Authors: Kit Tinsley
When I called the professor back, he gave me the good news, that most of that model of Dottling safe were only three number combinations, and that he also had the try-out combination, 6-82-12. If old man Harper had never bothered to change the combination, this was the only thing I would need.
I was anxious to get in and get started; it was always the same before a job. I wished I had a cigarette to smoke, that was always how I use to handle the pre match nerves as it were; however, I had quit just after I left London. So instead, I tapped nervously on the steering wheel, watching the clock. For the first time since I had been observing his habits, Harper was running late. It made me uneasy. I was a strong believer that if something felt wrong about a job you should just walk away, but how could I walk away from the potential life changing treasure in that safe? I couldn’t, I had become obsessed with the idea of getting into the safe. Even if Mickey’s story about the gold was utter shit, I still had to know what someone like Harper would keep in a safe.
Finally, ten minutes behind schedule, I saw Harper pulling out of the driveway in his dirt splattered Land Rover. He didn’t seem to even glance in my direction, this was comforting as I had been worried that he would spot the car and become suspicious. Instead, he turned left and headed towards the village. As the Land Rover disappeared around the first, tree lined bend I started the engine and slowly drove up the road towards the entrance to Harper’s farm.
I looked around for sign of any other vehicle, there were none around, so I headed up the driveway and pulled up outside the house. My heart was thumping in my chest as I got out of the car, and my palms were sweating inside my leather gloves. I was dressed all in black, with long sleeves, gloves and a beanie hat. The unseasonably hot weather had already begun, and a little sweat ran from under the hat and down into my eye. It stung like hell. I took off the beanie and wiped my eyes with it.
I took the duffle bag from the passenger seat and headed to the front door. As I had hoped, Harper had left it unlocked once more. I quickly headed to the study; time was, after all, of the essence. There it stood at the back of the room, swathed in shadows, my opponent, the safe. I rushed over and set the bag down at the side of the safe, I rubbed my hand over it. I don’t know why I always did this. I just needed to feel its strength before I tried to crack a safe.
I pulled out the scrap of paper on which I had scrawled the try-out combination the professor had given me. I felt the dial. There was a stiffness to it that was unusual, this was often a sign that the safe had not been opened in some time, also it made manipulation more difficult. The stiffness of the dial caused its own creaks and clicks, these made the clicks of the wheels parking, difficult to discern.
I slowly turned the wheel, entering each digit of the try-out combination 6, then 82 and finally 12. I heard the most satisfying click a safe cracker can ever hear, the sound of the fence dropping into the grooves on the wheels and unblocking the locking pin. The combination had worked. Thank God for people too lazy to bother with changing a safe’s combination. I went to open the heavy door of the safe.
I think the heat and dehydration were really starting to get to me. The heat beating down on me was finally driving me mad. I heard the crows cawing still, but I also heard words within the sounds. Words like thief, crook and bastard. The crows were judging me, those dead black eyes regarding me with the disdain of a jury convinced of my guilt. I wanted to scream, but of course I couldn’t. I was only capable of the quietest mumble, thanks to Harper. One of the crows flew onto my shoulder. It cawed loudly, and then began to peck at my earlobe, it’s powerful beak clamping down and easily breaking the skin. I did not mind, the pain was a distraction from the heat, and a reminder that I was still alive.
From the position of the sun, and the change in the tones of colour in the field, I guessed that it was about mid afternoon. I felt like my throat would crack open from thirst, it had been so long since my last ration of filthy water, but evening was coming and Harper would return soon.
Mickey Welby was a lying son of a bitch. I had pulled the heavy, and somewhat seized up, safe door open. I was not greeted by the sight of an impossible mountain of gold. Instead, there were dusty manila folders, some old photograph albums, and a single ingot of gold bullion. That was enough, though, at today’s high gold prices that would be worth somewhere between four hundred grand and half a million. Admittedly I wouldn’t be able to set myself up for life, but it would make life more comfortable.
I picked up the ingot and examined it. I almost dropped it when I saw the markings on the top. There, as clear as day, was a Swastika. This was Nazi gold. The historical significance could be worth a lot more to the right collector than the gold value. I tucked the Ingot into the duffle bag and flicked through the folders. Most of them were to do with the finances of the farm, which seemed to be quite successful. This came as a bit of a surprise as no one in the village even knew what exactly Harper grew up here, one rumour was that he was actually farming cannabis. The more boring reality was wheat mainly. Harper only hired in labourers from outside the area, and only at harvest time. It appeared he did everything else on the farm himself.
