by Steve Voake
‘We can’t do that, Cal.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because what if he does it again? What if he decides he wants something else and abducts some other kid? And what if next time they don’t get away?’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he found what he was looking for.’
Eden was quiet for a moment.
‘And what about you, Cal?’ she asked. ‘What are you looking for?’
Cal thought of Sarah, lying by his side in the dark of the camper van, wanting to be his mother.
‘I’m not looking for anything,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’
Thirty-Seven
The bartender arrived with two Cokes and two plates piled high with thickly cut ham and cheese sandwiches, surrounded by a sea of potato chips. He took a towel from his arm, flicked dust from the table and placed the plates carefully in front of them, as though they were royalty.
‘Not often we get visitors around here,’ he said. ‘Least we can do is look after ’em.’
Eden smiled.
‘I’m guessing you must be Bobby.’
The bartender looked at Cal and raised an eyebrow.
‘She a detective or something?’
‘I read the sign,’ said Eden. ‘Looks like we definitely picked the right place.’
‘I don’t suppose there was much picking to be done,’ said Bobby. ‘There ain’t another bar and grill around here for thirty miles. And you won’t find many of those open at this time of night.’
‘Are you always open this late?’ asked Cal.
‘Nah,’ said Bobby. ‘You can blame Jimmy for that.’ He looked across at the bar where the thinner of the two men was taking a swallow of whisky. ‘Ain’t that right, Jimmy?’
Jimmy took the glass from his lips and lifted it up in acknowledgement.
‘Bobby’ll look after you,’ he said. ‘Bobby looks after everyone.’
‘What he really means,’ said Bobby, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘is that I’ve got “sucker” written across my forehead. Enjoy.’
Cal took a bite of his sandwich and tasted fresh butter and the faint tang of mustard. He waited until Bobby was back behind the bar and then put his sandwich back on the plate.
‘Is that what you think of me?’ he asked. ‘Do you think I’m a sucker too?’
Eden didn’t answer right away. She ate a couple of potato chips and then took a sip of Coke, as if she needed to give the question some proper thought.
‘You do, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Eden. ‘But I do think you’re trying too hard to find some good in a person who doesn’t have any. Which is why, when we finish this meal, we need to phone the authorities and tell them what happened.’
‘What? No.’
‘Cal, listen to yourself. We’re in the middle of God knows where and we’ve got no idea how to get home. What else can we do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cal. ‘But it’s going to be madness, you know that, don’t you? If we tell them what we’ve seen …’
In his mind he saw the flashing lights and the news teams with their satellite vans and microphones, all wanting an exclusive, all wanting to join the feeding frenzy that would gather around them.
‘But it’s madness already, Cal. That’s one genie we’re never going to be able to put back in the bottle.’ Eden pushed her plate to one side and stood up.
‘I know it’s going to be tough for a while. But we’ll stick together, OK? Whatever happens, we’ll help each other through it.’
Cal looked at her.
‘At least finish your meal first. There’s no rush.’
‘I know. I have to go to the bathroom.’
‘Oh. OK.’
Cal blushed, glad that the lights were low. When Eden was gone, he ate some more of his sandwich and thought how strange it was to be sitting here in comfort when only hours before he had thought they were going to die. It was odd, he thought, the way the mind adapted to different situations. One minute you were trying to work out the best way to stay alive, the next you were savouring the taste of a ham and cheese sandwich and wondering whether – now that you had finished your plate of potato chips – it was OK to lift a couple from your friend’s plate.
Cal was still thinking about that when he realised Bobby was standing next to the table with a couple more glasses of Coke and a plate of oatmeal cookies.
‘Strange dessert, I know,’ said Bobby, putting the cookies in the centre of the table and replacing the empty glasses. ‘But you look as though you could use a little more fuel.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cal, grateful and embarrassed at the same time. ‘Are you sure we can’t pay you for this?’
Bobby smiled.
‘Maybe someday when you’re rich and famous,’ he said. ‘But until then, I’m not too worried.’
‘OK, well … thanks again.’
There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then Bobby crouched down so that he was level with the table.
‘Talking of famous,’ he said quietly, ‘I know who you are. I saw your picture on CNN.’
The calmness with which Bobby delivered this information took Cal completely by surprise and he took his hands from the table because he didn’t want Bobby to see that they were shaking.
‘Listen, you don’t have to tell me what happened,’ said Bobby, ‘but you need to let your folks know that you’re OK. Your mom looked pretty worried.’
‘She’s not my mum,’ said Cal.
‘OK,’ said Bobby. ‘Well, whoever she is, she needs to know you’re safe.’
Cal looked at the wood-panelled walls, the black and white photographs of loggers and gold-panners and the neat row of horseshoes lined up above the door, and he felt angry because once again he was being told what to do by someone who would never know or understand the things he had seen or the way he felt.
But then his anger turned to sadness because he realised, looking at the men at the bar, that it was the same for everyone; that all the things people said or did were just new ways of pretending that they weren’t alone. And whether it was this or the fact that tiredness was catching up with him Cal didn’t know, but he suddenly realised there were tears in his eyes so he picked up a paper napkin and pressed it to his face because he was embarrassed and he couldn’t do anything about it.
