Ian was furious with his legs for developing an intermittent tremor as he crossed the room. He was nearly at the stairs, and struggling to devise a plan, when he heard Woollie and his captive behind him. "Walk soft, son," Woollie murmured. "I know there's nobody in your house, but it'll do you no harm to practice not being heard."
Ian felt as though the man had seized him by the ankles, hindering his steps. The empty hall and the sunlight it led to looked like a joke at the expense of his inability to escape with Charlotte. The way the banister filled his grasp made him wish he were holding a weapon. If only he hadn't been so anxious for Charlotte that he'd given up the knife! Now it was the reason why he had to pretend to be doing as he was told. He placed one foot on the top stair, then lowered his weight gradually onto the next. He was repeating the performance from there when Woollie muttered "No need to take all day, son. I hope you aren't trying to be funny. That's not the sort of laugh we're after."
Ian hadn't just been following instructions—he was attempting to buy himself time to think. Each step brought him closer to the table with the phone on it, the message pad with its stubby pencil, and the problem of his having failed to memorise Jack's number. He ought to give it to his mother—at least it would be truer than the lie he was being forced to tell—but he mustn't write on the same side of the paper when Woollie was bound to examine the message. He descended a step and sneaked his free hand across his body, stepped down again and pressed his elbow against his side in case that helped conceal how his hand was creeping to his pocket. Another step, and two fingers nipped the edge of the paper, and Woollie said "What are you after, son? Everything you want is down there."
"I see it," Ian said, gripping the banister so hard his whole hand ached, and eased the page out of his pocket. He was straining his eyes downward and glimpsing a hint of the digits when Woollie said "What do we reckon he's hiding, Charlotte? Do we think it's something he oughtn't to have?"
Another inch would show Ian enough for him to identify the digits, but the high muffled sound Charlotte emitted made him screw his head round. She and Woollie were three steps above him, Woollie's left hand enclosing her right and her wrist. She had let go of the banister so as to cover her mouth. "It's nothing," Ian said, groping with his foot for the next stair down.
"Must be a job to take nothing out of your pocket, mustn't it, Charlotte? What you call a fuss about nothing. That's a joke." No louder but more harshly Woollie said "Give us a gander, son. Think of your playmate."
Ian snatched out the page and swung toward him, brandishing it upside down, the used side facing himself. "It's a bit of paper. Satisfied?"
"It nearly looks like nothing, doesn't it, Charlotte? Except what's that name I'm seeing through it? Something something cee kay. Blimey, it's Jack that's really John, and half of him the wrong way up. Give it here so we can see how you do that trick."
Ian felt his hand begin to clench. He could crumple the page and swallow it, but what might Woollie do to Charlotte then? Besides, if Woollie rang Jack he would be revealing he wasn't dead after all. Ian sent himself far enough up the stairs to drop the page into the out-thrust hand, and memorised the digits as Woollie stared at them, his lips and then his gums parting. "I know this number," he whispered. "So that's where he's hiding from his dad now."
His stare rose like two drowned objects breaking the surface and settled on Ian, who didn't think he was being seen. "I should have known, shouldn't I?" Woollie muttered, though not to him. "I'd like to know what stopped me thinking."
The possibility that he meant or was on the way to meaning Charlotte rendered Ian as incapable of action as he saw she was. He had to fight not to look directly at her while Woollie folded the page and slipped it into the pink and yellow pocket that contained the knife, where his hand lingered as he focused on Ian. "Write to your mother," he said with what sounded like the end of any patience. "We're watching."
Ian went quickly down to the hall, forgetting to be quiet about it, and took hold of the pencil. He was thinking of moving to block Woollie's view when the man said in a whisper that seemed to fill the hall "Let's see what you're doing, son."
