by Martyn Ford
She could hardly remember the first day – it was all a strange dream. This was another reason she thought he might be a doctor, because she felt woozy like she’d been sent to sleep. She’d had anaesthetic once before, for her appendix operation, and remembered waking up and thinking she was on holiday in Canada, at Grandma’s house. It took ages for Mum to explain they were in the hospital – it just happened to be snowing in England that day.
Robin had only cried once, on the first night, when she couldn’t sleep. She’d wondered if she had been put in prison. Maybe the police had found out about the supermarket. Her heart raced at that thought – it had been such a stupid thing to do. She was at the self-service checkout with Emma and Emma’s big brother, Carl. They bought fruit for the smoothies they were going to make at the barbecue – but Emma and Robin had each picked up a packet of wine gums. While Carl beeped all the fruit through the till, Robin put her sweets on the metal counter, to pay for them properly. But Emma passed them back to her and smiled. They both held on to their wine gums and left the shop. Robin felt her cheeks turning red in the car. When they arrived back home, she was too worried to even eat them. Instead, she put them in the kitchen bin and pushed them right to the bottom. She covered them with greasy tinfoil and old flowers Mum had thrown away. There was always the issue of fingerprints, but Robin decided the police probably wouldn’t look in the bin.
She thought that, as soon as she saw Mum, she would tell her what she’d done and apologise and promise never to steal again. Never. It would be the first thing she’d say. The reason she had cried was because, if this was punishment for something, then maybe her parents knew she was here. And that meant no one was coming to get her.
But Robin knew that real prisons let you go outside, sometimes only for a little bit of time, but they do allow it. You need vitamin D from the sun so, even if someone is really bad, they don’t keep them inside forever. It was possible that children’s prisons were different, but why would they have stricter rules for young people? And why would they arrest you in the middle of the night? It was like she went to sleep at home, then woke up here. She hadn’t seen any policemen or a judge, not even in her weird dreams.
And the voice wasn’t mean. It didn’t speak much but, when it did, it was always friendly. On the second morning – or maybe the third, she wasn’t entirely sure how long she had been here – he gave her some porridge, and asked if she wanted anything else. She said no thank you. Then he asked what her favourite cereal was and she replied, without thinking, Coco Pops. She panicked and thought maybe she should have said porridge instead – she didn’t want to seem ungrateful. But he obviously wasn’t upset because, today, he gave her Coco Pops. With a little spoon.
So, she decided this wasn’t a proper prison. Which meant she didn’t have to feel sorry about escaping.
The room was quite small, with a bed, a TV and another door that led to a bathroom. The TV couldn’t get proper channels, but it was connected to a DVD player, which she worked out how to use. There were a few brand-new films for her – all still wrapped in see-through plastic. Some she’d seen before, but a couple she hadn’t – including an old movie with music. At first, she stubbornly refused to watch them but, fairly soon, she was just so bored. That was the hardest thing about this place, there was nothing to do besides watch DVDs. And, of course, plan her escape.
The only window had bars, and also wooden boards over the glass. She had tugged on the metal, but it didn’t budge. Besides, she couldn’t climb through here because there was a camera on the wall, near the ceiling – like a little black eye. Which meant someone was watching. But there were no cameras in the bathroom. So that would have to be her way out.
She lay on the bed and pretended to relax for a few minutes, while the old black-and-white film with songs played on the TV. This would make enough noise. Then she rolled over, slid her arm under the soft pillow and grabbed the spoon. She held it up her sleeve, just like a packet of stolen wine gums, then stood and went into the bathroom.
For a couple of minutes, she waited there, standing still on the tiles. She had butterflies in her stomach and her cheeks were hot. Maybe she should do it later. But if this wasn’t a hospital and it wasn’t a prison, then the voice was a bad man. At school Mrs Pickford did a special assembly about not getting lifts from people you don’t know. Even if they act like your best friend. Even if, she said, they seem nice. The voice seemed really nice. This made her want to escape right then, but also made the idea much scarier. She had to at least try.
Above the toilet, in the top corner of the wall, there was a white fan. Robin put the seat down, stood on top and placed her knee on the cistern. The plastic flapping parts were closed but, when she pulled a dusty switch on the side, they tilted and let cool air in. She pushed the spoon under the frame of the fan. It took some wiggling. When it was in place, she grabbed the handle and lifted it up, expecting the plastic to snap. But it didn’t. Instead the metal spoon just bent, almost completely in half. It was stuck. She panicked and tugged. On the third yank, it came free and she slipped off the toilet and fell, landing awkwardly in the corner with her legs twisted above her.
‘Ouch,’ she whispered to herself.