‘Hey, come on,’ said Bobby, squeezing into the seat opposite. ‘You know what? I had a son, just like you.’
Cal wiped his eyes and stared at the beer stains and the scratches on the varnished wooden floor.
‘Yeah, that’s right. John, his name was. We had our ups and downs of course, same as any kids and their parents. But there was something else too.’
Bobby scratched his chin and shook his head, as if the words coming out of his mouth had taken him by surprise.
‘I guess I don’t normally talk about this kind of stuff. But when I saw you …’
He turned to see if Frank and Jimmy were listening, but they were busy with their own conversation.
‘See, my son always had this thought, deep down, that I didn’t really love him. Never spoke about it, but I knew it all the same. And you know why he thought that?’
Cal shook his head.
‘Because I wasn’t his real dad, that’s why. I mean, as far as I was concerned I was, but his mom had him when she was young, before I met her. So he always kind of felt that because he wasn’t really mine, he would never be good enough for me. But nothing ever really got said. When he was eighteen years old he joined the army, went off to fight in the Gulf and that was it. He never came back. And you know what the worst part is?’
Cal stared at the reflection of the lights in the window and said nothing.
‘The worst part is, I never got to tell him he was wrong. I never got to tell him that I loved him.’
For the first time since he had sat down at the table, Cal looked at
Bobby directly.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked.
Bobby shrugged.
‘Maybe it’s because I recognised the look on your face when I spoke about your mom. Or maybe,’ he added, ‘it’s because I recognised the look on hers.’
As he got up to go, Cal said, ‘Just give me a few minutes, OK? Then maybe I’ll make the call.’
Bobby nodded.
‘Take all the time you need,’ he said.
Cal watched Bobby walk back over to the bar and start joking with the other guys and for a moment he found it hard to believe that their conversation had taken place. He felt sorry about the whole thing with his son, sure, but he didn’t see what it had to do with him, apart from reminding him that people got hurt the world over.
But then he thought of Jefferson, and remembered that he had done a good thing for him. Maybe that was what life was; just a series of good and bad things and the trick was to try to shift the balance, to try to make the good things outweigh the bad.
There had been no reason for Bobby to give them free food, or to come across and talk about his son. But maybe that was just his way of dealing with the bad stuff. Maybe he believed that if you did enough good things, you could somehow fix the world and make it right.
But where did that leave Jefferson?
Cal knew if the police caught up with him, he would be locked away in prison for a long, long time – maybe even for the rest of his life.
There would be no prospect of the world coming right for him ever again.
And although Cal knew it was stupid, in that moment he saw something of himself in Jefferson, saw how they had both been searching their whole lives for a way of making a world that was wrong become right again. And the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that he should persuade Eden to leave Jefferson out of it. They could say they got lost in the woods. They could say they stumbled out onto a road and hitched a lift, that they didn’t know where they were headed.
And then maybe Jefferson would be able to live the rest of his life out in peace, alone with his dog, and all the dark things would go away because the people who dreamed of them were no longer there.
Pushing his plate away, Cal got up from the table and looked across to the corridor, waiting for Eden to return so that together they could begin to set everything straight.
It was then that he saw the figure, standing in the shadows. It stood with its hands behind its back, watching him. Then it took one hand from behind its back and smiled.
But it wasn’t until Cal saw the blood, dripping slowly from the tips of the metal shears, that he finally started to scream.
Thirty-Eight
At the bar, Frank and Jimmy spun round on their stools and Bobby put his drink back on the counter.
‘What is it, son?’ asked Frank. ‘What’s the matter?’
But Cal was too afraid to speak; leaning on the table for support, he watched the man make his slow, unhurried progress down the corridor towards him.
Bobby pulled up the serving hatch and stepped through at the same time as the man walked out of the corridor into the bar. The man turned, slowly raising the shears until they were pointing straight at him.
‘This doesn’t concern you,’ he said.
‘Damn right it concerns me,’ said Bobby, and Cal heard the anger in his voice. ‘This is my bar and I want to know what the hell you think you’re doing. Coming in here and frightening the kid like that.’
Cal saw that the man was smiling, as if he found the whole thing mildly amusing.
‘You want to know what I am doing? Then please – watch, and you will see. But I hope you have a strong stomach. These things have a tendency to become …’ he opened and closed the blades twice in quick succession ‘… messy.’
‘OK, that’s it,’ said Bobby. ‘Either you get out or I’ll kick you out myself.’
‘You heard the man,’ said Frank, sliding off his bar stool and rolling up his sleeves. ‘Hit the road.’
The man’s smile grew wider, as if this new development was a source of unexpected pleasure.
‘You see, Cal?’ he said. ‘You see how people try and make us do things all the time? Do this, Do that. It makes us angry, doesn’t it? Makes us feel like we just want to kill someone.’
He turned to face Frank, who was striding across the floor towards him.
‘Is that what you’re going to do?’ the man asked. ‘Are you going to kill me?’
