Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  Charlie laughs like a drain. I laugh too.

  “See you soon.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  55

  It begins with a number: ten digits, three of them sixes. (Unlucky for some.) Next comes the ringing… then the answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Mrs. O’Loughlin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Professor O’Loughlin’s wife?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “I’m afraid your daughter Charlie has had a little accident. She fell off her bike. I think she lost control on a bend. She’s quite the daredevil on that bike. I want you to rest assured she’s completely all right. In good hands. Mine.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I told you. I’m the person who’s looking after Charlie.”

  There’s a tremor in her voice, a dim stirring of approaching danger, something large and black and dreadful on the horizon, rushing towards her.

  “She’s such a pretty thing, your Charlie. She says her real name is Charlotte. She looks like a Charlotte but you let her dress like a tomboy.”

  “Where is she? What have you done to her?”

  “She’s right here, lying next to me. Aren’t you, Snowflake? Pretty as a peach, a sweet, sweet peach…”

  Inside she is screaming. Fear has filled every warm, wet place in her chest.

  “I want to talk to Charlie. Don’t touch her. Please. Let me speak to her.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. She has a sock in her mouth, taped in place.”

  That’s when it starts, the first fracture in her mind, a tiny fissure that exposes the soft unprotected parts of her psyche. I can hear the hysteria vibrating through her body. She calls out Charlie’s name. She begs. She cajoles. She cries.

  And then I hear another voice. The professor takes the phone from her.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Want? Need? I want you to put your wife back on the phone.”

  There’s a pause. I’ve never understood what people mean when they say a pause is pregnant. Not until now. This one is pregnant. This one is pregnant with a thousand possibilities.

  Julianne is sobbing. The professor puts his hand over the mouthpiece. I can’t hear what he’s saying to her but I imagine he’s issuing instructions telling her what to do.

  “Put your wife back on the phone or I will have to punish Charlie.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am, Joe.”

  There’s another pause.

  “Gideon?”

  “Oh, good, we’re using first names. Put your wife back on the phone.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t think I have Charlie. You think I’m bluffing. You told the police I was a coward, Joe. I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to hang up and fuck your little girl, and then I’ll call you back. In the meantime, I suggest you try to find her. Go on. Run along. Try Norton Lane, that’s where I found her.”

  “No! No! Don’t go!”

  “Put Julianne back on the phone.”

  “She’s too upset.”

  “Put her back on the phone or you’ll never see Charlie again.”

  “Listen to me, Gideon. I know why you’re doing this.”

  “Put your wife on the phone.”

  “She’s not capable of…”

  “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK WHAT SHE’S CAPABLE OF.”

  “OK, OK. Just give me a minute.”

  He covers the phone again. He’s telling his wife to call the police on the fixed line. I pick up another mobile and punch in the number. The phone rings. Julianne picks up.

  “Hello, Mrs. O’Loughlin.”

  A sob catches in her throat.

  “If you let your husband take this phone from you your daughter will die.”

  Her next sob is louder.

  “Stay with me, Mrs. O’Loughlin.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “May I call you Julianne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me tell you something, Julianne. If your husband takes this phone out of your hand, I will rape your daughter for a while. Then I’ll slice pieces off her body and hammer nails in her hands. And afterwards, I promise you this, I will cut out her pretty blue eyes and mail them to you in a box.”

  “No! No! I’ll talk to you.”

  “Only you can save Charlie.”

  “How?”

  “You remember when you were pregnant, how you kept those babies alive in your womb? Baby Emma and baby Charlie. Well, this phone is like an umbilical cord. You can keep Charlie alive only by staying on this line. Hang up and she dies. Let someone take the phone from you and she dies. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. She’s strong, this one. A challenge.

  “Is your husband there, Julianne? Is he whispering in your ear like I’m whispering in Charlie’s ear? What’s he saying? Tell me what he’s saying or I’ll have to bruise her skin.”

  “He says you don’t have her. He says you’re bluffing. He says Charlie is at her friend’s house.”

  “Has he tried to phone her?”

  “Her number is engaged.”

  “He should go and look for her.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “That’s good. He should look outside… in the village. He should go to Abbie’s house. What about your nanny?”

  “She’s looking too.”

  “Maybe they’ll find her. I could be bluffing. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have caller display on this phone, Julianne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at the number. Do you recognize it?”

  Her answer is not so much spoken as groaned. The strangled affirmation is trapped in her throat, barely able to get out.

  “Whose number is it?”

  “My husband’s mobile.”

  “What is Charlie doing with Joe’s phone?”

  “They swapped.”

  “Now you believe me.”

  “Yes. Please don’t hurt her.”

  “I’m going to make her into a woman, Julianne. All mothers want their daughters to grow up and become women.”

  “She’s just a child.”

  “Now, yes, but not when I’m finished.”

  “No. No. Please don’t touch her. I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because if you don’t do it, Charlie will.”

  “I’ll do as you say!”

