THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Shona watched their arrival. She had been up to the house and knocked, but there was no answer. She waited and waited and saw no sign of movement in the house, and after a while she developed the terrible notion that Jenny had left Alain inside and gone to work, leaving him alone. But perhaps Fraser was looking after the boy. She shook her head — no, that wasn’t right, Jenny had asked for the night off. She was sure she had, because she had listened in on Jenny’s call to Jarmon Willis. Why would she ask for the night off if Fraser was at home? Remembering this only confused her further, since she now recalled that Jenny had refused her help, remembered Jenny’s frosty tone when she said, ‘There are rules.’ She was not required for babysitting at all.

  ‘I was crying,’ she said aloud, trying to make sense of the events of the evening. Failing entirely.

  She noted the weak state of the boy as Jenny lifted him out of the taxi, the hospital blanket, and thought, blanking out what she had done only an hour earlier, that she would like to kill anyone who knowingly hurt a child. What had possessed Jenny to take him out, away from the safety of her home?

  * * *

  It was after eight p.m., the clouds that had gathered and bunched in ominous banks throughout the day seemed to bear down, sinking under their own weight, ready for a storm.

  Jenny cooked Alain a cheese omelette and was relieved to see him wolf it down with bread and a mug of tea. She explained cautiously that she needed to return to the hospital and, although he seemed uneasy at the prospect of spending the evening with Max, he took the news quietly.

  Alain showered as the first flashes of lightning lit the distance in sheets of lilac and mauve. Rumbles of thunder followed, leisurely at first, but gaining volume and chasing the lightning flashes with increasing rapidity. As Jenny towelled his hair dry, a ferocious crash overhead made him shout, and he turned his face to her shoulder.

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of in a little thunder and lightning, sweetheart,’ she said, ruffling his hair. ‘Listen.’ An echo of the thunder crash rumbled in the distance. ‘It’s the angels ten-pin bowling. Can you hear the ball roll along the lane?’ The rumble ended in a muted crump. ‘How many pins d’you think he got down with that one?’

  Alain learned away from her, his brow furrowed in concentration. ‘One,’ he said. ‘Two at most.’

  ‘The biggest ones are a strike,’ she said, helping him into his pyjamas. ‘D’you know how many there are in a strike?’

  ‘’Course,’ said Alain, with an insouciance she had never seen before, and which almost made her hug herself with glee at this show of confidence, a degree of normality she had almost given up hope of ever seeing. ‘A strike is ten.’

  They got through the worst of the storm by arguing how many pins had tumbled with each thunder crash, and then Jenny tucked him up in bed and kissed his forehead. It was cooler now, and although he seemed terribly tired, he was calm. She dimmed the switch on his bedside lamp and patted the covers one last time.

  ‘Jenny . . .’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I’m sorry about Fraser.’

  She put a finger to his lips. ‘You can’t keep shouldering the world’s cares, Alain. It can only make you unhappy.’

  He gave an unhappy nod.

  ‘Jenny . . .’ He fidgeted, tucking the polar bear and the lion inside the covers and Jenny helped him.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘D’you think . . . ?’ Two bands of livid colour appeared across the ridges of his cheekbones. Jenny took his hand and after a couple of deep breaths, he said, ‘D’you think Grandmère hates me, because of Aunt Jeanne-Louise?’

  Jenny was dismayed to see his dark eyes fill with tears. His little frame had been so racked with weeping already that she feared he would make himself ill. Even so, she felt it was imperative that she gave Alain an honest answer.

  She thought about the stiff formality of the family group in the hospital interview room — his mother’s reserve when she spoke to him, his grandmother’s attempt to smile at him, her beckoning to him to come to her, abandoned with a sob.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think she hates you.’ He hadn’t asked the question of his mother, and Jenny thought how he had shied away from her, refusing contact. What was Alain’s hurt? Guilt, certainly, but that was not all. And guilt for what? What had he done or failed to do that had made him feel so responsible for his aunt’s death?

  ‘I think your grandmother is very sad about Aunt Jeanne-Louise, and I’m certain that she loves you, and would like to comfort you.’

