Don't Make a Sound

by David Jackson

  Daisy has wondered this herself. There has been only a handful of occasions during the past three years in which she has experienced Quiet Time, and on each occasion she has agonised over the choices available to her.

  She has heard the voices. She has stared into the blackness and tried to picture their owners. She has put her ear to the floor in an attempt to catch their words, to determine if they are people who might be brave enough to intervene.

  She has tried imagining what would happen if she were to stamp her feet on the floor or bang on the door and cry for help. She has imagined the visitors defying the Bensons and rushing to her aid, breaking down the door and taking her in their arms. She has imagined the tears of joy and relief, and the subsequent ecstasy of being reunited with her parents.

  But the dark thoughts always intrude, swamping her optimism and depriving it of oxygen. They tell her of a different outcome: of the visitors being fobbed off with a simple lie, and walking away from this house none the wiser. And then they tell her of what would surely come next: of the bolts being drawn back, and the appearance of Malcolm, more angry and unhinged than ever before.

  And when those images appear in her head, Daisy always resigns herself to erring on the side of caution. She remains still and quiet, waiting for the awful finality of the goodbyes and the closing of the front door on what may have been her only hope of freedom. And for days afterwards she will wonder what might have happened if she had acted differently, and it will continue to twist a knife in her belly.

  So now she looks into the shiny-bright eyes of her questioner, and knows that she can’t allow Poppy to suffer the pain of these decisions. It would be unfair to give her that power.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘They wouldn’t take you back home. Malcolm and Harriet wouldn’t let that happen. And if you ever break the rules at Quiet Time, they will be so angry they will cut off your legs so that you can never run away.’

  She watches the fire die down in Poppy’s eyes, to be replaced by the leaden greyness of despair and subjugation.

  And Daisy hates herself for what she has just done.

  41

  Cody is beginning to think Webley might be right about this being a wild goose chase. The idea of checking out vans in the area doesn’t seem to be getting them anywhere, and might even be distracting them from more fruitful lines of inquiry. Not that he can imagine what those other lines might be. They have so little to go on.

  It’s been a long day, and he’s tired. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Perhaps the break they need is just around the corner.

  He enters his building on Rodney Street. Trudges up the steps to the first floor. Unlocks the door to his flat. Sets his alarm again before going up another set of stairs.

  He goes into the kitchen first. Snaps on the light. His unwashed breakfast dishes are still on the draining board where he left them. He also sees the unwrapped loaf of bread that he forgot to put away, so that will be nice and dried-out now.

  He sighs. Goes to the fridge. There are a couple of pork escalopes in here. He checks the best-before date, finds that it was two days ago. I’ll risk it, he thinks. Two days isn’t going to kill me.

  Cup of tea first.

  He closes the fridge door. Fills the kettle and switches it on. While it hisses and pops because it needs descaling, he starts to unburden himself of the objects in his pockets. He tosses his keys, wallet, notepad, pens, coins, phone, Polo mints and tissues onto the counter, then he takes off his jacket and tie and hangs them on the back of a chair. He returns to the counter, drops a teabag into a mug, pours boiling water onto it.

  And then it hits him.

  He moves along the counter. Scans his belongings.

  Where’s my ID?

  He goes over to his jacket. Checks all the pockets. Nothing there.

  Back to the counter. He moves the items about, looks under his wallet. Definitely not there.

  So where is it?

  He looks through the doorway into the hall. Could he have dropped it? Perhaps when he took his keys out at the front door? Surely he would have heard it fall? And besides, he keeps his keys and ID in different pockets.

  Shit, he thinks. I’m in trouble if I’ve lost that.

  Think, man! When did you last use it?

  And then he remembers.

  The last house they went to. What were they called? Oh, yes, the Bensons.

  Mr Benson took his ID from him before disappearing into the house to examine it. Did he give it back, though?

  Cody replays the episode through his mind. The more he does so, the more certain he is that Benson never handed it back. It wasn’t even in plain sight in the living room.

