Don't Let Them Notice You Read online

  Don’t Let Them Notice You

  © Ian Gessey 2015

  “One ought to be afraid of nothing other than things possessed of power to do us harm, but things innocuous need not be feared.”

  ― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

  10:19am – The House and Its Occupant

  The old house had remained unchanged for as long as anyone could remember.

  Time and the relentless attack of the elements had left their mark however; the once clean and bright paintwork on the wooden window frames had faded and peeled, and the garden had become a jumbled mass of weeds and ivy.

  Neighbours had come and gone over the years, but old man Foster had very much kept himself to himself, preferring a quiet, solitary existence.

  The only exception however were Monday mornings when, regular as clockwork, he would venture out for essentials from the local convenience store, but as was the case with many people, he managed to go about his business for days on end unnoticed by the world.

  He showed little interest in anybody else and the rest of the world kindly reciprocated.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, the visits to the store stopped.

  The owner of the store, Amit Malik, concerned by the old man’s absence that week and still possessing a measure of neighbourliness, took it upon himself to check on Fosters welfare.

  Amit knew where he lived as old Foster had always moaned about “those flaming factories” keeping him awake at night.

  He left his wife in charge of the shop and walked the relatively short distance to Fosters house.

  He arrived at the reasonably good sized house which was indeed just opposite the “flaming factories” - the rhythmic thump-thump-thump from the heavy machinery could be felt through the ground; heaven only knows what it was like to live here he thought.

  As there was no reply from his repeated knocks on the solid front door, he picked his way through the overgrown garden to the back door, peering through the small side window as he went past, his view hampered by the stained net curtains dressing the window.

  The rotten timber door at the back of the house was ajar, so he politely knocked on it as he gently pushed it open, announcing his presence as he did so.

  No reply.

  He called out again, louder this time, more definite, with more urgency – he hoped for a response as he was starting to fear the worst.

  As he stepped inside the small kitchen, the smell hit him; oh the smell.

  He had been around enough bodies to recognise it straight away as the pervasive stench of death.

  Amit was almost too afraid to go any further but he knew that he now had a moral obligation to Foster; he deserved to be laid to rest properly, no matter how difficult this might be.

  The decent thing had to be done, after all, who else was there to look out for him?

  Old man Foster was sat upright in an armchair in the centre of the living room, his face locked in a sinister grimace, his lifeless eyes fixed straight ahead.

  He was quite dead and, judging by the smell, he had been this way for a few days.

  In his right hand, which lay in his lap, he held a claw hammer - his fingers firmly locked in a vice-like grip around the worn rubber handle.

  His left hand was holding a highly polished teapot to his chest.

  Amit took a step forward towards the old man’s body, one hand holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nose to reduce the impact of the stench.

  He was just getting over a cold so a combination of a reduced sense of smell and the aroma of Olbas Oil from the handkerchief went some way to masking the foul odour that permeated the dull room.

  He hesitated.

  What was that sound?

  He could have sworn it came from upstairs; a high pitched scraping noise followed by a dull crack.

  Amit looked up in the direction of the sound and paused. Just the house, that’s all it is; just the old wooden windows, stretching in the warm sunlight.

  Turning his attention back to the body he could see no immediate evidence of foul play, which brought him some relief as he had no stomach for the sight of blood – thankfully it seemed that Foster had died of natural causes.

  It was at this point that he took his mobile phone out and called the emergency services. Amit requested an ambulance, but stated that there was no rush as the old man would not benefit from any form of medical assistance.

  He looked slowly around the room while he waited for the operator to connect the call.

  The room seemed reasonably clean and tidy, despite the half-light – Foster had obviously spent more time caring for the inside of the house than the exterior or the garden.

  The living room curtains were closed but Amit could see no harm in opening them up to allow some extra light into the room, after all it was a glorious summer morning.

  While he was on the phone to the dispatcher he walked over to the long heavy curtains and opened them carefully in turn, allowing the sunlight to flood into the room and illuminate the macabre scene.

  His eyes slowly adjusted to the light in the room as his mind absorbed his surroundings.

  Because the room was so dark when he first entered, he hadn’t noticed the damage, but now that the sunlight was reaching into the gloomy recesses, he could see it clearly.

  To the right of the chair the old man was sitting in was a large, substantial wooden table, surrounded by four dining chairs.

  Dozens of metallic items were strewn across the table; goblets, cutlery, pans, trophies and silverware – all beaten out of shape or sprayed with black paint.

  Other items were tarnished as if by an abrasive cleaner or scratched by an emery cloth, or sandpaper.

  Amit was mystified by this and walked forward to take a closer look.

  At this point he recalled the silver teapot in Fosters hand.

  He walked over and gently removed it from his grasp, taking care not to disturb the cold body.

