The Watch on the Post Box - Part II

I leapt up, dropping the mug of hot chocolate all over the green carpet, the hot liquid burning my feet - though I couldn’t really feel a thing; my whole body had gone numb. I snatched the landline up from the table, and dialled the appeal number which this channel had permanently positioned in the top corner of their screen.

 

‘I-I’ve found the watch.’ I blurted out, cutting the palm of my hand on the broken face as I gripped it so tightly, never wanting to let it go. This had to mean something. The boy had disappeared a week ago in a Northern town, yet here I was, hundreds of miles away - but I had found that watch, I knew it was the one.

 

‘The Watch, Sir?’ The late night worker on the other end responded.

 

I spoke quickly and in a strangely high pitched tone. ‘Yes - James’ Watch, the black leather one, well I found it on a post-’

 

‘What’s your address?’ He suddenly interrupted me, switching on and realising that this wasn’t someone calling with what they ‘reckon’ happened. He spoke quickly, and I could hear voices in the background discussing the revelation.

 

‘North Sykes. Just outside of Devon. I live in the house opposite the field - you can’t miss it.’

 

There was a brief pause, and from what I gathered a small discussion in the background, between a team. ‘There’ll be someone to come for you immediately.’ The line went dead.

 

I didn’t enjoy school. Most of my educational years were spent with my head either being forced into a toilet, struck with a fist, or having phallic symbols drawn across the forehead. I was quite clever, and did well in exams, though this didn’t help my case in gaining the respect of my fellow classmates. I would often come in from school, dart immediately upstairs to my room, without returning the welcoming words of my social workers, and bury my head under a pillow, bursting into tears. I was delighted when I attained the age to leave school, though it turned out that I had become too distracted from my academic work to go to University, a dream my parents had always saved up for. In my Mother’s will, every penny was left to me, all of which she specified as a fund for ‘Your Glorious Future’. I hadn’t achieved the grades I was expected to, too exhausted from the school day spent being called ‘Orphan Boy’ to do the work I wanted to when I came home.

 

This was my second ever time in a police station. I had gone into one, aged 12, hoping to report my school abuse to someone who would listen, and I hoped, take it seriously. I was turned away, and told that this wasn’t a police matter, despite me presenting my arm, bruised, cut and bitten, to the officer on reception. I was told to stop wasting police time. My second visit was a little more disconcerting, as now I was being treated as the one who had supposedly committed the crime. It was a feeling I hated, perhaps more so than the feeling of knowing there is no more help to find.

 

But for the officer shouting into my face, I was quite comfortable. A padded chair with lumbar support had been provided for my questioning, and the temperature inside this small, dark room was perfect, a pleasant mixture of warmth and refreshing air. The man who leaned over the table and into my face was bearded, a middle-aged officer who I recognized from the television news stories.

 

‘How do you expect us to believe that you, a lonely single man who lives in a weird place, has nothing to do with the abduction of a boy who’s watch he has been keeping for a week now?’ He spat, droplets landing just under my cheeks and onto my neck. I grimaced as they did so, which he noticed, leaning further forward in an attempt to let this happen again.

 

I didn’t reply. The anger in his face was forcing large veins in his forehead to palpitate. ‘We’ve turned over your house - everything in it. You’re quite a weird fucker aren’t you, with your weird little set up. No job, no wife, no kids, bet you thought it would be great to have a little kid to keep for yourself, didn’t you!’ His breath was dominated entirely by disgusting coffee, which forced me almost to close my eyes as he spoke, something which he interpreted as my guilt crippling me.

 

‘Honestly all I’ve done is find the wa-’ The look he gave me seemed to close my mouth of its own accord.

 

I stayed calm under the pressure of the situation, though I felt anger rushing up through my blood, frustrated at the smearing of my good name. All I had done was take care of something valuable and sentimental, and give it warmth and shelter from potential damage. ‘As I say, officer, I found the watch on top of the post box. It was smashed when I got to it, and I took it home because I didn’t want it to be damaged any more by the rain. Then I watched the interview with the boy’s mother, and she mentioned the watch, so I called the number immediately, you brought me in, and here I am. There’s nothing more to it. I want to help the investigation in any way I can.’ I retorted, sitting up straight in my chair, proudly telling the truth. I was delighted with how well I spoke, and it seemed to land an impact on the two officers. In reality, I wasn’t particularly keen on helping the police; I wanted to help the boy, but not them.

 

‘But how did you know that this watch was James’?’ He launched his reply back at me.

 

‘I just knew - it felt as though that watch meant something more than just a lost possession.’

 

At first, the officer seemed content, and initially recognized the honesty in my tone, moving back slightly and taking up the seat on the other side of the table, next to his female colleague, who hadn’t spoken but for offering me a warm drink as I’d been escorted into the room, cuffed.

 

‘Right.’ He said, getting up and leaving the room, slamming the door behind him as he did, leaving myself and the female officer alone.

 

I was still in my pajamas, which were your traditional buttoned-up, stripey blue garments. I wondered if the boy’s mother was in the same building as I now was, if they’d called her in immediately following the news which I had introduced to the investigation. I twiddled my thumbs, hands on the table, as I waited for something to happen. The officer just sat there, across the table from me, waiting for her colleague to return and instruct her on what they were to do next. I presumed that the watch had been taken for forensic analysis, and that some idiot had probably gotten excited about the fact that my prints were on it, before realising that this was probably due to me having studied it for days, running it through my fingers and adoring the object, often gripping it close to myself.

