The Nightmare Game

by Gillian Cross

  He wanted to scuttle around, darting from one hiding place to another, but he had enough sense to see that he would be in more danger if he behaved like that. He could only survive by walking boldly, looking straight ahead, as though he had a right to be around.

  And there were other survival skills he had to learn. When he reached a school, it was no use just standing at the gate, hoping to recognize one of the kidnappers. There were too many people milling around, and too many places to watch. He was never going to get anywhere without producing the photograph.

  But that had its problems, too. He began by picking people who looked quiet and safe and asking the question straight out. Do you know this boy? That was disastrous. Even the most stupid-looking people edged away suspiciously. If he was going to get any answers, he needed a cover story.

  It took him most of the day to invent one that sounded plausible. By then, he was on his third school. One of the big glass and concrete high schools that squatted outside a side road, on the far side of the city. Loitering by the gate, he peered up at the classrooms, piled one on top of another, and told himself that it ought to be simple.

  No one would pay him any attention as long as he stood quietly at the gate. He knew that already. All he had to do was take his time and wait for the right person. Someone sympathetic who would take a proper look at the picture.

  It should have been like that. But he couldn’t get rid of the terrifying, tormenting thought that this time it might be the right school after all. And if it was, he might suddenly find himself facing one of the kidnappers.

  They knew who he was. If they saw him there, they were bound to guess what he was doing.

  He pictured them as massive, nameless figures who would come striding toward him, like shapes from a nightmare. They would be relentless and sadistic. That day before the kidnap, when they’d cornered him on the way home, they’d known exactly how to frighten him. They’d played on his worst fears, not spelling anything out clearly. Just hinting at danger, with little pinprick jabs to make him panic. That was how they’d bullied him into turning off the burglar alarm. They’d forced him to help them.

  But it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know what they were going to do.

  He didn’t know which one of them was the worst. The tall one, the short one, or the ginger-haired girl with the sharp fox-face. He hated all three of them.

  The idea that they might appear made him much too anxious to ask his question and escape. Instead of waiting for some lumpish, kindly girl who would give him a proper hearing, he spoke to the first person who looked his way. He blurted out his cover story all in one go, without a proper introduction.

  “Hi can you help me I’m looking for someone—picked up my bag instead of his own—on the bus—no name—just a photo—”

  Before he was halfway through, he knew he’d made a dreadful mistake. The boy he’d stopped was already smiling down at him. With the sort of cruel, amused smile that Platt always gave him. Even before Warren had finished explaining what he wanted, the boy was calling over his shoulder.

  “Hey, Fipper. Come and take a look at this. What do you reckon?”

  And then there were two of them. And other people were looking curiously as they went past.

  The boy called Fipper rolled his eyes in a way that Warren knew already. Much too well. When he looked the photo up and down, he recognized the face immediately. Warren could see he did.

  But what he said was, “Looks like the Queen to me.”

  The first boy pulled a face and shook his head. “You’re crazy. It’s Beckham. Old picture, before he changed his hair.”

  Fipper craned his head around to study the photo upside down. “Give it a rest, Ned. You’ve only got to look at the nose. It’s regal, that nose is.” He was holding on to the end of the paper now. Twisting it around.

  “Please.” Warren tried to work it free without tearing it. “Please can I—”

  The instant he heard his own voice, he knew he was just making things worse. He was whining. And to boys like that he might just as well have been saying, Kick me. Pull my hair. They knew he was a loser now and in a moment they would start jostling him and stepping on his feet. Seeing how far they could go before he ran away.

  Fipper twitched the picture away from him, flapping it out of reach, and Ned laughed scornfully, glancing backward to see how many other people he and Fipper were amusing.

  “Please—” Warren said again, sounding even more hopeless. Knowing that he might just as well abandon the picture and go. No one was going to answer his questions now. It was no use—

  And then he was saved. Just when he was about to turn and run, a girl came swooping through the crowd, elbowing Ned out of the way.

  “What are you doing?” she said. “Don’t you two ever stop?”

  She was just the person Warren would have picked, if he’d had the sense to wait. Plump and confident, but slightly awkward, with big, soft eyes. She tweaked the picture away from Fipper and held it out to Warren.

  “Here. This is yours, isn’t it?”

  She obviously expected him to take it and scuttle off, but some instinct told him that this was the best opportunity he was going to get. He took the picture and held it up for her to see.

  “I was just asking—”

  She leaned forward to take a look and Fipper rolled his eyes at her. “Oh, come on, Shelley! You’re not going to tell him anything?”

  Warren started gabbling, desperate not to miss his chance. “I only want my bag. He took it on the bus. By mistake. I’ve got his, and I need my bag back—”

  His tongue was falling over itself, going around and around in his mouth, like Hope’s when she couldn’t get her words out right. Hasmegg. Nowass. Dohfuss. He was starting to panic.

  The girl’s face softened sympathetically and she put a calm, heavy hand on his shoulder. “It’s OK,” she said. “You don’t need to take any notice of Fipper and Ned. Nobody else does. Let’s get away from them.” She took his arm and led him off to one side.

