12

It had been an anxious time but now he had entered that gap in the night, the one he could move through freely. Sleep was at its most profound. All the curtains were drawn on the little Victorian terrace. No lights were on in the windows. Brannon imagined the people lying open-mouthed on their backs or curled on their sides. The couples flung away from each other across their double beds. The babies in their cots with their bottoms in the air. The old people, solitary and smelling stale. He had stood and watched them countless times, savouring their insensibility to his presence.

He moved quickly onto the road that ran adjacent to the park. There was no moon, but the street lamps were bright so he had no cover of darkness. Still, the only seriously bad luck he could have would be a patrol car passing by chance – a lone man in a hoody at this time of night would be sure to arouse interest. But this wasn’t central London. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be disturbed. There was still the question of Skye and Candy, whom he had left in the boot of the locked car down the side street a few yards away from the park. He’d had to do that once before, when he’d used the payphone at the railway station and even though he’d been quick Skye had hated it. The gates were Victorian, perhaps eighteen foot high, cast iron with gilded decorative spikes. To anyone who didn’t know better, they would look intimidating, but the fact was that getting into the park was going to be a cinch. The great thing – the joke, in fact – was that the railings were less than two thirds the height of the gate and easily scalable. Fancy gate: shit railings. How many times had he seen that?

He worked the route out swiftly as he walked, head down, hands in pockets, a man on his way home, surely. The bottom rail with the decorative frieze at the bottom would be good for a foothold. Then, helpfully, a metal bracket supporting the notice giving the park’s opening times. Another, matching decorative frieze at the top. The knack was to get over smoothly with the minimum of effort. He didn’t look over his shoulder as he moved decisively in flowing movements: right foot on the bottom rail, right hand on the bracket, left foot swinging up to the bracket, right hand on the upper frieze, a precarious moment with both feet on the top bracket before he was able to swing a foot over. He dropped down into the park and began to run. He hadn’t even winded himself.

It was darker in here, and there was the usual burst of euphoria. He was a hunter, better in the night. He’d always liked locked, deserted parks: the empty paths, the dark, silent ponds. The wooden fence was easy enough to scramble over, and he ran through the small back garden. The lights were out. He had the knife in the back of his waistband. He had taken Skye’s nylon hairbrush with him and had a couple of bump keys in his inside pocket. The door to the garden had a single Yale-type lock. He slid a key in and gave it a light tap with the hairbrush. It didn’t work the first time, but the second time he got the tap and the rotation just right. He felt the sweet movement of the pins inside the barrel, the synchronicity of his quick push against the door.

He stepped into the sitting room and breathed in the silence of the flat, trying to sense if there was someone here. Then he padded out of the darkened room into the hallway. There was just one bedroom, the door slightly ajar. He leaned round the threshold. The double bed was unmade but empty. White sheets. An unlikely detail: a teddy. Who’d have thought that of her? It was an old one, with hard grey fur and a missing bead of an eye. Anyway, he wasn’t having that. He picked it up. Down the corridor on the left was the bathroom. He liked this: the intimacy of the home claimed by him. He’d never been one of those who trembled, who feared they’d shit themselves, who fucked up, cut themselves on glass or forgot to wear gloves. He’d always been in his element in the night in a house that wasn’t his. He wanted to dominate the place, to explore, to rifle through the belongings, but that would be the work of an amateur. Besides, there would be time to look later on.

Still holding the teddy, he slipped the lock on the front door and glanced briefly out into the street. Lizzie’s car was parked up, dark and lifeless. He closed the door, leaving it unlocked but holding it in place with a few of the shoes that had been lying in the hallway. He slipped through the flat, popped the teddy in the kitchen bin, shoving it down to the bottom. He washed his hands, dried them on her tea towel. Then he went back out into the garden. He could feel the time shifting. People would begin waking. Lights would go on. Doors would open. Within minutes he was back at his car and lifting Skye into the passenger seat. She had fallen asleep and was rubbing her eyes.

‘I’m sorry to do that to you, darling, but I can’t take any risks. You understand that, don’t you, sweetheart? We’ll be somewhere nice and comfy in a minute. I’ll let you sleep with Candy if you want.’