by Mo Hayder
She inched farther into the space, her arms out in front of her like an obedient schoolgirl in a diving lesson, fingers pressed together, children, and thought of Josh running out of the swimming pool from his new lessons and jumping into the car: “Mum, what's an aquadynamic?” The plasterboard ceiling cracked suddenly under her weight. She recoiled, horrified, pulling her head out, her hair catching on nails so that she came out backward with a snarled crown. “Oh Jesus oh Jesus oh Jesus—”
She crouched there for a moment, panting, expecting the ceiling to collapse. But when it didn't her heart slowed a little. She pushed her hair from her eyes and slowly, carefully, bent down again. This time she was more cautious. She spread her hands across the floor like a gecko, and slowly wormed her face into the airless space, stealthy as a hunting cat, until she could see into the circle vacated by the light fitting.
It was bright down here, bright and open. And ten feet below her, in the kitchen beneath, Hal lay on the floor. On his back, his face almost directly beneath the hole.
Oh my God, Hal—
His feet were up, at an odd angle, both ankles individually cuffed to the big oven handle; his hands had been stretched above his head and fastened by electric flex to the squat feet of the washing machine. His mouth was covered with a piece of brown parcel tape and now Ben realized she could hear him snoring, as if he had simply got bored with the whole thing. As if he'd eaten Christmas dinner and drifted off in front of The Wizard of Oz.
She maneuvered her face so her mouth was at the opening and whispered softly:
“Hal?”
Parallel to Brixton Hill, along the route of the old river Effra, consigned to the underworld since the last century, ran Effra Road, a hill that linked the lower, fashionably selfconscious slopes of Brixton with the poor council estates at the Streatham end. On this, one of the hottest days of the year, DC Logan was climbing the hill with slow deliberation, cooking in his own sweat. The sun had heated up the earth until the paving stones lifted at odd angles. In front gardens cats slept under bushes, twitching their ears at the midday insects. Jesus, he thought, what I could do to a cold Red Stripe is criminal.
Up ahead on the left was the new housing development, Clock Tower Grove—he could see the hoarding and the flags—and beyond them a concrete joist swaying in the claws of a crane. There were some bigger houses at the back overlooking the park. He supposed he'd have to go and find out if any of them were finished, if anyone had moved in yet. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. There were eighteen more addresses to make that day—he wasn't going to hang around at any of them. If no one answered the door he was out of there.
Meanwhile, in number five, Clock Tower Walk, Hal opened his eyes and thought he was seeing an angel. A sweet geometry—her face in a circular frame. At first the eyes, those eyes like mirrors, seemed to take up the whole of the room. Benedicte?
“Hal,” she whispered.
And then he thought, for the first time, that maybe they had a chance. He tried to jerk his head up in reply but he had been bound so he couldn't move. Tears slid from his eyes.
“Hal,” she murmured, her voice faint and sick. “Josh? Is he …?”
He moved his eyes sideways, showing her the direction.
She pulled back from the hole and tried to reposition herself to get the angle right so she could see into the family room. She could feel the uneven temperature of the air, she could smell her own breath in the tiny space. As if all her tension and sickness had been converted to chemicals and breathed out through her lungs. She pushed her face into the hole until her flesh and eyeball bulged down into the room. Her eyes clicked open and closed. Rotated and froze.
Fastened to the radiator in the family room, curled up like a little fern, his knees pulled up under his chin, was Josh. Although he was gray and washed out his expression was calm, his eyes fixed, concentrating on trying to unpick the rope that bound him to the radiator. On the wrist he had already freed were deep furrows, shiny and red, and there was a rash on his mouth where a tape had been.
“Josh?” Softly at first, because she couldn't believe she wasn't seeing a mirage. Then: “JOSH!”
He didn't react immediately, just remained staring at the ropes. It took him a while to break his trance, then his eyes rolled toward her, blinking.
“Josh!”
“M-mummy?”
