She was only dreaming, Ian thought so fiercely his head throbbed. The dream must go away before it wakened her, so that there was no need for Woollie's hands to drag at the quilt, scraping it over the mattress. But she whimpered again, and as Ian's eyes sneaked open he glimpsed the blurred head ducking toward her. "What's the squeaking for?" Woollie said with a heartiness all the more menacing for being restrained to a murmur. "Think you're a mouse?"
"Want to go."
Charlotte sounded by no means fully awake or in control of her voice, and Ian was suddenly very afraid for her. "We're going nowhere till I've thought," Woollie muttered, "so stop making a row about it."
"I've got to. I need to."
At least her words were growing clearer, and Ian had to hope her sense of the situation was. "Plumbing problem, is it?" Woollie said. "Then we'll have to come with you. You're still awake, aren't you, son? Stop pretending."
Had he known all the time or was he trying to convince Ian he had? Ian thought of attempting to persuade him he'd been wrong and still was, but that wouldn't help Charlotte. "Now I'm awake," he mumbled.
"He's a laugh, isn't he?" Woollie said, hitching himself down the bed, his knuckles bumping along Ian's side and presumably along Charlotte's. The movements of his indistinct bulk grew less jerky as it left the bed and moved to the doorway, where its face was no more discernible in a faint glow. "Come on if you're desperate," it said. "You know the drill. Walk quiet and don't touch anything. This way, straight across the bed. Make yourself useful, son, and get her hand."
Ian found one of Charlotte's hands. It was limp with disuse and clammy as fever, but responded by clutching his so gratefully he felt like an older brother. He helped her off the bed and escorted her toward the doorway, and was almost close enough to touch the hulking silhouette when it retreated. In the glow that the glass above the front door admitted to the hall, features appeared to float up from the murk within the outline of Woollie's face: a glint of watchful eyes, a glistening crescent of mouth. "You know what you have to do if you want to go, don't you?" the mouth muttered.
Charlotte took a firmer hold of Ian's hand. Perhaps that was intended to signify assent as well as distress, because she was silent until the mouth insisted "Say it then, love. Let's be sure."
"Leave the door open and don't pull the chain," Charlotte said, barely audibly.
"That's the routine. We want to see you aren't tempted to get up to any kind of mischief in there, don't we? And we can't have you making a noise for the neighbours to hear." The silhouette moved to block the stairs, resting one hand on the top of the banister, the other on the pocket containing the knife. "Tiptoe in, then. Get it done," the mouth urged.
If Ian shoved their captor hard and unexpectedly, might he lose his balance? Falling had to injure him—but that would leave him in the way, either on the stairs or at the foot of them, and probably not unconscious. Ian let go of Charlotte and was trying to know what to do by the time she opened the bathroom door when the mouth renewed its moist grin. "Go with her, son, so I can see you both."
"You dirty shit." Ian was so furious he could hardly force his voice out. "I'm not doing that," he said, and tensed himself to throw all his weight at their captor—even if they both fell downstairs, that would give Charlotte a chance to escape. Then her hand fumbled into his and squeezed it clumsily. "It's all right," she whispered. "I don't mind."
At that moment he admired her courage as much as he hated their captor. He couldn't exert any less control than she was having to use, and the sight of Woollie's fist clenching around the banister showed how useless an attempt to dislodge him would be. Ian had to bide his time, and so he allowed Charlotte to lead him to the bathroom.
The snout of the bath taps announced itself with a hollow drip as she pushed open the door. A crumpled shower curtain dangled inside the bath and glimmered in the mirror. A scent of soap and talcum powder tried to disguise another smell. Ian turned his back as Charlotte reached the unlidded toilet, and then he stood between her and the watchful silhouette. He didn't care what the man said, he wasn't giving him a view of Charlotte. He stared fiercely at the silhouette as if that might stop his own face growing hotter at the various sounds she made. Eventually the final trickle trailed away, but he didn't move his eyes until she touched his arm. "Are you going as well?" she murmured.
"Better do what she says, son."
He meant so that he wouldn't be disturbed again, Ian deduced. All at once Ian's bladder was urging him. As he ventured into the bathroom he cupped a hand over his mouth and nose, and tried to hold his breath until he'd finished jetting into the mercifully invisible pool urned by the porcelain. He didn't quite succeed, and had to press the hand to the lower half of his face while he zipped himself up before turning to find Charlotte with her back to him. The spectacle of her braving their captor so as to spare Ian embarrassment made him all the more determined to prevent her from being harmed. "I'm coming now, Charlotte," he told her.
"It's back to the woods for the babes."
Charlotte raised a hand as if she were at school, then shook it and her head. "Thirsty."
"That's a bit of a laugh, isn't it? You've just let it out and now you want to put more in."
"I'm thirsty. It hurts."
"Oh, for God's sake let her past if it'll keep her quiet, son."
"Not water. A proper drink."
She wasn't wailing as Ian would have feared—she sounded more in control of herself than he would have dared hope. Could she have figured out a way for them to escape? At least her insistence would take them downstairs, closer to freedom. "There's stuff in the fridge," he said.
"How would you know that, son? This isn't your house."