I continued flicking through the folders and found some papers that were written in what looked like German to me. This answered the question of old man Harper’s country of origin.
Finally, I looked through the photograph album. There were a few old snaps of old man Harper and his bride on their wedding day, a few shots of them with the current Mr Harper as a baby, and he was surprisingly cute as a child. Growing up had not been kind to him.
After the few family shots and some holiday photos there was a gap in the album, but when I skipped a few pages I saw a photograph that sent a chill through me. It was clearly old man Harper in the picture, though in it he was far from old. He was a young, athletic, handsome man, who just happened to be wearing an SS officer’s uniform.
The photograph explained the Nazi gold ingot and why Harper would change his name and lose his accent as quickly as possible. He was hiding.
All at once, I felt uneasy in the house, I couldn’t explain the sensation, it just felt like I was invading in issues far bigger than myself. I put the album back in the safe and locked it back up. I zipped up my duffle bag and turned to leave the room.
Stood there blocking my path was the hulking frame of Harper. He looked at me with that same smile he had on his face the day he nearly ran me over. Too late, I noticed the lead pipe in his hand. He swung it at the side of my head. There was a moment of white-hot pain, and then blackness engulfed me.
The crow on my shoulder continued to peck at the soft tissue of my earlobe for a while. I could feel the warm, sticky trickle of blood that creeped lazily down the side of my neck. Then my avian attacker turned his attention to the stitches above my ear, and the raw flesh where Harper had hit me with the pipe. I could feel it ripping out the stitches that Harper had so carefully done to stop the bleeding. I felt the wound opening and the crow’s beak exploring the inside of the wound. As he did this, his friends all stood around flapping their dirty, black angel wings and cawing, cheering him on like a ravenous pack of demons.
When I came to, I was strapped to a metal table. At first I felt disorientated, not quite sure of where I was. I knew that I was naked, and that the metal was cold against my flesh. I was in a room with no windows that felt cool and smelled ever so slightly damp. I was in a basement.
My head throbbed, like I’d been kicked by a mule. Then I saw Harper walking around in overalls.
‘Ah, you’re awake,’ he said in a voice that I had not expected. He sounded much more refined and educated than his appearance would have led you to assume he was.
‘Where?’ it was all I could manage to say.
‘Shh,’ he said soothingly. ‘You need to rest. I’ve stitched up the wound on your head. I didn’t want you to bleed to death in my office.’
I was having trouble processing the information. Harper was the one who had hit me with the lead pipe. He had caused my injury. So why now was he showing all of this concern? Why hadn’t he turned me over to the police?
‘The police?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t called them. You have been a very naughty boy, though, haven’t you. Coming in here, rummaging through personal things, and trying to take things that aren’t yours.’
He sounded like he was talking to a child. I was growing more frightened by the second.
‘Let me go,’ I said weakly.
He looked at me sadly and shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘You might tell some one about Daddy, about who he was. Mainly, though, you have to be punished for your behaviour. I can’t let the police in here snooping around, not without them finding out the truth, so I’m going to have to punish you my own way.’
‘No,’ I said, struggling against the leather straps that held me to the metal table.
‘Shh,’ he said again softly. ‘You’re going to need your strength.’
He walked away from me and went over to a shelf. He opened a box and pulled out a syringe and a small bottle of clear fluid.
‘I’m going to have to put you to sleep for a while now,’ he said. ‘Believe me when I say it’s all for the best. You really wouldn’t want to be awake for the next part.’
As he filled up the syringe, I screamed, louder than I had ever screamed in my life. I screamed for him to stop. I screamed for help. I screamed until my throat bled and my lungs hurt. It didn’t help. Harper came over and stuck the syringe into a vein in my arm, and as I felt a pressure on my chest, the world slipped away.
When I came to this time, I could feel Harper was holding my hand.
‘Listen to me very carefully,’ he said gently. ‘Do not try and open your eyes, and do not try and speak. If you do the pain will be terrible.’
I wanted to do both, yet I believed his warning.
‘I want you to squeeze my hand once for yes, and twice for no, do you understand.’