Another idea arrived. She could use the spoon as a screwdriver, to get rid of the screws in each corner of the fan. Again, back on top of the toilet, she bent the spoon straight. But it wouldn’t grip – it kept sliding off. Each time it did, the metal bent again and she had to pull it back in line. She noticed the spoon getting warm at the neck and, eventually, it snapped – her knuckle slipped hard into the plastic, leaving a graze so bad there was a little bit of white skin sticking out.
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ she said, stabbing the wall with the useless spike, the top part clattering to the tiles below.
She sat down on the toilet seat, held her stinging finger and, when blood appeared, she rinsed it under cold water. It was a bad plan anyway. Even with the fan gone, the hole in the wall wouldn’t be big enough to poke her head through, let alone her body.
There was a noise.
Robin hid the spoon handle behind the sink, but panicked when she couldn’t find the top part. She fell to her knees and patted around on the cold floor. Another sound from the room. She had to leave it.
She went to the bathroom door, then stopped, turned back to the toilet, lifted the seat and pressed the flush button, even though she hadn’t been.
In the bedroom now and the main door was opening. As always, it stopped on a small latch attached to the wall on the other side. It only ever opened a few centimetres, or sometimes wide enough for a bowl of food.
‘Are you OK?’ the voice asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Is there anything you need?’
It seemed silly to say, but Robin, now sitting on the bed, holding her sore graze, figured that he’d given her everything else she wanted, so why not try.
‘Please may I . . . please may I go home?’
‘You are home,’ he said.
What a strange reply, she thought. Could that be true? Was this a secret room somewhere in the house? Where would it even be? She decided he was lying.
‘I don’t think I am,’ she whispered. ‘Can I go outside?’ she asked.
‘Maybe one day. Is there anything else you need? Books, games, more DVDs?’
‘Um, yes please.’
‘Lessons start soon, OK. You won’t be so bored.’
‘Lessons in what?’
‘Maths, science, English . . . everything.’
‘Please may I see my parents?’
He didn’t respond, instead he just slid something in through the opening. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘This is my favourite book.’
And then the door closed and he was gone.
Robin knelt on the carpet, picked up the book and tilted it towards her small lamp. It was called The All-Seeing Eye.
She stepped back to the bed and sat down. It was a bit like a comic book, becau
se it had drawings with speech bubbles. But it was the longest comic book she had ever seen. The back said it was a ‘graphic novel’. Near the barcode, she read it had cost £12.99. Which was quite expensive for a book.
A quick thought. Her favourite book was Ruby and the Giants.
There was a chapter when Ruby was in the castle dungeon. All she needed to escape was a metal candlestick. She spent all night dragging it across the floor until it had a flat end, then used it as a chisel to break the cobblestones.
Robin began to do the same thing with her spoon, scraping it again and again down the bathroom wall, leaving long grooves in white paint. Soon she found the metal was too strong, so she moved to the shower, which had very hard tiles and seemed to work much better.
It was evening – she’d been working on her chisel for hours. So long her hand had gone numb. She went back into the bedroom for a rest, and sat for a while on her bed. Strangely peaceful in the house. Sometimes she would hear a radio, or footsteps. But now, it was silent.
Robin stood by the door, looked up at the camera and listened. He wasn’t home. Of course, it would be locked, but she still pulled the handle down to test—
The door opened, stopping on the small latch.
She put her feet on the wall and tugged as hard as she could, but wasn’t strong enough to break it. The gap was about half the width of her head so, unless she became a snake, or an octopus, she couldn’t squeeze through.
But then she heard a noise. He was home.
She closed the door as quietly as possible, then rushed to the bed. She grabbed the book from the carpet, laid flat and pretended to read, in case he was watching.
After around five minutes, he arrived. Her heart was beating fast, like a mouse’s, as the door moved. Maybe he had seen. Maybe he was angry.
But a small bundle of clothes came in through the opening.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘You can’t wear pyjamas forever. Are you hungry?’
Earlier, he’d told her she could have anything she wanted to eat.
‘Anything?’ she’d asked.
‘Anything.’
So, now, a new plan. ‘I want marshmallows,’ she announced.
‘Pardon?’
‘Please may I have some marshmallows?’
‘I . . . I don’t have any.’
‘Oh . . . OK,’ she whispered. ‘Never mind.’
And then he was gone.
She sat still – as still as a statue – and listened. Just as she’d hoped, she heard the front door clunk shut. He must be going to the shop.
As quickly as she could, she swooped to her door and pulled it open as far as it would go. Then she poked the spoon handle through. The latch was a bit like one of those metal hooks she had sometimes seen on garden gates and, with a lift and a wiggle, she felt it slide up out of its hole and dangle on the other side of the wood.
For the very first time, the room was open.
Robin stood for a moment, looking into a short hallway. She thought this had been quite easy – she could have done it with a DVD case. In fact, it seemed too easy. And now she realised why.
At the end of the landing was another window, also covered in bars. It wasn’t just her cell. The entire house was a prison.
