Don't Make a Sound

by David Jackson

  ‘Don’t tell me. Nothing, right?’

  ‘They seem clean as a whistle.’

  Blunt locks eyes with Oxo. ‘Jason? That your conclusion too?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve spent a lot of time with them now. They seem genuine enough to me. I can’t point to a single piece of behaviour that’s out of line with what you’d expect from parents who’ve had their only child snatched from under their noses.’

  ‘In that case, we’re letting them down. Badly. They need closure. Much as I hate to admit it, we’re likely to have to deliver some devastating news to them. But I want that news to consist of the truth. Not supposition, not guesswork. I want facts, and right now we don’t have any. It’s not good enough.’

  She turns and marches away. As she leaves, what lingers most in Cody’s mind is not so much that Blunt has just given every team member a bollocking, but that she herself is taking much of the blame for not finding Poppy Devlin.

  Her final sentence – about not being good enough – was not directed at them.

  20

  He decides it’s time.

  Poppy is a lot more settled now. She doesn’t smile much – not when he’s been in the room anyway. But there have been occasions when he has put his ear to the door and heard the tinkle of her laughter as she plays with Daisy. She’s eating more, too, and she doesn’t mention her old parents nearly as often as she did.

  But the main thing is Harriet. She seems content now. She appears happy that the new family situation is working. She will be a lot more receptive to his new idea.

  He comes down from his study. Finds Harriet on the sofa in the living room, knitting while she watches Coronation Street.

  He sits down next to her. Waits for the programme to finish. Harriet doesn’t like to be distracted when her soaps are on. She gets so involved in the lives of those characters.

  ‘Was it a good one tonight?’ he asks.

  ‘Not bad. Someone’s about to get their comeuppance, I think. The next episode should be interesting.’

  Malcolm nods, hesitates as he listens to the hypnotic click-clack of her knitting needles.

  ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ he says.

  Harriet pauses in mid-stitch. She looks at him – slightly fearfully, he thinks.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all. I just . . . want to put something to you.’

  She lowers her knitting. The ball of wool rolls from her lap and halts precariously on the edge of the seat cushion.

  ‘Well, go on. Don’t keep me in suspenders.’

  He smiles at the wordplay. It’s a little joke they’ve been using so long it has lost its currency. Harriet isn’t even aware she’s doing it. Bless her.

  ‘It’s about Poppy. Kind of.’

  ‘What do you mean? She’s not ill, is she? I’ve got lots of medicines, you know. I can fix most things. Remember when Daisy had that fever? And when she fell and cut her arm? I make a good nurse. I can—’

  ‘Hush, dearest. She’s not ill. She’s fine. And you like her, don’t you? I mean, you are glad she’s here, aren’t you?’

  Harriet releases her needles and brings her hands up to cradle Malcolm’s face. ‘Of course I am. She was a handful at first, but then so was Daisy, wasn’t she? Remember when she ripped the wallpaper that time? And when she smashed that expensive lamp? And look at her now. She’s the perfect daughter. Poppy’s getting there too. I don’t know how you do it, Malcolm. You have a gift. You make a wonderful father, and the girls look up to you.’

  He’s not sure how to answer that. It’s nice that Harriet believes it, but he can’t tell her the truth. He can’t tell her about how he almost killed Poppy a week ago. He can’t tell her that Daisy’s cut wasn’t the result of a fall.

  Sometimes he wonders just how far he could go.

  But now, as he looks into the eyes of his darling wife and sees what happiness his actions bring to her, he realises he would go to the ends of the earth to maintain that sparkle.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Harriet asks.

  ‘Nothing. Just thinking. I want to be a good father, and I want to give you every opportunity to be a fantastic mother.’

  ‘So, then . . . what’s the problem?’

  He takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

  ‘As you know, I spent a lot of time and effort finding both Daisy and Poppy. They had to be . . . right, you understand.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It couldn’t be just any old child. We discussed this. We had our criteria, and we stuck to them.’

