The Treatment

by Mo Hayder

  “Do it,” he murmured. “Do it.”

  What's he watching? Christ, what's he watching? Can Josh see?

  “Just do it,” he was saying. “Do it now.” His bottom lip was loose and moist, his loamy hand a blur, the saliva lengthened downward from his mouth. Who's he talking to? Ben closed her eyes, the darkness in her head switching and flickering. Am I imagining it? Is this still a dream? My God, Josh—where's Josh?

  From the living room came a wail. Her eyes snapped open. That was Hal. Screaming. Garbling out something in a thick voice she couldn't understand: “Ican't doitican'tican'tican't. PleaseGODkillmeinstead …” He wrenched in a breath and this time she heard the words clearly. “KILL ME. Please. Kill me instead.”

  “Get off. Get off.” The troll got down from the chair and kicked something that lay on the floor just out of Ben's view. Something heavy. “Go on—” He began to pull the belt out of his jeans. “Get off.” He wrapped the belt around one fist, pulling the other end taut. The jeans slid down to his ankles, his legs bowed out like a mountain goat's. He dropped to his knees.

  My God, what's he doing? He looks as if he's going to …

  She could see only his lower body, the jeans crumpled around his feet, dirty gray Y fronts. But there was something in the tension of his buttocks, something that made her think of an animal feeding. The way a cat's hindquarters would twist when it was …

  When it was chewing something—

  A thin cry. The troll's buttocks twisted again. Now Benedicte understood. Josh. “NO!” She jammed herself blindly forward into the hole. “No! Leave him alone.”

  A sudden silence. The feet below became still.

  “I mean it. Leave him alone or I'll kill you. I'll kill you.”

  Silence. All she could hear was the swollen knocking of her heart. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, his face shot up next to hers—she could smell his breath, see blood on his teeth. Ohmigod. She jolted back. Jammed her ear against the edge of the boards, the pain boomeranging her back into the hole. No! She scrabbled for purchase, the plasterboard cracking, her free leg cycling crazily, trying to get a foothold on the carpet, expecting the foul breath on her at any second. She could hear him panting, almost as if he was afraid—What's he afraid of?—got a hurried, hectic glimpse of his eyes, panicked, nervous, his hands up to his mouth as if she terrified him, then sniff, sniff, sniff, and he started whimpering, lips quivering, and this time, with the last of her strength, her hands scrabbling weakly at the carpet, she wrenched herself out of the hole, back into the room, and even as she did she heard the doorbell ringing in the hallway.

  Caffery stood on the doorstep, the rain pattering down around him. He was breathing hard. He had walked around the perimeter of the Clock Tower Grove building site, passing heavy machinery and a saturated bundle of electrical conduit—Champ—I'll never be able to look at conduit again without thinking of Champ—until he could see Clock Tower Walk beyond the security fencing. All the houses were unoccupied, all except number fíve. Number five's curtains were drawn, and when he saw that he started to move a little faster, breaking into a trot along the little brick street, slamming his thumb on the doorbell.

  “Mrs. Church?” He rang again, the heel of his hand flat against the bell. The house was silent. Standing on tiptoe he looked through the garage door. A lemon-yellow Daewoo was parked in the gloom. He knew he might be wrong. He remembered the woman who had answered the door to him here, more than a week ago. He remembered her talking about the smell in her house, just as Gummer's wife had done, just as Souness had done in the Peaches. He remembered the dog. He lifted the letter box. “Mrs. Church?”

  And then, on the air in the hallway, he smelled urine. My God, an animal's in there. Food containers littered the hallway. A TV played somewhere in the back of the house. And at the top of the stairs something had been spraypainted in red. He dropped the letter box and turned, reaching in his pocket for his phone, his heart racing.

  “Jack, listen,” Souness was adamant, “don't go in, Jack, don't go in. Wait for us. Are ye listening to me?”

  “I won't. I swear.”