Her child had changed. His head was thin, his eyes huge. He looked like Hal—like a tiny twenty-year-old Hal with veins standing up on his forehead and hands. Poor progeric child—he reached a hand up to her, not saying anything, just reaching it out in the air, the palm toward her, as if he was trying to feel her face. Check it was real. Then he dropped his hand, turned away from her and started pulling on the rope.
“Josh!”
“Daddy's not well,” he whispered, not looking up. “He can't talk.”
“I know, darling. Have you had something to drink?”
He shook his head.
“No?”
“A little bit.” He wouldn't look at her. He's already a little man, she thought, already being the big little man.
“Do you feel all right, baby? How's your tummy?”
“Feels funny. I'm thirsty, Mummy.”
“That's OK, we'll get you something to drink.”
“I never meant to, Mummy, I had to go wee-wee on myself. I'm sorry.”
“Oh, sweetheart, that's OK. Don't worry.” Upstairs, with her bleeding fingers and her exhausted mind, she wanted to cry. This little boy, whom she had thought would be the casualty, was sitting up and getting on with it. He had nearly undone the rope. Instead of sobbing and despairing, like she had, he had been determinedly and silently getting on with escaping. “Its OK. The nasty man's gone now.”
Josh nodded. “He's gone. He's been horrid and the police are going to beat him up and put him in prison and kill him.”
“Did you hear Mummy calling?”
“Yes—I couldn't say nothing because I had a thing on my mouth.”
“Don't worry about that, sweetheart. I love you.”
“Me too.”
“What are you doing down there?”
“Getting out of the rope. I'll come and I'll get you.” He was quiet for a moment.
Then without looking at her. “Mummy?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe he killed Smurfy.” His chin trembled. “ 'Cause I—'cause I don't know where Smurf is.”
“Oh, Josh—” Benedicte's throat was tight. “You are such a—such a good, such a clever … brave, brave little boy. Don't worry about Smurf, peanut, she's with me. She's feeling a little bit poorly but she's up here and she can't wait to see you. She sends you her love and a big lick on the face.” She paused because now she could see that his fingers were bleeding. “Josh, I love you, darling, Mummy loves you so, so—”
In the hallway the doorbell rang. Josh's head snapped up. Ben froze. No! She couldn't believe it.
“Josh,” she hissed. “Quick now. Come on now, baby, move it now.” Beneath her Hal jerked frantically and noiselessly on the floor. Ben's voice rose hysterically: “Come on, Josh, for Christ's sake, MOVE IT. Just MOVE!!”
He pulled frantically at the rope, tugging and pulling, biting it, the blood from his fingers staining his mouth. His teeth were strong but the rope was embedded. “Quickly!”
He pulled harder, eyes on the door, preparing for the menace to hurtle down the hallway. Then Benedicte saw her little boy make a decision.
“No!” she screamed. Another crack ricocheted along the plasterboard. “No! Josh, RUN, Josh, please RUN.”
But he couldn't have freed himself in time. He took the brown parcel tape from the floor and pressed it to his mouth, smoothing it down with the flat of his palms, swiveling his little body round, pressing the rope behind him and turning so he sat with his back to the radiator. Ben's heart squirmed. “God, no.” She began to weep, long silver threads falling out of the ceiling and landing next to Hal's face. “No!”
Everyone froze. Ben stopped crying and Hal stopped thrashing on the floor. Josh's eyes flew to his mother. The troll never rang more than once. For a long time no one dared to breathe. The bell rang yet again and in the hallway the letter box clanged.
“Hello?” A man's voice. “Hello?”
The police—maybe Ayo's sent someone—maybe … Benedicte started to open her mouth, but something stopped her, a survival instinct, maybe, a survival instinct older than her own cells. No, it's a trick—it's him. It must be him. In the family room Josh was scrabbling at the rope again. “Josh, don't say anything, don't move,” she hissed. “Keep quiet.” He obeyed, kept quite still, and in the silence she could hear her heart thudding. It's OK, she told herself. If it is the police they'll see something's wrong— they'll know something's wrong and they'll come and find us, I'm not giving myself away if it's—
The doorbell rang once more. She sucked in a breath, biting her lip, the look in her eyes keeping Josh pinned where he was. The house was silent. To anyone on the garden path at the front of the Churches' deluxe polished oak door, with double glazing and thermal seals, the house would have appeared quite uninhabited.