  Alain nodded, sniffing slightly, but apparently accepting what she had said, and Jenny went downstairs to telephone Max. The telephone rang five or six times and Jenny replaced the receiver, thinking who, of her nursing friends, would be best to ask this favour of. She needed someone who would be willing to come to her: Alain should stay put. He had been upset enough for one day. Then, if she got someone who was free, and willing, she would have to clear it with Social Services. She sighed and started thumbing through her address book.

  * * *

  The boy watched, solemn and pale, from the dining room windows. He was locked inside the house, while his father worked with frenzied energy in the garden. The cherry trees were just beginning to unfold their petals — their russety bark gleaming and silky in the morning sun. He felt a pain just beneath his heart. Every year, he and his mother would bring the branches, laden with white and pink blooms, inside to decorate the house. He winced, juddering as each bite of the axe shivered through the trunk and sent a snowfall of petals fluttering to the ground. His father’s lips were moving. He was muttering and sweating as he worked on the trees. Suddenly, unable to bear it any longer, the boy ran through the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom. He pulled and dragged at the sticking drawer of the tallboy until it gave, then he reached to the back, beneath his jerseys. For a moment he thought it had gone and he whimpered in fear — if his father knew he had taken it — but then his fingers brushed something hard and plastic, and he sobbed with relief and grasped the screwdriver firmly.

  He trod the red-and-blue pattern of the carpet towards the front sitting room, missing the tips of the swirls that looked like snakes’ heads, humming to himself for courage. He trailed his fingers along the top of the wooden dado, accumulating grey dust that his mother would never have allowed to build up. But Mummy wasn’t home, and something was wrong with Daddy. He carried on walking, the screwdriver in his pocket becoming heavier with each step. At the door to the sitting room he had to stop, his heart was beating so fiercely in his throat he thought it would choke him. The sofa had been pushed back against the window, and he climbed onto it to reach the lock. His father had fixed a screw dead centre of the frame, securing the upper and lower sashes of the window.

  He fitted the blade of the screwdriver into the head of the screw, but his hands shook so badly that it jumped out again. He took a deep breath, then tried again, pushing hard and turning. At first the screw would not budge, but then it gave a little and he worked at it, a quarter of a turn at a time until his hands cramped, and he had to stop to wipe the sweat from his eyes. He had no clear idea what he would do once he was free, he only knew that he had to get away from his father, away from the terrible sound of the axe. At last the screw yielded to fingertip pressure and he eased it out. The latch slid back easily, but the sash lifted only an inch, no matter how hard he pulled. He would have to move the sofa and get to it from below. He jumped down, then, satisfied that he was still alone, and put his shoulder to the faded silk of the sofa. Its wheels squealed in complaint, rumpling the rug in the centre of the room, but gradually it inched away from the window, leaving dark tracks on the wooden floor. He pushed harder until the gap was wide enough for him to squeeze through. Then, sliding his fingers under the opening between the window and the frame he pulled and tugged until the window gave another inch.

  ‘How did you—?’

  His heart contracted at the sound of his father’s voice and he ha
d a strong sensation of falling. Falling very far and very fast.

  ‘Of all the deceitful—’ His father had seen the stolen screwdriver, lying discarded on the sofa.

  The boy tugged wildly at the window sash, desperate to escape. His father reached his side in two, long strides. ‘You bloody little thief!’ He slammed the window shut and for one unreal moment, the boy felt nothing. Then he began screaming and could not stop. Screaming in pain and terror. His father pulled the sofa away with one hand and grabbed the boy by the belt of his trousers with the other. His screams increased in pitch and intensity as his trapped fingers were jerked and pain jolted through every bone, every joint in his hands. Then his father thrust the window open and snatched him away, carrying him to the door of the basement.

  ‘No, Daddy. Please, Daddy. I’ll be good, I promise, I promise, Daddy Daddy Dad! Please!’ He screamed over and over. Even after the door had been bolted and he was in the darkness he swore to be good to be quiet to be—

  ‘Jenny!’

