by Mark McShane
His wife leaned forward slightly. ‘What was the dream?’
‘I saw a little girl sitting alone. She was crying, and I could tell that she was lost.’
‘What’s the connexion with my little girl?’ asked Clayton.
His wife said, ‘What did she look like?’
‘Well, I could not see. Her hands were covering her face. But her hair was black and straight.’
The woman nodded eagerly. Clayton said, ‘Lots of children have straight black hair. Why on earth would you connect the dream with the … the disappearance of my child?’
‘It was the symbolism. The girl was surrounded by clay, wet clay. It was a very dominant factor in the dream. When I read that piece in this morning’s paper I coupled the clay with your name.’
‘Oh really now. Don’t you think that’s rather vague.’
‘Perhaps. That is why I said I might be wasting your time and mine by coming here. But there is one way to establish for certain if the girl was yours.’
‘Yes?’
‘The names she used. They meant nothing to me, but they might to you.’
Mrs. Clayton asked, ‘What were they?’
‘First of all I heard her say Nanny, then Maureen.’
Looking at her husband, Mrs. Clayton said quickly, ‘The Smiths’ girl. Her name’s Maureen.’
Myra went on, ‘Then she said Adele.’
‘That’s her best friend,’ gasped the woman. The man frowned.
‘And just before the dream ended she said Bimbo and Peter.’
The woman jumped to her feet. ‘Her toys! Those are the names of her favourite toys, the ones she sleeps with. No one could possibly know about them. No one but Adriana.’
Clayton said sharply, ‘Please calm yourself.’
She sat down again, and leaned forward, her cheeks red, and fixed her eyes on the face of the visitor.
Clayton was gazing down at his smouldering cigarette. He turned aside to stub it out before saying, looking abruptly at Myra, ‘As I told you before, Mrs. Savage, I don’t believe in ghosts and whatnot. You could easily have learned, possibly by accident, at any time during the last year or so, the names you just mentioned; from the maids when they’re out, from the cook, who always gossips in the shops, or from any of my employees. I know they’re all fond of the child and talk about her. But let’s put all that to one side. I would like to know just one thing. What, Mrs. Savage, do you want?’
Myra frowned, as though puzzled. ‘Want?’
Clayton spread his hands, and looked from side to side across the space between them, as if something outstanding lay there. ‘Obviously,’ he said, ‘you have a motive for coming here. You haven’t travelled thirty miles for nothing.’
Myra straightened. ‘My motive was compassion, and nothing else. If you are thinking I want money, you are quite wrong. I want nothing, except perhaps your thanks. I thought, on reading the paper and presuming the connexion, that I would go and tell the probably distraught parents that I knew their child to be unharmed. I thought they would be relieved to be told of my dream, and know that she was safe.’
‘But,’ Mr. Clayton said, ‘she is not safe.’
‘Oh?’
He stood up and tugged on the lapels of his jacket. ‘I suppose it’s all right to tell you. The story’s been given to the Press, on the advice of the police. My daughter has been abducted, kidnapped, and is being held for ransom.’
Myra’s hands rose quickly to knuckle her jaw. She gasped, ‘Oh, how awful. I am so terribly sorry.’
Clayton nodded vaguely and walked to the door. He pulled his left hand from his pocket and let it dangle at his side, and Myra saw a knot of black hair clutched in the fingers. He opened the door. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Savage. I’m very busy. Thanks for coming.’ He looked pointedly at his wife and went out.
Mrs. Clayton rose, and Myra with her. There was a brief silence, then the tall woman said, smiling, ‘You’ve eased my mind a lot, really you have. You didn’t waste your journey.’
‘I am so glad. And I feel sure your little girl will be quite all right.’
‘Thank you.’
Mrs. Clayton led the way into the hall, and as they crossed it said, ‘I would like to … give you, at least, your expenses.’
‘That is kind of you, but I really could not accept it.’
The blonde woman opened the front door and held out her hand. Myra took it, saying, ‘Do not hesitate to come and see me if you feel the need.’