Souness came in, placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Right.”
“OK.” Caffery threw his pen down on the desk. “Lecture?”
She nodded. “Lecture. I got through to the consultant. We had a wee slanging match about my DI.”
“Great.”
“Jack, what were ye thinking?” She pulled up her chair and sat down. “Can you imagine the field day Peach's brief'll have?”
“I don't care, Danni, I've got to speak to him. He's got someone else. I know it.”
She closed her eyes, pursed her mouth and shook her head. “Jack, you're squeezing me. I've spoken to the gov and what he's saying is clear: you've got your man, put the resources into closing it, put your energy into being ready for the interviews when Peach is well enough. We've got another critical incident come in this morning, they want this Peckham rapist off the back burner, and we just haven't got the manpower, Jack, for what, in the cold light of day, is a domestic incident, we haven't got—”
“Maybe I shouldn't be on the case anyway.”
“Don't talk nonsense.”
“Maybe I've lost my perspective.”
“Oh, please, cut the melodrama—” She stopped. Caffery had stood up. “Jack? Ye've to try to see it from my point of view.”
“Yeah, I'd love to, Danni.” He picked up his keys, his cigarettes and put them into his pocket. “I'd love to, but to be honest, I don't know if I could get my head that far up my own arse.”
Souness shot to her feet. “Don't ye speak to me like that.” She lifted her finger to him, her lips a dry, angry pink. “I did nothing to merit that—I'll discipline ye for it.”
“Thank you.” He stood, pushed some papers into a drawer and locked it. Pressed pens into the pen tidy and pushed his chair firmly under the desk so that it lined up perfectly. Suddenly his taste for the job had turned. “I think I'll go now. Since there's nothing else to be done but sit around with our feet up and wait for Peach to get better.”
“Go on, then, fuck off home.” She rubbed her head until it was hot. She was furious. “The rest should do you some good.”
But when Caffery turned to the door Kryotos was standing there holding a green message form. “What?”
“Call from the hospital.”
“That's OK, Marilyn.” Souness reached past Caffery and took the form. “I got through to them on another line.”
“No—I mean, not the hospital, I mean the sergeant. On the ward. It's Alek Peach. They want one of you. Urgently.”
“Josh—” The house was silent and Benedicte's heart rate had slowed. But now she was seized with the idea that she'd been wrong. “Josh, listen—can you get out of that rope?”
He nodded and redoubled his efforts, gnawing at the nylon with his teeth.
“OK, darling, OK, listen. When you're free just go straight into the hall and open the front door. Into the hall and open the door.” Josh looked from his father to his mother, his eyes huge with fear. “Go on, darling. I promise you it's OK. Just hurry.”
With one last tug of the rope he freed himself. He was up, staggering a little, his leg muscles cramped, shooting out a hand to steady himself, but he was up. He held out his thin arms in front of him, as if it were dark, and pattered over to the kitchen sink, turning on the tap and putting his mouth under it to drink. Benedicte could almost smell how cold the water was. When he straightened, panting, water dripping from his chin, she whispered to him, “Good boy, now go and open the door.”
But Josh pulled a glass down from the cupboard, filled it with water, and knelt down next to Hal. He pulled the packing tape from his father's mouth, rested the lip of the glass against Hal's lips, tipping water into his mouth. Hal bucked a little, almost choked, then greedily swallowed the water, his Adam's apple moving madly. Benedicte watched, impatient, resisting the urge to tell Josh to hurry. He was sitting next to Hal, as expert as a nurse, running a hand over his forehead and pouring more water into his mouth. “You next, Mummy,” he said.
“OK, baby—but first go to the door, OK, go to the door—there might be someone out there to help us.”