  He meant it. He put the phone in his pocket and stood on the doorstep, shifting tensely from foot to foot, looking up at the house then back along the road for the area cars. Minutes ticked by, and suddenly, from behind, came a noise. He shot to the letter box in time to see something bolt out of the kitchen, through the hallway and hurtle up the stairs. Blurred and huge, he was carrying something in his arms, and immediately Caffery knew there was blood. He ripped off his jacket, wrapped it around his arm and rammed his elbow through the glass panel, loosened the bolt under the Yale, flicked the catch down, and now he was in, racing into the kitchen, flinging the door back on its hinges. The kitchen was hot—full of that familiar smell—Jesus, what's happened in here?—the lights were on, the curtains closed, and here, lying on the floor, shaking and covered in his own excrement, lay something Caffery assumed was Mr. Church. Oh, Christ—Church saw him and closed his eyes, turning his head away: Ignore him, find the child. The boards overhead groaned and sighed and Caffery snapped his head up. Now he knew what Klare was carrying.

  “Police!” He threw himself into the hallway, grabbed the banisters, swung himself around, slamming his feet into the stairs, clearing two at a time. At the top of the first flight he stopped, hands out, pulse thundering.

  “Here.” A woman's voice. “Here.” He spun around. The landing was dark and silent, it smelled of urine— ahead of him another staircase led up into the gloom, behind him was a door, to his left a door, and to his right a door, the word “Hazard” scrawled across this one in red.

  “Mrs. Church?”

  “Here.” Her voice was weak. “Here…”

  “Keep still—I'll be right there.”

  “My little boy—”

  “It's OK—just hold on.”

  She started to sob but Caffery had to turn away. Assess your areas of responsibility. Not her—she's OK—it's the child you want. The landing above creaked. He whipped back to face the staircase. Where's the fucking light switch? He patted the walls, found nothing. Another board creaked and now he heard, as clear as sound over water, a child crying above. Not calling or screaming but weeping, as if he didn't expect to be heard. What was his name? What was his fucking name? Come on now—think. He put his hand on the stair rail and there, at eye level on the wall, hung a framed photograph, a little boy feeding a goat. Grinning. And suddenly he had it. Josh.

  “Josh?” he shouted up the stairs. “Josh. I can hear you. This is the police—it's OK now, Josh. You just keep still. OK?”

  The crying stopped. Silence. He took a deep breath and quietly mounted the first two steps. “Josh?” Nothing above him, only a breathing so faint he thought he was imagining it. “Josh?”

  Something toppled from the darkness above.

  Jesus—

  He flattened himself against the wall, not quickly enough; it hit him square in the stomach, the impact shooting him back down the stairs. He grabbed vainly at the walls, slammed against the bathroom door, his phone spinning out of his pocket and away down the next flight of stairs. Silence. He blinked. “Josh?” The boy had landed at the foot of the stairs about a yard away. Naked, winded and shocked. He had brown packing tape on his mouth. “Josh?” Caffery hissed. “You OK?” The child looked up at him, frozen with shock. Tears had made white tracks on his face and his wrists were taped. “Here.” Caffery got to his feet and pushed open the bathroom door. “In here. Go on. Quick.” He didn't have to be told twice—he scampered inside in a crouch, a naked, bloodied little savage, tilting and tipping as if he were drunk. There was enough light to see a raw hole in his back and Caffery's heart sank. A bite. “Keep the light off,” he hissed. “I'll be back.” He pulled the door closed and turned back to the stairs.

  “KLARE, YOU FUCKER.”

  He waited. Nothing.

  He turned for the stairs, taking one at a time, stopping to listen to Klare moving arou
nd overhead. What the—? The buckle and creak of aluminum. The loft ladder—the fucking loft ladder. He threw himself forward up the last stairs, moving too fast to stop and take in the surroundings: a tiny landing, a door open into a bedroom beyond, the ladder rising up into the attic, Klare halfway up, trying to crawl slyly away. “STOP, YOU FUCKER!” He charged at the ladder and Klare sprang up the next few rungs, moving fast, Caffery behind, grabbing at his heels, their combined weight making the ladder creak. Klare was through the hatch and in the attic, and Caffery lost him for a moment, saw the underside of his trainers disappear away from the hatch, smelled him, heard the joists wheeze under his weight. Fuck. He launched himself up the last few rungs, into the darkened loft, the rain pattering on the tiles above, Klare disappearing in the gloom at the far end—yes, of course, of course, that's where you'd go— next door— a quick breath of rotting food in his lungs as he followed, slammed into the rough breeze-block wall, found the gap and ducked—through it in one, ripping his trousers, banging his head against the breeze blocks, dropping instinctively into a crouch in the adjoining attic, his hands out.