"More mine than yours," Ian had to struggle not to retort. "I got a drink when I came in," he lied. "There's some juice."
"What kind?" Charlotte said eagerly.
Though she was trying to be positive, her question seemed to have ruined everything until, surely in time for his silence not to have exposed his lie, he thought of an answer. "The kind you like."
Woollie didn't move. Only his eyes did, dark wet bulges whose gleam flickered toward Ian and then back to Charlotte. When Woollie leaned at her to scrutinise her face she didn't flinch. "It'll be a chance, I reckon," he said.
That sounded as if it might be supposed to lead to a joke, but Ian couldn't ask the question either he or Charlotte was obviously meant to ask. When she stayed mute too Woollie said in a tiny shrill voice "Chance for what?"
His eyes searched for an audience reaction, then his mouth drooped like a clown's. "A chance to stretch our legs," he said in his ordinary mutter. "You follow me, love, quiet as that mouse you were making a noise like before, quieter than that, and the big babe can be right behind you."
He hadn't let go of the banister. His fist slithered down the curve of it as he edged backward. His foot wavered in the air, feeling for the top step, and that was when Ian should have pushed him, but Charlotte was in the way. Then the silhouette jerked several inches lower, and again, and no more until Charlotte followed it onto the stairs with Ian at her heels. "This is a funny way for me to go, isn't it?" Woollie said. "Worth a grin at least. Save your laughs for when we're back upstairs."
His face was gathering more detail at each step, and Ian realised the same must be true of his and Charlotte's. The eyes within the silhouette were intent on their reactions, the mouth kept closing only to reopen in another expectant smirk. Woollie's hand slipped down the banister with a series of squeaks like the cries of a small terrified animal, and Ian heard the man's feet brush the carpet each time they groped for a foothold. Every one of the sounds made him wish he'd gone for Woollie at the top of the stairs. But the man was at the bottom now, retreating just enough to give his captives space to pass. "All the way along," he whispered, "and sit yourselves down for your midnight treat."
Charlotte sidled hastily past him and fled down the hall. She was out of his reach, and Ian was close enough to
go for him. He tried to appear to be thinking of nothing whatsoever, which might have been why Woollie's hand darted to the knife and slid it out just far enough to produce a glint. "Keep up with your playmate," he murmured. "There's been enough fuss."
That couldn't stop Ian, not while Charlotte was out of danger, even if he got hurt himself. He was taking a breath that would help launch him at Woollie as he shouted at Charlotte to escape past them, when Woollie strode swiftly yet noiselessly after her. In a second he was patting her on the head while his other hand stroked the outline of the knife. "Come and join us, son. They're slowcoaches, these teenage boys, aren't they, Charlotte?"
He continued to pat her as far as the kitchen, a performance that dragged Ian's arms down stiffly at his sides and drew his hands into claws, their fingers aching, the nails tingling. Woollie reached past her and nudged the kitchen door wide, releasing the token glow of the room. He took hold of Charlotte's shoulders to place her on the low bench closer to the hall. "Sit the other side, son, and we'll see what you were talking about."
"We weren't talking," Charlotte blurted rather too loud.
Ian heard his heart thump several times before Woollie finished staring at her and said "What he was saying was in the fridge."
"She knew you meant that. She was just trying to make you laugh."
"I told you we don't want to be laughing down here."
"We promise," Ian said, and would have said anything necessary to prevent Woollie from deciding against opening the refrigerator. That would be Charlotte's solitary chance—she would have a clear run to the front door, and Ian would ensure she wasn't chased, whatever that took. He willed her not to speak except to promise too. When she didn't even do that, Woollie paced to the refrigerator as tall as himself and opened the upper door. "Surprise," he muttered.
"What is?" Charlotte pleaded.
"Your playmate hasn't let you down."
The light from the refrigerator spilled into the kitchen, turning her face pale. It couldn't be long before Woollie noticed that the light was rendering the three of them more visible than he wanted. Ian touched Charlotte's foot with his under the table and nodded at the hall. "Go. Go," he mouthed, and saw her shake her head.
"I'll fix him." He was grimacing now, and mouthing so violently he heard the movement of his lips. She had to shift at once or it would be too late. He jammed a fist against his chest and jerked its forefinger to point behind her. "Go. You've got to," he said, nearly audibly.
"What kind of a drink are you after, love?" Woollie said, and leaned into the refrigerator. "There's orange and there's lime."
If Ian jumped up he was almost certain that he could trap the man with the refrigerator door. "Charlotte," he said, desperately, aloud.
"You as well," she told him, and pinched her lips together.
She meant she wouldn't flee without him. He'd made her run away when he didn't want her to, and now he couldn't make her when he did. He was trying to think past the tangle of his admiration and frustration when Woollie swung toward her. "Let's be hearing from you, love. It's not much of a choice."
"Orange," she said, and with a politeness Ian found dismayingly grotesque, "please."
"That's what I'd have given you," Woollie said, and stood the carton with its gaping beak in front of her. "We don't want you crying the other stuff's too sour."
"Please may I have a glass?"
"Better do without. Could be dangerous." He shut the refrigerator and paced to stand between her and the hall. "Get it down you, only not so fast you start coughing. Remember we don't want a row."
