The Toy Taker

by Delaney, Luke

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and meant it.

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘One of the children you were looking for?’

  ‘No. Another one – only taken last night. Something went wrong and the boy ended up dead.’

  ‘Jesus. How are you coping?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With the fact children are involved. It can’t be easy.’

  ‘No – it’s not, but I’m fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘If everyone would just leave me alone I’d be fine, but I’ve got Featherstone and Addis breathing down my neck, admin from floor to ceiling, multiple scenes to coordinate, forensic teams I don’t know to deal with – deadlines, media spin – it’s choking me. I can’t think. It’s killing my instincts. I’m looking – I’m looking and looking and looking, but I’m just not seeing it. Every time I think I’m getting close, someone draws the curtains. I’ve picked up a few bits and pieces, but nothing that’s going to lead me to him, nothing anyone else couldn’t have seen.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Kate asked. ‘Don’t take anything you’ve seen for granted. Chances are, you’re the only one who’s seen it or even could see it.’

  ‘Yeah – I’m not so sure. I feel like my instincts are being strangled. If I can’t think the way I need to, then maybe I don’t want this any more. The frustration would drive me insane.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Sean?’

  ‘I’m saying maybe I need to do something different. Another job in the Met, or quit altogether, look into New Zealand again.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Kate insisted. ‘No one wants you off that murder squad more than me, but not like this – not frustrated and defeated. It would burn you up, Sean. It would kill you. At least finish this case before you make any final decisions.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘No, Sean, not maybe – definitely.’

  ‘I know, you’re right. But why can’t I get inside this one’s head? Why can’t I think like him? I don’t have any instinct any more. I don’t know what happened to it – I really don’t.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ Kate reminded him. ‘It just got buried under an avalanche of interference and administration. You’ve got so much crap on your mind you can’t think freely. You need to dig yourself out from under all the rubbish.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and how do I do that?’

  ‘Christ, Sean, I don’t know. Use your imagination – be creative. Do something you haven’t done in a long time, or something you’ve never done, anything to set your mind free again. Go back down the boxing gym, ride a bike, climb a mountain or see a bloody priest – just do something.’

  ‘OK. OK,’ Sean surrendered. ‘I’ll do something. I haven’t got a damn clue what, but I’ll think of something.’ He stood as if to leave.

  ‘You off to bed?’ Kate asked.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘No. I just thought I’d pop in and see the kids.’

  ‘They’re asleep,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I know. I’ll be careful. I won’t wake them. Promise.’

  Kate saw the need in his eyes. ‘I know you will.’

  He smiled before turning away and heading for the stairs, tiptoeing into the semi-darkness, trying to think of nothing but looking upon his beautiful daughters, but finding it impossible not to draw comparisons between his movements and those of the man he sought, no matter how hard he tried not to. He silently cursed his own mind as he reached the landing and the soft blue light that leaked through a half-closed door. He slipped inside the room, moving almost silently to the beds where the tiny figures slept, just their heads visible from under the duvets. He walked between the two beds and dropped slowly to his knees as if he was about to pray, looking from Mandy to Louise and back again, stretching out his arms and gently resting a hand on each of the sleeping children, their warmth, the rising and falling of their chests triggering emotions he struggled to control as his head fell forward on to his chest. He pushed the tears back before they could flow from his eyes, swallowing hard to stop himself from sobbing and waking his children. He kept his eyes tightly closed until he had composed himself, his head eventually lifting as he blinked them open, once more looking from child to child.

  ‘If anything ever happens to you,’ he whispered to the sleeping infants. ‘If anyone ever …’ He pushed the ugly, remorseless words back into the darkness they came from. They had no place here. He exhaled long and hard until his breathing was normal again. He adjusted his position until he was more comfortable, closed his eyes once more and allowed his head to fall forward.

  12

  Sean stood on the pavement looking up at the large ecclesiastical building on the opposite side of the road with its steeply angled roofs and tall stained-glass windows. A small bell in a painted white housing topped the apex on the front of the dark brick structure. He had vague memories of being dragged to St Thomas Moore Catholic church when he was a young boy, but little more. He’d certainly never been as a man, or to any other church, except for weddings and funerals. Even now, the thought of entering the church somehow filled him with dread, but try as he might he couldn’t stop feeling drawn to it. He squared his shoulders and crossed the road, dodging the traffic to reach the other side, looking into the grand entrance as if it was the mouth of a leviathan waiting to swallow him whole.

  As he pushed the heavy wooden doors open, the smell of old wood and leather rushed at him, triggering memories buried deep in his olfactory system, memories from his childhood – memories of feeling safe, at least for a while. He remembered how his drunken father would refuse to join the rest of the family when they went to church on Sundays and special occasions, cursing the clergy and all they represented. His mother said he’d burn in hell for the things he’d said. He’s burning in hell, all right, Sean thought, but not for that.

  He headed deeper inside, relieved to see the church was empty. Early morning on a weekday had kept the worshippers and grovellers away. Only the truly desperate came at this hour. As he walked down the central aisle he kept looking from side to side, more and more able to see himself as a young boy at his mother’s side, kneeling at one of the seemingly hundreds of altar tables as the priests chanted in a language he didn’t understand.

