We're Not Strangers Anymore

Chapter Forty Five - Mr Manley

Charlie froze, and Mr Manley took three steps forward. The staircase creaked underneath his leather boots, and Jamie could feel the growing uncomfortable unease in his stomach.
'Jamie, Charlie. What are you two playing at? You know you're not supposed to be down here.'
Jamie's pale face was painted with worry. 'I'm sorry Dad, we were just—'
'Interfering,' Mr Manley whispered. 'You were interfering in my office. Sneaking around. Did I give you permission?'
'No, sir,' said Jamie.
'It's my fault,' Charlie piped up, his hands shaking. 'I just wanted to see what was down here.'
'So, you thought that you'd just come down here without my permission?'
His tone had changed dramatically, and was now vocally similar to that of a wolf's howl.
'The work that I do down here, in the privacy of my own office, is nothing to do with you two scamps. Do I make myself clear?'
There was silence.
'You're sick,' Charlie uttered, his mind on the verge of a nearly pending breakdown. He could feel his brain pushing viciously against the edge of his temples, his hands sweating profusely. 'You need help, Mr Manley.'
Mr Manley did not answer right away, but instead offered Charlie a dry, emotionless smile. 'And is that so?'
'Yes, it is,' Charlie said sullenly. 'You have taken the lives of good people. You are sick. Mrs Bercow's son, Steven in the business park. These good people.' He pointed at the two bodies in his eye-line; the old lady, who was now covered in a thick coat of mud and swarmed with a mob of hungry flies, as well as the young lady whose arm poked so hauntingly out of the wardrobe's ajar doors.
Mr Manley nodded gratefully. 'You're quite the detective, young Charlie. What is your reason for being here? In my house, that is.'
'I'm here for my friend. Jamie is my friend, and I'm not leaving until I know he's safe.'
Charlie gazed into Mr Manley's eyes and saw a flicker of emotion - brief, but it was there - as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, it faded.
'How very noble of you. Unfortunately, master Broomer, I wasn't quite planning on letting you leave.'
He reached deep into the pockets of his jet black cloak, and for a split second, time seemed to stand still. Charlie's pulse was racing like it had never raced before, a thick coat of sweat glimmering away on his forehead. In his mind he could picture himself in the same position as the corpse in the corner, tied to a radiator and left to die. Below the creaky floorboards, where nobody could hear him scream.
Mr Manley removed his veiny hands from his left pocket. He was clutching a shiny butchers knife, a frightening utensil that dripped thick blood onto the wooden floor, covering it in a ruby mess.
'You know too much. I'm sorry to have to do this, Charlie.'
Time was running out, and it was running out fast. Jamie collapsed to the floor.
As Mr Manley walked down to the bottom step, the butchers knife still in hand, Charlie's life flashed before his eyes.
He could see himself as a young child; six years old and carefree. Irene Broomer, who was smoking a Sovereign whilst playing Action Man with her son, was muttering inaudibly under her breath. Charlie managed to pick up, 'if only I'd had a girl. I'd be getting my hair done by now.'
Suddenly Charlie was ten years old again. His father was swinging him around by the ankles in their sizeable garden, and Irene was standing anxiously in the doorway of the back entrance, looking on. Charlie giggled as his terrified mother shouted, 'Gordon, be bloody careful, would you? We'll have the social on our hands!'
Gordon Broomer reassured her that A, the social had bigger fish to fry, and B, this was merely mild horseplay for the impending garden football match that was minutes away from kickoff.
'Okay. Well be careful, won't you?' she called, heading back inside to presumably chop a pile of assorted vegetables. It was a cold Sunday afternoon, and the smell of roast pork flooded the kitchen.
'Here, Charlie,' he whispered to his son, who was now laughing away with all the ferocity of a roaring lion. 'How do you fancy a late night kick-about? Say, start after supper and finish around ten o'clock?'
Charlie giggled, and whispered back: 'Sounds good to me, Dad.'
The sun floated behind a large cloud, and suddenly Charlie was thirteen again. He recognised the day immediately; it was the day of his father's death.
'Cancer is an awful thing,' David Johnson said comfortingly, placing a gentle hand on his sister's shoulder.
'I just don't know how I'm going to cope,' Irene admitted, leaning in to him. 'Me and Gordon went through our rough patches, of course we did, what couple doesn't?' She burst into tears. 'I just miss him so much, already.'
'It's okay. Just let it all out,' David whispered, running his thick fingers through her brunette curls. 'Everything is going to be okay, I promise. You'll be all right.'
Charlie was back to present day. It was the end of March, he knew, and he was face to face with the man who would quite possibly end his life.
He closed his eyes and muttered, 'Just do it, but make it quick. Jamie, go on upstairs.'