Ian paced around the table and was almost within reach of the front door. He could be out of the house in seconds and yelling for help—but a glance showed him Charlotte in the man's grasp and her captor's other hand bulging the pocket in which he was holding the knife. Ian gripped the pencil so hard it started to bend, and dragged the pad toward him, and tried to keep his mind on words he would be allowed to write. He imagined scribbling draft after draft and never managing to satisfy the smelly old tramp who hid children under floors. A sentence that might have been his desperation speaking formed in his head, and he wrote it. "Fast as a rabbit, wasn't he, Charlotte?" Woollie said. "Hold it up."
Ian forced his fingers to relinquish the pencil so that he could display the pad. He saw Charlotte read the message and not dare to react—he felt as if she were showing him how obvious a trick it was. Then Woollie said "It'll do. You can take it home."
Ian nearly peered at the message to confirm he'd written what he'd intended to write, I'VE GONE BECAUSE YOU SAID I TOOK CHARLOTTE. His mother had said no such thing, and surely she would know that he meant her to realise. He tore off the page and dropped the pad on the table, and had taken a step toward the front door when Woollie said "Not quite so hasty, son. What are you planning on doing?"
"Sticking this through my door."
"And then you'll be straight back to see nothing's happened to your playmate, will you?"
Ian found himself hoping Charlotte didn't understand the threat and unable to look at her in case she did. "Right," he said.
"That'll take care of everything, do you reckon, Charlotte?"
When she didn't speak Ian had to look as she realised more than a nod was required for an answer. "Yes," she said like a plea.
"What's it going to take care of? Don't be scared to tell the truth. Good girls sleep best, and I know you'd give all your teeth for a sleep."
Her face worked as though it was afraid even to appear afraid, and that was too much for Ian. "Lay off her," he blurted, "or I'm not going."
"Why are you trying to shut her up, son? What don't you want her to say?"
Ian could think of no reply that mightn't put her more at risk, including the truth that he hadn't been aiming to hush her at all. He saw Woollie lose patience again, and was tensing himself to dash up the stairs before the knife could emerge from the pocket when Woollie said "Did you think she'd spotted you weren't going to put your keys to here back next door?"
Charlotte frowned, then understanding smoothed her forehead and her eyes gleamed with dismay. She might have been enacting Ian's realisation that the absence of the keys could have told his mother where he was. He felt his ability to think begin to dwindle under the weight that was lowering itself onto his mind. "Where d'you keep them?" Woollie said.
Lying seemed both dangerous and pointless, as everything did now. "Same place as they keep ours," Ian said, pointing at the drawer of the hall table.
"That's lucky, isn't it, Charlotte? He'll just be on the other side of this wall, and we'll know exactly how long it should take him. We'll play a game till he gets back, shall we? Shall we play one that'll bring him back? Say yes for him to hear."
"Yes."
"That's a good girl. You keep your voice like that. You nearly had me thinking you didn't want him to come back when you didn't answer. You're not that scared of him, are you?"
"No."
"Why are you talking like that, then? You'll be fine once we play our game so long as your playmate joins in. You'll play for her sake, won't you, son?"
"What?"
"Keep your temper. I told you that before. You can make a bit of noise in a minute. That'll be part of the game. Boys make more noise than girls, don't they? Don't they, Charlotte?"
"Yes."
"We'll listen for the noises he makes, shall we? We'll hear him with the gate and hi
s one, and if we listen hard we'll hear him opening his door. But you know what we'll want to hear most of all, don't you?"
"No?"
"Don't sound like that, I'm going to tell you. Him throwing the keys in the drawer and coming straight back. You'll remember to play by the rules, won't you, son? When the keys drop that's the halfway mark."
"Halfway to what?"
"Your playmate knows, don't you, Charlotte? I hope he's not trying to be the wrong kind of funny. I hope he's not thinking of playing a game we wouldn't like. You're going to help him play, aren't you?"
"Yes?"
"See how good she is, saying that when she doesn't know what she'll have to do. The moment he opens that door, Charlotte, you start counting. No, hang on—the moment he walks away from that table, then we'll know how long it has to take him to get to the one next door."
At that moment a plan Ian had begun to conceive was crushed by the slab in his mind. "Don't worry, Charlotte," he nevertheless said, and for the first time in his life gave her an affectionate look, not even having to pretend much. "I'll come back."
