Ralph’s Children

by Hilary Norman

  Ralph closed her eyes and imagined her children, faces all but invisible beneath their scary masks.

  Scary grown-ups now.

  She felt such pride.

  The Game

  Something was changing.

  They were getting ready.

  For what?

  Kate was trying not to think about that.

  But they had stopped haranguing her a long while back, had stopped talking to her altogether.

  She could hear and smell someone making coffee in the kitchen, and yes, they were definitely getting themselves prepared for something.

  ‘Come on,’ she heard Jack say.

  ‘Plenty of time yet,’ Pig said.

  ‘Better early,’ said Simon.

  ‘Not too early,’ said Roger.

  Laurie

  On her way, at last.

  Laurie’s car had started first time, thanks to Dave.

  No last-minute reproaches or pleas from her parents. Nothing at all from them, in fact, her mother still dead to the world when she’d left the house, her father already at the stables, where he loved to be in time for dawn.

  It was still dark now, but last night’s fog had already almost gone, and Laurie found herself anticipating the beauty of the sunrise before her arrival, the rosy fringes of the outer rims of fields and trees and hilltops, and perhaps when she was back home again after the visit and needing to occupy herself, she would try to recreate that loveliness for her next gift to Sam.

  ‘Good morning, darling,’ she said to him out loud, as if he could hear her. ‘Get up and dressed and have a good brekkie.’

  She wasn’t sure where they would go today, since she liked letting Sam choose what he wanted to do, and they were very kind at the Mann about things like that, encouraging the children to anticipate and enjoy every minute of their outings. If Sam had nothing in mind, Laurie would take him either to Legoland or to the Cotswold Wildlife Park, both great successes in the past, and wasn’t that the best thing about her beautiful son: his infectious joy and enthusiasm, his easily won-over heart.

  ‘Never frets after you’ve left him.’

  Laurie doubted she’d ever get the bitch’s words out of her memory.

  ‘I’m on my way, son,’ she said now, softly.

  Driving on into the morning.

  The Game

  Before they left, they made her lie on the sofa, face down into the cushions, and for several long minutes Kate believed she was going to die, that they were going to shoot her now or stab her in the back, or maybe smother her, and she fought to keep her nose clear of the soft, suffocating fabric and foam beneath her face.

  ‘Keep still.’ Roger was crouching, maybe kneeling – Kate couldn’t see – beside the sofa, keeping pressure on her, one hand in the centre of her back, the other on the back of her head, and she was a strong woman, Kate knew that now.

  God help me.

  There was a tiny cavity between her nose and the cushioning, just enough to allow a little air through her nostrils, but with her wrists and ankles still bound she was helpless and waiting for worse, her mind flying through time and space from Rob to Bel to Michael and back to Rob again and, most desolately of all, to their lost, unborn son, and maybe if—

  She heard the front door open, felt cold air.

  Stopped preparing to die and started listening instead.

  Roger’s hand was still on her back, but the one on her head had been lifted, so the intent was not, after all, to kill her now, Kate thought, just to keep her from moving, from turning, and she realized suddenly that the reason she was face down might be because they had taken off their masks and didn’t want her to see them.

  If they don’t want me to see, that means I’m not going to die.

  And if they were going, then any second now that hand would lift off her back, too, and she would hear the door close and would be alone, still bound and gagged, but alone and alive, with a future in which to get over this . . .

  They were speaking softly, she couldn’t hear them.

  ‘Take care.’ Roger’s low voice came from just above her, not moving away.

  Why didn’t they go?

  She heard movement, rubber soles squishing on stone, the faint swishing of material, perhaps their overalls brushing against furniture . . .

  The door closed.

  But the hand was still there, had moved up a little, was pressing against her shoulder blades, and the suspense was worse now than the pressure.

  It lifted, at last.

  ‘You can sit up,’ Roger’s voice told her.

  Kate turned her face first, inhaled air greedily, then tried to get up, but it was hard with her hands behind her, she was rolling clumsily.

  ‘Wait.’ The other woman pulled her to a sitting position.

  Kate looked up at her, realized for the first time how tall and slim she was, almost elegant despite the overalls and mask.

  Stocking still in place.

  The others gone.

  Kate felt torn between gratitude for the scrap of help, for not having been killed, and massive disappointment because Roger was still here, still guarding her.

  Which meant that it was not over.

  Roger stooped again and pulled off the tape.

  Kate gulped in more oxygen.

  ‘Anything to say?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Thank you.’ The first words into Kate’s head.

  The masked woman bent again, stuck the tape straight back over her mouth.

  ‘Personally, I’d have said something a little more worthwhile.’

  The sound Kate made was of pleading, frustration and anger.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the terrorist named Roger.

  Ralph

  Eyes glued to the clock on her wall.

  They’d be on their way again by now.

  Ralph imagined the tension building in their vehicle as Simon drove.

  Positive tension in Jack’s case, she guessed, itching for the next stage. Less conviction and more angst for the other two, though Simon’s head and heart were well into this, she knew that. And where Simon’s heart went, Pig’s tended to follow.