  Alain was standing at the top of the stairs, holding the baseball bat in one hand. He looked ghastly. Jenny ran towards him, fearing that he would fall. The doorbell rang.

  ‘Don’t answer it!’

  Jenny half turned to the front door, then back to Alain. Exhaustion and worry had befuddled her.

  ‘He’s come back.’ Alain’s voice quavered with terror and disbelief. He had been drifting off to sleep when the thing that had so disturbed him on their way out of the hospital had reasserted itself. It was a cough — light, no more than a clearing of the throat — and yet he had heard it at some subconscious level, separating it from the telephone trills, the footfalls and the voices in the main foyer, and the sirens and traffic buzz beyond. He had known it at once and yet had buried it deep, not wanting to believe that he was so close to the terrible events of the previous week — so close to death.

  Suddenly wide awake, he had gone to the window to set up his animal sentinels to watch through the night and had seen him arrive.

  His fear cut through the layers of misery and tiredness, and Jenny felt a sudden chill run down her spine. ‘Who is it, Alain?’

  Alain’s voice was no more than a breath. ‘Daddy.’

  The blade gleams as a spotlight flares from it.

  ‘Run, Alain!’

  ‘Daddy, NO!’ Aunt Lou steps between them. He sees the point slash once, twice, and Aunt Lou falls. Again Daddy strikes, and again. Her arms are no protection, and he hears the awful slice and chop of the blade. He must run from it or he will go mad.

  * * *

  Mike Delaney parked outside a rundown terrace in a Toxteth street. It was a far cry from a flat in Sefton Park, but it must have sounded so much better than a bedsit in Toxteth when he gave the address to his secretary.

  Since the eighties riots, everyone had heard of Toxteth, and it didn’t conjure up an image of leafy suburbs in quite the same way Sefton Park would. The landlord let him in to the house. The hall carpet was a filthy, threadbare runner that might once have been red, and the air reeked of damp, curry spices and cabbage.

  The landlord let them in to Ligat’s flat. He was a small, thin man, not much over thirty, with dark hair and a goatee beard.

  ‘Haven’t seen him for a couple of days,’ he said, pushing open the door to let them through first.

  Mike recoiled at the smell, then, bracing himself, stepped into the room. Fungus had blistered the plaster and spread like an enormous cloud over the ceiling, belching green spores at its edges. Mike stared about him at the peeling wallpaper and bubbling plaster, the fur of mould on the walls and ceiling, the accumulated filth of blackened, tacky grime on the carpet.

  ‘It’s people like you give landlords a bad name,’ he said.

  The landlord smiled. ‘He’s never complained.’ He lifted his chin, challenging Mike. ‘Look how he lives.’

  The sink in the corner was crammed with plates, mugs and pans. Those that wouldn’t fit were piled on the floor. The old, two-ring cooker was tarry with layered deposits of fat and spills. There was a huge dip, the shape and colour of a massive cocoon, in the middle of the unmade bed. The same smell of damp pervaded the room, with an added undertone of dirty linen and cigarettes, but overlaying all of this was something that made Mike’s stomach do slow rolls. Rotting meat? Or maybe some dead animal trapped behind the skirting boards — the place must be infested with vermin.

  Mike had once heard someone on a radio programme ask, ‘What’s wrong with squalor?’ The man who’d said it could never have been close to it. What’s wrong with squalor? he thought, looking again around the crumbling walls. It degrades and dehumanizes. It creates people so alienated from society that they forget that this isn’t the norm.

  ‘Where is he?’ Mike demanded, clenching his teeth against rising nausea.

  ‘How should I know?’

  Mike suppressed a desire to grab the landlord by the throat and asked, ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘When I collected the rent. Thursday night.’

  ‘And you’re sure this is the man.’ He showed the landlord the photograph of Ligat that Ron Sallis had borrowed from his mother and faxed through to Merseyside HQ from Surrey.

  ‘That’s him, all right. He’s a bit thinner. A bit madder-looking maybe, but it’s him.’

  Mike tucked the photograph back in his pocket and tried to purge his nostrils of the ripe stench of rotting meat. His eye snagged on a black plastic bag in a corner of the room. Clothing was spilling out of it, and moving closer, Mike realized that it was the source of the smell.

