Don't Make a Sound

by David Jackson

  ‘Yes, I think he was.’

  ‘But you lied because you want to help us.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You will look after us, won’t you? Malcolm and Harriet won’t, but you will.’

  ‘Yes, Poppy. I’ll take care of both of you.’

  ‘You’re like our big sister, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And then Poppy moves forwards and kisses Daisy on the cheek, and Daisy feels as though she could drown in her own tears.

  52

  He moves from one kind of nothingness to another.

  The first nothingness was a sweet oblivion. A total absence of sensation; of thought, of emotion, of pain. Even the usual horrific nightmares and memories from the darker recesses of his mind seemed loathe to intrude into that stillness.

  The second nothingness is altogether more terrifying. He is aware of this nothingness; it has his consciousness in its icy fist. It has stolen his senses and his rational thought, and refuses to give them back. He believes he is awake, but craves a return to that blissful sleep.

  He thinks he is blind.

  He can see nothing. Nothing at all. Even in the darkest of rooms there is usually a chink of light somewhere, seeping from behind a curtain or under a door.

  He blinks furiously, becoming more and more afraid that his sight has been robbed. As he does so, a fist of pain hammers at his skull. Lights dance before him, confusing him because he does not know if they are real or imagined.

  Memories begin to lap at the shore of his mind. A house. A locked room. A whispered voice.

  He was attacked.

  He remembers now. In the bedroom. The figure leaping at him from the doorway.

  They have him. He was inadequately prepared, and now he is paying the price. He is theirs.

  They have taken my eyes, he thinks. Destroyed them to make me easier to handle. Oh, Christ, please tell me I’m not blind.

  No.

  Don’t let fear win.

  It’s dark, that’s all. The bedroom was dark, remember? It was pitch-black in there.

  So am I still in that room?

  Focus. Use what other powers you still possess.

  He tries to move. His legs and arms refuse to obey orders, and he can’t work out why. His brain is curiously fogged, and the flashes of pain continue to stab through it, slicing apart any attempts to reason.

  He listens. Nothing.

  Am I dead?

  He tries to speak.

  Yes! Hear that? You heard that, didn’t you? A real sound.

  But not words. Not even a proper voice. Just a muffled inhuman cry, as though from an animal in the far distance.

  Why can’t I speak? Why can’t I form words?

  He attempts to open his mouth, but feels resistance. A tugging around his lips and face.

  He tries exploring with his tongue. It pushes into a soft dryness that fills his mouth and seems to want to force its way down his throat.

  He starts to gag. Bile rises from his stomach and he feels his body heaving.

  NO!

  He throws his head back, breathes heavily through his nostrils. He can hear his breathing now as it rasps across whatever is covering his mouth.

  Don’t be sick, he tells himself. If you do, you will die. It’s as simple as that.

  He wills himself to resist, for his nausea to subside. His temples throb with the effort. He can feel the sweat pouring out of his body. His mind wants to put him on a tiny boat in the middle of a swelling ocean, and he has to anchor himself mentally to solid ground. Has to fight the driving impulse to swallow the mass that seems greedy to infiltrate his body and expand into its spaces.

  It takes him countless minutes, but he gets there. And as he gradually regains control, new sensations creep into his limbs. He feels the biting into his wrists and ankles that indicates he has been tied up. The bindings are tight and without give. He suspects that, even if his strength returns, he will not be able to break them.

  So here I am, he thinks. Gagged and trussed and possibly drugged.

  Why? What are they planning to do with me? And where is here? Am I alone?

  A voice comes to him. Not in the here and now, but from earlier. A tiny whisper of a voice.

  Yes.

  That is what it said.

  Didn’t it?

  I asked a question, and it answered. It said yes. It said they were here. The girls.

  Are they here now?

  ‘Hello?’

  In his head, it’s a meaningful utterance. In his ears it’s just noise. To anyone in hearing distance it will be just noise.

  But noise can attract attention. Noise can bring help.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Please! Help me!’