 

The door swung open aggressively, smacking against the inside wall of the room, and the officer came back in, a disappointed look on his face, accompanying the small bags which sat underneath both of his eyes. He looked at me, hatred in his glare, and told me that they were to keep me there for the night and the following day. I knew that, by law, they had 24 hours to hold me, before they had to charge or release me. Without any evidence to do so, they would have to give up. I was polite and patient, and agreed to remain there, knowing that I would be released. His female colleague unlocked the handcuffs which gripped my wrists painfully, and I left the room, turning right and walking down the corridor, toward, not quite a cell, but room which I was pointed in the direction of. The door was closed behind me, and locked, so I settled down for the remainder of the night, lying on a surprisingly comfortable bed, my head resting on a thin but adequate pillow. I shook my head as I took in what had happened to me that night - I’d been treated as though I’d abducted the boy, harshly interrogated by a brute of a police officer and made to feel like a criminal. It made me feel dirty, as though I had been dragged through mud.

 

The following day I again spent in the interview room, this time with two different officers, both of whom spent the day on their feet, aggressively trying to crack something out of me. They just wanted someone to hold up in front of the public to show that they’d gotten somewhere in the time they’d had since the boy had disappeared, even if it meant forcing this information from an innocent man. They shouted, spat and waved exaggerated hand gestures at me as they told, rather than asked me, what had happened. Begrudgingly, the 24 hours had expired, and a little after 11pm that night, I was told that I would be free to go. My brief brush with the law was over, and I could return to normality.

 

I was lead out into the station reception, where I was asked to fill out some forms relating to my interview, including signing several declarations which I didn’t particularly agree with, though obliged, as I was eager to return to my world. As I walked toward the exit of the police station, hoping that someone might give me a ride home and out of London, I overheard two other officers sharing a conversation.

 

‘There’s no video footage from the CCTV camera. It was smashed to bits, probably by whichever bastard took the lad’ I managed to hear one of them say. He spoke in a regretful tone, sounding emotionally invested in the case.

 

‘Simon reckons the boy smashed the watch to tell us the time that he was taken, so that we could find it on the video footage. He was clever like that, his mother told us he knew what to do in dangerous situations - a real mature lad. If only the camera hadn’t been buggered, we’d know exactly what happened, but from where I’m standing, he was taken from North Sykes, there was a struggle, and he didn’t know what else to do but give us something to help find him. The one thing he loved dearest - his Father’s watch, but he knew that it might help us. It didn’t work.’

 

‘Well, we’ve interviewed everyone in that weird, inbred little village now. None of them know anything, apart from that it’s the most out of the ordinary thing to happen within fifty miles of that place for a very long time. It’s in the middle of bloody nowhere’ one of them said with a distinctive cockney accent.  

 

‘The brother still can’t be found. They’re looking into where he went, and whether he was anywhere near North Sykes at any point at the time and date that the watch was smashed - with that exact time and location, James might just have saved himself by doing what he did. I wish every kidnapped child were as clever as he was in that situation.’

 

Seeing me approaching, one of them let out a small chuckle as he described, presumably me, as a ‘lonely freak’, with a ‘weird house’. I interrupted their conversation at that point to ask if they knew anyone who could take me home, both looking embarrassed about the way in which they had just spoken. They pointed me in the direction of a young trainee, who looked extremely tired and overwhelmed by this late-night shift.

 

‘Tracey, you’re not needed here. Can you take him home for us?’ One of the two officers asked her, rudely. She nodded, getting up from the chair she had almost fallen asleep in, and gestured me out to the car park.

 

It was cold outside, but the air smelt fresh, and I felt free. I looked forward to getting back under the warmth of my duvet, and the comfort of my own environment. It had been an incredibly eventful 24 hours, one of the busiest days I had spent in a very long time, and I was glad that the saga was over, and that I could return home, and move on with my life. It would be a new chapter, a new start, and one I was very excited about. The police wouldn’t be contacting me again, and I could try now to switch off from the emotional connection I had stupidly made with this story, and forget it.

 

I had enjoyed my small flirtation with the police. Even though I had done nothing wrong, I felt a small victory in being released despite their wish to charge me, probably to cover up in the media the fact that they couldn’t find the brother. It was like a little spot of revenge for them having not helped the young 12 year-old who had come to them all those years ago, with the cuts and bruises down his arm. He had no parent to go to, no teacher that could help him, and the very last point of call, the last straw, had been to go there. They hadn’t helped him, so he wouldn’t help them. I smiled - I had gone to them, in their eyes almost given them a lead, and snatched it away from them with my innocence.

 

Tomorrow I would spend the day relaxing, perhaps I would wake up slightly later, and enjoy the peace which I would surely now be able to sleep with. I hoped that it would rain, and that everybody’s days out would be spoilt, hoping that I might hear the pitter patter of the drops on my window as I stayed warm and dry under the comfort of my quilt. I could start a new book, or read the paper or go for another walk - yes, I would do all of these things. Tomorrow was the start of my new life - and I now expected I would be a lot happier.

 

I returned home to find that it really had been turned upside down, papers everywhere and tables inverted, drinks swept off tables and onto the floor, fridge raided and glasses smashed. It resembled a small landfill site, with everything having been emptied, checked or scrutinized, and left exactly how they felt it should be. I pulled up the long rug which covered the hall floor, checking that they hadn’t opened the door to the cellar. James had heard me come home, and was shouting out to me from below.

 

As I said, I just wanted to make sure that no boy ever has to grow up without a Father.