  It was strange that this pot was in such pristine condition considering the damage to all the other items on the table.

  He held it up to the sunlight, inspecting it closely.

  Something flickered in the corner of his eye, a form reflecting in the pot – barely perceptible but his brain acknowledged the movement and drew its own conclusions.

  A man? Something tall?

  He turned around quickly to identify the source, but there was no-one else there in the room with him.

  Was it the room that was making him feel uneasy - the thought of a dead man in the chair?

  Either way, he felt a strong sensation of dread and foreboding; he knew he needed to spend as little time as possible in this room.

  And that headache; he never had it when he came in.

  Not only was there a constant thump in his head from the factories, but he could feel the vibrations through the floorboards.

  Amit cursed himself for allowing his imagination to play such tricks on him and he put the pot back down on the table.

  Maybe it was best to wait for the ambulance outside in the fresh air – there was certainly nothing more he could do for Foster in here.

  As he turned to walk towards the door, he noticed the wall, just behind the old man.

  He was surprised he hadn’t seen the writing before, especially as it was scrawled in large letters on the aged magnolia wall:

  “DON’T LET THEM NOTICE YOU”

  12:04pm – Digging Deeper

  “Cardiac arrest I would say”, the paramedic stated as he loaded his bag back into the ambulance, “Of course without an autopsy we can’t be completely sure, but that would be down to the relatives.”

  “Strange situation this”, the paramedic continued, “We get called out for one dead ch
ap – we turn up and there’s two of them.”

  PC Mike Robinson smiled half-heartedly and looked up at the house.

  “I guess that’s why we’re here”, he said, turning his attention back towards the paramedic.

  The paramedic shut the rear doors on the ambulance and waved his colleagues on; the first call had ultimately required the services of another crew to remove the second body from the house.

  “So let me get this clear”, Mike said to the paramedic, “You get a non-emergency call for an old man found dead in the house by a visitor.”

  “Then, when you arrive you find, not only the old man but the body of the person who called it in?”

  The paramedic fumbled in his pocket for his phone, checked the time and turned his attention back to Mike.

  “Yeah that’s right – it’s like I was saying to your colleague in the house while you were out here…there is no obvious evidence of wrongful death; looks like he just dropped dead after he called us.”

  “He must have had an underlying condition though…like I said, we will know more after the family have been contacted…let’s get some family history and take it from there, maybe an autopsy if entirely necessary.”

  The paramedic handed over Amit’s wallet and phone to Mike and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  “All the best”, he nodded knowingly, realising that Mike and his colleague would have the unenviable task of informing the relatives of this good Samaritans’ death.

  Mike stood back as the ambulances started up their engines and pulled away slowly from outside the house.

  It sounded like a cut and dry case so Mike didn’t think there was much point investigating any further. The most he and his colleague could do at this stage was to obtain his address and inform the relatives – not the most pleasant of experiences, but it had to be done.

  He walked towards the front of the house and called through on his radio to control for the address and next of kin details.

  His colleague Paul had already checked on the old man’s background and had not turned up any living relatives.

  As he stood waiting for a response, he tested the front door to make sure it was secure; the last thing he wanted was kids finding a way in to use it as a hangout.

  Despite being old, the strong wooden door reassuringly refused to budge.

  “Poor sod dead then is he? Was only a matter of time I guess?”

  Mike turned round quickly to see a rather stocky man standing behind him. He appeared to be in his late sixties, his unkempt receding grey hair swept back revealing a high, weathered forehead.

  He wore an old suit jacket over a stretched and stained knitted jumper; the collar of his shirt was worn on the neck line from repeated contacted with his unshaven throat and neck.

  “And you are?” Mike requested as he looked at his inquisitor.

  “Me? I’m Barnes…Joseph Barnes. I live up the way there. I knew Foster quite well…although that was a few years ago mind. Kind of kept himself to himself. No family you see.”

  Mike smiled politely, but at this point in time he had more important issues to deal with.

  “Mr Barnes, I appreciate your interest, but right at this moment I have to attend to another matter. If you have any information concerning Mr Foster, I would be happy to hear it later, if that’s alright?”

  Joseph looked at Mike then looked up at the house.

  “Aye, that would be fine officer”, he started, “I could tell you a thing or two. I live at number 36, just back there. Come by and we will have a brew.”

  He motioned over his shoulder to his house, all the while his attention remaining fixed on the house, eyeing it with suspicion.

  It wouldn’t hurt to get a bit more background on the old chap, Mike thought.

  “Right, I must be off Mr Barnes”, Mike said as he walked back towards the patrol car, “I will head back and see you in a short while if that’s ok?”

  Joseph nodded and waved the car off, watching it drive slowly down the narrow street.

  He stood at the end of the pathway to Fosters house, looking at his reflection in the large downstairs window.

