B: The second bit

Marvin didn't pass my window the next day. I put it down to the
tears of the day before, thinking that perhaps he had been unwell and
that was why he had been crying. Or maybe he was being bullied and his
molly-coddling mother had sympathetically kept him off school instead
of making him face up to his tormentors. Or perhaps he had just walked
home a different way. Slightly disappointed at his absence I washed up
as usual and then returned to my tiger. He would be back
tomorrow.

But he wasn't. 3.00pm came and went, then 3.10 then 3.20 and finally I
accepted that he wasn't going to show. I rose from my chair and went to
wash up, feeling vaguely concerned about the boy. It wasn't like him to
miss two days of school like this. Innocent joy of learning fairly
shone from the child and I knew from experience just how resilient
young boys were. He should be back at school by now. Briefly I
considered the possibility that he had started to walk home a different
way from school, but then logic asserted itself. He was one of the fast
walkers after all. He wanted to be home in time for the cartoons every
day and he made damn sure that he was. He'd been going past my house
since the start of the school year and if there was a quicker way home
to his television then surely he would have discovered and used it
before now. No. It was something else. He could have gone on holiday I
supposed, but not many families leave for a holiday in the middle of
the week like that. They tend to go on the weekend and return on the
weekend - it's much neater and tidier and causes the least disruption
to schooling. So it was something else.
My musings were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. The booming
ring was deafening in the silence of the house and, startled, I dropped
the plate I was washing and it smashed on the kitchen floor at my feet.
I stared down at it for a few seconds, stunned. The doorbell never rang
in my house. Never. I didn't know anybody round here and my family were
all dead. No one should be ringing my doorbell. Fear began to displace
the shock in my veins and I stood there trembling, still staring at the
broken plate. It was a teenager. I knew it. A rude teenager with his
innocence all gone and a knife in his hand and - the doorbell rang
again, more impatiently this time and I realised I should answer it or
it would just ring again and again and again until I was just a
quivering wreck on the floor. But what if it was a teenager with a
knife? I stood there indecisively, torn between my two fears. Then the
doorbell rang once again and abruptly my fear was gone, replaced by
anger this time. What sort of person was disrespectful enough to ring
the doorbell of a stranger not once, not twice but three times for no
reason? A person who was going to get a shock that was who. I'd show
them. I spun round on my heels and headed for the door, a welcoming
snarl already on my lips.
I flung open the front door so hard that it bounced off the little
plastic stop that was bolted to the floor and began to shut itself
again. A hand shot out from the doorstep and caught it dead before it
could do so. The snarl on my lips died. The hand grew out of a dark
blue sleeve. The doorbell-menace was a policeman. I pasted a blank
expression on my face and asked what I could do for him.
The policeman was very tall and I had to crane my head to see his face
as he replied. "Sorry to trouble you sir, my name is PC Harriman and
I'm conducting door to door enquiries as part of the Graham Wallace
investigation, may I come in?"
The name meant nothing to me but I sensed that telling him so would not
get him off my doorstep, and so I grudgingly opened the door a little
wider and gestured down the hall towards the living room. He thanked me
with a small, polite smile and then he was inside. I followed him down
the hall.
Ensconced in my favourite armchair Harriman looked even taller than he
had standing up. He seemed to fill my little living room and, despite
having owned the house for five years I suddenly felt unwelcome there.
I perched precariously on the rickety little wooden chair that stood
beside my fireplace, hoping that it didn't collapse beneath my weight.
It usually served no more than a decorative function - as I said
before, my family are dead and I have no friends - and it must have
been a good few years since it had last been used. With Harriman in my
armchair it was all I had to sit on though, and so there was nothing
else for it. The appearance of the policeman had turned my knees to
jelly and I couldn't have stayed standing even if I'd wanted to.
Harriman, however, looked as if he could keep ice-cubes in his mouth
without melting them. He cleared his throat.
"As I said, I'm here as part of the Graham Wallace investigation.
You'll have seen about it on the news of course?"
I shook my head at his inquiringly raised eyebrow, resisting an urge to
blurt out an apology for my ignorance. The man made me feel like a
schoolboy before a particularly stern headmaster. I squirmed in my seat
and it creaked alarmingly beneath me, berating me for my silence. I
coughed uncomfortably and realised I was going to apologise after
all.
"I'm afraid I dont watch the news." I said in a voice that cracked and
wobbled alarmingly. "I haven't even got a television - I can't afford
the licence you see. And I don't take a newspaper either. I'm sorry.
What is this - Graham Webster? - inquiry all about?"
The tall policeman eyed me curiously. I had a sudden fancy that I could
see his thoughts scrolling across his forehead in neon letters: Don't
take a newspaper? No television? What sort of man doesn't take a
newspaper or have a television? I shook my head slightly and the neon
disappeared.
"Wallace." He said, "Graham Wallace not Webster. He's a young lad from
Wimpole Street who hasn't been home since Monday. We're canvassing
everybody in the area." He paused, and eyed me once more. The look
reminded me of a vulture about to swoop on some unsuspecting rodent. He
continued. "He was last seen on Monday afternoon as he left school. A
teacher saw him walking through the gates shortly after the final
bell." He paused again and looked around the room. His gaze swept over
the imitation brick fireplace, the jigsaw on the table and my
collection of china dogs on the bookshelf. Finally his eyes rested on
the front window. His expression turned thoughtful. "The teacher
particularly remembers seeing him because he was one of the last pupils
to leave that day. And also," He turned to face me once more. "She
remembers him because he was crying." The room fell silent for a second
or two as Harriman looked at me speculatively.