  She thought about Roger.

  Alone now with the first Beast.

  No calls, unless absolutely necessary – the deal they’d agreed on.

  Did her sanity count as a necessity?

  Ralph picked up her phone and keyed in Roger’s number.

  The Game

  It was the first time a phone had rung since the start of Kate’s ordeal.

  Roger took the mobile from her waistband, looked at the display, pressed a button. ‘Anything?’ she asked curtly.

  Kate strained to hear a voice from the other end, something that might help when this was over, but though the stocking-masked woman was less than three feet from the sofa, not even the faintest whisper of sound reached her.

  ‘All to plan.’ Roger listened for a moment. ‘No problems, Chief.’

  Less brisk now, a touch of warmth in her tone, Kate thought, and of respect.

  ‘Chief’ took her back to the novel again. Even if these names were just covers, these people must have had some reason to choose the book, if only because they – or perhaps their ‘chief’ – liked it. Had been inspired by it, maybe, by the horror of the story, by its violence.

  ‘Much later,’ Roger said, and ended her call.

  Kate made a sound, attempting to communicate, to make the best of this time with only one of the gang present, a woman, strong though she knew she was.

  ‘Want to talk to me?’ Roger asked.

  Kate nodded.

  ‘Tough.’

  Kate made another sound, of appeal.

  ‘Still want to pee?’ Roger shrugged. ‘Guess I could live without having to smell your stink.’

  Instant plans leapt into Kate’s mind: if her ankles were freed, she would do something, kick out, and what should she aim for, what would be the most vulnerable, the most reachable part of this woman’s body? Her legs
, she supposed, and they hadn’t taken her Todds, so she could kick hard.

  ‘You’ll have to shuffle,’ the terrorist told her, wrecking that hope.

  God, it hurt getting back on her feet because her legs had stiffened up and the bandages and immobility had restricted her circulation.

  Her mind, at least, was still on the move. If Roger did not free her hands, either, then the other woman would have to help pull down her jeans, which meant she’d have to bend down, and then Kate could—

  Nothing, Kate realized. There was not a damn thing she could do with her hands trussed behind her, nothing she could do except pee and be grateful for that.

  Like hell. The only thing she would be grateful for to this bitch was if she untied her and let her go, let her leave.

  Let her live.

  And after that, Kate would stop being truly grateful again until the police had locked her and the rest of her scum friends behind bars.

  Ralph

  ‘Much later.’

  Ralph knew she ought not to have telephoned.

  Anxious parent unable to let go.

  Not their parent.

  Not really their chief either, not any more. Fit to make plans, but not to join in; more of an encumbrance were she to try.

  She wondered again how they were coping with the strain. Not so much Jack, but the others.

  Jack, too, perhaps, when it came to the finish.

  He was just a burglar, after all, as he had himself pointed out.

  A baby dumped in a car park.

  Not so hard beneath the tough shell he’d built up over the years. Feeling by now that it was expected of him, probably expecting it of himself too.

  Ralph worried about Jack. About them all.

  Still her children, after all.

  Laurie

  There was a lane that curved between the road and the long driveway at the Rudolf Mann estate, a stretch of road with, even at first light, the sweetest of vistas beyond it. The kind that instantly lifted the heart – before the lane twisted into an always darker, tree-shadowed semicircle where the vista eluded for a while, to be recaptured again in slivers of light through the surrounding woodland.

  Laurie had painted both these views for herself, finding that they rekindled the thump of excitement and tension she always felt just before arrival, just before seeing her son again. Wondering how he would look, what changes the last fortnight might have brought, if his brown eyes would still brighten when he saw her, or if he might seem as if he’d rather be doing something else – which had never yet happened, but Laurie knew he was growing up and that it might happen some day, perhaps even today . . .

  Not today.

  She saw the vehicle blocking the lane: a white van stopped sideways on, taking up the whole of the width of the lane, making it impossible to pass or to see the driver.

  Laurie slowed the Polo to a crawl, then halted.

  She felt no agitation because she was early, and Sam might not be ready for her, so it was no trouble to sit in the dark green shadows, having a few moments longer to enjoy the anticipation of seeing her son.

  But the van still wasn’t moving, nor was there any sign of life, and no one could possibly be unloading here, in the middle of the woods, which meant that although the bonnet wasn’t up, it had probably broken down, and so maybe after all she ought to do something. There must be another entrance to the Mann estate, but she didn’t know where, and suddenly she was growing a little anxious in case Sam was early too, because she’d never kept him waiting, not once in eight years.

  She hooted. Just once, politely, to let the driver know she was here.

  Nothing.

  Perhaps he’d gone for help, in which case . . .

  She opened her door, got out of the car.

  ‘Hello?’

  She glanced back down the lane, saw no other cars, but she seldom saw any traffic at this time because visiting started at nine, and her eight o’clock arrangement had been made years ago because of the restrictions on her visiting.

  ‘Hello?’ she called again.