  A shadow flickered across the window…someone inside?

  His imagination?

  Joseph looked around quickly to see if anything had passed behind him, but the street was completely clear, quiet apart from the constant low level rhythmic thump emanating from the factory units opposite.

  He looked back at the house and was immediately overcome by a sensation of intense dread, a creeping, insidious feeling, completely at odds with the warm summer sunshine around him.

  For the briefest, yet most terrifying moment, he felt that the house was staring right back at him.

  2:25pm – Across the Styx

  Mike pulled the patrol car up outside Joseph Barnes house.

  The ordeal of having to break the news of a death to their loved ones had taken its toll; he felt physically and emotionally drained at this point.

  Mr Malik’s wife had taken the news very badly. The poor woman was now left with three children to raise along with a busy store. She was being comforted by relatives and would go through the identification process later, but she had mentioned that Mr Malik did suffer from asthma so that may have been a contributing factor.

  If she felt it necessary to gain some closure, then an autopsy should reveal the cause of death – certainly not a decision she would be making today.

  Mike had decided to come back to Barnes house on his own while his colleague went off shift.

  It wasn’t a murder enquiry as far as he could see, so having an informal chat with a neighbour about an old man’s death wouldn’t compromise or prejudice any investigations.

  Worst case scenario it would be an old man ranting on about the state of the economy and how the government are to blame for everything.

  Mike got out of the car and walked down the neat pathway to the front door.

  The differences between the two houses were striking; Mr Barnes, or at least somebody at the property, was a keen gardener. The lawn was a rich, luxuriant green and was bordered by well-kept flowerbeds, sprinkled with bark shavings and pea gravel.

  The windows and door brasses were radiantly clean and a row of garden gnomes stood guard over a small decorative pond.

  Mike pressed the doorbell and straightened his uniform in the bay windows’ reflection as waited for a response.

  After a few seconds a shuffling form could be seen through the partially obscured glazing of the front door.

  The figure fumbled with the keys for a few seconds before opening the front door.

  A pleasing aroma of roast lamb greeted him as Joseph Barnes opened the door.

  “Ah, officer, glad you could make it…please come in”, Joseph announced as he opened the door wide, “would you mind slipping your shoes off?”

  “Of course Mr Barnes”, Mike responded, “don’t worry I won’t keep you too long.”

  He stepped into the tidy hallway, taking his shoes off on the carpet runner that led into the small kitchen.

  “Not at all officer, would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

  “Tea would be fine, milk and two sugars please”, said Mike.

  Joseph directed Mike into the sun bathed lounge and motioned to a comfortable looking sofa in the centre of the room.

  “Please, sit down…I will just go and get your tea.”

  It had been a rather busy day today with one thing and another and Mike was glad to get a break, so the idea of a cup of tea and a sit down on a comfortable sofa was most welcome; he was certainly in no rush to leave.

  Mike looked around the room. It was smartly furnished and very clean – completely at odds with Mr Barnes appearance. There were a few photographs on the walls; what appeared to be grandchildren mainly.

  Just above the old fireplace three highly polished ceremonial swords were hung, with an empty space just below the highest sword where, presumably, another sword should be hangin
g.

  “Nice place you have here”, Mike shouted, cringing at the sound of the conversation starting cliché.

  Joseph came back into the room with two teacups on a tray and a selection of biscuits.

  “Thank you. I have lived here for most of my adult life and I have finally got the place exactly how I want it”, Joseph replied.

  “Now officer”, Joseph started, “you haven’t come here to appreciate my house…you want some information on Mr Foster don’t you?”

  Mike took a sip of his tea then reached for a chocolate biscuit.

  “Well, yes, although I’m not sure if it will be relevant or actually required to be honest. I don’t suspect foul play at this stage but certainly, any insights into Mr Fosters’ life would be interesting.”

  Joseph shifted in his chair as if the very subject they were about to discuss made him uncomfortable.

  “I made friends with George Foster in 1995 when he moved into number 22. He seemed a nice enough chap – he had not long lost his wife and he had moved to escape the memories of his old house.”

  “Anyway, that was 20 years ago and he was a different person back then; lively, outgoing, positive about the future in spite of his wife’s death…he wasn’t one to mope around you see.”

  “Back in 2000, the factories were built opposite the house and I guess it was around that time he changed. He let his garden go, he stopped coming round here so much…he just stayed in that house all the time.”

  Mike listened carefully; although the account was a sad one, he hadn’t heard anything so far that gave him cause for concern.

  “I went round to see him a few times but even that petered out over the last few years - I last went round there about two weeks ago.”

  “He started talking gibberish – going on about that house and the things that went on inside.”

  “What do you mean?” interjected Mike, his interest piqued by that last comment.

  Joseph looked at Mike and started laughing.