“OK.” He put the glass on the floor and stood, unsteady on his feet, looking down once at Hal, who was thrashing his head from side to side, his mouth moving, trying to speak. Josh turned to the hallway, using the kitchen cabinets to keep his balance, jolting his way out. Benedicte could just see the bottom of his feet and his reflection in the laminate flooring. Tiny, thin little boy. He reached up, fumbled with the catch and opened the door.
She stayed there, her eye bulging down from the ceiling like the silent dome of a CCTV camera clicking on and off. There were no sounds from the hallway for several minutes. She imagined him opening the door and simply stepping out into a summer's day, bluebirds, maybe, carrying a ribbon in their beaks, flying over the park.
The door slammed and she could see the reflection coming back. One tall, with heavy dark hair, one her son, being led back into the room—the familiar ease of an older brother guiding a small boy through a shopping center. Except that Josh was crying.
She should have stayed, should have pushed through the ceiling, should have torn away her own skin before she let someone hurt Josh, but instinct sent her squirming back up through the hole, whimpering like a child, pulling the dangling light fitting behind her like a trapdoor spider. Her ankle twisted, pain shot up her leg, but she didn't scream.
She knew that figure—she knew exactly whose it was. And now everything made sense.
Caffery left the Jaguar in the car park, didn't stop to buy a ticket and raced into the building. He took the stairs two at a time, the squeal of his shoes on the shiny lino making orderlies pushing wheelchairs stop and stare.
He ran. Ahead of him, at the end of the long, polished corridor, the door to the ICU flew open. A nurse came out, pressing a crumpled paper towel against the bib of her uniform. As he got closer to her he could see darkness on the towel and when they passed each other he saw it was blood that was mashed into her bib. The door opened again and this time the police officer came out, his face pale, blood on his hands. “In there.” He nodded. Caffery pushed past him into the unit.
The window in the nurses' room was open, a soft breeze playing through the ward. In Peach's small annex curtains had been pulled around his bed, and two nurses, faces set, busied themselves, silently mopping the floor and the walls. The curtain, lit from within like a vast, stretched Halloween lantern, had a huge peacock-tail stain in the center, a great, plumed splatter of blood, almost the size of a human. And beneath the bed—on the floor where the nurse was mopping—shiny and rubbery as black PVC, more blood fattened out toward Caffery's feet.
Two miles away in Brixton, DC Logan was enjoying that Red Stripe in the Prince of Wales. The marketin
g girls at Clock Tower Grove had been funny with him, stared at the sweat marks under his arms, so he'd given up and come back down the hill. He could fake the report, he decided. Jack Caffery, it was well known in AMIT, had gone off the rails recently: probably his head done in by his nutty girlfriend with her trick pelvis and weed habits. DI Jack Caffery was crazy. Everyone knew he was letting loose in all directions, giving everyone both barrels for no reason. And Logan had not liked the sly threats Caffery'd made about his overtime. Young Turk, my arse, Logan thought, going to the bar for a refill.
24
IN NORFOLK THE FOREST at the top of the quarry was quiet, only the ghostly pitter-patter of rain on the leaves. Every ten minutes or so a car went by on the road half a mile away. Some had their headlights on although it was midday. Tracey Lamb lit a cigarette and leaned back against the rusty old Datsun, staring blankly at the cars. She felt confident, pleased with herself. When she got home yesterday she had taken Carl's “book” and sat in his bedroom, on his bed—that bed was his pride and joy: black and silver lacquer with mirror set in the head-board—and started calling his friends. None of them seemed to know about Penderecki's death—as if they cared—and when she told them about the visit from DI Caffery they all went into a panicking freefall.
“Jesus Christ, Tracey! Don't bring your shit to my doorstep.”
“It's not just my shit.”
And then horrified realizations at the end of the line. “Tracey? Tracey, whose fucking phone is this? Don't tell me you're calling on your own phone?”
“Why?”
“Oh, you stupid fucking slag, you're even stupider than I thought.” And down went the phone. By the time she got to the end of the book the bush telegraph had been humming and the phones had all been taken off the hook. She sat there smoking, among Carl's barbells, the weightlifting belts and his DVD collection. She wanted to cry. The gates were closing and she'd been left outside. Penniless.