‘Thank you.’
Myra went outside and set off briskly across the tarmac circle. She was pleased with herself. The interview had gone more or less as she’d expected, and had accomplished its purpose. She had introduced herself into the affair, made herself known, and that was all that was necessary for the moment. Even though the supra-normal element was not accepted by Clayton, the idea of it had been implanted, and, she knew, was already fully believed by the wife. But that didn’t count for much, she thought; Clayton was the boss.
She approached the gate. The policeman was leaning against the wall at the side, smoking. He heard her footsteps and quickly dropped the cigarette and stepped forward. Touching his helmet, he asked, ‘All finished, ma’am?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I—er—forgot to ask you when you went in, but could I have your name and address, please? I’m supposed to take the names of all people coming and going.’
Myra gave him one of her cards. He read it, nodding slowly, put it away and pulled open the gate. As she passed through Myra noticed a car standing across the street; several men were sitting inside it, all looking at her. The policeman whispered, ‘Reporters.’
‘Of course,’ Myra said. ‘Well, good afternoon.’ She walked away, not too quickly, and glanced back at the car and wished the reporters would come after her and ask a few questions. She could just let it slip out, the purpose of her visit. But they only stared. It did not matter, she thought; there was plenty of time later for publicity.
She started walking faster, heading for the centre of town, and decided that since the trip had gone so well she would splurge and take a taxi all the way home.
Bill helped his wife off with her coat, folded it neatly and draped it on the banister. He said, ‘The kettle’s on. We’ll have a nice cuppa in a minute.’
They went into the lounge and sat before the fire. Myra relived the interview with the Claytons, as close to word-for-word as she could remember, starting and ending with the constable. Bill was an appreciative audience; not only because he was interested and concerned, but also because his wife was expending all her talk on him, and only him. One slightly unpleasant thing in the story was when she mentioned, eagerly, that Clayton had extra-sensory gifts; Bill always felt his lack painfully, and suffered a pang of jealousy and envy.
After the tea was brewed and they were each holding a cup and saucer on their knees, Myra asked, ‘How did things go here?’
Bill shook his head. ‘She kicked up a heck of a fuss.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was after dinner. I made her a cheese and tomato sandwich and cocoa. I just slid the tray inside the door, quick like.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Oh, she screamed and carried on, and I’m sure I heard some crockery break. She banged and banged on the door. And the names she used; you’d wonder where a little girl learned them.’
‘Expensive schools. That is where they use the filthiest language.’
‘Well, it wasn’t filthy. Just bitch and cow-face and pig. But the noise she made. It was terrible. I slipped out into the back garden, and d’you know, I could hear her, even through the plywood.’
Myra lifted her eyebrows. ‘But when we tested it, when you shouted in the bedroom, I could not hear anything outside.’
‘Yes, I know. What a pair of lungs. And after that she sang “Onward Christian Soldiers” four times. I thought she’d never stop.’
Tapping a foot with annoyance, Myra
said, ‘The spoiled brat. We need not have gone to all that trouble with the hospital story, painting the things white and so on. We should have put up more plywood instead.’
They finished their tea in silence. Myra put her cup on the mantel and rose. ‘I suppose I had better go up and see what damage she has done.’
Bill said, ‘I’ll warm the tea, and you can take her some.’
Myra took her coat upstairs, and paused outside the back bedroom; she could hear nothing. After slipping on the white dress she went back down to the lounge to get the handkerchief. Above the sideboard was a mirror with a crudely painted crinolined lady in one corner. Myra carefully arranged the handkerchief over her hair, keeping the front low on her brow.
Bill came in from the kitchen, carrying a cup and saucer and a plate holding a slab of cake. Myra took them from him, saying, ‘She does not really deserve this.’
They went into the hall. Bill was on the fourth step and Myra on the bottom one when they heard the squeal of a car’s brakes. They both froze. A car door banged. Bill turned and looked at his wife. She frowned him into silence.