  ‘Yes. So that’s why it took so long. That’s why three years went by before I could suggest Poppy to you.’

  ‘Malcolm, you don’t have to explain. I realise how difficult the process is. I don’t fully understand all the stuff you have to do to get there, but I know it’s not easy. And I really appreciate it, more than you can imagine. No other man would do this for his wife. No other man would be capable of it. A family is the most precious gift in the world, and you have given it to me. I was happy enough with one child, but I’m a thousand times happier with two. The wait was worth it.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you see it like that. You see . . . the thing about Poppy . . .’

  ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘I . . . I had to make a choice . . .’

  ‘What do you mean, a choice? Malcolm, you’re getting me all worried again.’

  He takes her hand. ‘No, don’t worry. I just need to explain it to you. There’s so much work involved. And there’s risk, of course. I don’t care about that, but, well . . . there’s only so much I can do. I can’t fit everything in. And I needed to see how well you got on with Poppy. I didn’t know what I’d do if you hated her.’

  Harriet gives him a reassuring smile. ‘Well, I don’t hate her. She’s wonderful. You made the right choice. You could have kept quiet about her. You didn’t have to say anything at all, but you chose to bring her to me. I’ll always be grateful for that.’

  ‘No. That’s not what I mean. That wasn’t the choice.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘There were two.’

  Harriet’s eyes flicker as she searches for his meaning. ‘Two what?’

  ‘Children. I had a choice of two. Poppy and another little girl. I chose Poppy.’

  ‘Two? I . . . There were two possible candidates?’

  He forces out a laugh. ‘Yes. Like buses, eh? You wait three years and two come along at once.’

  Harriet doesn’t join him in his laughter. ‘You . . . you didn’t tell me about the other one.’

  ‘No. I didn’t want to confuse the issue. In the end I chose the one who looks most like Daisy, and also because she has a flower name and the other one doesn’t. I thought if they were going to be sisters . . . But . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘But I also chose her because it seemed less of a risk, and now I feel such a coward about it.’

  ‘Malcolm—’

  ‘I should have told you about both of the girls. I should have let you decide. I should have talked it over with you at least. I’m sorry, Harriet.’

  ‘Malcolm,’ she says, ‘don’t be daft. I’m sure I would have picked Poppy too. It doesn’t matter now. You’ve given me a wonderful second daughter. And she does look like Daisy. You couldn’t have done any better. Stop beating yourself up about it, and go and put the kettle on.’

  He nods as she strokes his arm, but he doesn’t budge from the sofa.

  ‘Malcolm,’ she says. ‘Is there something else you want to tell me?’

  He struggles to find his words. ‘What if . . . What if you could have them both?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Poppy and this other girl. What if we brought both of them into the family?’

  ‘Both of them? Malcolm, what are you saying?’
<
br />   He becomes more animated then, more excited as he starts to paint a new future.

  ‘You waited three years for another daughter. That’s how often these opportunities come along. We might never have another chance of growing the family. Like I said, it was a hard choice for me to go for Poppy. I wasn’t even sure we could cope with another child. But you’ve just told me, haven’t you? You’ve just said how well it’s worked out. So what I’ve been thinking is . . . well, what if we grasp the nettle right now? We have one more child while we can.’

  ‘Another child? Three daughters?’

  ‘Why not? The alternative is to leave this other kid where she is, and I don’t know how long it’ll be before her situation changes. She might move house or something. If we don’t act now, we might lose this chance for ever.’

  Harriet drops into silence. Then: ‘Three children?’

  ‘Yes. We can cope, can’t we? We’re still young enough. And that’s another thing: a few years more and I could be too old to do any of this again. It’s now or never, dearest.’

  Harriet pulls her hand from his. She sets her knitting aside, gets up from the sofa. She walks softly to the other side of the room and pulls aside the curtain. She stands there for a full minute, just staring into the darkness outside.

  Finally, she turns. ‘Show me,’ she says.