  That must be it, he thinks. I left it at the Bensons’ house.

  So I’ll go round and pick it up in the morning.

  Except . . .

  I’ve got an early briefing in the morning. What if the Bensons aren’t early risers? Or what if they leave the house even earlier than I do? I’ll be in deep shit then.

  Crap. I’ll have to go now, otherwise I’ll never relax. Besides, it’s only a fifteen-minute drive away.

  Cody grabs his keys, leaving the other items where they are. I’ll only be gone for a short while, he thinks.

  He leaves his jacket on the back of the chair too, but takes a fleece from its peg as he goes back into the hall.

  As he heads downstairs, he allows his thoughts to drift back to the current case.

  Where was I? he thinks.

  Oh, yeah: I was hoping that the break we need is just around the corner.

  42

  He pulls up in his car. The house looks dark, unoccupied. He hopes they haven’t gone away for a few days. All he wants is his warrant card. Then he can go back home and eat his pork escalopes and relax with a good book. Not too much to ask, surely?

  He walks along the driveway. Knocks on the door. Waits.

  He knocks again. Inside, a light goes on. Good, he thinks. They’re still here.

  The door opens. He hears Harriet’s voice saying, ‘Did you forget your—?’

  Then she sees him. Her eyes widen. She looks startled.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I thought . . . I wasn’t expecting . . .’

  ‘Sorry to bother you again, Mrs Benson,’ says Cody. ‘This won’t take long. I think I may have left my warrant card here.’

  ‘Your . . . your what?’

  ‘My badge and warrant card. My identification. Do you remember? I was here earlier, and your husband took it into the house. I don’t think he gave it back to me before I left.’

  Harriet’s lips quiver, but she seems to struggle to voice whatever it is she wants to say. Cody wonders why she appears so anxious.

  ‘I . . . I think you must be mistaken. I haven’t seen it anywhere.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s in a small black wallet. It’s got “Property of Merseyside Police” written on it.’

  ‘No. I don’t remember anything like that.’

  ‘Then maybe your husband could tell us where he put it? Do you mind asking him for me?’

  ‘He’s out. He went to the shop. We’re out of ketchup. He likes ketchup with his sausage and chips.’

  She doesn’t budge from the doorway, but she keeps turning her head to look back into the house, as though listening out for something.

  Cody’s radar pings. Something isn’t quite right here.

  He says, ‘Do you mind if I wait for him then? We could have a quick look for it while we’re waiting.’

  She seems uncertain, but Cody knows she can hardly turn him down without appearing even more suspicious.

  ‘I . . . I suppose that would be all right.’

  She opens the door, allows him in. He sneaks a glance at her as he enters, notices that her eyes are turned up towards the ceiling.

  What is she worried about?

  He starts to move towards the living room, but Harriet overtakes him. She seems in one hell of a hurry. Cody pi
cks up his own pace, and as he reaches the doorway he sees her straightening up by the television, a sheepish look on her face.

  ‘Had a thought?’ he asks her.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘About my ID. It looked as though something just occurred to you.’

  ‘What? Oh. No. I was just turning the television off.’

  Cody is convinced he hadn’t heard the television when he came in. And even if it was on, why the sudden urgency to switch it off? Harriet doesn’t seem the type to be watching porn movies.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he says with a smile. But he’s even more intrigued now. The woman’s behaviour is beyond strange.

  ‘Shall we have a quick search?’ he asks.

  ‘Er, yes. Okay.’

  He nods, smiles again. He starts moving around the room. He picks up cushions on the sofa, moves magazines on the coffee table, peeks behind the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Harriet’s actions are similar, but her attention doesn’t seem to be devoted to the task. Every time Cody glances across at her, he finds her eyes on him. It’s almost as though there’s something she doesn’t want him to find.

  He straightens up. Harriet does the same. They face each other across the room. Cody decides it’s time he asked her some serious questions.

  And then he hears it.