I squeezed his hand once.
‘Firstly, there is nothing wrong with your eyes, you will be able to see just fine when I get you out there. Secondly, your mouth is going to be very sore, you just have to try your hardest to keep it still. Do you understand?’
I squeezed his hand once more.
‘Good, I’m going to leave you now to rest for the night, but tomorrow morning your punishment starts. Do you understand?’
I squeezed his hand once more.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m going to put a small tube into your nose. This is just to keep you hydrated overnight; it’s just a saline solution like you would have in hospital. Tomorrow morning I will feed you through the tube.’
He inserted the tube through my nose and down into my stomach. Then he left me alone in the darkness.
The next time I woke up, I could see. Whatever had been covering my eyes had been removed. I saw Harper stood there in front of me. He was removing the saline drip that had been going through the tube in my nose. He took the end of the tube and attached it to a large syringe, containing some brown substance.
He looked down and noticed I was awake. He smiled at me.
‘Good morning,’ he said cheerfully, I hope you’re not in too much pain, I gave you some tramadol in the night, it might mean you’re still a little woozy.’
I tried to tell him that I was, but I felt a sharp pain in my lips. I couldn’t open my mouth.
‘Shh,’ he said. ‘Don’t try and speak, I’ve stitched your lips together. I’ve only left enough of a gap for you to breathe if your nose gets blocked.’
I must have been dreaming. This had to be some kind of surreal nightmare, where the monster seemed so caring and gentle while inflicting such hideous torments upon me. I thrashed around against the straps, banging my head repeatedly against the metal table. Harper ignored it; he carried on connecting the tube in my nose to the syringe.
‘This is food,’ he said. ‘I’m pumping it straight into your stomach through the tube in your nose. It contains all of the nutrients you need for a day. It won’t stop you feeling hungry, but it’ll stop you dying of malnutrition.’
I gave up thrashing, there was no point, there was no escape. My only hope was that whatever punishment Harper had in mind for me, it would be over quickly.
That was two weeks ago. I’ve spent every hour since then nailed to this cross in this field, a human scarecrow, except I do not scare them, they taunt me. I am a useless scarecrow.
I have seen cars drive by, but they do not stop. Why would they? All they see is a scarecrow in a field. There is nothing out of the ordinary in that around here. On a few occasions people have walked past the field, walking their dogs. Of course, I can’t open my mouth to scream, and I’m too well fixed to the cross to show them I’m alive through movement. So I just stay here, day and night, sun and rain. My only company is the crows, and they hate me,
Harper comes twice a day, once in the morning, and once in the evening. He inserts the tube into my nose and feeds me and gives me water. He gives me enough to survive, but not enough to stop suffering.
I am serving my sentence. Harper says that if I survive until harvest he will let me go, I want to believe him. The thing is I don’t know if I can survive that long. It is months until harvest. The crows will have driven me mad a long time before then. I think they have already.
Timmy looked out of his window and saw the old man, Mr Phelps, looking up at him. Timmy did not like Mr Phelps at all. He was scared of him. The old man lived in the house next door all on his own. Mummy said that Timmy was being silly, that Mr Phelps was just a lonely and nosy old man, but Timmy knew better. Mr Phelps would stand out there on his front porch staring up at Timmy’s house, staring at Timmy, for hours on end.
Mummy had spoken to Mr Phelps a few times when they had first moved into the house, three months back. Mr Phelps had knocked on the door that first evening and introduced himself; Mummy had done the same. Timmy had hidden upstairs, peeking down and listening to them talk. The old man’s voice was deep and rasping. It frightened Timmy; it reminded him of the way the bad man had spoken.
‘So there’s just you and yer boy?’ Mr Phelps had asked.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Mummy had answered. ‘His father left sometime ago.’
Daddy had left after the bad man had taken Timmy, after Timmy had gotten sick. Mummy said that Daddy was not a bad man, he just didn’t know how to deal with what had happened, that he had been unable to protect his son.
Mummy was sick, too, Timmy had given her the disease. She didn’t blame him, though, it was after the bad man had taken him and done the vile things to him. The bad man had the sickness and passed it onto Timmy when he did the bad thing to him. There was no way they could have known he was poorly when he got home, covered in blood and bruises. Mummy had cleaned his wounds up, but she had a cut on her hand, and that was how she had gotten sick, too. The sickness scared Timmy; he would often cry himself to sleep worrying about dying. Mummy would come in and comfort him, saying that they both had a long time before they had to worry about that. Timmy was not so sure, though. Who could know how long they would have?