  No light. It was completely black in here. He was still for a moment, getting his breath back, listening for Klare's breathing. At the far end of the attic a sudden shaft of sunlight shot into the darkness, illuminating Klare from below. He had ripped up the attic door.

  “Stop!”

  But he was standing astride the hatch, dropping the ladder onto the landing, his hands leapfrogging over the spooling aluminum. Caffery picked his way agilely across the joists, his heart slamming away—you're closing the reactionary gap here, remember your training—reactionary gap—it's there to save your life, if you close it you have to know exactly why and what you expect. Is this a good place to—

  Klare was quick: without a sound he had turned and dropped out of sight, so fast he almost didn't touch the ladder. “Stop!” Caffery was seconds behind, sliding down the ladder, battering his knees on the rungs, landing in a newly finished hallway, cord carpet, magnolia-painted plasterboard and a glimpse of a bathroom, the sink and toilet still swaddled in plastic. On his right Klare's head disappeared down the stairs, crashing into brittle walls, plaster shaking out into the air, leaving behind his yeasty smell. Caffery bolted after him, reaching the first landing and spinning back against the wall to face the next flight, clearing three steps at a time, landing on the ground floor with his foot half turned under him, getting his balance back, the cardboard taped on the floor by the builders slithering away under his feet, as Klare darted ahead into the kitchen, Caffery after him again, screaming and yelling, “You fucker!” into the kitchen, identical to the Churches' next door, and at last Caffery slid to a halt in the doorway, breathing hard.

  Roland Klare was at the back door, gripping the handle, one foot rammed against the base, his center of gravity slung back as he tugged. The door was locked.

  “STAY THERE!” Caffery yelled—assess your areas of responsibility, Jack—come on, a bit of fucking discipline— what's your focus in this environment? the subject, the door—“JUST STAY THERE!”

  Klare turned, panting, his gray T-shirt riding up over his stomach, his soft woman's hair stuck to his face. “No—” He held his hands up. “No! Don't touch me.”

  “What d'you mean, don't fucking touch you? I'm going to arrest you, you little shit.”

  “No.” His jeans were unzipped, hanging loose as if he'd just pulled them on. “No no no—please please please, don't.” He took a step back, covering his ears. “I didn't mean it.” He sank down suddenly under the sink, his hands over his face. “I didn't mean it.”

  “You didn't mean it? I don't fucking believe this. You didn't mean it? What did you mean, then? What did you mean, then, eh?” He stepped forward and gave Klare an experimental kick in the side. Klare sighed a little, but didn't try to resist, so he did it again. “I said what did you mean?”

  “Leave me alone.” His face crumpled in self-pity. He dug his nails into his hair. “Don't—”

  “What did you mean when you left an eight-year-old to die? Eh? What did you mean?” He kicked him harder, once in the side and once, when Klare turned slightly away, in the kidneys. “I'm talking to you, you piece of shit. What did you mean?”

  “Please don't, please don't.” He wiped tears from his face and rubbed his eyes. “I didn't mean to. I had to—it's the only way—I never meant to—”

  “You already fucking said that!” He gave him two kicks in quick succession, one in the chest and one in the face. This time when he pulled his foot back, blood rushed out of Klare's nose. “You already fucking said you didn't mean it. You stinking piece of shit.” He swung himself away, walking up and down the length of the kitchen, pressing his nails into his palms. Klare was blathering— blood was running down his chin, splashing on the floor. “What did you mean when you left that poor fucker lying next door in his own shit? Eh?”

  “Please no, it's not my fault, I had to for the treat—”

  “Shut up.” Caffery ran back across the kitchen, almost skidding on the blood, and with all his strength booted Klare in the ribs. “I said shut up!”