  The thud.

  From upstairs.

  43

  ‘What was that?’ says Daisy in a harsh whisper.

  ‘My book,’ says Poppy. ‘I dropped it. I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean to.’

  Daisy hears the sniffles starting. Poppy knows how serious this could be.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she tells her. ‘Maybe they didn’t hear.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It was an accident. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Shush. Don’t make it worse now. It’ll be okay if we stay quiet.’

  But she doesn’t think it will be okay. She thinks they are in trouble.

  *

  ‘What was that?’ says Cody, looking up.

  Harriet follows his gaze. Her mouth works furiously again as she tries to find an explanation.

  When their eyes meet once more, she says, ‘The cat. He likes to sit on the windowsill. Makes a heck of a noise when he jumps down again. Sometimes he knocks things over, too.’

  Cody nods slowly. He’s not convinced, and he’s finding it increasingly difficult to hide that fact.

  ‘Mrs Benson—’

  ‘Tea!’ she says. ‘Shall I make some tea, while we’re waiting for Malcolm?’

  She doesn’t wait for his answer. She goes bustling out of the room, her cheeks red and blotchy.

  Cody isn’t quite sure whether he is meant to follow her out. He takes one last look around the room, then starts towards the door. Stops again when another thought strikes him.

  He walks across to the television. It’s a large flat screen device on a pine stand in the alcove. He looks over the top of the set to find the vents on the rear. He puts his hand to the vents. There’s no residual heat.

  And then he sees the switch. It’s behind the television, fixed to the wooden stand. His eyes follow a cable leading from it to the wall. The wire travels up the corner of the wall, then disappears into the ceiling.

  Was that what Harriet was doing? Flicking the switch?

  He looks at it again. It’s a simple toggle – on or off. What could possibly be its function?

  It occurs to him to try it out, but then he decides better of it. Perhaps Harriet or Malcolm can enlighten him.

  He takes a step back, still puzzling over the set-up here, and Harriet’s bizarre behaviour.

  Then something else catches his eye. There’s a slight gap between the edge of the pine stand and the chimney breast. Where the gap joins the floor, something is protruding.

  Cody bends down, pulls out the object.

  It’s the wallet containing his badge and warrant card.

  Cody stands there for a few seconds, wallet in hand. The very fact it’s here suggests that this was the first place Malcolm came to when he disappeared into the house. And now Harriet has just done the same.

  So what is it about that switch? The switch that controls something above the ceiling.

  From where the noise came.

  Cody decides he’s not going to reveal the fact that he has found his warrant card. Not just yet. Not until he’s got answers to a few questions.

  He slips the wallet into the pocket of his fleece, then heads out to the kitchen.

  Harriet is only just filling the kettle. Cody wonders what she has been doing out here since she left him alone. Fretting, perhaps? Panicking?

  ‘You okay, Mrs Benson?’

  She jumps at the sound of his voice behind her, causing water to slosh over the sides of the overfilled kettle. Realising what she has done, she pours some of the water out before flicking the lid shut.

  ‘Yes, yes. I . . . I forgot what I came out here for. It’s my nerves. My brain doesn’t work so well now.’

  ‘Mrs Benson, where did you say your husband was?’

  She switches on the kettle. ‘The local supermarket. Ketchup. He went for ketchup.’

  Not upstairs then? Why would she lie about that?

  ‘So he’ll be back in a minute?’

  ‘Yes. Any minute now.’

  She opens a cupboard. Takes down a box of Typhoo. ‘How do you like your tea?’

  ‘Milk, no sugar, thank you. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘No. That’s all right.’

  He notices her hand trembling as she takes out the tea bags and drops them into a teapot. She taps her fingers on the counter as she waits for the kettle to boil. She seems to be avoiding making eye contact with him.

  Cody looks around the kitchen. It’s neat and tidy. Unlike his own place, there are no unwashed dishes on show. Not even any washed ones. Everything has been put away. There are no empty shopping bags. No newspapers or mail. No . . .