‘No,’ said Frank, grabbing him by the lapels and pushing him against the wall. ‘First I’m going to kick your ass. Then I’m going to kill you.’
Holding the man’s jacket with his left hand, he drew back his right fist.
The man giggled, an odd, high-pitched sound like an excited child at a birthday party.
‘Hit me!’ he squealed. ‘Hit me! Hit me!’
‘Oh, I’m gonna,’ said Frank.
He threw a punch at the man’s head, but the man twitched sideways and Frank’s fist flailed into empty air.
‘Missed!’ said the man, still giggling.
Frank swore, let go of the man’s lapels and swung two more punches at his face.
‘Missed!’ said the man, moving from side to side like a metronome. ‘Missed again!’
He jerked his knee up hard, the force blowing all the air out of Frank’s lungs. Then he flipped the shears up, caught them by the blades and swung the heavy wooden handles at the side of Frank’s head, knocking him out cold.
All this in less than five seconds, which was the time it took Jimmy to smash a bottle and come running over with the jagged glass clutched tightly in his hand.
‘Hello,’ said the man. ‘Hello, hello.’
As Jimmy swung the bottle at his throat the man leaned back like a limbo dancer and the bottle swished harmlessly though the air. He brought his body forward again and nodded, eyes glittering, as if it was all part of some enjoyable game.
‘Again,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Again, again.’
‘OK, you asked for it,’ said Jimmy, breathing heavily, ‘and now you’re gonna get it.’
‘Hee-hee,’ said the man, putting a hand over his mouth and snickering. ‘Hee-hee-hee-hee.’
Jimmy set his jaw firm and swung the bottle again, putting all his weight behind it.
‘Awww,’ said the man, sounding almost disappointed as he moved his head effortlessly out of the way. ‘You lose.’
He grinned, then snapped forward like a falling tree and his forehead struck Jimmy on the bridge of the nose, the look of pain and surprise still on Jimmy’s face when he hit the floor a couple of seconds later.
Cal remembered how easily he had been able to knock the man over in the forest and guessed he had merely been playing games with him, allowing him to get away so that he would still believe that escape was possible. He saw now that the man had simply wanted to extend the game; to give Cal hope so that the end, when it came, would be even worse.
So it was no surprise when the man neatly sidestepped Bobby’s first swing with the baseball bat, snatched up a chair and struck Bobby in the centre of the forehead, sending him crashing through the tables in a clatter of glass.
The man turned back to face Cal and Cal saw that he was no longer smiling.
‘On your knees,’ he said.
Cal bit his lip and tasted blood. Then, very slowly, he shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t do it.’
The man narrowed his eyes.
‘If you disobey me,’ he said, ‘then everything will be harder. We can do this quickly’ – he opened the blades and peered through them – ‘or we can do it slow.’
He lowered the shears again and moved closer.
‘So, which is it to be?’
Cal looked desperately around for a means of escape, but the man was standing between him and the door and Cal had already seen how fast he could move.
‘I won’t tell you again,’ said the man.
Cal knew he co
uld no longer rely upon his muscles to support him; the weight of his bones seemed almost too much to bear.
But then he saw the table next to the window and it seemed like a small chance, a glimmer of light. And as the man licked his lips and walked across the bar towards him Cal jumped onto a chair, scrambled across the table and flung himself fists first through the plate-glass window.
Thirty-Nine
The glass shattered into a thousand pieces as Cal struck it, spraying across the car park like frozen rain. His mind had gone into panic mode now, ignoring the pain as it focused on the task of keeping him alive.
As he hit the bonnet of the pick-up truck, broken glass rattled across the windscreen and he rolled over the side, slamming into the ground with a thump that knocked the wind out of him. He felt blood on his face and saw dark droplets flecking the broken glass beneath him. He was hurt, he knew that much; knew he should find help, find a way to stop the bleeding. But there was no time; if he stayed here he would die.
Struggling to his knees, he cried out in pain but somehow managed to grab one of the truck’s tyres, pulling himself up until he was leaning against the bonnet. He looked at the flickering neon sign above the bar and knew that the dark, unlit road was his only hope. But as he took his first steps across the car park, the window by the door exploded and the man stepped out through a hail of glass, throwing his arms wide as if embracing the night.
‘Let’s play!’ he shouted. ‘I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with …’ he turned and pointed the shears at Cal ‘… C.’
As Cal moved away the man kept pace with him, whispering as he walked. ‘Something beginning with … something beginning with … something beginning with …C.’
When Cal was backed up against the van, the man stopped and smiled.
‘Can you guess, Cal?’ he asked. ‘Can you guess what I spy?’
‘I can,’ called a voice.
The man spun round and Cal saw that Eden was standing with her hands behind her back, lit by the flickering sign above the door.
‘Go back inside,’ said the man, and Cal could hear the anger in his voice. ‘I told you what would happen to you if you interfered again.’
‘Yeah, you did,’ said Eden. As her shoes crunched across the glass, Cal saw her ripped clothes and the blood on her face. ‘You like telling people what to do, don’t you?’