He was staring a warning at Ian, who could only watch as Charlotte raised the carton to her lips and swallowed twice, and once more. She released a small terse gasp before planting the carton on the table with a thud. Though it wasn't loud, it was why Woollie's voice grew harsh. "Take your turn, son. Nobody wants you deciding you'd like a drink after we're back upstairs."
Ian took hold of the frigid carton. A glass would have been a weapon, but so was the juice—it could sting Woollie's eyes, it might even blind him long enough for both his captives to escape. As if sensing Ian's thought, Woollie stepped close behind Charlotte and began to run his fingertips up and down the outline of the knife. "Knock it back, son. Can't be much for you to finish."
There was little more than a mouthful, but Ian took less than that while he strained to think. If he opened the refrigerator and left it open, might Woollie head for it? He was halfway to standing up when Woollie said "What do you reckon he's thinking of doing, Charlotte?"
"Putting this away," Ian told him.
"Nothing to put, we both know that. There's been too much light around here as it is. Chuck it in the bin."
The bin was full of glass. Ian didn't know how he would use it, he didn't want to think about it yet—he had to ensure Woollie neither saw nor heard him conceal a piece in his fist. He moved in front of the bin and was resting his toe on the pedal—holding his breath as if to show the contents of the bin how silent they must be—when Woollie said in a voice like a protracted mirthless laugh "Just stick it on top of the lid, son. Bin's full, and we don't want anybody getting hurt on all that glass."
Ian let the lid drop, jarring a muffled tinkle out of the bin. He dumped the carton on the lid and turned on Woollie with no kind of plan, only rage that felt as though it might somehow be enough. The man was already in the hall, and leading Charlotte backward with one hand on her shoulder, the other tracing the shape of the knife. "Get a move on, son," he murmured. "Your playmate doesn't like you being all that way away."
The sight of Charlotte being led into the dimness that closed around her face and wiped it out returned the slab to Ian's mind. Woollie held onto her as he retreated beyond the stairs. "You go first, son. Back to the woods."
If there was anything Ian could do except obey, his mind was unable to grasp it. He felt chances falling out of reach behind him—the front door, the telephone, the weapons he'd failed to use—as he trudged upstairs. He sensed rather than heard Charlotte start after him: all he could hear was Woollie's mutter that sounded as though he were thinking aloud. "You won't be here much longer. Thanks for helping me see that, son."
FORTY-TWO
Ian:
I've gone to work. PLEASE RING to let me know you're back.
Leslie stared at that and saw it was no good. What was it supposed to be expressing? Impatience, anger, self-righteousness? Certainly none of the feelings she wanted him to know she had—none of the love that, however much he worried her, made her want him back. She had plenty of time to write before she had to go out; the dawn was only starting to renew the colours of the roofs beyond Jericho Close. Soon the streetlamps would acknowledge that one more night was dealt with, and the street would brighten like a stage awaiting an entrance—a stage as empty as the street was now. She took a harsh gulp of coffee in case that reduced her need for the most of a night's worth of sleep she'd missed, and retrieved the message pad from the low table in front of the sofa. She crumpled the top sheet and stared at the blank page, and thought of putting on some music to help her think or rather find words for her state. It was too early, even though there was nobody next door to be disturbed, and besides, it would seem too much like taking advantage of Ian's absence to listen without having her pleasure impaired by her sense of his dislike of the music. She gave the deserted street another imploring glance and crouched over the pad.
Dear Ian,
Please read all of this.
I'm sorry for letting you think I could say what you thought I did. I never would have, but maybe I almost considered it, and I know that's bad enough. Try and understand it wasn't because I was suspicious of you—it was me being so anxious to know what's happened to Charlotte I couldn't think. She's still gone. I know you care about her however much of a pain she can be, so do you blame me for trying every way I could to figure out what's happened to her? Maybe you have too—maybe you've been looking for her, that's what I hope. When I
asked you if there was anything you hadn't mentioned I ought to have said anything you might have forgotten that could help the police.
The police had questioned her last night, less than an hour after she'd called them. They'd been represented by one stout red-faced avuncular constable with hair only below the rim of his monochrome helmet. Perhaps his age and slowness were supposed to be reassuring, but she'd wondered how skilled he could be at his job not to have risen to a higher rank. He'd asked her questions she had already asked herself—whom Ian could spend the night with, whether he had friends she wasn't aware of, as though the raising of that possibility would somehow furnish her with their names—and one she hadn't entertained: whether he might have taken refuge with her parents. The policeman had needed almost more convincing than she had energy for that Ian never would have—that if, incredibly, he had, her mother would have let her know at once. Perhaps the constable had allowed himself to be persuaded there was no point in troubling Leslie's parents only once he'd grasped how reluctant she was to phone them. He'd borrowed last year's school photograph of Ian and promised to circulate a description, and had taken some time to assure her that in his experience most children who ran away from home after an argument showed up shamefaced or defensive or determined to swagger the next day. That meant there were some who didn't, Leslie had reflected as she'd watched him drive away, and that was the start of the rest of the night—of Ian's night somewhere.
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