to the object. I froze rigid as I neared the vegetable plot. Sticking up out of the ground was an arm…a child’s arm.

   The rain blended in with my tears as the corpse revealed itself little by little. The downpour revealed the grisly find. My heart felt as if it would explode, and I vomited onto the lawn. Other bodies were now visible…three…four, my God. I was overcome with grief; such grief and hatred. Hatred for the monster that dwelled next door. Hatred for the system that had condemned me and then spit me out, as if I was phlegm waiting to be discarded.

   I felt my eyes bulging in their sockets. The saliva dripped from my mouth when I bent over and embraced one of the bodies, no more now than a rotten carcase. The pouring rain-washed the earth from the dead boy’s face, or what was left of it. A worm reared its ugly form from the boys mouth and I can remember screaming, a silent scream as if in a nightmare, because believe me; this was a nightmare. I was filled with such anger and torment that no other thoughts entered my head, except revenge.

   I stepped over Barlow’s fence and kicked in the door. The sight that befell the old man must have been fearsome. I could still smell the odour off that little boy’s body when I approached the terrified Barlow. He backed off, putting up his hands to protect himself.

   “No! You have it all wrong.”

   “The garden! Look in my fucking garden!”

   “What’re you talking about?”

   I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and marched him outside. I tossed him like the garbage he is onto the makeshift grave, his face inches away from one of his victims.

   “Take a look, Barlow. Take a fucking look… So young; how could anyone kill someone so young and innocent?”

   Barlow pointed at me. “You’re insane. You killed these children. Don’t put this bloodbath on others. You killed these children.”

  That was the moment when I think I flipped. I hit the old man flush in the face with a powerful punch, and he spit out his false teeth that merged with the deathly soil. He was now trembling with fear, the blood dripping from his wrinkled mouth. He tried to speak, but I hit him again, and again, and kept hitting him, until he was still. I grabbed the back of his head by what hair he had remaining and pushed his face down into the sodden soil. I held his head down with all of my might for what must have been minutes.

   When one of the neighbours found me the next day, I was sitting naked in my armchair, embracing one of the dead children; the mud still caked on my body. Another four children were unearthed from the garden of evil.

So here I am, three years on, sitting in my padded cell, wearing my straitjacket, and pondering over my sanity. Yes, I committed a murder; the murder of a child killer. I was doing the world a service, ridding it of such vermin. The murders of course stopped, and I have gone down in the annuls of history as a horrific child killer.

    The photographs condemned me. The police believed that I was taking snaps of the children for my perverse pleasure. What about the child that was murdered whilst I was in custody, you may ask? I was accused of killing him, and the pathologist on the case got a severe reprimand for mistaking the time of his death.

    But my story does not finish there. No, I had a visit; a rare visit. Usually, only Jenny came to visit me. She said she believed in my innocence, but she believed that as much as she wanted to believe that I was sane. No, I had been abandoned in this hellish place; a sane man in an asylum. Not a pleasant scenario.

    As I was saying, I had a visit. He would not leave his name. My straitjacket was removed and I was shown to the isolated visiting room.

  The man who was sitting behind the screen had on a monk’s cowl. “Hello, Christopher,” he said.

   I could smell his rancid breathe as he spoke. Where had I heard that voice before?

   The stranger continued. “Don’t you know who I am, Christopher?”

   I could feel my bowels moving as I realised where I knew the voice from, but it could not possibly be. The monk pulled down his cowl and I was staring into the face of Harry Barlow. I now began to have doubts over my sanity. How could this be? I killed him with my own hands.

   “Barlow! But you’re...”

   “Dead? Is that the word you’re looking for, Christopher?”

   “You’re a ghost?” I quizzed.

   “Nothing so theatrical, I’m afraid… Harry was my twin brother. You see, when we were children, I was such a wild child. Our father died when we were six years old, leaving our sick mother to look after us. As I’ve told you, I wasn’t an angelic child, not like Harry. I was sent off to remand school, and when I was released as a teenager, my mother didn't want me back. Harry was the apple of her eye and I was evil as far as she was concerned. She was correct you see. I killed a young child when I was a teenager, and as the police were closing in on me, I decided the best hiding place would be a convent or a priory. That is where I lost my identity. Ronald Barlow no longer existed. I was free to carry on my infatuation with the children, and believe me; I enjoyed every minute of it.”

   “So it was you who I saw that day on the Cleveland Hills?”

   He nodded. “Of course. You see, I used to visit my brother often. It was a secret of course. We could not be seen together. I told him that if he didn’t cooperate with me, I’d start to kill some of his treasured children that he worshipped… I came and went, mostly at night, but the odd time, like when I wanted to borrow his car, I would appear in the daytime. Of course, we’re identical, so there was no chance of anyone suspecting anything, unless of course we were seen together.”

   “So, Harry knew about you killing the children?”

   “No. He knew that I was capable. That’s why I was able to carry out my threat to him. He believed you were the killer. He even told the children to stay away from you.”

   “But that morning, I saw him groping young Peter Wilcox?”

   “Did you?” He smiled, revealing his yellow teeth. “That was me. Harry was answering the call of nature at the time. I couldn’t resist the opportunity, whenever I was given the chance.”

   “So what’s to stop me telling the story to the police?” I asked.

   “Because, Christopher, you’re insane and I don’t exist. I have extinguished everything that could ever reveal my being. I even gave a false name at the convent. You see, I’ve covered my tracks well... No, Christopher, I’m afraid you’re here for life. I’ll say a prayer for you... Oh, by the way, I think it’s safe to resume my hobby now, don’t you? Three years is a long time. You should actually feel better being in here, now that I’ve revealed that you killed an innocent man. Repent your sins, friend and I’ll see you in hell.” He pulled up his cowl and was gone.

   There you have it. As I write these memoirs, I’m contemplating committing suicide. Telling the police will be pointless, and besides, I’m too weary with all of these sedatives and drugs that they feed me. I’m too exhausted to consider my freedom. I write these memoirs in the hope that one day, my name will be cleared, and that this monster will be apprehended, before he begins another massacre of the children. Who knows? Maybe I will make the bestseller list after all.”