  Malcolm leaves his seat and races upstairs. Minutes later he’s back again, the album in his hands.

  ‘You’ve already prepared it,’ says Harriet.

  He flashes her a cheeky smile. ‘I had a feeling.’

  They resume their places on the sofa. Malcolm flips open the album to the place he has bookmarked. He watches Harriet’s face.

  ‘She has dark hair,’ says Harriet.

  ‘Yes. Nothing like the other two, really. She’s the same age as Poppy, though. Just six.’

  ‘She’s cute as a button.’

  Harriet turns the pages, her eyes growing brighter as they soak up each new image.

  She says, ‘And the criteria? She satisfies them?’

  ‘Yes. I wouldn’t lie to you about that.’

  Harriet reaches the final photograph. She touches a finger to the child’s beaming face.

  ‘When?’ she asks. ‘When would you get her?’

  21

  No time like the present.

  That’s what he told Harriet. There was no point giving her all that spiel about this being a tiny window of opportunity, and then leaving it until the window was firmly bricked up. It had to be tonight.

  So yet again he’s parked up in his van in the middle of the night, waiting for his four o’clock call to action.

  He hopes he’s doing the right thing. It’s much, much trickier, this one. Opting for Poppy was a no-brainer when he’d had a choice.

  He’d hate to get caught: he’s got a family to support.

  But he was right to mention it to Harriet. It would have preyed on his mind for the rest of his life if he hadn’t. She deserves it. Ellie deserves it, too.

  That’s the new girl’s name: Ellie. Ellie McVitie. Like Poppy, she’s an only child.

  Don’t worry, Ellie. You’ll have a bigger family soon, with two new sisters to play with. Won’t that be great?

  The difficulty with this one is access to the property. He’s done his homework, and there’s no way he’ll get in through any of the doors and windows on the ground floor – not without making a racket and attracting attention.

  So that leaves the first floor.

  There’s only one way in. The bathroom. The McVities always leave the transom window open a couple of inches in that room. It probably doesn’t seem much of a risk to them. After all, nobody could fit through it; and even if they could, how would they get up there?

  Malcolm intends to give them an answer to that.

  And now’s the time to do it. Four o’clock, on the dot.

  He leaves the van, taking his bag of tricks with him. The house is detached, and from the street there doesn’t appear to be any route to the rear.

  But Malcolm knows better.

  He strolls up the side path of the neighbour’s house, which isn’t as secure. His presence causes a security light to come on, but he ignores it. Unless someone is at their window, they are unlikely to see it.

  When he gets to the back of the brick-built garage, he waits for the lamp to go off again, then squeezes into the narrow gap between the garage and the boundary fence. The fence is low – just a couple of feet. Easy enough to step over into the McVities’ garden.

  He is behind a wooden shed here. Well hidden. Which helps for the next phase of his mission.

  The McVities keep a ladder hanging from metal hooks screwed to the concrete fence posts. A padlock and chain prevent it from being removed.

  Unless you have the right tools.

  Malcolm opens his bag, pulls out the bolt cutters. They snip through the chain like scissors through card.

  He takes his time slipping the ladder off its supports. It’s not heavy, but it’s long and made of aluminium. One slip could make a hell of a noise.

  When the ladder is free and lying on the grass, he pauses to take a much-needed breather. So far, so good, but there’s a long way to go yet.

  He picks up the ladder, carries it to the rear wall of the house. No security lights here, thank goodness.

  He raises the ladder into a vertical position. Gently angles it towards the wall. It makes contact with barely a sound.

  Retrieving his bag from behind the shed, he sets it down next to the feet of the ladder. He takes out another couple of tools, then stares up at his target.

  He is standing directly below the open transom of the bathroom.

  As soon as he puts a foot on the bottom rung, a deluge of memories hits him. He was up a ladder when that roof gave way all those years ago. When he came hurtling to the ground, smashing his skull like it was an egg.

