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Back False Witness Save as PDF
Chapters (100)
  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Dedication page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. 92
  96. Acknowledgements
  97. DEAD GUILTY
  98. 1
  99. FALSE WITNESS
  100. Also by Michelle Davies

‘It’s okay, you just did.’

57

Monday

The weekend passed in a comatosed blur for Alan. Not at The Wheatsheaf – he’d bypassed that on Friday evening and gone straight to the off-licence where he bought three bottles of the cheapest Scotch it stocked with the intention of drinking every last drop. By last night, Sunday, there was only a quarter left in the last one, so he’d finished it off for breakfast and was now sprawled out on the sofa with the empty bottle on the floor beside him, watching TV through blurred vision.

He drank because he didn’t have a job to go to. Mrs Pullman had told him the school was going to be shut today even before he’d left on Friday. Apparently the police couldn’t be sure two days was long enough for their search, so they wanted to take the precaution of keeping the school closed on Monday as well.

His phone had been switched off all weekend, his curtains drawn. He wanted to keep the world at bay for as long as he could. A couple of times, in his stupor, he thought he might’ve heard a knock on the door, but he hadn’t been able to rouse himself off the sofa to check.

But there was no mistaking the knock that had been sounding intermittently for the last ten minutes or so, nor the voice echoing through the letter box demanding he open the door.

‘I know you’re in there,’ said Gus, voice clenched with anger. ‘I can hear the TV.’

The letter box clattered shut again. Alan held his breath and counted, hoping Gus had given up and gone away. But after less than sixty seconds, the knocking started up again and the letter box reopened.

‘If you don’t answer this fucking door right this second I’ll call the police. I mean it. I’m dialling them now –’

Alan knew he meant it. He managed to roll himself off the sofa and landed heavily on all fours. He dragged himself upright, then wove drunkenly down the hallway.

The front door was on the latch, as it had been since Friday evening. It took him three attempts to open it, his brain and fingers so alcohol sodden that they failed him at the first and second goes.

Gus pushed his way in before the door was even open a crack, sending Alan flying. He slammed the door shut behind him, put the latch back on, then grabbed Alan by the upper arm and hauled him into the kitchen at the rear of the house. He shoved Alan into one of the two chairs either side of the small foldaway table, then lowered the window blind, cursing as the pulley became tangled and the right side of the slats finished up lower than the left.

Then he turned on Alan, his expression devoid of any warmth.

‘What the hell did you do?’