isn’t.’
He closed his eyes, recalling the events of that fateful night. I caught sight of a car drive past the lounge window, down into the bottom of the cul-de-sac where the Hancock house was situated.
I peeked my head through the glass and craned my neck to better see; a police car made a three-point turn, pulling up at the head of Dougie’s drive. I withdrew into the house.
‘It’s the cops, Dougie. They’re here!’
‘Dad, you’ve a matter of seconds to tell me what went on.’ He gestured to the window. ‘The police think they’re turning up to a domestic. Are they?’
Mr Hancock leaned forward, his voice steady for the first time in months.
‘I wasn’t driving the Bentley, Douglas.’
‘Then how do you explain the damage to the wing? I suppose that was some other blue bicycle it crashed into?’
‘No, it was Will Underwood’s bicycle.’
I felt sick, hearing him say those words.
‘But you deny driving the car?’
‘I was a passenger.’
‘But it’s your car! You’re precious about the Bentley. You never let anyone drive it.’
I heard the policeman’s footsteps up the gravel drive. Mr Hancock looked suddenly terribly sick.
‘I let him.’
‘Who?’ asked Dougie, but at that moment, I knew.
‘Bradbury.’
Dougie swayed unsteadily with the fresh revelation.
‘Then why not tell the police that? Why hide the evidence for him?’
‘I had no proof to say it was Bradbury. Only my word.’
There was a hammering of a fist at the door; urgent, concerned.
‘Your word’s not good enough?’
‘Not against Bradbury.’
A shout through the letterbox from the policeman, calling for someone to come to the door immediately. Dougie pointed to the hall, his voice a whisper.
‘Go and tell them now. Explain what happened.’
Mr Hancock tearfully shook his head.
‘If you don’t, I will.’ Dougie made for the door, but Mr Hancock was out of his chair with a speed that belied his booze-addled state. He caught his son’s wrist and
yanked him close. He spoke through gritted teeth, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his grizzled throat.
‘You can’t, Douglas. They’ll never believe you!’
‘I can make them try! We both can.’
Again, a shout from the policeman, now threatening to break down the door. I peered down the hall, the bobby’s eyes looking through the brass hatch.
‘You don’t understand what Bradbury and his friends will do,’ said Mr Hancock. ‘He’s a monster.’
‘You’re scared of what he’ll do to you?’
‘No,’ Mr Hancock said, tearfully. ‘I’m scared of what he’ll do to
you
.’ He let go of Dougie’s wrist as a final warning echoed through the hall,
the front door about to feel the full force of an irate policeman’s shoulder.
‘Do what you must, Douglas,’ said his father. ‘I’ll still love you, regardless.’
Dougie looked from his dad to me. I shrugged, lost for comforting words. What
could
he do? Spill what he knew to the police and face the consequences with Bradbury? That’s
if
his father was even telling the truth. And what about me? Where did justice for his murdered friend fit into the equation? No, I had no answers: he was damned either way, whatever he did. I had
only the one comment, and it wasn’t the most helpful, but it was certainly the most pressing.
‘There’s somebody at the door.’
SIXTEEN
The Truth and the Terrible
‘I really should write this up,’ said Sergeant Kramer, flipping his notebook shut and slotting it into his breast pocket.
‘I can assure you, Officer,’ said Mr Hancock, ‘this won’t happen again.’
‘It had better not. We take hoax calls very seriously down at the station.’ He shook his head as he rose from the sofa, Dougie shamefaced on a cushion beside him. ‘Wasting
police time’s a grave offence, lad.’
‘I know,’ said Mr Hancock, smiling apologetically. ‘And I’m sure Douglas understands too, don’t you, son?’
Dougie nodded and stared up at the sergeant with
He closed his eyes, recalling the events of that fateful night. I caught sight of a car drive past the lounge window, down into the bottom of the cul-de-sac where the Hancock house was situated.
I peeked my head through the glass and craned my neck to better see; a police car made a three-point turn, pulling up at the head of Dougie’s drive. I withdrew into the house.
‘It’s the cops, Dougie. They’re here!’
‘Dad, you’ve a matter of seconds to tell me what went on.’ He gestured to the window. ‘The police think they’re turning up to a domestic. Are they?’
Mr Hancock leaned forward, his voice steady for the first time in months.
‘I wasn’t driving the Bentley, Douglas.’
‘Then how do you explain the damage to the wing? I suppose that was some other blue bicycle it crashed into?’
‘No, it was Will Underwood’s bicycle.’
I felt sick, hearing him say those words.
‘But you deny driving the car?’
‘I was a passenger.’
‘But it’s your car! You’re precious about the Bentley. You never let anyone drive it.’
I heard the policeman’s footsteps up the gravel drive. Mr Hancock looked suddenly terribly sick.
‘I let him.’
‘Who?’ asked Dougie, but at that moment, I knew.
‘Bradbury.’
Dougie swayed unsteadily with the fresh revelation.
‘Then why not tell the police that? Why hide the evidence for him?’
‘I had no proof to say it was Bradbury. Only my word.’
There was a hammering of a fist at the door; urgent, concerned.
‘Your word’s not good enough?’
‘Not against Bradbury.’
A shout through the letterbox from the policeman, calling for someone to come to the door immediately. Dougie pointed to the hall, his voice a whisper.
‘Go and tell them now. Explain what happened.’
Mr Hancock tearfully shook his head.
‘If you don’t, I will.’ Dougie made for the door, but Mr Hancock was out of his chair with a speed that belied his booze-addled state. He caught his son’s wrist and
yanked him close. He spoke through gritted teeth, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his grizzled throat.
‘You can’t, Douglas. They’ll never believe you!’
‘I can make them try! We both can.’
Again, a shout from the policeman, now threatening to break down the door. I peered down the hall, the bobby’s eyes looking through the brass hatch.
‘You don’t understand what Bradbury and his friends will do,’ said Mr Hancock. ‘He’s a monster.’
‘You’re scared of what he’ll do to you?’
‘No,’ Mr Hancock said, tearfully. ‘I’m scared of what he’ll do to
you
.’ He let go of Dougie’s wrist as a final warning echoed through the hall,
the front door about to feel the full force of an irate policeman’s shoulder.
‘Do what you must, Douglas,’ said his father. ‘I’ll still love you, regardless.’
Dougie looked from his dad to me. I shrugged, lost for comforting words. What
could
he do? Spill what he knew to the police and face the consequences with Bradbury? That’s
if
his father was even telling the truth. And what about me? Where did justice for his murdered friend fit into the equation? No, I had no answers: he was damned either way, whatever he did. I had
only the one comment, and it wasn’t the most helpful, but it was certainly the most pressing.
‘There’s somebody at the door.’
SIXTEEN
The Truth and the Terrible
‘I really should write this up,’ said Sergeant Kramer, flipping his notebook shut and slotting it into his breast pocket.
‘I can assure you, Officer,’ said Mr Hancock, ‘this won’t happen again.’
‘It had better not. We take hoax calls very seriously down at the station.’ He shook his head as he rose from the sofa, Dougie shamefaced on a cushion beside him. ‘Wasting
police time’s a grave offence, lad.’
‘I know,’ said Mr Hancock, smiling apologetically. ‘And I’m sure Douglas understands too, don’t you, son?’
Dougie nodded and stared up at the sergeant with
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