  “Jack!”

  He turned, panting, sweat on his face. Souness was standing in the hallway with two TSG officers in their Kevlar tunics and riot masks. Her face was white. She stared at Klare, basted in blood, and back at Caffery, standing frozen in the center of the room, twitchy as a circus tiger.

  “Jack—what the fuck do ye think you're doing?”

  The rain clouds, by midafternoon, were so heavy and low they seemed to be touching the chimneys; electric lights had come on in windows, as if evening had come early to London. Rebecca was lying in Jack's bed, half asleep. She hadn't slept well last night—after his call at 11 P.M. she had walked around with the TV on in the background telling herself not to get worried about him, telling herself he knew how to stay in control, that he wasn't a child, that he could, he really could, stay in control and look after himself. She only had two vodkas and no one had called to say, “Miss Morant, you'd better sit down.” So she supposed she should keep calm. She had spent the morning homemaking, a proper little housewife, driving the Beetle down to Sainsbury's and coming back in the rain with bags full of fruit and wine. When she came in the answerphone had been blinking. There was one message. She wasn't in the habit of listening to Caffery's messages—she wasn't that obsessive—but while she was in the kitchen unpacking the shopping the phone rang again and this time she heard the whole thing: “It's me again. Just wanted to make sure you got the last message about Monday. Monday at one o'clock.”

  Rebecca had paused, a bag of tangerines in her hand, and stared down the hallway. That was Tracey's voice. Not now, Tracey, not when it's all starting to work for us. Slowly she put down the fruit, went into the hallway and stared at the machine. Biting her lip she pressed the button. The first message played back. It started with a silence. Then, as if she'd got her courage, Tracey Lamb said: “It's me, Tracey, right? Uh—with what we was talking about, yeah? I'm getting bailed on Monday, so if you want to know some more about, y'know—” She paused, and Rebecca could hear her drag on a cigarette. “I'll be back at my place at one o'clock—you know where it is.”

  A tiny nibble of anxiety somewhere in Rebecca's stom-ach—horrible because today she was so determined to keep on track. She listened to both messages again then wrote in felt-tip on the back of her hand, Tracey/Mon-day/1:00pm. Then she rewound the tape. Tracey's message would stay there until another call wiped it, but the light wasn't blinking and Jack would have no reason to play the tape unless she told him to. You could just leave it that way—you could bury it forever—he need never know—it might all just disappear … now Penderecki's gone he might just forget it all and be safe and … “Oh, shut up, for God's sake.”

  She looked at the kitchen. Maybe a glass of something to keep you calm? But no. No—she wasn't going to backtrack. Instead she finished unpacking, cleaned the kitchen, put in a load of washing,
ate a sandwich for lunch and then went upstairs. In the bedroom she took off her jeans and T-shirt, lay down on Jack's bed and drifted off to sleep.

  She was still there—drifting in and out of her dreams— when his car pulled up later that afternoon. He was much earlier than she'd expected. She jumped up, surprised, and stood in the window, the curtain hooked up on her arm, blinking and rubbing her eyes as he got out of the Jaguar. He stopped for a while at the gate and stared at the front door with an odd, preoccupied look on his face, as if he was trying to work something out—as if he was trying to remember a telephone number or recall something someone had said. Then the rain lifted on the wind, driving sideways, making the trees in the front garden hiss and bend, and Jack shook off the stasis, came inside, and she could hear him in the house, throwing the keys on the hall table and coming up the stairs. Quickly she pulled one of his shirts on over her underwear and went out to the landing. The bathroom door was open and he was bending over the toilet, his hands propped on the cistern, as if he was going to vomit.

  “Jack?” He didn't turn. “Jack? Are you OK?”

  He shook his head. She put her hand on his back and saw that the rainwater running off his trousers onto the floor was veined with red. There was thinned blood on the tiles.

  “Jack?”

  He spat into the toilet. “Mmm?”

  “There's blood on you, Jack.”

  He looked down at the floor. “Yes—that's blood.”