  He took a biro from his inside pocket and hooked a shirt by its collar from the pile. It was stiff with brown, dried-in blood.

  * * *

  The door knocker rattled suddenly, and Alain jumped. Behind her Jenny heard the caller turn away and walk down the front steps.

  ‘He killed her, Jenny,’ he whispered. ‘He killed Tante Lou.’

  Jenny snatched up the telephone receiver and began dialling. The line went dead. Alain ran down the stairs to her. ‘We have to get out,’ he said. Simultaneously, they heard glass shattering behind them, in the kitchen. ‘He’s coming!’ His voice was a breathless squeak.

  Jenny pushed him towards the front door. ‘Go next door. Ask Mrs Lucas to call the police,’ she told him.

  Alain grabbed her arm with both his hands, clunking her elbow with the bat, and clung to her. ‘Not without you.’

  Jenny understood: he had left Jeanne-Louise, and now she was dead. He would not leave Jenny.

  Jenny could hear Ligat clearing the glass from one of the panels of the back door. He would be inside the house within seconds. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll go together.’ She opened the front door and a sea-spray of freezing droplets blew in at them. She tugged the baseball bat out of Alain’s hands and bundled him into his coat, then slipped on her own waterproof jacket. ‘Shoes,’ she said. While Alain forced his feet into his trainers, she snatched the front door keys from the hall stand.

  Jenny used the latch key to close the door quietly behind her, then double-locked it: if Alain’s father had to retrace his steps to get out of the house, it would give them extra time. Too late, Alain realized he had left his weapon inside the house.

  They ran to the adjoining house, but there was no reply. The next house was divided into flats, but if they ran to the house on the corner—

  A cascade of glass exploded from the front door. Alain shrank to Jenny’s side and she heard his father’s voice for the first time.

  ‘Come back here, you little bastard, or I’ll tear your fucking heart out!’

  Jenny grabbed Alain’s hand and ran to the edge of the road. It was twilight, and the heavy storm clouds increased the gloom. It was raining heavily. If they knocked on a few more doors they might find someone at home, but Ligat might catch them first. It was half a mile to the nearest public phone box, if it hadn’t been vandalized.

  ‘We need to get to where there are more people, Alain,�
�� she said. ‘But we need to hide.’

  The road was flooded. Water swept down it, carrying twigs and odd bits of litter. It cascaded over their ankles. She led Alain to the low wall at the edge of the gravel path around the perimeter of the park, and from there through the holly hedge into the park itself. She intended to keep low, next to the hedge, and make a run for it once they got to Lark Lane.

  Ligat headed straight for the park, working by some kind of predator instinct. They got no more than fifty yards away when he spotted them and yelled. The hedge was dense at this point, and there was no escape back onto the roadway, so Jenny had no choice but to sprint for the cover of a small copse, a little further inside the park.

  * * *

  Mike was driving fast, siren blaring, lights strobing in the lightning flashes. He had radioed for double-crewed units, directing them to Jenny and Fraser Pearson’s house. His radio crackled and he answered his call sign. It was the sergeant in charge of the control room.

  ‘There’s a substation blown out in Kensington,’ he said. ‘A number of casualties. No units available.’

  Mike braked, flashing his headlights, siren screaming, as he crossed Tunnel Road and Lodge Lane from Parliament Street into Smithdown Road, against the signals. A van skidded to a stop directly in front of him and, cursing, Mike drove around him.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ he said. ‘Keep trying her number — we’ve got to warn her.’

  * * *

  Shona was trying to sort out in her mind what had happened during the phone call. Had Jenny really refused her help? She wasn’t at work, so she wouldn’t need a babysitter, but Shona couldn’t shake the idea that Jenny needed her. No — that wasn’t quite what she felt — it was Alain who needed her. It had something to do with his hands, and the bruises on her hands. Something to do with Max . . .

  She reached forward and switched on the radio, turning the volume up loud. She wouldn’t, wouldn’t think about Max. It wasn’t her fault . . .