Don't Make a Sound

by David Jackson

Daisy clamped her hand over Poppy’s mouth. Stared wide-eyed as the shadow veered towards them like a monster suddenly aware of its prey.

  And then the other, more recognisable shape appeared in the doorway. Silent and deadly, it struck like a viper. The blow was like a whip-crack in the stillness, and the vague figure collapsed to merge with the inky blackness beneath it.

  When Harriet raised her arm again, Daisy and Poppy cried out as one, but still the weapon was brought down without mercy.

  Harriet disappeared then, like an assassin in the night. She locked the door, leaving her children with the remains of the thing she had destroyed. Daisy and her young charges cowered, trembled and cried, not understanding what had happened, and not knowing what to do if the creature were to come back to life and claim its revenge.

  When the light came back on, it blinded Daisy at first, before stinging her with the viciousness of what it revealed. She saw that the intruder was just a man, blood puddling around his head, and she believed that he was dead.

  What was worse was the notion that he had come to save them. Why else would he be attacked so violently? And if that were the case, what if she had acted differently? What if she had shouted out a warning when Harriet turned up?

  Regrets again. They are destroying her.

  But that was then and this is now. And now she knows that at least the man has survived. She has not witnessed someone being slaughtered.

  It does little to dispel her distress. Though not dead, he seems on the edge of it. And despite what Malcolm said about ‘medicine’, it seems to Daisy that the man’s welfare is the last thing on the minds of the couple. They are afraid, she can tell. And they are acting out of self-preservation. Even Daisy can sense the primitive instincts in play, as though they are cave dwellers who have managed to trap a ferocious wild animal.

  It makes her wonder how long they will allow the poor beast to live.

  47

  ‘Check his head,’ Malcolm says.

  ‘What?’ says Harriet, still a-flutter.

  ‘The wound. On Cody’s head. Where you cracked him one. Take a look at it.’

  Harriet shifts her body, then leans forward and parts Cody’s hair with her fingers as she examines him.

  ‘It’s not bleeding as much, but it’s an open wound. It’ll need stitching.’

  ‘Has he got a fractured skull?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it, but I can’t be certain. Not without a proper scan.’

  ‘Well, that’s not going to happen, is it? Not unless a brain scanner is something I can knock together in the garage.’

  Harriet looks at him, her lower lip quivering, and he realises his sarcasm isn’t helping.

  He says, ‘Move over, Harriet. Let me check his pockets.’

  He digs a hand into Cody’s fleece. He pulls out the ID wallet and opens it up, then frowns at his wife.

  ‘I thought you said he came back here because he’d lost his ID?’

  Harriet looks back at him as though she’s been caught out. ‘He did. That’s what he told me. Do you . . . Do you think he was lying?’

  ‘Looks that way, doesn’t it?’

  Malcolm pushes the warrant card deep into his own pocket, then examines the other side of Cody’s fleece. Finding a car key, he stands up and moves towards the door.

  Harriet watches him in alarm. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Cody’s car. I need to move it.’

  ‘But . . . we’ll be alone.’ She gestures towards Cody. ‘With him.’

  Malcolm holds up an open palm. ‘You’ll be fine. Just keep an eye on him. I’ll be back in a few minutes. While I’m gone, put some stitches in that head of his.’

  ‘But Malcolm . . . Malcolm . . .’

  He is already out on the landing, but Harriet chases after him.

  ‘Malcolm,’ she pleads again.

  He halts at the top of the stairs. Waits while Harriet closes the bedroom door.

  She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Are we . . . I mean, do we have to keep him here?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Can’t we . . . get rid of him?’

  Malcolm stares at her. ‘This isn’t like Ellie’s parents. They attacked me. I had no choice.’

  She sidles up to him. ‘I know, but . . . do we have a choice now? He could ruin everything.’

  Malcolm takes hold of her arms. ‘He won’t ruin a thing, I promise you. I won’t let that happen. If I have to get rid of him, I will, but right now I need time to think. I need to work out what’s going on here. Do you follow?’

  ‘Yes. I know you’ll do what’s best, dearest. You always do. I just don’t like the thought of him in the house.’

  ‘I know, and I understand. Just trust me, all right, my angel?’

  She nods. ‘All right.’

  ‘Good girl. Now go and stitch him up, and make sure you don’t say anything to the girls about who he works for.’

  With that, he leaves her.

  *

  Outside, Malcolm pauses for a moment, takes deep lungfuls of the cool February air. He pictures it filling his whole body, swirling around his head and clearing his thoughts. It seems so muddy up there at the moment. There are too many questions clogging it up.

  He doesn’t like the way his world has been so abruptly turned upside down. Things had been going smoothly. He had watched all the news reports, and there was nothing in there to suggest the police might be on to them.

  But now this. It’s a catastrophe. Their quiet family life, shattered.

  What does it all mean?

  He knows he nearly lost it back there. He became aware of that spongy sensation that precedes his detachment from reality. He knows he was on the verge of adding to the violence that had already taken place. If he had not pulled back from that precipice, Cody’s lifeless body might have ended up in the boot of his own car.

  Which could still be the eventual outcome, of course.

