cheap.
Bowles didn’t work, but lived alone in a three-bedroomed terraced house that looked close to being condemned. In the frenzy of resettlements from flooded Liverpool and East London to a
county already swollen by the surge from southern Europe and Africa, the father wondered how a rehoused sex offender had become the sole occupier of a three-bedroomed property, even one so poorly
maintained. Benefits would never stretch so far. Bowles had
friends
.
The bay windows of the street-facing rooms on each floor were permanently curtained, the window sills revealing a permanent litter of objects just inside the glass: plastic bottles, crockery,
bunched-up clothing, the back of a circular mirror. The attic had been converted into another floor; its bays were also concealed by blinds.
No one else had entered or left the house with Bowles during the three days the father had watched the property, parked outside, on the other side of the road. And each time the father had seen
Bowles that week, the man hadn’t changed his shirt. He looked like an ogre from a fairy tale; he looked like the cliché of a child molester. The father had discovered that
they
often did. Longish, unwashed hair mopped his wide skull, the black locks forming greasy fronds across the broad forehead, and dangling over a rubbery-looking collar, unless they had
been scraped tight behind his ears. The man’s round-shouldered posture was a result of a perpetual lowering of the head, chin dipped to sternum, as if he were a big, harmless, shy man: meek
and self-conscious in collared shirts stretched out by a ponderous belly and slabs over his hips. Where they stumped from his shorts, his pale legs were thickly haired trunks.
It was easy to imagine the creature’s outer flesh as soft and slippery, but the father detected a tough core in a large body; the doughy shoulders and arms suggested an unappealing
strength. This was a man who might hold on tightly. A physical sense of the man grew the longer the father watched him, and as they inexorably drew closer to each other. Imagined textures, the
weight and density of the body, taunted the father until the man’s dimensions began to seem entirely unassailable, the damp fleshiness unmanageable.
Bowles would always close his front door without looking over his shoulder, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Just in and out he went, short journeys, the small eyes shielded,
half-closed.
No lights had come on in the hallway during the evenings. The father had wanted lights. Perhaps it was the idea of being in a close, dark space with Bowles that appalled him more than the sight
of the burly figure. And the longer he had waited, the more his imagination effortlessly refashioned the big man into an opponent light on his feet with the eyesight of a rat, aware of the father
outside and simply waiting for him in a familiar darkness. Something about this move just did not
feel
right. A nervy suspicion endured, not helped when Scarlett gave the father notes and
warned him ‘not to underestimate the suspect’. When in role as a sadist, apparently Bowles was fond of blood and a veritable master of the universe.
Going in early Friday morning would have been ideal, but the father was still outside, watching, on Sunday morning. Plans had been made and remade. He had carried out more reconnaissance than
normal. Lengthy preparations hadn’t reaffirmed his purpose, but only made it vaguer. More than heat was holding him back here.
The sky faded to a treacherous Atlantic blue, with a promise of cool air that would never come. A dilution to a milky blue would follow, before a canopy of polished steel would burn unprotected
eyes. He could not be here in daylight. There was barely the best part of an hour of semi-darkness remaining. He wiped the sweat off his face with a forearm, started the car and drove to the place
where he’d decided to park in an adjoining street. He would enter through the rear
Bowles didn’t work, but lived alone in a three-bedroomed terraced house that looked close to being condemned. In the frenzy of resettlements from flooded Liverpool and East London to a
county already swollen by the surge from southern Europe and Africa, the father wondered how a rehoused sex offender had become the sole occupier of a three-bedroomed property, even one so poorly
maintained. Benefits would never stretch so far. Bowles had
friends
.
The bay windows of the street-facing rooms on each floor were permanently curtained, the window sills revealing a permanent litter of objects just inside the glass: plastic bottles, crockery,
bunched-up clothing, the back of a circular mirror. The attic had been converted into another floor; its bays were also concealed by blinds.
No one else had entered or left the house with Bowles during the three days the father had watched the property, parked outside, on the other side of the road. And each time the father had seen
Bowles that week, the man hadn’t changed his shirt. He looked like an ogre from a fairy tale; he looked like the cliché of a child molester. The father had discovered that
they
often did. Longish, unwashed hair mopped his wide skull, the black locks forming greasy fronds across the broad forehead, and dangling over a rubbery-looking collar, unless they had
been scraped tight behind his ears. The man’s round-shouldered posture was a result of a perpetual lowering of the head, chin dipped to sternum, as if he were a big, harmless, shy man: meek
and self-conscious in collared shirts stretched out by a ponderous belly and slabs over his hips. Where they stumped from his shorts, his pale legs were thickly haired trunks.
It was easy to imagine the creature’s outer flesh as soft and slippery, but the father detected a tough core in a large body; the doughy shoulders and arms suggested an unappealing
strength. This was a man who might hold on tightly. A physical sense of the man grew the longer the father watched him, and as they inexorably drew closer to each other. Imagined textures, the
weight and density of the body, taunted the father until the man’s dimensions began to seem entirely unassailable, the damp fleshiness unmanageable.
Bowles would always close his front door without looking over his shoulder, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Just in and out he went, short journeys, the small eyes shielded,
half-closed.
No lights had come on in the hallway during the evenings. The father had wanted lights. Perhaps it was the idea of being in a close, dark space with Bowles that appalled him more than the sight
of the burly figure. And the longer he had waited, the more his imagination effortlessly refashioned the big man into an opponent light on his feet with the eyesight of a rat, aware of the father
outside and simply waiting for him in a familiar darkness. Something about this move just did not
feel
right. A nervy suspicion endured, not helped when Scarlett gave the father notes and
warned him ‘not to underestimate the suspect’. When in role as a sadist, apparently Bowles was fond of blood and a veritable master of the universe.
Going in early Friday morning would have been ideal, but the father was still outside, watching, on Sunday morning. Plans had been made and remade. He had carried out more reconnaissance than
normal. Lengthy preparations hadn’t reaffirmed his purpose, but only made it vaguer. More than heat was holding him back here.
The sky faded to a treacherous Atlantic blue, with a promise of cool air that would never come. A dilution to a milky blue would follow, before a canopy of polished steel would burn unprotected
eyes. He could not be here in daylight. There was barely the best part of an hour of semi-darkness remaining. He wiped the sweat off his face with a forearm, started the car and drove to the place
where he’d decided to park in an adjoining street. He would enter through the rear
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