‘Wait. Listen.’ He was silent for a moment. He pulled his head out of the gap in the curtains and looked at his wife. ‘Do you hear that?’
‘I hear the beeping, yes. That’s because you’ve drawn my attention to it.’
‘No. Listen. It’s rhythmic.’
‘It’s what?’
‘Rhythmic. There’s a pattern to the noise. That’s not just beeping. Someone’s signalling. It’s Morse.’
‘What?’
‘Morse code. Listen. The beeps are dots and the silences are dashes. Sshh, listen.’
A long minute of silence passed while they both concentrated on the sound of the car horn in the distance.
‘I can just hear beeping.’
‘No. It’s SOS.’
‘What?’
‘SOS in Morse code: three dots, three dashes, and three dots. Listen, beep, beep, beep, quiet, beep, beep, beep. Then a gap, then it starts again. Someone’s in trouble.’
George turned on his heels and headed for the bedroom door.
‘George, where do you think you’re going?’
‘To have a look. Someone could be injured.’
‘Then call the police.’ She followed him down the stairs, struggling into her dressing gown.
‘You don’t call the police over a car beeping.’
‘Call the non-emergency number. What is it, 111?’
‘101. Anyway, it’s always busy. You can never get through. I may as well go and have a look myself.’
Fear was growing in Mary’s voice. It was already etched on her face. ‘George, don’t go. It’s dark. You said yourself those lamp-posts are no good. You won’t be able to see anything.’
He opened a drawer in the hall table and took out a torch. He flicked it on and off to check it worked. It did.
‘You don’t know who’s out there, George. It could be a trap.’ Her voice had risen an octave. She was scared.
‘I can’t just ignore it, Mary.’
‘Yes you can. It’s nothing to do with us.’
‘It’s people saying things like that why this country’s in the state it’s in. People don’t take an interest in others anymore.’
‘It’s called being safe.’
‘It’s called being ignorant. Where are my walking boots?’
‘Oh God, George. Please don’t go.’
‘I won’t be long. I promise.’
‘Then put your heavy coat on, at least. It’s cold. Wait.’ She ran upstairs and quickly came back down. She was out of breath. It was years since she had run anywhere. ‘Take your mobile. You see anything you don’t like the look of call 999 straightaway. Do you hear me, George Rainsford?’
‘Loud and clear.’
He unbolted the door, took the chain off, and unlocked it. ‘Lock this door behind me. Don’t open it until I come back.’
‘I love you George, you silly sod.’
‘I’ll be right back.’
As George reached the end of the garden path he turned around. Mary was watching through a gap in the living room curtains. He gave her a little wave and she waved back. He hated seeing her frightened, but he couldn’t stand by and leave a distress call go unanswered.
The beeping was louder outside, and George was more convinced than ever that it was Morse code for SOS.
From the end of the garden path he looked left and right wondering which direction the noise was coming from. He opted for left but only went a few paces before he changed his mind and headed right.
Quiet Lane didn’t have any pavements. It was a steep winding road where drivers should travel with caution, but the national speed limit signs did not promote a safety-first action.
He zipped his coat up fully. The sky was clear and the moon full; an infinite number of stars helped to brighten the dark sky. It was cold. George could see his breath forming as his breathing became more erratic with nerves. With each step, the beeping grew louder. He was heading in the right direction.
Where Quiet Lane turned into Wood Cliffe Cottage Lane there was a junction. Clough Lane was a very narrow road full of cavernous potholes and broken tarmac. The beeping was coming from down this road.
Surrounded by empty fields and leafless trees, Clough Lane was in complete darkness. He took the small torch from the pocket of his coat and turned it on. Pointing it at the ground, he edged along the road into the unknown.
The sound of the car horn was definitely coming from down here. He rounded a bend and aimed the torch upwards. The weak beam hit something; a car, a silver car. He knew the make straightaway, a Citroen Xsara. His son had one in white. This was the offending car whose horn was shattering the silence.
He picked up the pace and was about to call out a greeting when he stopped dead in his tracks. The torch beam had picked up something from the side of the road. Slumped against a tree was a man; or a close approximation of a man. It was difficult to make out any features as he had been severely beaten; the nose had erupted at some point, the left eye was swollen shut, and the right side of his face was a mangled mess from where a bullet had exploded in him.
George put a shaking cold hand to his mouth. He could smell the metallic tang of blood. He could taste it. The sight was shocking, yet he could not tear his eyes away from it. This was once a person, a living human being, and someone had inflicted an unimaginable amount of pain and torture upon his body.
The loud beeping brought George out of his reverie. He pointed the torch to the side of the car. It was covered in smeared blood. The passenger door window was shattered. Slowly, he walked around the front of the car towards the driver’s side. He could see the door was open but could not see anyone in the driver’s seat; yet the SOS beeping continued.
‘Oh, dear God.’ He gasped.
Half hanging out of the car was the stricken body of a woman. Her face was a mess of sticky drying blood; her long hair was tangled and matted. She was naked from the waist down and was literally drenched in blood. One hand held on to her stomach where blood pumped out between her fingers. The other hand was rhythmically banging on the horn. She was half in, half out of the car, her body at an uncomfortable angle. She looked up and saw George through swollen eyes. She stopped the beeping and slumped to the ground. There was a brief smile on her face before her body gave up and she lost consciousness.
George dug the phone out of his coat pocket and dialled 999. He gave his location and tried to say what had happened but he couldn’t find the words. After he ended the call he phoned his wife. He told her she would soon see the flashing lights of the police but not to panic as everything was all right. It was the first time he had ever lied to his wife.
CARL MEAGAN: ONE YEAR ON
By Andrea Fullerton
Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of the disappearance of seven-year-old Carl Meagan.
Exactly twelve months ago, Annabel Meagan, Carl’s grandmother, was looking after him at his parents’ luxury home in Dore, Sheffield, when she was bludgeoned to death. Carl was kidnapped and a ransom was demanded. However, a catalogue of errors by South Yorkshire Police led to the kidnappers breaking contact with the Meagan