  For now, though, Malcolm needs to take stock. He has a good brain – hasn’t he already proved that with his research on the children? – but its cogs turn slowly. He has to analyse things with patience and care, to consider all the possibilities and their ramifications.

  He walks up his driveway and out onto the street. It’s not late, but it’s already dark. The detective’s car sits there like a tethered dog waiting patiently for its owner to return. Malcolm knows it can’t have been there long, and that it’s unlikely anyone will have noticed it.

  He unlocks the door and climbs in. Takes a minute to study the unfamiliar controls before starting up the engine. He doesn’t worry about leaving fingerprints or other trace evidence. This car won’t be seen again.

  He drives off carefully, sticking to the speed limit and small side roads. He knows that major highways have special cameras that can scan car number plates, and he has to hope that Cody’s vehicle wasn’t spotted on its way to the house.

  It’s only a short drive, but it gives his mind time to return to its many questions.

  Two visits in one day, from the same copper.

  Why?

  The first time could have been coincidence. Perhaps the neighbours of one of the girls really had noticed a white van, and that’s why the police were checking on similar vans in the area.

  But then again . . .

  There must be thousands of vans in Merseyside. They weren’t intending to check them all, surely? They must have other information.

  But what could that information be?

  And then the second visit. Unannounced, and when Malcolm was out of the house. It’s almost as if the timing was deliberate. Did the copper realise he was more likely to be successful with him out of the way?

  Why come back at all? Did he spot something the first time round? Was something said that aroused suspicion?

  Cody claimed he’d left his ID card, but that was clearly a bald-faced lie. The thing was in his pocket. Why did he need to be so
underhand about his reasons for this latest visit?

  Malcolm realises he needs to ask Harriet more questions. What exactly was said? What provoked Cody to go upstairs and search for the children?

  And if he had suspicions about them even before he came to the house, why did he come alone? Why didn’t a full army of coppers come banging on their door?

  What worries Malcolm most is the idea that this could still happen. Police officers don’t work in isolation; they operate as a team. They talk to each other; they share intelligence; they distribute tasks. Cody can’t be a maverick enforcer. There must be others who are aware of his actions.

  So when will they smell a rat? When will they come looking for their colleague?

  Malcolm needs answers to all these questions.

  After that, Cody becomes dispensable.

  *

  He arrives at the lock-up garage within minutes. It will mean a long walk back, but that’s okay. More time to clear his head.

  It’s a large garage, with room for two vehicles. Malcolm started renting it years ago, back when the decision was made to have children. It was all part of the plan.

  Leaving the engine of Cody’s car running, Malcolm gets out, unlocks the garage door and raises it.

  He gets back into the car, then drives it neatly into the free slot. Nobody will find it here.

  After he has locked up the car, he takes a quick look at the vehicle parked next to it.

  The white van.

  Malcolm’s father gave it to him, years ago when the old man became too infirm to work. It’s still registered in the name of his dad, who lives down in Shrewsbury. Malcolm never told him he’d bought another van.

  This is the van he used for the children.

  There is bound to be all kinds of incriminating evidence in it, which is why he has used it only for his missions. Keeps the risk down. The two coppers certainly didn’t seem to be aware of this vehicle specifically.

  And it should be almost impossible to trace back to him. Even if it has been seen at the scenes of the crimes, the extra precaution that Malcolm has taken should keep him safe.

  The fake registration plates.

  Looking at the van, he realises he forgot to detach them after the stressful episode with Ellie and her parents.

  He does so now. Unlocking the back of the van, he tosses them inside.

  He chose the characters on the plates completely at random. Nothing that seemed to be an obvious word.

  The last three letters are ODY. It never occurred to Malcolm that a simpler mind might read them as ‘Odie’.

  The name of the dog in the Garfield cartoons.

  48

  Daisy forces herself to watch.

  She doesn’t know why, but she feels she needs to know that the man is being properly patched up. She doesn’t trust Harriet to do the right thing, despite the strict instructions handed to her by Malcolm.

  The other girls have their own coping mechanisms. Poppy turns away completely and covers her ears, obviously fearful of hearing any signs of pain. Ellie, on the other hand, stands as close to the body as she can get, her eyes wide.

  Daisy grimaces as Harriet pulls the edges of the wound apart and squirts a syringe of fluid into it. She wonders if that’s bone she can see beneath the skin.

  She grimaces even more when Harriet begins stitching. For some reason, she expected it to be totally different from stitching material – perhaps involving some clever device. But no, it is still with a needle and thread.

  It’s done in seconds. It doesn’t look pretty, but at least the wound is closed.

  An image flashes into Daisy’s mind. She once owned a teddy bear that had a line of dark brown stitches on its head, just like these.

  But that was three years ago. When stitches in the head meant something to cuddle.

  When she has finished, Harriet closes up her medical kit, then gets up from the floor and plonks herself down on one of the kids’ plastic chairs. She wipes her brow with a shaky hand. She looks ready to burst into tears.

  Daisy knows what she has to do.

  She slides off the bed. The other girls turn to watch her, puzzled by her actions.

  Daisy pulls up a chair next to Harriet. She watches her for a second, then reaches out and grasps Harriet’s hand in hers.