They had lived in the city then and Timmy had gone to school, but that had all changed now. They now lived on the edge of a small village in the countryside. Their house and Mr Phelps’ were the only two around for some distance. Timmy didn’t like being so far away from other people, especially with the way that Mr Phelps looked at him like he wanted to hurt him, like the bad man.
Timmy didn’t go to school anymore. Mummy taught him at home. She was afraid that if she sent him to school then the other children would learn about him being poorly, and they wouldn’t understand. So they would sit in the living room and Mummy would teach him to do sums and read books and everything else he did at school anyway. Sometimes Mummy got frustrated with him, because he was a slow learner. He never used to be, before the bad man took him. Since then, though, he had found it increasingly hard to concentrate, things would not sink in the way they used to. Mummy would shout at him for getting things wrong, then she would cry and hug him tight and tell him she was sorry.
Tomorrow was Timmy’s birthday. Mummy had promised him that she would take him out for dinner and they would go to the cinema. He loved going to the cinema more than anything. Mummy kissed him goodnight and he went up to his room. He was changing into his pyjamas when he saw Mr Phelps stood on his porch looking up at him. He just stood there smoking his stinky pipe and watching Timmy get changed. Timmy knew the look on his face; it was the same one the bad man had when he did the bad thing to him. Timmy pulled his thick, heavy curtains shut and ran downstairs.
‘I thought you were going to sleep?’ Mummy said. ‘It’s your big day tomorrow.’
‘Mr Phelps was watching me,’ he said.
‘Oh don’t be silly,’ Mummy said.
‘He wants to hurt me.’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ Mummy said. ‘He’s just a lonely old man. No one is going to hurt you ever again. I won’t let them.’
She held him close to her, then patted his bottom.
‘Now go to sleep.’
Timmy went back to his room and laid down, he couldn’t sleep. His mind kept racing with a thousand thoughts. He remembered his Daddy, happy times of them playing together in the park. He thought about what he and Mummy would do the next day, what they would have to eat, and what the film would be like. These were all happy thoughts. He knew that they would go somewhere quiet to eat; Mummy didn’t like to eating in crowded places. Then they would drive the fourteen miles to Lincoln to go to the cinema.
The image of Mr Phelps staring up at him kept popping back into his head and filling him with fear. Then he would remember the bad man, the way he had looked at Timmy as he walked home that winter evening. He remembered how he had just grabbed him, so strong, and carried him away. Then there was his foul smell, the thought of it made Timmy feel sick, and of course the pain.
Eventually he fell asleep, only to be woken by a loud banging on the front door. It was a furious thumping that scared him. He heard Mummy moving around downstairs, heading for the door. He wanted to scream at her not to open it, to come and hide with him, but the words would not come. Instead, all he could do was silently creep to the top of the stairs and watch in horror as the scene unfolded before him.
The banging on the door continued, getting heavier and faster. Mummy stepped in the hallway.
‘Just a minute,’ she said cheerfully, as though the force of the knocking was nothing unusual. How could she not be afraid? It was as if whoever was outside was trying to hammer their way into the house. Of course Timmy knew who was outside, Mr Phelps.
Mummy opened the door, and sure enough there stood the old man from next door. He seemed bigger standing in the doorway than he ever had when Timmy had seen him through the window. He stood there with his hands behind his back. Mummy looked startled to see him, but acted friendly enough.
‘Mr Phelps,’ she said. ‘Is everything all right?’
Mr Phelps didn’t answer, he just stood there silently looking at Mummy, and then his eyes moved slowly up the staircase. He met Timmy’s gaze. Timmy was so scared that he darted his head back into his room.
‘Mr Phelps,’ he heard Mummy say. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
There was no reply. Timmy looked back through the door carefully, just peeking out enough to see. Mr Phelps was still just standing motionless in the doorway, his hands behind his back. Mummy was starting to look annoyed.
‘Mr Phelps, I don’t mean to be rude, but if there’s nothing I can do for you, then I’m sorry but I’m a little busy at the moment.’