  In the far corner of the church he could just about make out the old confessional boxes, almost hidden in the gloom of the lightless space, intimidating and foreboding. Yet somehow he felt himself drawn to them, walking through the rays of light that streamed in through the stained-glass windows, the sound of his leather-soled, metal-tipped shoes clicking loudly on the parquet floor. He stopped a few feet away from the boxes and waited for something to happen, although he didn’t know what. Suddenly he felt a presence behind him that made him spin around. His eyes struggled to cope with the brightness of the light that shone almost directly into them. He squinted until he could see well enough to make out a man in black, with a thin white collar around his neck.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the priest asked, stepping closer, making Sean step backwards.

  Sean studied him before speaking, quickly processing the man’s description: six foot tall, slim but athletic, about thirty-three or -four, black collar-length hair and startling blue eyes. His accent was neutral, but with a hint of south-east London.

  ‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘I was just … I was just looking around.’

  ‘A trip down memory lane, perhaps?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Sean told him and unconsciously looked towards the exit, telegraphing his intentions.

  ‘Always my favourite time of day here,’ the young priest explained. ‘The calm before the storm, you might say.’

  ‘The storm? I’m surprised you ever get enough people in here to amount to a storm.’

  ‘Ah well, we do all right. I suppose we’re in a good spot. Location. location, location – isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sean answered casually, still looking for an escape route, ‘that’s what they say.
Still, I’ve wasted enough of your time. I’d better get back to work.’

  ‘Is there something you wanted to talk about? Something you wanted to get off your chest, maybe? Only I saw you heading for these confessional boxes. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable discussing whatever’s on your mind the old-fashioned way?’

  ‘You mean inside one of those boxes?’ Sean asked incredulously.

  ‘If it suits you. I’m Father Jones, by the way.’

  ‘Jones?’ Sean asked with a slight smile. ‘I assumed you’d have an Irish name.’

  ‘Everybody does,’ the priest smiles back. ‘Welsh father, English mother. Sorry to disappoint. When was your last time?’

  ‘Last time what?’

  ‘At confession?’

  ‘Jesus, I can’t remember.’

  ‘No blaspheming in church, please,’ the priest said, his smile broadening.’

  ‘Sorry … Father.’

  ‘Come on,’ Father Jones encouraged, his hand gesturing to the confessional box closest to them. ‘It might make you feel more at peace with yourself, and I could do with the practice.’ He walked past Sean and into the box, closing the door without waiting for Sean to follow, leaving him alone in the church, looking from the box to the exit, Kate’s words etched into his mind: Do something you haven’t done in a long time, or something you’ve never done.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered quietly and headed for the box where Father Jones waited for him, closing the door as quietly as he could behind him and searching the cramped surroundings until he had his bearings. Eventually he pulled the small, purple, velvet curtain open and could feel Father Jones on the other side. ‘I can’t remember what I’m supposed to do,’ Sean admitted.

  ‘Well, I believe you’re supposed to say something like, Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  ‘Fine … Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  ‘How long since your last confession?’

  ‘Years. Never … never since I was a man.’

  ‘That’s a long time. So you’ve either been living like a monk or you’ll have a fair bit to get off your chest, I would imagine.’

  ‘I’m a cop,’ Sean told him, without knowing why.

  ‘I know,’ the priest answered with empathy.

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘I could tell. I suppose our jobs aren’t that dissimilar: we both see and hear things most people will be lucky enough never to have to think about. After you’ve done this job for a few years you get to be able to tell a lot about people very quickly – the same way you do, no doubt.’

  ‘I see,’ Sean agreed, still a little suspicious.

  ‘So, where would you like to begin?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your confession.’

  ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

  ‘The beginning, perhaps.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know when the beginning was.’

  ‘Ah. All a little overwhelming, is it?’

  ‘What can I say? I’ve beaten men to get them to tell me the truth. I’ve lied under oath when that’s what I had to do to get the right man sent to prison. I’ve planted evidence. I’ve had terrible thoughts, and I’ve been unfaithful to my wife.’ He hadn’t intended to confess the final sin and it silenced him.

  ‘Well – you’ve got a lot on your plate there, but I sense it’s only the last thing you mentioned that you’re truly sorry for.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And when you say you were unfaithful, do you mean in the full biblical sense?’

  ‘No, but I wanted it. I wanted to.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘Doesn’t the bible say thinking it is as bad as doing it?’

  ‘I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart – to be exact, part of Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount. But I always thought that was a little harsh: we are flesh and blood at the end of the day. The important thing is that you didn’t sleep with this other woman – you resisted.’

  ‘More a case of she resisted,’ Sean confessed.

  ‘Either way, I’m sure the Lord has already forgiven you. As for the other things, there’s nothing there a bit of good, hard praying couldn’t fix, although perhaps you may want to consider following a different path in the future.’