  The simple act prompts Harriet to find a small smile, but also causes a tear to slide down her cheek.

  ‘Are you all right, Mummy?’ says Daisy.

  She hates using the terms ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’, but she knows how much it pleases them, and now is the time to get in their good books.

  ‘I’m all right, Daisy. I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t want you girls to . . . Never mind.’

  Daisy leans her head into Harriet’s arm. Leaves it resting there for a minute. She can see the other girls glaring at her, challenging her treachery.

  She raises her head again. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ she says. ‘It was an accident. I dropped my book.’

  She hears an intake of breath from Poppy, the real guilty party. Then Harriet looks down at her.

  ‘It’s all right, Daisy. I don’t think it matters. I think he would have found you anyway.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I . . . I can’t say. Just a bad man.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to him?’

  Harriet stares at the body on her carpet, as though trying to divine the answer for herself.

  ‘I don’t know. Your father will decide.’

  Daisy waits another few seconds. Then: ‘Mummy . . . You won’t tell Daddy, will you? You won’t tell him about the noise I made? He’ll be very cross, and he’ll punish me again.’

  Harriet shifts her gaze to Daisy. Looks at her long and hard. ‘Like I said, I think the man would have found you anyway. Daddy doesn’t need to know about the noise.’

  For the first time since she was brought to this house, Daisy flings her arms around Harriet.

  ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ she says. ‘I love you.’

  The words make her want to vomit. She doesn’t love this woman. Doesn’t love anything about being here. What seems strange to her is how much the arrival of the two other girls has caused her to realise this. She had settled into a path of minimal disruption: obeying orders in a robotic way simply to lead a quiet life. The girls have heightened her perception of the danger present here. She needs to up her game to survive. She needs to lie, to cheat, to manipulate.

  And so, as she hugs this woman, what makes it bearable is imagining she could squeeze the life out of her. She could crush her so hard she wouldn’t be able to breathe. And then Daisy would be free.

  She hears a noise from downstairs.

  Malcolm has returned.

  Daisy releases Harriet. She looks into her eyes fearfully and wonders whether she sees a little of that fear reflected back.

  She gets up from her chair and returns to the other girls. It is as if the arrival of Malcolm tips a balance again. Redraws the line in the sand between friend and enemy.

  Harriet seems to recognise this. She too gets out of her chair. She pushes and prods at her greying hair. Tries to appear presentable and collected.

  Malcolm doesn’t come straight up. Daisy can hear cupboard doors being opened and closed downstairs, heavy items being moved around. She wonders what he’s up to.

  And then the heavy thud of his boots on the staircase.

  When he appears in the doorway, Daisy sees that he is carrying a large toolbox.

  In the other hand, he carries an implement that Daisy remembers her real father using.

  It’s an electric saw.

  49

  When Malcolm looks at the body of the stranger, it seems to Daisy that he regards him as a mere blot on his carpet. He exhibits no sympathy for the man he referred to as Cody, no concern for his well-being.

  He nods at Harriet. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes. I did what you asked. I mended his head.’ She gestures me
ekly towards the items Malcolm is carrying. ‘What are you going to do with those?’

  Malcolm ignores the question. ‘Has he given you any trouble?’

  ‘No, no. He hasn’t moved an inch since I injected him.’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  Malcolm puts the tools down on the floor, then leaves the room. Daisy looks at each of the other girls. Ellie sits cross-legged on the bed in Buddha-like silence. Poppy is shivering with fear, so Daisy takes her hand.

  When Malcolm returns, he brings with him a chair and a power drill. The chair is wooden, with arms and a green padded fabric seat.

  ‘That’s one of our kitchen chairs,’ says Harriet. ‘Why have you brought that up?’

  ‘He needs to sit somewhere,’ Malcolm says.

  The terse reply only confuses Harriet. Daisy can see it on her face.

  Malcolm puts down the chair then moves to the toilet area. He draws back the curtain on its overhead rail, picks up the commode and lugs it across the room.

  Poppy leans towards Daisy and whispers in her ear. ‘That’s our toilet. What’s he doing with our toilet?’

  Malcolm grabs the chair, then shifts it to where the commode was. He opens up the toolbox and rifles through it noisily, tossing out various screws and bits of metal.

  He retrieves the drill next, and plugs it into a wall socket. Placing an L-shaped bracket against one leg of the chair, he fires a screw into it.

  ‘Malcolm!’ cries Harriet. ‘That was a perfectly good chair.’

  ‘I’ll get you another one. I need to do this.’

  He drives another screw through the bracket, but this time vertically, into the wooden floorboards beneath the carpet. Daisy can see Harriet cringing at the damage being done to her home.

  When he has finished securing one leg, Malcolm moves on to the others, anchoring each firmly to the floor. He takes hold of the chair and tries to shake it from side to side. When it doesn’t budge, he grunts in satisfaction.

  Next, he picks up the electric saw. Plugs that in, too. He positions the serrated blade over the padded seat.

  ‘Malcolm!’ Harriet says again, but this time he just glances at her before continuing with his labours. The saw whirrs into life, cutting a circular hole in the seat without effort.