A strange smile crossed the old man's face. Timmy didn’t like it. It seemed full of hate and evil, like the bad man.
Mummy began to shut the door, but Mr Phelps shot out one of his arms and held it open, that sinister smile still on his face.
‘Mr Phelps, let me shut my door please,’ Mummy said. She was starting to sound cross.
‘No,’ the old man said in a rumbling tone that filled Timmy with dread. ‘It’s time.’
‘Time for wha...’ Mummy began to say, but before she could finish Mr Phelps lifted his other arm from behind his back. He was holding a long knife, Timmy thought it was called a machete, but he wasn’t sure.
Mr Phelps lunged at Mummy with the knife raised high, the blade hurtling through the air towards her. She was more agile, though, and managed to sidestep the attack. Mr Phelps fell through the door, crashing to the floor. Mummy looked up the stairs and met Timmy’s terrified gaze.
‘Timmy, hide!’ she shouted up.
He wanted to, really he did, he wanted to find somewhere safe to curl up and make all of this go away, but he couldn’t. He was frozen to the spot in fear, unable to stop watching the terrible things happening before him.
Mummy tried to step over the lump on the floor that was Mr Phelps and get to the stairs. Mr Phelps, though, had other ideas. His hand shot out and pulled on Mummy’s ankle. She screamed as she fell to the floor. They struggled on the floor; Mummy was hitting the old man, clawing at his face and even trying to bite him, something she’d told Timmy he must never do.
Mr Phelps was too strong, though, he pinned her down and then brought the blade down hard into Mummy’s chest. She looked up at Timmy, blood seeping from her mouth, her eyes full of pain and fear.
‘Run,’ she managed to rasp.
Mr Phelps looked up directly at Timmy; his face was covered in Mummy’s blood. He smiled up at Timmy. The paralysis of fear was broken and Timmy was up on his feet. He wanted to run out of the house, but knew there was no way that he could get past Mr Phelps without the murderous old man catching him. Instead, he ran to Mummy’s room. He knew there was a built-in wardrobe that had a shelved area at the back that he would be able to fit in. Mr Phelps would be able to find him easily, but Timmy hoped that the old man would not be able to reach him back there. As he began to run towards Mummy’s room, he heard the thunderous footfalls of the old man running up the stairs. Timmy had never felt so scared in his life, not even when the bad man had taken him. At least the bad man had told him that if Timmy let him do what he wanted without fighting, then he would not kill him. Timmy knew that was exactly what Mr Phelps wanted to do. He wanted to kill him just like he had killed Mummy.
He flew into Mummy’s room, not even bothering to shut the door behind him; it would take more time than he had. Mr Phelps was quick for his age and was almost right behind him. Timmy ran to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. Turning back, he saw Mr Phelps entering the room. Timmy crouched down and went to climb into the space under the shelves. To his horror, he saw that the space was full of boxes wrapped in colourful paper. His birthday presents.
Mr Phelps grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him out of the wardrobe. He looked down at Timmy with that same dark smile.
‘It’s time,’ he said.
Timmy saw the blade coming down towards his chest and screamed.
Then darkness.
He was aware of the sound of his own screaming in the darkness.
Then the sound of Mummy’s voice.
‘Timmy, what’s wrong?’ she said as she came into the room. Even under his cover he could see the light come to life. Mummy pulled his cover off him and pulled him to her.
‘Mr Phelps!’ Timmy said through hysterical tears. ‘He killed you and tried to kill me.’
Mummy stroked his hair.
‘I’m right here, baby, no one has killed me, no one’s going to,’ she said soothingly. ‘It was just a bad dream.’
‘It seemed so real,’ Timmy sobbed.
‘No one is ever going to hurt you, or me. As long as we’re careful,’ she said.
She sat there holding him for some time, until his sobs had near enough subsided, then she gently lowered him back down.
‘I love you, Mummy,’ Timmy said, feeling himself getting sleepy again.
‘I love you, too,’ she said, planting a little kiss on his forehead with her cool lips. ‘Now sleep tight, it’s your 130th birthday tomorrow.’
Timmy smiled.
Mummy smiled, her perfect white fangs glinting as she did, nothing like the horrible, yellow and stained things the bad man had.
Mummy gently closed the lid of his coffin as Timmy drifted off into a peaceful sleep.