  ‘Praying? God? Those things have no part in my life any more. God abandoned me a long time ago. I used to pray to him, used to pray for him to save me, but he never did – never showed himself to me – when my own father was … he never came to me.’

  ‘I’m sure he was there.’

  ‘No. No, he wasn’t.’

  ‘It’s not always easy to understand his plans for us. You suffered as a child, but maybe it was that which empowered you as a man. It’s never an easy or smooth path we walk. I don’t think it’s supposed to be. I don’t think that’s what God wants. But it doesn’t mean he’s not always with us, watching over us. Guiding us through life.’

  ‘Not me. He was never watching over me.’

  ‘Did you hear the one about the guy caught in a flood?’ the young priest suddenly asked.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Sean responded, caught off guard.

  ‘There’s this man gets caught in a terrible flood – a tsunami, let’s say. So he takes refuge on the roof of his house. A few hours later a fella rows up to him in a boat and says, “Jump in and I’ll row you to safety,” and the man replies, “No thanks, for surely the Lord will save me.” A few hours later another man pulls alongside in a great big speedboat and says, “Jump aboard and I’ll get you to safety,” but the man replies, “No thanks, for surely the Lord will save me.” A few more hours pass and a helicopter appears over the man and calls down through a loudspeaker, “We’ll lower a rope for you and winch you to safety,” but again the man replies, “No thanks, for surely the Lord will save me,” and the helicopter flies away. A few hours later the main tidal wave hits and the man is swept to his death. When he gets to heaven, he says to God, “Why did you forsake me, Lord? In my hour of need I thought you’d save me, but you deserted me.” And God says, “Deserted you? I sent you a rowing boat, a speedboat and a helicopter.”’

  ‘What’s your point?’ Sean asked.

  ‘I think the point is, sometimes we can’t see the Lord standing right next to us, watching over us, because we’re looking almost too hard. It’s like we’re looking so hard, we just can’t see.’ The priest felt Sean’s silence, as if something he’d said had disturbed him. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ Sean replied, having missed the question.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the priest repeated.

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine – it’s just what you said, about looking but not seeing. I’ve heard that before – recently. Seems to be following me around.’

  ‘Then maybe it means something? The path you should follow?’

  ‘The path to perdition?’ Sean asked, his tone slightly mocking – sarcastic.

  ‘Or the road to redemption,’ the young priest told him. ‘If not for you, then perhaps for those around you – those closest to you.’

  ‘And the man I’m looking for – an abductor and murderer of children − what about his redemption? Will he be forgiven too?’

  ‘If that’s the type of man you’re looking for, then I pray you find him, and I’ll pray for his soul too.’

  ‘And the children – his victims?’

  ‘I’ll pray for them too. But most of all, I’ll pray for you.’

  ‘You need to eat your porridge while it’s still warm,’ Douglas Allen told the two young children sitting at his kitchen table. He sounded tired and strained, his usually ruddy skin looking grey and lifeless, his eyes sunken and circled with dark rings. Both his hands trembled and his head still felt numb after the severe headaches he’d suffered the previous night.

  ‘I don’t like porridge,’ a bored-sounding Bailey Fellowes told him, tossing her spoon into the bowl and
pushing it away. ‘It’s disgusting. I don’t have to eat this rubbish at home. I want Coco Pops.’

  Allen breathed in deeply to calm his rising anger and frustration. ‘This is your home,’ he told her, ‘and porridge is what children in this house eat for breakfast.’

  ‘It’s disgusting and I’m sick of it,’ she answered back, staring him squarely in the eyes. He could feel his chest tightening and every muscle in his body tensing as the small slim girl dared to challenge his authority. The devil is in the child, he told himself. Be patient, and the Lord will give me the strength to go on – to save the child.

  ‘And you, George,’ he asked. ‘Do you like the porridge?’ But the small boy just shrugged and forced a small spoonful into his mouth. ‘You see?’ he told Bailey. ‘The porridge is fine.’

  ‘He’s just scared,’ Bailey snapped at him, her eyes never leaving his. ‘He’s too scared to say what he thinks.’

  ‘Why is he scared?’ Allen asked, genuinely confused and concerned. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe here.’

  ‘I want to go home and so does he,’ Bailey insisted. ‘We don’t like it here – there’s nothing to do and the food’s disgusting.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say those things,’ he warned her, the tightening in his chest intensifying until his vision became blurred and his ears popped. ‘They are hurtful things to say, Bailey.’

  ‘My mum says the truth sometimes hurts.’

  ‘I don’t think your mother was a very good person.’

  ‘You can’t say that. You don’t know anything about my mum.’

  ‘I know enough, and I know you need to forget about her now. We won’t talk of her again.’

  ‘You can’t tell me to do that. You can’t tell me to do anything. I hate you and I hate this place.’ She sunk her head into her hands and began to sob as Allen looked on, clueless what to do with the sobbing child. He considered punishing her, to teach her discipline and respect, and gratitude – gratitude for everything he was trying to do for her, everything he’d risked for her − but George’s tiny voice distracted him.

  ‘Are we going to school today? I think it’s a school day.’