  No what?

  What’s missing?

  His eyes dart as he tries to work out the thing that should be here but isn’t. Why is he so sure that’s the case? It’s just a kitchen, isn’t it, with everything a kitchen should have. Everything two human beings need.

  Yes, human beings.

  But not an animal. Not a cat.

  Where are the cat’s food and water bowls? Its litter tray? Its scratching post? Its toys? How can you own a cat and possess none of those things? There isn’t even a cat flap in the back door.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Benson,’ he says, ‘but do you mind if I use your loo?’

  She almost drops the cup that’s in her hand. ‘My what?’

  Cody points a finger upwards. ‘Your toilet. Do you mind? I won’t be a sec.’

  He doesn’t wait for her to think about it, to come up with an excuse. He just leaves the kitchen and heads for the staircase.

  He hears her follow him into the hall. He turns and gives her another smile. ‘Top of the stairs, is it?’

  ‘Er, er, yes. On the left. The one with the light switch outside.’

  ‘Thank you. Won’t be long. How’s that tea doing?’

  He waits for her to slink reluctantly back into the kitchen, and then he starts up the stairs.

  When he gets to the landing, he sees there are two doors to his left. Only one of them has a light switch outside. The other . . .

  Well, the other is bolted.

  Why would that be? Why on earth would anyone put bolts on a bedroom door? And on the outside?

  The only reason that Cody can think of is to lock something in. Or someone.

  Building a quick mental map, Cody realises that the bathroom is over the kitchen, and the locked room is directly above the living room. The noise he heard must have come from inside this bedroom.

  Cody opens the bathroom door, then snaps on the light as he steps inside. He pulls the door shut with a slight slam. Stamps heavily across the tiled floor, whistling as he goes.

  And then he sneaks back to th
e door. Opens it quietly.

  He steps back onto the landing. Goes up to the other door – the one holding all the secrets. He puts his ear to it, but hears nothing.

  He reaches up, carefully slides back the upper bolt. Then he does the same with the lower one. He grasps the doorknob. Twists it slowly.

  He pushes the door open carefully, not sure what to expect.

  It’s black inside. If there is someone in here, why would they be sitting in the dark?

  He reaches a hand to the wall. Slides it around until he locates a light switch. He flicks it on.

  Nothing. Still pitch-black. He wishes now that he had put a landing light on. Only a faint gloom reaches him from downstairs.

  He swings the door wider, blinks as he tries to adjust to the darkness. He takes a cautious step forward, then another.

  The thing that immediately catches his attention is a tiny blinking red light. He can’t make out what it’s connected to. Presumably it belongs to a computer or other technical appliance, but it seems awfully high up.

  He is more puzzled than fearful. There doesn’t seem to be anybody here, but he can’t quite work out what the purpose of this room is.

  Maybe the Bensons are just weird. Maybe they really do have a cat, but they keep it confined to this room, along with its food and things.

  Yeah, but that doesn’t explain the locks, does it? Not unless this particular cat knows how to turn doorknobs. And why the red light? And what gives with the switch behind the TV? Is it the switch that causes the red light to come on? Is it a security system of some kind?

  So many questions.

  His eyes are beginning to make out vague shapes now, but they are just shades of grey against the black. Nothing he can define.

  He decides it’s time to go, before Harriet becomes suspicious.

  And then he hears a rustle.

  At least, he thinks he does. Was it? Did something move in here?

  ‘Hello?’ he whispers. And then slightly louder: ‘Hello?’

  But he gets nothing in return. Maybe it is a cat.

  He shakes his head. You’re spooking yourself, he thinks. Making up ghosts where they don’t exist. Let’s get out of here.

  He decides he’s going to ask Harriet about this room. Casually, of course. He’ll say something like, ‘I noticed you’ve got a room up there with locks on the outside.’ And she’ll laugh and give a perfectly reasonable explanation, the likes of which he can’t imagine right now.