  ‘Round here,’ a woman’s voice called back. ‘Spot of bother with the van, sorry.’

  ‘Anything I can do,’ Laurie asked.

  ‘Can’t hear you,’ the woman called. ‘Can you come round?’

  ‘OK.’ Laurie remembered her phone in the VW. ‘I could call someone for you.’

  This time the woman didn’t answer, so Laurie walked towards and around the front of the van, glancing in the direction of the estate, estimating that there was only a half mile or so separating her and Sam now, so if necessary she’d have to walk it.

  ‘Hello, Laurie.’

  Another voice – male – came from behind, startling her.

  She began to turn.

  The arm around her waist was strong, another grabbed her around her neck and a gloved hand covered her mouth before she could get out a scream as she was pulled off her feet and dragged to the back of the van.

  She saw two figures – terrifying figures – and they hauled her up inside the van, into the dark, slammed her down on the hard floor on her back, the sound of her body colliding with the metal beneath booming. For a second her mouth was free of the hand, and she began screaming, but then something wet and awful-smelling was shoved back over her nose and mouth, and her head started to spin and she felt the worst sickness, and . . .

  Sam would be waiting.

  Her last thought.

  The Game

  If anyone had ever told Kate that it was possible to be in her present situation and be bored, she’d probably have told them to get a brain.

  But this woman, this tall, slim, faceless creature with her surprisingly beautiful voice, had not spoken to her once since half dragging her to the bathroom and allowing her the humiliation of peeing in front of her. She had sat beside Kate on the sofa, an example of complete composure, bringing her captive close to screaming pitch, ready for anything rather than this.

  Almost anything.

  Then, about fifteen minutes ago, that had changed.

  Roger had stood up, gone over to the front window, peered through the still-drawn curtains for a moment into the daylight – and the fog had gone, Kate could see that much, at least – then returned to the sofa, sitting again.

  Composure cracking, just a little.

  Expecting someone, Kate realized. Or something.

  Her boredom had gone. Fear back in place and building.

  She would have given a great deal to have the boredom back.

  Ralph

  Ralph had observed both her Beasts for long enough to have some sense of how they might react to their ordeals.

  Turner, complacent in her self-belief, incredibly fortunate yet tossing away blessings like a rich woman who thought there would always be more to buy. And little Laurie Moon, holding up her chicken-heartedness as an excuse, choosing security and parental protection over and above her own needy child.

  Turner, she thought, might show backbone, perhaps till the end.

  Moon would believe, when she woke from her chloroformed sleep, that she was being held for ransom, and when she found that her daddy was not going to be riding over from his stables to rescue his little girl, then Laurie would probably dissolve into a tear-sodden mess of cowardice.

  Ralph wished she could be there.

  Cursed her inadequate body and Rose Miller, who had stopped her forever from playing the game.

  They could not play without her help, she sometimes comforted herself.

  But so much could go wrong this time. One twist of bad luck, one chink in her not quite armoured planning. Nothing about this was truly safe.

  She had told them that during the plan’s conception, had cautioned them.

  ‘This one could be dangerous for you,’ she had said.

  They had told her they accepted that, but Ralph knew they hadn’t really believed it. That their faith in the game, in her, their talisman, was still intact.

  By then,
of course, they’d had no choice but to believe, she knew that too. Because without it, and without the ongoing possibility of the next game, whatever it might be, they would again be as they had perceived themselves long ago, before the book, before Wayland’s Smithy, before she had come along and become Ralph.

  They would be nothing again.

  The Game

  They brought Laurie into Caisleán, conscious but still dazed, and propelled her to one of the straight-backed dining chairs, which they turned away from the table, so that it faced the sofa and Kate.

  ‘All right?’ Roger asked the other three.

  ‘Perfect,’ answered Jack.

  They pulled off the young woman’s leather bomber jacket, left her gloves on, as they had with Kate, then tethered her wrists behind her back, and Kate saw her flinch – drugged, she thought, her reactions vague – as they pushed her down on to the chair and bandaged her ankles together.

  Her own heart was pounding again and she was perspiring.

  She knew that something very bad was happening.

  She looked at her fellow prisoner. She was young, in her early twenties, pretty, with bobbed fair hair and blue eyes, wearing a poppy red pullover and blue jeans, like her own.

  The young woman was clearly in shock, her skin clammy-looking, her whole body trembling as she stared back at Kate.

  ‘Ready?’ asked the female named Simon.

  The man called Pig went to the front door, checked it was locked.

  Kate was not certain, but she thought he might be trembling too.

  ‘Get a move on, Pig.’ Jack was impatient.

  For what? If Kate’s heart pounded any harder, she thought they would hear it.

  They took up positions, their moves appearing almost rehearsed, Roger stepping to the right of the new captive, Pig to her left, Simon sitting on the sofa beside Kate.

  Jack took up a central position, standing on the kilim rug.

  He nodded at Simon. ‘Right.’

  Simon leaned across Kate and pulled the tape off her mouth.