There was the sound of footsteps, and a dark shape grew on the glass of the front door. The top of the shape came to a point.
Both Myra and Bill had the same thought—police—and their hearts began to beat faster. They exchanged a swift wide-eyed glance before fixing their gaze on the door.
The arm of the shape moved, and the tiny knocker above the keyhole was rattled viciously. The sound, though expected, made Bill jump, and he jumped again when another shape suddenly appeared on the glass. This one had no point, and he thought: detective.
There was a cough from outside, and a muffled voice said, ‘Try again, Sergeant.’ Once more the knocker was rattled, and a fist rapped hard on the glass.
Myra’s arms began to ache from holding the crockery, and her fingers were paining from their tautness. Suddenly her nose started to itch, and she opened her mouth and flared her nostrils tightly.
The flat-topped shape moved out of sight, going to the left. Bill set a foot slowly, quietly and gently on to the step below and, ignoring his wife’s glare, put one hand on the banister, one on the wall and lowered his head close to hers. He whispered, ‘He’ll see the fire. He’ll know we’re home.’
She looked quickly at the closed door of the front room. Her nose stopped itching and her face relaxed, and she hissed, all but inaudibly, ‘No. Your chair hides it from the window.’
‘The glow. He’ll see that.’
‘No. It was just smouldering.’
Bill nodded, and blew out softly through pursed lips. But almost at once he got another chilling thought. He whispered, ‘They’ll see the smoke from the chimney.’
Myra lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and shrugged. ‘It does not have to mean we are in. Anyway, there is nothing we can do about it.’
‘Perhaps they won’t look.’
The missing shape came back, moved across to the right and disappeared again. The other shape went after it. From the attached garage came the sound of wood knocking on wood.
Bill hissed, ‘They’re trying the garage door.’
‘Is it locked?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can they see in?’
He shook his head, listening hard. He heard faint footsteps coming from beyond the side of the house, and said, ‘They must be going to look round the back. They might try the door.’
‘Is it locked?’
‘No,’ he said, and added, almost as though he were asking a question, ‘But they wouldn’t dare come in.’
A noise came from above; it sounded like a plate being smashed. They both jerked their heads up. Bill’s stiffened arms began to tremble. He dropped them from the banister and wall and sat down, closing his eyes. He mumbled, ‘If they hear her …’
Myra crossed quickly to the shallow hat-stand that was spreadeagled against the wall, and slid the crockery on to its small shelf, then clasped her hands together, massaging away the stiffness, and relieving her fear and tension by being able to perform the action.
There was another noise from upstairs; a dull thud. Bill kept his eyes closed. He was badly frightened.
Myra backed away from the hat-stand to the wall opposite, and sat shakily on the slim wooden cupboard that hid the gas-meter. She knew now that the private theory she had held was right. It was natural that as soon as she introduced herself into the affair she would be suspect. She hadn’t voiced this to Bill; the pros of the Plan weren’t strong enough to stand too many cons. There was grave danger ahead, she thought. Changes would have to be made … if they were free to make them.
A fist pounded heavily on the back door, making an ominous booming sound that reverberated around the kitchen. Myra held her breath and looked up toward the head of the stairs, her hands clinging tightly to one another.
Bill waited for the next noise to come from above, and prayed it wouldn’t. His heart seemed to be striking against the side of his breastbone; striking loud enough for him to hear. He put his hand to his chest, and through the jacket, sweater, shirt, vest and chest-protector he could feel the beat.
The silence, oppressive and painful, went on. Then, faintly at first, but getting quickly louder, the footsteps started again. They grew, scuffling, without rhythm, to a loud pound, and faded rapidly away. Another moment of silence before a car door, two doors, slammed.
Bill drew a long breath, and Myra let one out, and they exchanged looks of unhappy, face-sagging exhaustion. They listened listlessly to the car start, rev up, whine away and fade from earshot.