  “Take off your clothes, Julianne, your skirt and that pretty top—the one with the metallic thread through it. Yes, I know what you’re wearing. I know everything about you, Julianne. I’ve already taken off Charlie’s jeans. I’m sorry but I had to cut them. I was very careful. I’m very good with scissors and a razor. I could carve my initials into her stomach. She’d have a souvenir to remember me by. And every man who ever looks at her naked will know that I was there first… in every hole.”

  “No, don’t.”

  “Are you taking off your clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Show me.”

  She hesitates.

  “Stand at the bedroom window, open the curtains—I’ll be able to see you.”

  “Will you let her go?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “I’ll do what you want.”

  “Charlie is nodding. It’s so cute. Yes, that’s right, Mummy’s on the phone. Do you want to say hello? I’m sorry. Mummy hasn’t done what I asked, so you can’t talk to her. Are you at the window, Julianne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Open the curtains so I can see you.”

  “And you won’t hurt Charlie?”

  “Just open the curtains.”

  “OK.”

&nbs
p; “You need makeup. On your dressing table; the vermilion lipstick, I want you to put it on and I want you to wear the malachite necklace in the velvet box.”

  “How do you—?”

  “I know all about you… all about Charlie… all about your husband.”

  “Please let Charlie go. I did what you asked.”

  “Nakedness isn’t enough, Julianne.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not enough. Charlie can give me more.”

  “But you said—”

  “Surely you can’t expect me to give up a prize like this one? Do you know what I want to do, Julianne? Now that I’ve cut off your daughter’s clothes, I want to open up her flesh. I want to unzip her from her throat to her cunt so I can climb inside her. Then I’m going to hold her heart in my hands and feel it beating as I fuck her from the inside out.”

  The long, slow scream is like a mortar shell detonating in my ears.

  Another pin has fallen.

  The lock is almost open.

  Her mind is giving way.

  Memory feels like substance now. Memory is the only thing that’s real. I am running down Mill Hill, across the bridge, up the next rise between the hedgerows.

  I talked to Charlie twenty minutes ago. Her friend Abbie lives about a mile along Norton Lane. How long does it take her to ride a mile? Any moment she’ll come around the corner, legs pumping, head down, tail up, imagining that she’s in the Tour de France.

  I keep trying her mobile. My mobile. I gave it to her. We swapped so I could talk to Darcy. It’s engaged. Who is she talking to?

  Norton Lane is a narrow strip of twisting bitumen, hugged by hedgerows, hawthorn bushes and fences. Vehicles have to reverse or pull into culverts to allow other cars or tractors to pass. In some sections the hedges are high and unruly, turning the lane into a green gorge, broken occasionally by farm gates leading to fields.

  I see a flash of color between the twisting branches. It’s a woman walking her dog. Mrs. Aymes. She cleans houses in the village.

  “Have you seen Charlie?” I yell.

  Angry at being startled, she shakes her head.

  “Did she come along here? She was riding her bike.”

  “Ain’t seen no bike,” she says, in a thick accent.

  I keep moving, crossing a small bridge above a stream, which drops away over rapids.

  Gideon doesn’t have her. Gideon only pretends to abduct children. Physical confrontation isn’t his style. Manipulation. Exploitation. He’s probably watching me now, laughing. Or he’s watching Julianne. He’s talking to her.

  On the brow of the hill I look back at the village. I call Veronica Cray. Words tumble out between snatched breaths.

  “Tyler says he has my daughter. He says he’s going to rape and kill her. He’s on the phone to my wife. You have to stop him.”

  “Where are you?” asks the DI.

  “Looking for Charlie. She should be home by now.”

  “When did you last speak to her?”

  I can’t think straight. “Thirty minutes ago.”

  DI Cray tries to calm me down. She wants me to think rationally. Tyler has bluffed people before; it’s what he does.

  “He must be somewhere close,” I say. “He’s probably been watching the house. You should seal off the village. Close the roads.”

  “I can’t seal off a village unless I’m sure a child has been taken.”

  “Trace his signal.”

  “I’m sending cars. Go back to your wife.”

  “I have to find Charlie.”

  “Go back home, Joe.”

  “What if he’s not bluffing?”

  “Don’t leave Julianne alone.”

  The farm buildings are silhouetted against the sky on the crest of the next ridge. A half-dozen barns and machinery sheds made of tin, brick and wood squat in the center of muddy tracks. Old farm machinery lies abandoned in one corner of the yard with weeds growing beneath the rusting chassis. I have no idea what most of these machines do. The main house is nearest the road. Dogs bark excitedly from kennels.

  Abbie opens the door.

  “Is Charlie here?”

  “No.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Ages ago.”

  “Which way did she go?”

  She looks at me oddly. “There’s only one way.”

  “Did you see her leave?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Was there anyone else on the road?”

  She shakes her head. I’m frightening her. Already I’m turning, running back across the yard to the lane. I couldn’t have missed her. Where else would she go? It’s two miles to Norton St. Philip. Surely Charlie wouldn’t have ridden in the opposite direction to home.

