The Neighbour (standard:mystery, 4226 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jun 09 2002	Views/Reads: 6501/3228	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Chris Cooper suspects his elderly neighbour of being a child murderer. His involvement gets him in deep trouble.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“Piss off, old Harry? You must be mistaken.” 

“I know what I saw Mrs Wilcox. It wasn't an accidental touch.” 

“I'm sure you're mistaken. Harry loves the kids. He even takes them to
Whitby at the weekends.” 

“I can only relate to you what I saw Mrs Wilcox. My advice to you would
be to keep your eye on him.” 

The woman sneered. “Cheeky bastard. Are you trying to say that I neglect
my kids?” 

“I'm saying nothing of the sort, Mrs Wilcox.” 

This was getting out of hand. She was in the mood for a fight and so I
decided to make good my retreat. I left the house to a torrent of 
abuse. I knew when I was not wanted. 

Mrs Wilcox addressed the group of women. “Do you know what the cheeky
sod said? He said that I couldn't keep an eye on my kids. He tried to 
say old Harry was interfering with our Peter.” 

“No,” said one of the women, puffing on a cigarette, “Harry Barlow is
the friendliest man on earth. Cooper's jealous, that's all it is, 
because he fires blanks. That's why she left him you know? They 
couldn't have children.” 

I heard the snide remarks as I made my way to my sanctuary. It was only
half-true. It was Jenny who could not have a baby, but who knows? Maybe 
a baby would have cemented our relationship. 

I toyed with the idea of going to the police, but what was the point? I
would only have to go through the inquisition again. I scowled at 
Barlow and withdrew to the safe haven of my home. 

The volume on my television was turned up, in order to drown out the
screams of the children that were playing next door. The newscaster 
reported another child had gone missing. That was the third in as many 
months. The scene was of police and helpers searching a farmer's field. 
Three children from the same estate were missing. That was too much of 
a coincidence. My thoughts turned to Barlow. Perhaps I was mistaken. 
Maybe it was just an innocent pat on the bottom from a senile old man. 

That evening, I was roused from my nap by a pounding on my door. As I
opened it, I was flung backwards, and a fist powerfully connected with 
my nose, splaying blood all around. 

Colin Wilcox was standing over me. “Don't you ever accuse my wife of
neglecting the kids again, you arsehole. Stay away from her, do you 
hear?” 

I nodded my head. My inclination was not to upset this giant of a man.
He departed as swiftly as he had come, leaving me to ease the swelling 
of my bloody nose with an ice pack. I think that is the time when I had 
decided enough was enough. This house held bad memories for me. I would 
sell it and split the proceeds with Jenny. It was time to leave 
Middlesbrough. 

I had decided to inform Jenny of my decision to sell the house and set
off to drive to her flat. I pulled up at the traffic lights and looked 
across at the puke green Volkswagen. Only one person could own such a 
car. Barlow. I peered into the dull interior of his motor and saw a 
young boy sitting beside him. I pondered. Who was this boy? 

I was startled by the honks of the motorists, and as I continued on my
way, Barlow turned towards the Cleveland Hills. Being both curious and 
concerned, I did a U-turn, to the dismay of the following motorists. I 
had no difficulty in catching Barlow up, as he crawled up the steep 
incline. 

He turned down a path and I followed, being careful to keep a
respectable distance behind. The path was desolate and the wheels of 
Barlow's car threw up clouds of dust, when he progressed further 
towards the beauty spot. 

He stopped and I violently veered to the right, concealing my car behind
a hawthorn bush. I waited until I heard the car doors slamming before 
exiting my battered Ford Escort. I progressed quietly towards his 
vehicle, crouching down to prevent detection. There was no sign of 
Barlow when I reached his car. I stopped and listened. I decided to 
enter the wild undergrowth and forced my way through, receiving painful 
scratches to my arms and face for my efforts. 

Again, I listened. I could hear the birds singing, but there was
something else. It sounded like a scuffle, but where was it coming 
from? I pushed on further towards the source of the noise. The 
undergrowth was like a maze, as I progressed slowly. I fell over 
something underfoot and embarrassingly discovered that it was a couple 
of teenagers fumbling around. 

“Hey you pervert. What're you playing at?” 

“I'm sorry. I'm looking for somebody.” 

“Pull the other one pervy,” said the spotty lad, giving me the one
finger. 

I withdrew rapidly back to the path to find that Barlow's car had gone.
I ran towards my vehicle as the teenagers emerged from the undergrowth, 
arranging their dishevelled clothes. I decided to continue on my way to 
Jenny's. I could phone the police from there and tell them of Barlow's 
unscrupulous behaviour. 