  He continues like this for several minutes. Calling and calling and calling.

  But it seems to him that he might as well be doing it with a cushion over his face.

  Nobody can hear him.

  Nobody is coming to help him.

  *

  She hears it.

  Eyes wide, Daisy stares into the darkness and listens to the calls.

  The man called Cody is alive. The man called Cody is awake.

  He wants something.

  Someone to help him? Someone to free him? Or someone foolish enough to fall into his trap?

  Poppy and Ellie are fast asleep, their breathing gentle and untroubled. She thinks it good that they are unaware of what is happening.

  Her emotions shift in waves. Mostly she feels afraid of the stirring beast. She has no desire to leave her bed, to go to him.

  But just occasionally she feels pity. She thinks of him as a lion with a thorn in his paw. If she pulls it out and takes away the pain, he will be forever in her debt. Despite his apparent ferocity, he will repay her.

  But that’s just a story, she thinks. Real life isn’t like that. Real life is cruel.

  He needs to shut up now.

  He needs to be made to go away.

  53

  He realises that, at some point, he must have lost consciousness again. Asleep or unconscious – it’s all the same. He doesn’t know whether it was because of exhaustion, drugs or damage to his brain. It feels like he has been out for hours, but perhaps it has been only minutes. He has no way of knowing.

  His mind seems a little clearer now. His head still pounds, but he feels more alive, more aware.

  It is still black here. Still silent. Perhaps he is not in the house at all. Perhaps he has been dumped somewhere and left to die.

  He tests his bindings again. Strains as hard as he can. It simply makes his wrists hurt. He tries rocking backwards and forwards. The chair he is on squeaks, and its structure flexes a little, but it doesn’t give way.

  The movement makes him realise his shoes have been taken from him. He can detect the softness and bounce of a carpet or rug beneath his feet.

  He tries raising his right foot. The ties prevent him from lifting it higher than a few millimetres, and when he brings it down again it sinks silently into the pile. No way he can attract the attention of anyone who might be below him, then.

  He is well and truly trapped.

  He tries yelling again. Tries to force his voice through the cotton wool and the tape, beyond this crypt in which he has been entombed, and out into the world.

  But he knows it is fruitless. Accepting the madness of his endeavour, he drops his chin to his chest.

  And then he hears the sounds.

  A soft sobbing in the darkness. Whispers. Rustling.

  He calls out again. He is answered by an anguished cry, and harsher whispering. He thinks he hears a name.

  Poppy.

  Poppy Devlin. Has to be!

  He yells her name, though it doesn’t sound anything like her name. It is two syllables, with the emphasis on the first. Maybe she’ll get it. Maybe she’ll realise he is calling for her.

  ‘Stop it!’

  The shrill cry is crystal clear. An end to the mumbling and the whispering. It i
s intended for his ears, and it is intended to shut him up. He can hear how desperately this girl wants him to stop torturing her.

  He stops calling. The girls don’t want him. They are afraid of him. They will not help.

  And then there is light.

  It floods the space, stinging his eyes not only with its brightness, but also with the instant relief it brings him that he is capable of sight. He blinks furiously, adjusting to his new surroundings.

  He is in the corner of the room, cut off from the rest by a curtain on an arc of metal rail. Looking down, he can see how his ankles and forearms are bound with nylon ties to the wooden chair.

  He sees blood, too. On his trousers and the arms of his fleece. He suspects it’s his own.

  There is crying coming from one of the girls – Poppy, probably. Another girl is trying to comfort her with soft shushing sounds.

  Another noise intrudes, and the girls suddenly quieten. Cody realises it’s the sound of the bolts being drawn on the bedroom door he opened last night.

  ‘You all right, girls?’ says a gruff voice. Cody recognises it as belonging to Malcolm Benson.

  ‘He’s making funny noises,’ says Poppy.

  ‘Is he now?’

  Footsteps approach. A shadow on the curtain sharpens into focus. An arm reaches up, and then the curtain is drawn briskly back on its rail.