"Of course he will. He knows he has to. He's off, look. Start counting. Count his steps."
Ian heard her as he took his second step. Her voice was small and tight and even higher than usual. Each number sounded like a hint of the panic she was doing her best to suppress. That dismayed him and confused him, so that he wasn't sure if he was walking fast to be out of earshot or to convince Woollie that he wouldn't try to trick him or simply because he couldn't stop himself. Three paces brought him to the front door. "Close it and carry on like that," Woollie said, and then Ian was out of the house.
The sight of the quiet street beneath the overexposed sky propped up by wattled red roofs beyond roofs came as little less than a shock. He felt as though he'd forgotten anything was real outside the house, not that anything appeared usefully to be. The street was empty of people, even of parked cars, though what would he have done if he'd seen anyone? The murmur of the suburb was keeping its distance; the loudest sound in his ears was Charlotte's clenched voice. "Five," it wailed urgently, "six," growing fainter as it forced him to keep pace with its counting. By the time he reached the gate he couldn't hear it. It began to grow audible again as he tramped rapidly along his path, having clanged both gates, but he could hear only its pleading tone, not its words. He shoved the key into the lock and dodged inside his house.
The safety of the place felt like an exhortation to rescue Charlotte somehow while Woollie couldn't see him. The phone was demanding to be used to call Ian's mother or Jack, and the pad and pencil beside it were at least as anxious for him to scribble a note. He hadn't reached the table, however, when he heard a sharp knock through the wall beside it, and Charlotte's trapped voice rose in pitch. "You should be there now, son," Woollie said. "Let's hear those keys drop."
He sounded as though he were muttering inside the wall—as though his influence had invaded the whole house, not just the earth under the kitchen. An impatient repetition of the knocking demonstrated that he was using the handle of the knife. The thought closed over Ian's mind. He hauled the table drawer open and placed the note to his mother in it, then threw next door's keys on top with a clatter. He was about to close the drawer when he managed to think. At once he was heading for the front door. By trying to ensure Ian had no time to trick him, hadn't Woollie tricked himself?
Ian's gate clanged, and one hasty step later the gate next to it echoed the sound slightly higher. Charlotte's counting, audible once more as the only other individual sound in the suburb besides his tread, was tugging him by his legs along the path, but he'd done something Woollie didn't know about, and it had to work. He was a single pace from Janet's door when it was snatched open, showing him Charlotte where he'd abandoned her on the stairs. "Thirty-one," she seemed compelled to wail, "thirty—"
"Game's over, love. You can stop now," Woollie said, his dress flapping as he closed the door and showed Ian the knife in his hand. "He was a good boy this time, wasn't he? We'll all be fine so long as you're both good."
Ian glimpsed uncertainty in the eyes that were red and bright with sleeplessness. Deep in himself Woollie must know his optimism wasn't genuine—couldn't be. It took far too long—almost longer than Ian was able to hold the breath he'd sucked stealthily in—for Woollie to finish scrutinising him and transfer his attention to Charlotte. "Take her up then, son," he muttered. "I'll be right behind you with the jabber."
Ian risked a smile at Charlotte that was supposed to reassure her all would be well—would soon start to be. Her face only began to crumple before she remembered not to look upset and turned unsteadily to climb the stairs. He caught up with her and gave her small clammy hand a squeeze, and it closed trustfully on his. He was leading her to the cell of a bedroom, but he had to believe it wouldn't be for long. Surely when his mother saw he'd left the drawer open, displaying the keys as well as the message, she would figure out where he was. In a couple of hours—as unbearably long as that—she would be home.