I thought I had entered the wrong flat when Jenny let me in, for it had
been newly decorated. Entering the lounge, I met the decorator. He was 
dressed in a vest and jeans, and lolled on Jenny's sofa, drinking her 
beer. 

“Well, you know it had to happen, Chris. Life goes on.” she smiled. 

“Doesn't it? Well I hope you two are happy together,” I lied. 

The boyfriend sneered at me. I left it at that. I suppose I could have
hoped that he would straighten my nose, but I did not fancy the pain. 

“What brings you here, Chris?” asked Jenny. 

“I'm going to sell the house. I've had enough.” 

“Sell it, but where will you go?” 

“I don't know. Somewhere where my talents will be appreciated.” 

Jenny was dressed in a tight tee shirt and cut off jeans. She was
obviously wearing no bra, and then I begun to appreciate what I once 
had. 

“By the way, Jenny, can I use your telephone?” 

She pointed towards it, and I dialled Middlesbrough police station. The
desk Sergeant took down my details and promised to get back to me. I 
returned home, and that is when the nightmare began. 

I answered the door to two, detectives, one being a female. It was the
woman who spoke first. “I'm DS Scott and this is DC Proudlock. Do you 
mind if we come in?” 

“No not at all.” 

The woman detective's eyes scanned my room. I suppose it was a force of
habit. 

“Can you tell me where you were between four and five 'o'clock this
afternoon?” 

“I went to my ex wives flat.” “And anywhere else?” added DC Proudlock. 

“Yes, I was in the Cleveland Hills for a short time. I've already
reported this.” 

“You have?” asked DS Scott, her prying eyes now examining my duty free
whiskey in the drinks cabinet. 

“Yes, when I arrived at my wife's flat. I immediately reported the
incident.” 

“What incident is this?” 

I was now confused. “Excuse me. Isn't that why you're here?” 

“We're here because a eight year old boy was found murdered this
afternoon in the Cleveland Hills, and your car was in the area at the 
time.” 

“Yes, I was following Barlow. As, I've said, I've already reported
this.” 

“Barlow?” 

“Yes, he's my next door neighbour. I've been keeping my eye on him. I
caught him groping a young boy just this morning.” 

“We'll check your story out, Mr Cooper.” DS Scott stroked her chin. I
could feel her eyes burning through me. She was studying me. 

DC Proudlock broke in, “Mr Cooper, two teenagers reported that a man
answering your description was spying on them. They said that he looked 
a little shocked when they saw him.” 

“Of course I wasn't spying on them. Wouldn't you be bloody shocked if
you fell over them?” 

“Can you tell me where you got those scratches from?” asked DS Scott. 

“In the undergrowth. I followed Barlow and the boy into there.” “And did
you find them?” 

“Obviously not, but I heard noises, as though there was a scuffle.” 

The detective continued his probing. “The teenagers said that there was
only one car on that path, and that it was yours. You see, they had the 
sense to take down your registration number.” 

“Hold on a bloody minute, you don't think that I killed the boy do you?”


“We'll check your report, Mr Cooper. Don't leave the country. We'll be
in touch.” 

My head was in a muddle, and my mind worked overtime as I tried to
comprehend what trouble I was in. Two witnesses had placed me at the 
murder location. I had some serious thinking to do. 

Early the next morning, the detectives called at my house. This time
they brought a uniformed officer with them. 

“Mr Cooper, we would like you to accompany us down to the station. I'm
afraid your story doesn't hold up,” stated DS Scott. 

“Doesn't hold up?” 

“You see, Mr Cooper; Harry Barlow, whom you say you followed, never left
the street yesterday.” 

“That's impossible. Someone is lying.” 

“But that's just it, Cooper, half of the street gave him an alibi. He
was hosting a garden party for their children. Why would they give him 
an alibi? A mass conspiracy against you perhaps?” she smirked. 

“I want to see a solicitor,” I demanded. This is an outrage.” 

My mind was racing. Barlow was definitely the driver of the car. What
was going on? Why would they give him an alibi? 

At the police station, I was grilled and grilled again in the presence
of my solicitor. I was to be released, only because no DNA samples or 
other evidence was found at the crime scene. The victim was 
eight-year-old Tommy Dawes who lived just off the estate. He had been 
sexually assaulted, before he was strangled. 

Word had soon spread about me being in custody. I had decided to vacate
my house when a brick was thrown, smashing my front windowpane and 
narrowly missing me. I made up my mind to pay Harry Barlow a visit, 
even though the police had forbidden any contact between us. 