  Not going to happen this time, he tells himself. Think about why you’re doing this. Think about Harriet’s joy when you come home with her new baby. Ellie is up there right now, just waiting to begin her new life. Go to her.

  Slowly, step after careful step, he ascends the ladder. When he is within a couple of feet of the top, it suddenly strikes him how brazen, how daring this is. Harriet was right: nobody else but him would be capable of a feat like this. This is special. This is bravery at its finest.

  Emboldened, he creeps up the final few rungs. He pulls the transom open as wide as it will go, then puts his arm through. He can’t reach the handle of the adjoining section of the window, but he guessed that would be the case. It’s probably another reason why the McVities believe themselves to be safe.

  The tool he uses is something he fashioned at home. Just a twisted piece of metal on the end of a stick, really. One piece of the metal juts out like a thumb; below that it becomes a hook.

  Malcolm slides the tool through the gap, careful not to tap it against anything. He spends some time manoeuvring it until the hook is around the window handle and the metal thumb is positioned over the release button. All he has to do then is apply pressure to push down the button, and then make a twisting motion to turn the handle.

  And voila, the window is open.

  He swings the window wide, then reaches in and moves aside some toiletries on the sill before squeezing himself through. He’s a big man, and this is not a large window, so it takes both time and effort.

  He lowers himself to the bathroom floor, then reattaches his makeshift tool to his belt. From the belt he slips out a torch; he has taped a piece of material over the end to dim and diffuse the light, leaving him just enough to spot obstacles. He switches it on, allows himself a minute for his eyes to adjust.

  The bathroom door is ajar, so getting out of this room is not a problem. When he’s on the landing he spends a moment getting his bearings, working out which room is which. When he figures out where Ellie is sleeping, he has to resist the temptation to go right in and grab her. The
re is more preparatory work to be done first.

  Coming through that bathroom window was a struggle. There is no way he can go back through it and down a ladder with an unconscious child thrown over his shoulder. He needs another, simpler exit.

  Malcolm heads downstairs, then through the hall to the front of the house. The door there is bolted on the inside and has a chain in place, but when he tries turning the catch of the Yale, he discovers that it hasn’t been locked.

  He shakes his head. Belt and braces, folks. Don’t you know there are criminals everywhere?

  He slides back the bolts, takes off the chain. His escape route is ready.

  And now for Ellie.

  As he moves back up the stairs, he feels a curious urge to start whistling a tune. This seems so like a job – a mundane, everyday task. It’s too easy, too straightforward. Too—

  It’s just as he reaches the landing that a light comes on and he whirls to see Ellie’s father staring at him.

  22

  They stand frozen in time: Malcolm acting as if becoming a statue will suddenly endow him with the power of invisibility, and McVitie glued to the floor by the shock of finding a stranger in his house.

  And then it becomes chaotic. Both men reacting without thinking, driven by the sudden surges of adrenalin. McVitie heading towards Malcolm, yelling stuff at him, ordering him to get the fuck out of this house, and what are you doing here, you fucking bastard, what the fuck do you think you’re doing, call the police, Eva, call them now.

  And Malcolm, wanting to run, but knowing he can’t. Knowing his face has been seen, that if he shows his fear he will be set upon, that if he wastes a second the police will be alerted.

  Which is why he does the opposite of what McVitie probably expects. Instead of turning tail, he moves towards him, swatting him out of his way as he goes into the bedroom, where he sees Eva – McVitie’s wife – sitting up in bed, lamp on, phone in hand, but screaming, not knowing what to do, physically unable to jab the buttons that will summon help.

  And Malcolm feels it. He feels the darkness descending, the mist closing in. His senses begin to distort reality. The sight of McVitie advancing on him again, teeth bared and spittle flying, holds no fear for him. He sees only a ludicrous little man in his pyjamas, and with a single hand he pushes him away with an unexpected force that sends him flying across the room. And when McVitie comes back again, this time with fists bunched, this time filled with wrath and the superhuman energy that comes with the urgency of defending family and home, Malcolm is ready.