Myra leaned her head back on the wall and looked at the cobweb in the corner above the hat-stand. She said, tiredly, ‘Of course, I realize now it was to be expected, that I would come under suspicion, knowing so much about the child.’
‘Maybe they wanted something else.’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘They think it possible that we have the child. That is quite natural. And of course they have to check.’
‘I suppose so.’ Bill thought for a moment before saying, ‘They’ll be back then.’
‘Sure to be.’
He put a ringer inside his collar and ran it around from left to right, and wiped the moisture off on to his sleeve. He cleared his throat, and asked, ‘What do we do now?’
Myra sighed and pushed herself erect. ‘Change the plans … slightly. But first of all I will see to the child. You go and lock the back door.’ She collected the crockery off the hat-stand shelf, and handed the cup and saucer to her husband as he came off the bottom step. ‘Take that with you.’
‘I could warm it,’ he said, without enthusiasm.
‘Never mind.’ She went upstairs, unlocked the bedroom and went in.
Adriana jerked up into a sitting position, and immediately bounced back flat again and covered her head with the blankets. Myra looked around the floor. The tray was under the bed, and scattered across the carpet were fragments of china; but there was no food to be seen. Had Myra seen this before the police visit she would have been furious, but now she hadn’t the energy for any emotion, other than worry.
She retrieved the tray and put the plate on it, leaving the slice of cake only on the bedside table, and collected the bits and pieces off the floor, ignoring the smaller chips.
Back in the lounge, she said, absently, ‘What a mess,’ and put the tray on the table. Taking a dining-chair across the room she set it with its back to the writing desk. She sat down and looked out of the window, and had a clear view of the whole street right up to the corner.
Bill, standing on the hearth rug, cleared his throat and said, ‘Look, I’ve been thinking about it. Wouldn’t it be just the same if I took her tonight to that shed, and left her there, and then you phone the Claytons, or the newspapers, whichever you think best? Wouldn’t it be just the same?’
‘Hardly. The story would be over before it has started. It has to have a build-up of several days in the papers—or, I should say, it w
ould be better to have. I am afraid it will be necessary now to cut it short. But not too short.’
‘You mean, still get the money and so on.’
‘Of course. That is the part that will make it a big story. Such things are extremely rare. And after we have come this far it would be ridiculous to throw that part of the scheme away.’
‘But we can’t keep her here. They’ll be back if they think we’ve got her.’ He blinked rapidly. ‘Maybe at any minute.’
Irritably, Myra said, ‘They do not think we have got her. Nobody said that. It is simply a possibility that they have to check. Just the normal routine of investigation. If they had a strong suspicion they would not have left.’
‘But they will be back. You said so.’
‘Yes.’ She glanced up the street. ‘But perhaps not tonight. And if they do, we shall do the same as we did before. Also we will let the fire go out and not put any lights on after. Tomorrow you will take the child with you.’
‘Where to?’
‘Nowhere. Just with you, when you go to collect the money.’
‘Oh.’
‘Tonight, as soon as it is dark, you will go over the fields, the back way, and get to the centre of the city. Just make the phone call as we planned, arranging to meet Clayton tomorrow.’
Bill licked his lips, thoroughly, and said nothing.
Myra went on, ‘In the morning you, and the girl, will be away for several hours, and during that time the police will come back and I shall show them around the house, even if they have not got a search warrant. When you return you simply bring the child in again. Then the next day we arrange for her to be found. We do everything, in fact, that we planned to, except that we reduce the time by two or three days.’
Bill said, ‘Why can’t we arrange for her to be found the same day?’
‘There would not be time for the story of the money to be widely reported.’
‘And what if the police haven’t been here by the time I get back?’
Myra looked back at the street. ‘Yes, that is right.’ After a pause, she said, ‘We will arrange a signal. I will hang a bedsheet on the washing line and leave it there till the police have been and gone, then take it down. Before you come home, drive to one of those streets at the edge of the estate. If the sheet is still up, keep driving around, coming back at regular intervals to check.’