FORTY
Though Leslie had never allowed herself to believe that Ian could have done Charlotte any real harm, she'd let him feel she might consider the possibility, and that was almost as bad. ft was nearly as insistent in its nagging at her mind as Charlotte's disappearance. The more she thought of having left him alone at home to brood over her suspicions of him, the more she blamed herself. She would have phoned him if she hadn't thought the matter was best discussed face to face. When there was a lull in the gratifyingly busy afternoon, she left Melinda womanning the shop while she hurried along Oxford Street to the HMV store and bought a tape of Persistent Vegetables, one of Ian's favourite bands and one she disliked so much that hearing them anywhere in the house would be a penance. The floor devoted to pop music was loud as a disco, and she had to conduct the transaction at the counter in sign language. She ventured upstairs to the video section, knowing Hilene hadn't worked since the Ameses had sold their house, but Roger was off too, and so she couldn't ask if there was any news of Charlotte.
"Hope everything's all right soon," Melinda said as they locked up, and Leslie wasn't sure if she was expressing a wish or advising her to hope. On the train home she was provided with a seat by a little girl of about Charlotte's age who perched on her mother's knee, and she found herself close to praying that Hilene's daughter would be returned safely to her. Maybe Leslie and her son could figure out together where Charlotte might have gone: maybe there was some insight he didn't realise he had, if Leslie could approach it in a way that showed she trusted him. By now she understood one reason for his secretiveness was that he was more worried about Charlotte than he wanted anyone to see, but surely she could let him realise she knew.
She took her keys and the tape out of her bag as she reached her gate. At least there was nobody at Janet's to suffer Ian's musical taste, though in any case few sounds penetrated the shared wall. Not for the first time she found herself wishing it hadn't afforded Woollie so much cover when he'd been working in the house. She unlocked the front door and stepped into the hall. "Ian," she called. "Come and see what—"
A resigned grimace cut her voice off. He'd found yet another way to be an untidy teenager: he'd left the drawer of the telephone table protruding like a tongue. "Ian, can you hear me? The least you could do..."
Was answer so that she didn't feel she'd driven him out of the house, and maybe leave fewer things for her to clear away or otherwise deal with on his behalf. She retrieved her key and gave the door an elbow, and by the time it slammed she was pushing the drawer shut. "Ian, would you like to answer? Just a syllable would—"
She stopped to listen, because she thought she heard him somewhere—a rustle of movement apart from the shifting of keys. The sound came from the drawer, however. She tugged at it, having to jiggle it when it stuck, and blinked at the square of paper she had belatedly realised she'd glimpsed. Most of the words on it were hidden by the keys, YOU, she saw, and CHARL, and almost tore it
on the keys as she snatched it out to read.
It glared whiter in the sunlight through the kitchen, and the pencilled writing seemed to wobble like a cheap superimposition in a film. I'VE GONE BECAUSE YOU SAID I TOOK CHARLOTTE. "Oh, Ian," she said helplessly, "I didn't," but she was in no doubt that as far as he was concerned she might as well have done so. She stood the Persistent Vegetables tape by the phone and stalked to the front door, only to feel she was both blaming the suburb and displaying her own guilty self. She heard footsteps taking their time on the cross street and eventually demonstrating that they hadn't been worth waiting for, since they belonged to a boy she'd never seen before, however much like Ian's his teenage emblems were. Of course, Ian would be with his friends—the ones she disapproved of.
She left the door open as she stooped to the directory on the shelf under the table and saw that she'd left his tape where magnetism from the phone might spoil it. That would serve him right, she thought, but moved it to the stairs before her failure to take care of it could seem ominous. Nolan, Nolan—what looked to her like a whole clan staking out its territory in the middle of a page. There was just one address on the North Circular Road, printed in thinner type as though it were trying to hide from her. "Be there," she said.
The phone seemed to have given anyone who might be at Shaun's quite enough time to answer it when the ringing relented, to be succeeded by a burst of mirthful coughing. This withdrew into the background, having turned most of itself into laughter, as a voice not unlike Ian's but not his said "Shut up a minute. Hello? Shut up, you'll make me start. Hello?"
"Is that Shaun?"
"Hang on, I'll look." The boy aimed an explosion of merriment away from the phone and said "She wants to know if I'm you." To a question that must have been mouthed he replied "She didn't say" and brought his amusement back to the mouthpiece. "He wants to know—"
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