"Tell me sir," The tall man said eventually, "You are retired, is that
right?" I nodded my assent. "So you would be here at home around the
time that the school lets out?" I nodded again and he looked once more
at my front window before continuing. "According to the lad's mother,
Graham always walked home by the same route from school, and so we're
especially interested in talking to residents who live along that route
and may have been home at the time he was last seen. This road is part
of that route of course. I see that your window looks out straight onto
the street. Did you happen to see a boy go past your window crying that
afternoon?"
I shrugged uneasily. "I couldn't really tell you Constable." I said. "
Lots of boys go past my window crying - it's a cruel world is it not?
Especially for those not equipped to deal with it yet. I suppose I
could have seen a crying boy on Monday, but it could equally have been
last Thursday, last Tuesday, the Wednesday before that? I'm afraid that
when you get to my old age every day and every person seem to merge
into one." I ventured a chuckle at the ineptitude of the elderly. There
was no answering smile from the policeman and the chuckle died in my
throat.
"Perhaps this will help." He said, and reaching into his breast pocket
he took out a photograph and held it out to me. I stayed motionless for
a second. I knew in my heart of course that the picture would be of
Marvin, but as soon as I actually saw the photograph I would know in my
head too - and I didn't want that to happen. But you can't ignore the
long arm of the law, especially when it's holding out a photograph of a
missing child. I took the picture.
It was an old picture. There weren't quite as many chins and the hair
was a bit lighter than its current shade. But it was definitely him. I
stared at the photo for a few seconds with my heart in my boots. Poor
Marvin, I thought. Poor Marvin. I looked up at Harriman and caught his
avid eyes drinking in every twitch of my features. My throat went dry
and I had to swallow hard before I could speak.
"I'm sorry - I don't recognise him. They all look so similar..."
I expected him to press me to consider the picture again, but he
didn't. He didn't even look disappointed at my lack of recognition,
merely philosophical. He sat back in the armchair and it creaked
beneath his weight.
"Tell me sir," He said after a beat, "you say you don't even take a
newspaper? Do you mind telling me why? I know it seems a little
irrelevant and off the point but I'm curious." He pasted an expression
of polite interest on his face but I sensed bear-traps behind those
calm eyes.
I hesitated before replying, torn between truth and fiction. The truth
was that I didn't like the idea of some nosy, impudent, spiteful
teenager fiddling with my letterbox and having an insight into my life
and habits. An opinion unlikely to be viewed kindly in an investigation
into a missing child. So I was tempted to lie. On the other hand, lying
too much to this man seemed as safe as swimming in a tidal wave. I
settled on a compromise.
"I'm afraid I'm rather old fashioned, Constable." I said. "I keep
myself to myself and expect others to do the same. It sounds foolish,
but I don't take a newspaper because the newspaper you take gives
people an impression of you? a way of classifying you? and I don't like
being classified. I don't like anyone knowing my habits. Even if it's
just a paperboy. " I looked him in the eye, searching for flickers of
suspicion or ridicule. There were none. The policeman gazed back at me
impassively.
"So you sacrifice your interest in the world around you so that a
paperboy won't know what type of thing you like to read of a morning?"
The question came out levelly, but once again I sensed those bear
traps.
"I have no real interest in the world around me. I told you - I keep
myself to myself and expect others to do the same."
"So you never have the slightest urge to know what is going on around
you? To be involved in society? To contribute?" There was a slight
imperative undertone to his words now, as if I was treading on sacred
ground. I allowed an edge to enter my voice too.
"I am involved in society. I pay taxes like everyone else, I give
money to a well known animal-welfare charity. I shop in the
supermarket, I walk down the road. That is 'being involved' wouldn't
you say? That is 'contributing'? I just very rarely feel the need to
know what's going on farther afield."
" 'Very rarely' " He seized on the admission. "So you do feel the need
sometimes? But you suppress it?"
"I told you - I don't like being classified - even by a
paperboy."
"You could always go and buy the paper yourself? Then there would be
no paperboy."
"Then the people in the shop would be able to classify me."
"You could use a different shop every day."
"Then even more people could classify me." I paused and leant forward
in my chair. "I'm sorry Constable, but is this an investigation into a
missing boy or into my personal preferences? I fail to see the
relevance."
Harriman leant forward in his chair too. There was a satisfied
expression on his face. For a moment I felt swallowed by his eyes and I
knew the game was up. But then he smiled ruefully.
"I'm sorry sir." He said, sitting back again. "Like I said - I'm just
curious. It's part of my nature I'm afraid. The wife is always going on
at me about it. Says that one of these days I'll find out something
that I'd wish I hadn't. Maybe she's right, who knows? But it's just my
nature?" He stood up abruptly.
"Well, thank you for your time sir." He handed me a business card.
"You will ring if you remember seeing the missing boy?"
I assured him that I would, and we made our way to the front door. The
policeman stepped out into the cold afternoon before turning round to
face me once more.
"You do realise sir, that the people in the supermarket will classify
you by the food you buy?"
I couldn't think of anything to say to that. He smiled as he turned
and began to walk off. "Just a thought Sir," He said. "Just a
thought."
I didn't get very far with my jigsaw that night.