  “Use your brains!” Fipper called after her. “You don’t know who he is. Maybe he’s working with international terrorists. His parents might be serial killers.”

  Shelley looked over her shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said scornfully.

  Ned was already shrugging and turning away toward the bus stop. “Give it a rest, Fip. What does it matter what she says? Robbo’s big enough to take care of himself.”

  Then, miraculously, they’d gone. And Shelley was listening to Warren, drinking in his cover story without questioning a single word. When he held out the photograph, she gave a disconcerting giggle.

  “I’ve never seen him look like that! What was he doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Warren said hastily. “I just found it in his bag. It’s the only thing I’ve got and if I can’t find him—”

  “It’s OK. Don’t worry.” Shelley patted his arm. “I can tell you who he is. His sister’s a friend of mine.” She looked around at the people flooding out of school. “I can’t see him, though. He might not come out this way.”

  “I only need his name,” Warren mumbled. “And maybe—his address?”

  He was afraid that would make her suspicious, but she was too busy being helpful to think of anything else.

  “I can’t remember the number, but I know the house all right. It’s by the Memorial Park—almost opposite the main gates—and it’s got a big bay window on the ground floor. With a bush growing up against the wall underneath. If you go there you’ll be able to spot it easily.”

  “And—his name?” Warren prompted. Hardly daring to breathe.

  Shelley giggled again. “Fancy forgetting to tell you that. He’s called Robert Doherty.”

  For a second, because he was so nervous, Warren thought she said Robber Doherty. The shock must have shown in his face, because Shelley gave him a curious look. Then she glanced at her watch.

  “Robert’s OK. Really. But I’ll come with you
if you like. I’ve just about got time.”

  “No,” Warren said hastily. “No, I’m fine. I just need to phone my mom and then I’ll go around there. Thank you. Thanks a lot.”

  He backed away around the corner, as quickly as he could. He’d almost done it. He’d almost found out where one of the kidnappers lived. But his whole body was shaking with nervous tension. It was all he could do to walk as far as McDonald’s.

  He ordered fries and a milkshake and sat at the nearest table, eating handfuls of fries and taking the lid off the shake so that he could drink it in big gulps. A couple of girls were watching him and giggling, but he couldn’t help that. He needed something to get himself through the last bit of his mission.

  BY THE TIME HE CAME OUT OF McDONALD’S, IT WAS ALMOST dark. It took him ten minutes to walk to the Memorial Park and he was out of breath again by the time he reached the gates, but he was determined now. He wasn’t going to go home without knowing the house number.

  Crossing the road, he walked along the row of the houses on the other side. There were only a couple with bay windows and their front gardens were dark and shadowy. He couldn’t see which was the one with a bush under the window. Not without going closer.

  For two or three moments he dithered, shivering in the cold wind. His feeling of danger was stronger now. This was the kidnappers’ lair. It might be the place where they were keeping Hope. He had to check it out properly. But suppose they saw him? He had never felt so vulnerable and afraid.

  Then he pushed his hands deep into his pockets—and felt the balaclava his mother always made him take to school in the winter. He’d never worn it. That would have been asking for trouble. Platt would have had a field day if he’d turned up at school with his whole face covered except his eyes.

  But now, suddenly, the balaclava was perfect. He pulled it on and headed toward the first house with a bay window.

  With his face hidden, he felt almost brave. As he drew level with the house, he glanced around quickly, to check that no one could see him. Then he ducked into the front garden and squatted down behind the low front wall.

  Most of the garden was car parking space, with just a narrow flower bed immediately behind the front wall. And, now that he was near, he could see the dark, angular bush growing under the window, close against the house.

  He could have left then. But there was a narrow line of light showing between the curtains in the bay. Someone was obviously in that front room.

  And it suddenly occurred to him that it might be Hope.

  For almost five minutes, he crouched behind the wall, wishing he had enough courage to creep forward to the window. Hope might be in there. She might be in terrible danger. Maybe even being tortured. But he didn’t dare go any closer. If she was in there, she wouldn’t be alone. The tall kidnapper would be there, too. The one called—

  Warren was too frightened to sound out the name, even in his head. He set the letters dancing, disguising them quickly. Trying to get them to say something more reassuring. But the words that came back terrified him even more. Rot by the order . . . The Terror Body.

  The words curdled in his mind. Run, Rabbit, run, Rabbit, run, run, run. He was just a coward. A hopeless coward. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .

  The voice in his head was still whining when he began to crawl forward through the shadows.

  He crept across the garden, and when he reached the bay window he pulled himself up, slowly, until his head was just above the level of the windowsill. Leaning forward over the stiff, scratchy branches of the bush, he peered between the curtains. By moving his head around, he could see the whole lighted room.

  And the girl inside.

  It wasn’t Hope—there was no sign of her—it was the other girl. The kidnapper with the fox-red hair.

  For a second, Warren was shocked to see how ordinary she looked. He’d remembered a fierce, malevolent face. An evil witch with sharp features and a river of burning hair. But she was just a girl on a sofa, reading a book. Her hair fell around her face as she leaned forward. As he watched, she picked up a pad and scribbled a note. She was doing her homework.