  It’s Malcolm, all right. But Cody is more interested in what lies behind him. He gets only a glimpse before Malcolm steps in and closes the curtain again, but it’s enough.

  Three girls, sitting on the bed and staring his way.

  Not two – not just Poppy Devlin and Ellie McVitie – but three.

  The other is Daisy Agnew. She is three years older than the photographs he has seen, but he would recognise her anywhere.

  They’re alive. All three of them are still alive.

  He guesses that his own time here will be much shorter than theirs.

  Malcolm seems larger than when Cody last saw him. He looks stronger. Or perhaps it’s just that Cody feels that much weaker now.

  Malcolm steps up to him. He tilts his head to the side as he appraises his captive. Then he reaches out a meaty hand and cups Cody’s chin, turning his head from side to side.

  ‘Hmm. Could be worse,’ he says.

  He leans forward, rests his hands on Cody’s arms.

  ‘We’ll have a proper chat later,’ he says, his rancid breath making Cody want to retch again. ‘A nice long talk. Until then, you need to stop frightening my girls. I’ve told them all about you. I’ve told them what’ll happen if you take them away from us. And I’ve told them I won’t let you. I’m going to protect them.’

  Cody realises now why Malcolm is talking so loudly. This is for the benefit of the girls. This is to make an enemy out of Cody, to make the girls distrustful and afraid of him. That way, they won’t be tempted to come to his aid.

  Malcolm straightens up again.

  ‘Now be a good lad and keep quiet. I’ll be back in a while.’

  There is a strange glint in the man’s eye. A look that tells Cody this man is capable of anything.

  54

  When Webley gets into work, she is surprised to see that Cody isn’t already at his desk. Poor sleeper that he is, he tends to arrive before most.

  She shrugs off her coat, takes a seat, logs on to her computer, checks her emails, answers her emails.

  Still no Cody.

  Probably sick of looking at vans, she thinks. I know I am.

  The others start to drift in. There is some good-natured banter. Footlong Ferguson asks her why she hasn’t made the coffee yet. She tells him to fuck off. Five minutes later he brings over a steaming mug and places it in front of her with a wry smile.

  Blunt enters. Strides through the incident room and into her office. She clutches a sheaf of papers under her arm. Webley guesses she has already had at least one meeting over breakfast. Probably been roasted about the lack of progress in the case.

  Webley starts typing up a report that was due yesterday. She hates report writing. If she’d wanted to spend all day typing she’d have become a secretary.

  And still no Cody.

  She halts mid-sentence. Takes a look around her. A full complement of staff. Bar one.

  ‘Anyone seen Cody?’ she asks, to nobody in particular.

  She gets a couple of headshakes. None of the others seems particularly concerned. It’s bothering her, though.

  She looks directly at Ferguson. ‘Mate, have you seen anything of Cody?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘Not since you clocked off together yesterday. What did you two get up to last night?’

  A further wry smile. She tells him to fuck off again.

  She picks up her mobile phone, leans back in her chair. In her contacts she finds Cody’s number and calls it.

  It rings and rings, then goes through to voicemail.

  She hangs up. Decides to give him a few more minutes.

  He’ll have a valid excuse, she thinks. Why am I getting worried anyway? It’s got nothing to do with me. I’m not his mother. Or his girlfriend.

  She straightens her spine. Resumes typing, more furiously now. There’s work to be done. Sod Cody. If he wants to get into deep shit for being late, that’s his problem.

  Five minutes later she’s picking up the phone again.

  It goes to voicemail.

  ‘Cody,’ she says. ‘It’s me. Megan. Where are you? Not that we can’t manage without you, but we’re short of someone to make fun of. Catch you later.’

  There. Just the right tone. Jocular, but showing him he’s missed. He’ll appreciate that.

  Another half-hour passes.

  He’s on an assignment, thinks Webley. He got in really early, picked up a lead and has gone out to investigate it.

  Without telling anyone.

  Which is what seems so wrong about this. Nobody seems to have the faintest idea where he is.