  I call her mobile again. Why is she still on the phone?

  The return journey is mostly downhill. I stop at farm gates, hoisting myself on the metal rail to get a better view of the fields.

  Crossing the bridge again, I peer into the ditches on either side of the road. In some sections the brambles and nettles are thigh-high. There are tire tracks at the side of the asphalt. A vehicle must have pulled over to let another one pass.

  That’s when I see a bicycle, half-hidden by weeds. I wanted to buy Charlie an aluminum frame, but she chose the matt black steel, with fireballs on the crossbar and shock absorbers on the front forks.

  I wade into the nettles and thorns, dragging the bike free. The front wheel is twisted and buckled by an impact. I scream her name. Crows explode from the trees in a flurry of beating wings.

  My arm is shaking. My leg. My chest. My head. I take a step and almost collapse. I take another and fall. I try to get up. I can’t. Swallowing hard, I let the bike fall and climb back to the road. Then I sprint down the asphalt like a madman. The horrors of hindsight and regret have stolen my oxygen and I can’t get Charlie’s name out anymore.

  Climbing Mill Hill my left leg suddenly locks as it swings forward and I land on my face. I don’t feel the pain. Dragging myself onto my feet, I start running again with a strange, stumbling goosestep.

  Two girls on horseback are clip-clopping towards me. One of them I recognize. She knows Charlie. I wave my arms. One of the horses grows skittish. I yell at them to look for Charlie, angry they don’t instantly obey.

  I can’t stay. I have to get home. I have tried to phone Julianne. The number is engaged. Gideon is talking to her.

  I reach the High Street and cross over, scanning the footpaths. Charlie might have fallen off her bike. Someone might have picked her up. Not Gideon; someone else—a good Samaritan.

  I’m nearing the cottage. I look up and see Julianne naked in the bedroom window, her mouth smeared with lipstick. I take the stairs two at a time, flinging open the door, pulling her away from the window. I take the quilt and wrap it around her shoulders, taking the phone from her fingers. Gideon is still on the line.

  “Hello, Joe, did you find Charlie? Still think I’m bluffing? I hate to say I told you so.”

  “Where is she?”

  “With me, of course, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Prove that you have her.”

  “Which part of her do you want me to post to you?”

  “Put her on the phone.”

  “Put Julianne back on the line.”

  “No. I want to hear from Charlie.”

  “I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands, Joe.”

  “I’m not going to play games with you, Gideon. Prove to me that you have Charlie and we’ll talk. Otherwise I’m not interested.”

  I press a button on the handset, ending the call.

  Julianne screams and throws herself at me, trying to take the handset.

  “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Don’t hang up! Don’t hang up!”

  “Sit down. Please. Trust me.”

  The phone is ringing. I answer: “Put my daughter on the pho
ne!”

  Gideon explodes, “DON’T YOU EVER FUCKING DO THAT AGAIN!”

  I hang up.

  Julianne is sobbing, “He’ll kill her. He’ll kill her.”

  The phone rings.

  “DO THAT AGAIN AND I SWEAR I’LL—”

  I hit the button, cutting him off.

  He calls back.

  “YOU WANT HER DEAD? YOU WANT ME TO KILL HER? I’LL DO IT RIGHT NOW!”

  I hang up.

  Julianne is fighting me for the phone, hammering her fists on my chest. I have to hold the handset out of her reach.

  “Let me talk to him. Let me talk,” she cries.

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Don’t hang up.”

  “Just get dressed and go downstairs. The police are coming. I need you to let them in.”

  I’m trying to sound confident but inside I’m so frightened I can barely function. All I know for certain is that Gideon has been pulling strings like a master puppeteer, in total control. Somehow I have to stop his momentum, to slow him down.

  The first rule of hostage negotiation is to demand proof of life. Gideon doesn’t want to negotiate. Not yet. I have to make him rethink his plans and change his methods.

  The phone rings again.

  Gideon is ranting: “LISTEN, YOU COCKSUCKER. I’M GOING TO CUT HER OPEN. I’M GOING TO WATCH HER INSIDES STEAM—”

  I hang up as Julianne lunges for the handset and finishes on the floor. I reach down to pick her up. She slaps my hand away and turns on me, her face contorted with fury and fear.

  “YOU DID THIS! YOU BROUGHT THIS ON US,” she screams, stabbing her finger at me. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I warned you! I told you not to get involved. I didn’t want you infecting this family with your sick, twisted patients or the sadists and psychopaths you know so much about.”

  “We’ll get her back,” I say, but Julianne isn’t listening.

  “Charlie, poor Charlie.” She groans, collapsing on the bed in great snorting sobs. Her head is hanging over her naked thighs. There’s nothing I can say to comfort her. I cannot comfort myself.

  The phone rings. I pick up.

  “Hello, Daddy, it’s me.”

  My heart breaks.

  “Hello, sweetheart, are you all right?”

  “I hurt my leg. My bike is busted. I’m sorry.”