  He squashed forward, to get a better view. As he pressed against the bush in front of him, a stray twig hit the window. Tap.

  And the girl jumped.

  Her head jerked up and for a second her eyes were wide and startled. Then she looked down again and went on reading.

  Warren felt a small, surprising flicker of satisfaction. Last time he’d seen her, she was towering over him in the street, shaking her gleaming hair and taunting him. But when she heard a strange noise, she jumped, just like anyone else.

  He reached out, deliberately this time, and bounced the twig against the glass again. Tap, tap.

  This time, she didn’t jump. It was even better. She glanced up nervously, with a little frown. Putting her book down, she leaned forward, ready to stand up—and then hesitated, uncertainly.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  He wanted a reaction—but he hadn’t expected her to move so fast. Before the twig had sprung back from the third tap, she was on her feet and heading for the window. He ducked down quickly, pressing himself into the sharp branches. By the time she dragged the curtains apart, he was too low for the light to catch him.

  Crouching there, with his heart thudding, he held his breath and tried not to think what would happen if she left the curtains open and crept away. If she tiptoed to the front door and jumped out at him. What would he do then? There was no getaway car waiting to carry him off. Only a bus stop, five minutes’ walk away. If she decided to come out and investigate, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  But she didn’t. After a few seconds, she drew the curtains together impatiently and he heard her walking away. Straightening up cautiously, he peered between the curtains and saw that she was back on the sofa, reading again.

  Warren’s heart was still beating furiously, and he was breathless and shaking as he slipped out of the garden. But he felt—triumphant. He’d done much, much more than his mother had asked. He hadn’t just discovered Doherty’s name and address. He’d actually been to the house, on his own, to check it out.

  And he’d frightened one of the kidnappers.

  There was no doubt about it. He remembered her wide, startled eyes and the way she’d held back from coming to the window. He’d scared her.

  If only he’d had a car waiting! Then he could have stayed where he was, instead of crouching down. She would have opened the curtains and seen a face in a black balaclava, pressed up against the glass. Would she have screamed?

  He felt a wild, intoxicating sense of strength. If the kidnappers could be frightened, then maybe it wasn’t crazy to think of finding Hope. Maybe they could even get her back.

  Maybe Robber Doherty would turn out to be Rabbit Doherty after all.

  4

  WHEN THE BUS STOPPED AT WARREN’S DEVELOPMENT, HE jumped off eagerly. He would have run all the way home if he could. For the first time in his life, he had important news to tell, news that could change everything. He reached the house and panted up the path—and the door swung open in front of him, before he had time to ring the bell.

  His father was waiting for him.

  If his father had spoken—if he’d said even a single word—Warren would have had some idea how he was supposed to react. But there was nothing. Just a steady, expressionless stare, and his father’s heavy body, blocking the doorway. Waiting.

  Did he know how Warren had spent the day? It was impossible to tell. But surely—surely—he would be pleased with the result? Warren blurted it out, stumbling slightly over the words. “I’ve found—found the kidnappers. I know what that tall one’s called. And where he lives. I can take you—”

  And then he saw his father’s eyes narrow. And he knew he’d made a mistake.

  “I haven’t given anything away,” he said, backtracking fast. “I was really careful—”

  Was that right? Wrong? There was no sign to help him. His father
just took a step back, letting Warren sidle past him, into the hall. He didn’t speak, until the front door was closed.

  Then he pointed up the stairs. “Go to your room,” he said. In the chilly, controlled voice that was worst of all. “Wait for me.”

  “But I didn’t mean—” Warren started babbling, in a panic. “I thought—”

  “Your room,” his father repeated. Not even looking at him.

  Warren saw his mother come out of the living room. She stood with a hand over her mouth, following him with her eyes as he trailed slowly up the stairs and into his bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, listening for the sound of his father’s feet coming up behind him.

  AFTERWARD, HIS MOTHER CAME AND SAT BESIDE THE BED, smoothing his hair and patting his hand. When he was little, she’d cried and tried to explain that his father was only looking after them all.

  He just wants you to be careful. We all have to be careful. To protect Hope.

  She didn’t cry this time. She just sat there, patting his hand gently. And Warren didn’t cry either. He lay on his front, with his head turned to the wall, looking away from her.

  When he was small, he’d looked forward to growing up. To being too big for his father to hit. But now he knew that would never happen. It didn’t matter what size he was. He was never going to resist. He was defeated before the first blow landed. Flattened by the look of cold disgust in his father’s face.

  After a long time, his mother stopped patting his hand. She sat back in the chair, looking down at him. “Did you really find them?” she said quietly.

  “It was a mistake,” Warren said dully. “There weren’t any kidnappers. Because there was no one to kidnap.”

  There was a small, tense pause. Then his mother said, “What about Hope?”

  “There’s no such person as Hope.” The words came out of Warren’s mouth on their own, saving him the effort of thinking. “Just Abigail, who died before I was born. I’ve always been an only child.”

  His mother made a strange little sound in her throat. With a great effort, Warren turned his head and saw that she was crying now. The tears were running down her cheeks and dripping off her jaw. He stared at her for a while without speaking.