I waited for nightfall and prepared for my foray. I wore gloves as a
precaution. I could always deny entering Barlow's house, and I did not 
want to leave any incriminating evidence. Besides, I thought it was 
highly unlikely that he would go to the police, as he would not want to 
attract attention to himself. 

I climbed over the rickety, back fence and tried his door. It was
surprisingly open. I entered his kitchen and saw him eating beans from 
a tin. 

He was startled when I confronted him. “What is the meaning of this? Get
out of my house this minute or I'll call the police.” 

“How'd you do it, Barlow? How'd you get all of those neighbours to give
you alibis?” 

“You're sick, Cooper. You should be locked up.” 

I grabbed him by the lapels. My inclination was to give the old man a
beating, but I kept my dignity. “Piss off, Barlow! You killed those 
children. It was you all along, admit it.” 

“Get out of my house!” he yelled. 

“Where have you buried the other children, Barlow, you sick bastard?” 

“Right, I'm phoning the police.” 

“Don't bother. I'm going, but I promise you, that I won't rest until
you're locked away.” 

I moved away from the ill-fated estate. Nevertheless, I was still
targeted by the hate mob. The house that I was allotted by the local 
council was covered in graffiti. Child killer and other obscenities 
covered the walls. Eventually, the police moved me on again, for my own 
safety. 

I was now a nervous wreck, looking over my shoulder on every street
corner. I was still the prime suspect in the police's eyes. That I had 
put my house up for sale did not exactly aid my pleas of innocence. 

It was while in custody, being questioned yet again by the relentless DS
Scott, that I had my first stroke of luck in years. Another body had 
been found, and it was still fresh. The young boy had been found lying 
in a stream, strangled, just as the others had been strangled. He had 
been murdered while I was in custody, and I was promptly dismissed with 
not even an apology. 

News of my innocence quickly spread, and I decided to return to my old
house until I could sell it. People's attitudes had changed towards me. 
I had now more friends than ever. When I arrived home, my house had 
been redecorated and the house refurnished by the neighbours. They had 
even landscaped my garden for me. Those hypocrites; did they really 
think that they could buy my friendship? My intention was still to 
leave the area; to disassociate myself from the charlatans. 

I was now living like a recluse and my computer lay idle. I could not
find the inspiration to write. I was becoming obsessed with Barlow. I 
would spy on him at every opportunity, even resorting to taking 
photographs of him playing with the children. That as I later found 
out, was a big mistake. 

One afternoon, when I eventually did venture outdoors was the turning
point in my miserable life. The rain came down with such force, the 
black clouds overhanging my garden like a sea of ink. What compelled me 
to go outdoors, I do not know. My recently landscaped garden, courtesy 
of the neighbours was a sea of mud, the brown silt washing away over 
the lush, green lawn. My eyes settled on something protruding from the 
ground and I made my way to the object. I froze rigid as I neared the 
vegetable plot. Sticking up out of the ground was an arm, a child's 
arm. 

The rain blended in with my tears as the corpse revealed itself little
by little. The downpour revealed the grisly find. My heart felt as if 
it would explode, and I threw up onto the lawn. Other bodies were now 
visible, three, four, my God. I was overcome with grief, such grief and 
hatred. Hatred for the monster that dwelled next door. Hatred for the 
system that had condemned me and then spit me out, as if I was phlegm 
waiting to be discarded. 

I felt my eyes bulging in their sockets. The saliva dripped from my
mouth when I bent over and embraced one of the bodies, no more now than 
a rotten carcase. The pouring rain-washed the earth from the dead boy's 
face, or what was left of it. A worm reared its ugly form from the boys 
mouth and I can remember screaming, a silent scream as if in a 
nightmare, because believe me; this was a nightmare. I was filled with 
such anger and torment that no other thoughts entered my head, except 
revenge. 

I stepped over Barlow's fence and kicked in the door. The sight that
befell the old man must have been fearsome. I could still smell the 
odour off that little boy's body when I approached the terrified 
Barlow. He backed off, putting up his hands to protect himself. 

“No! You have it all wrong.” 

“The garden! Look in my fucking Garden!” 

“What're you talking about?” 

I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and marched him outside. I
tossed him like the garbage he is onto the makeshift grave, his face 
inches away from one of his victims. 

“Take a look, Barlow. Take a fucking look... So young; how could anyone
kill someone so young and innocent?” 

Barlow pointed at me. “You're insane. You killed these children. Don't
put this bloodbath on others. You killed these children.” 