  Blunt comes out of her office, her face grim. It seems to have been fixed in that expression ever since Poppy was taken.

  Blunt, if anyone, must know where Cody is.

  ‘Where the hell is DS Cody?’ she roars.

  That’s a no, then. His whereabouts remain a mystery.

  ‘Well?’ says Blunt. ‘Anyone care to enlighten me?’

  When she gets no answer she looks ready to blow a gasket. ‘Right. Well, unless he shows in the next few minutes with the killer in cuffs, you can tell him from me he’s not in my gang anymore. Got it?’

  She doesn’t wait for a response, but storms back into her office and slams the door.

  *

  Work doesn’t wait. The world doesn’t stop spinning just because Nathan Cody has decided not to turn into the office today.

  For Webley, that means more vans to check out, joy of joys. She hits the streets again. One of the drivers she talks to is in his nineties and can’t hear a word she says, which is fun. Another lost an arm in a cycling accident, and hasn’t been able to drive for the last six months.

  She ticks them off her list and moves on to the next. But her mind isn’t really on the job. The seat beside her in the unmarked car shouldn’t be empty like this. It should be filled with the bundle of annoyance and irrational behaviour that is Cody.

  She tries calling his mobile again, only to hear the same grating invitation to leave a message.

  ‘Cody, where the hell are you? Don’t think I’m worried about you, because I’m not. But we’ve got a case to work, and you are really not helping. Besides, Blunt is going ape-shit. Call me.’

  As an afterthought, she tries his landline. That, too, is answered by a machine.

  ‘Fucking robots,’ she says, before hanging up.

  This shit is getting weird, she thinks. Too weird even for Cody.

  She puts the car into gear and drives on to her next rendezvous.

  55

  When Malcolm eventually returns to the bedroom, he is carrying a plastic carrier bag, crammed wit
h items.

  Daisy eyes the bag with suspicion. This will have something to do with Cody. She knows it will.

  ‘Guess who’s been shopping?’ says Malcolm. ‘And guess who’s bought you all presents?’

  He plonks himself down on the edge of their bed, almost causing Poppy to bounce off the other side. Then he dips a hand into the bag and starts pulling out cardboard boxes. Daisy can see what they hold from the pictures on them. She’s not impressed.

  Malcolm opens up one of the boxes. Brings out its contents.

  ‘Look at those beauties,’ he says. ‘Here, Poppy. Try them on.’

  Poppy reaches out with uncertainty and takes the pair of headphones from him. Gingerly, she slides them over her head.

  ‘They need adjusting,’ says Malcolm. ‘Lean forward.’

  Poppy does as she is told while Malcolm fixes them into position covering her ears.

  ‘Your turn, Ellie.’ He hands her another pair. She studies Poppy’s headgear while she ratchets her own into place.

  ‘Good girl. And finally some for Daisy. I thought you’d prefer the jazzy pink ones.’

  Daisy feels like shedding tears as she collects the offering, but not because she is overwhelmed by the apparent act of generosity. In her young heart she knows she is being bought. This gift is not out of love; it is out of hate. It is a cynical manipulation of young minds. Despite what they have been through, Ellie and Poppy retain much of the innocence of Snow White: they do not suspect the poison hidden in their juicy red apples.

  ‘And this,’ says Malcolm as he opens another, smaller box, ‘is called a splitter. It lets you all listen to the same thing at the same time. Come on, girls, let’s test it out.’

  He moves across the room. Switches on the television and the DVD player. Squatting, he plugs the splitter into an audio socket.

  ‘Right, come and sit here.’

  He lines up three of the small plastic chairs in front of the TV, then beckons the girls to sit down. Poppy and Ellie go straight to their seats, but Daisy drags her feet.

  ‘Chop, chop, Daisy. This’ll be fun.’

  Daisy sits down on the middle chair. Malcolm collects together the leads of the three headphones, then plugs them all in. He goes back to the bed, returns with yet another item from his bag of goodies.