That was the moment when I think I flipped. I hit the old man flush in
the face with a powerful punch, and he spit out his false teeth that 
merged the deathly soil. He was now trembling with fear, the blood 
dripping from his wrinkled mouth. He tried to speak, but I hit him 
again, and again, and kept hitting him, until he was still. I grabbed 
the back of his head by what hair he had remaining and pushed his face 
down into the sodden soil. I held his head down with all of my might 
for what must have been minutes. 

When one of the neighbours found me the next day, I was sitting naked in
my armchair, embracing one of the dead children; the mud still caked on 
my body. Another four children were unearthed from the garden of evil. 

So here I am, three years on, sitting in my padded cell, wearing my
straitjacket, and pondering over my sanity. Yes, I committed a murder; 
the murder of a child killer. I was doing the world a service, ridding 
it of such vermin. The murders of course stopped, and I have gone down 
in the annuls of history as a horrific child killer. 

The photographs condemned me. The police believed that I was taking
snaps of the children for my perverse pleasure. What about the child 
that was murdered whilst I was in custody you may ask? I was accused of 
killing him, and the pathologist on the case got a severe reprimand for 
mistaking the time of his death. 

But my story does not finish there. No, I had a visit; a rare visit.
Usually, only Jenny came to visit me. She said she believed in my 
innocence, but she believed that as much as she wanted to believe that 
I was sane. No, I had been abandoned in this hellish place; a sane man 
in an asylum. Not a pleasant scenario. 

As I was saying, I had a visit. He would not leave his name. My
straitjacket was removed and I was shown to the isolated visiting room. 
The man who was sitting behind the screen had on a monk's cowl. “Hello, 
Christopher,” he said. 

I could smell his rancid breathe as he spoke. Where had I heard that
voice before? 

The stranger continued. “Don't you know who I am, Christopher?” 

I could feel my bowels moving as I realised where I knew the voice from,
but it could not possibly be. The monk pulled down his cowl and I was 
staring into the face of Harry Barlow. I now began to have doubts over 
my sanity. How could this be? I killed him with my own hands. 

“Barlow! But you're...” 

“Dead? Is that the word you're looking for, Christopher?” 

“You're a ghost?” I quizzed. 

“Nothing so theatrical I'm afraid... Harry was my twin brother. You see,
when we were children, I was such a wild child. Our father died when we 
were six years old, leaving our sick mother to look after us. As I've 
told you, I wasn't an angelic child, not like Harry. I was sent off to 
remand school, and when I was released as a teenager, my mother didn't 
want me back. Harry was the apple of her eye and I was evil as far as 
she was concerned. She was correct you see. I killed a young child when 
I was a teenager, and as the police were closing in on me, I decided 
the best hiding place would be a convent or a priory. That is where I 
lost my identity. Ronald Barlow no longer existed. I was free to carry 
on my infatuation with the children, and believe me; I enjoyed every 
minute of it.” 

“So it was you who I saw that day on the Cleveland Hills?” 

He nodded. “Of course. You see, I used to visit my brother often. It was
a secret of course. We could not be seen together. I told him that if 
he didn't cooperate with me, I'd start to kill some of his treasured 
children that he worshipped... I came and went, mostly at night, but 
the odd time, like when I wanted to borrow his car, I would appear in 
the daytime. Of course, we're identical, so there was no chance of 
anyone suspecting anything, unless of course, we were seen together.” 

“So Harry knew about you killing the children?” 

“No. He knew that I was capable. That's why I was able to carry out my
threat to him. He believed you were the killer. He even told the 
children to stay away from you.” 

“But that morning, I saw him groping young Peter Wilcox?” 

“Did you?” He smiled, revealing his yellow teeth. “That was me. Harry
was answering the call of nature at the time. I couldn't resist the 
opportunity, whenever I was given the chance.” 

“So what's to stop me telling the story to the police?” I asked. 

“Because, Christopher, you're insane and I don't exist. I have
extinguished everything that could ever reveal my being. I even gave a 
false name at the convent. You see, I've covered my tracks well... No 
Christopher, I'm afraid you're here for life. I'll say a prayer for 
you... Oh, by the way, I think it's safe to resume my hobby now, don't 
you? Three years is a long time. You should actually feel better being 
in here, now that I've revealed that you killed an innocent man. Repent 
your sins friend and I will see you in hell.” He pulled up his cowl and 
was gone. 

There you have it. As I write these memoirs, I'm contemplating
committing suicide. Telling the police will be pointless, and besides, 
I'm too weary with all of these sedatives and drugs that they feed me. 
I'm too exhausted to consider my freedom. I write these memoirs in the 
hope that one day, my name will be cleared, and that this monster will 
be apprehended, before he begins another massacre of the children. Who 
knows? Maybe I will make the bestseller list after all.” 


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