Swallowing, she felt her throat gulp as she took her first step.
She peered round into a bathroom, then crept inside and to the window. More thick metal. Back on the landing, she noticed a few crosses, like at a church. One on every wall. Another door to her right was open. This was a study – it had a wide desk with three computer screens. The one in the middle showed her room – she leaned closer and saw the bed, the TV, the book she’d left on the floor. And the one on the left—
Robin flinched, hand to her heart – there was someone on the screen. But, when she discovered the person was her, she sighed. Looking into the hall, she found a small black camera near the ceiling. Then, turning back, she waved her hand and saw it move in the live feed. There were cameras in every room. She could see the whole house from here. And it was empty. But not for long.
Robin went to the stairs. Holding the bannister, she stepped quickly down, stopping only once when a floorboard creaked. There were tiles on the ground floor. She walked across them, feeling the cold on her feet, even through her socks. The front door had a round window. She tried the handle. It didn’t budge. He’d locked it from the other side.
Turning round, she rushed down the hallway, through a messy kitchen and to the back door. Also locked. She searched for a key, lifting up the bristly mat and moving an empty flower pot. Nothing. A bin at her side smelled terrible. Tiny flies, as small as dust, flew silently around the lid. Maybe he had a phone?
Robin went back up the hall and, when she stepped into the living room, stopped dead in her tracks. It was full of horrid paintings. Scary faces. Nasty men with animal legs and horns. They were everywhere. Her lips shivered, her eyes stung and a single tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away and sniffed. She would be brave, she decided. Like Ruby.
On the shelf above the fireplace there was a stuffed goat’s head. It was lying on its side, its glassy eye staring up, looking nowhere. Either side of it were huge candles, the wax had melted and hung like icicles from the wood. There were more crosses too, lots of them. Big ones, small ones – some on the wall, some on the floor. The man who lived here wasn’t a doctor, he wasn’t a prison guard. He was, she thought, mad. And this made her more frightened than she had ever been.
Robin put her hand over her eyes, like she was shielding them from the sun, so she didn’t have to see any of these awful things. Then she went into the living room. She clambered up on to the sofa and, leaning left then right, tried to catch a glimpse through the window, through the bars. But she could only see green leaves and a thin strip of blue sky. Carefully, she climbed back on to the carpet.
Still hiding her eyes, she turned and faced the other end of the room. She kept her head down, pointing at the ground, at her feet, and swallowed. If she was going to find a phone, then she had to look. No matter how scary it would be. She took a big, slow breath in through her nose.
And, when Robin lifted her head, she froze again, standing utterly still. She clamped her hand over her mouth, felt her chin quiver beneath it, and finally burst into tears.
There were hundreds of photographs, maybe thousands, all over the wall. Photos of her. Photos of her parents. Photos of their house. Some were framed, some were pinned, some were spread loose over a table.
She scrunched her eyes shut, as hard as she could, covered her face with both hands and cried and cried and cried. Whimpering, sniffing, she felt her shoulders bounce up and down. Her stomach ached, her head hurt, she could hardly take a breath. All she wanted was to go home, to see her mum, to say sorry, sorry, sorry for anything she might have done—
But, with a sharp gasp to silence, she stopped. Her eyes were wide open now, looking through her wet fingers.
A noise. The unmistakable sound of a key turning in the front door.
Chapter 15
We see that living room through one of the fifteen cameras in this house. The crucifixes. The rubbish. Demonic prints pinned on every surface. Inverted pentagrams and dark art. Spent candles and symbols scrawled on scruffy sheets of paper. Crazed scribbles, endless spirals in endless notepads. Drawings of the Devil himself, rising up from fire sketched in biro. Claws and horns and carved dolls with burned heads. Windows clad in steel. A shrine to the Clarkes – framed pictures of Anna, Francis, Ethan and Robin, arranged in a rough family tree. Anna’s and Francis’s photographs dominate the upper half of the wall, then hundreds of home-printed renditions of their children below. Newspapers piled high – this sad story told on every front page. And there, tiny in the frame, we see Robin crouched by the end of the sofa with her knees pulled up against her chest. Her eyes wide and ready, at the centre of it all.
The only noise she made was her heartbeat. Robin pressed herself forwards, trying to keep it quie
t, in case he heard it too. With a slight tilt of her head, she listened as he locked the front door behind him. Then the sound of keys dropped on a table in the hallway. And now footsteps on the tiles.
When she realised he wasn’t coming into the living room, she crept on all fours, past the front of the sofa. He was in the kitchen. She heard a plastic bag, and the fridge door – clinking jars, bottles. Then a cupboard and a plate on the worktop.
Crawling, Robin placed her hand on an empty drink can. She winced at the sound and carefully moved it aside. A bit further on, she rose and stood by the living-room doorway. Leaning as slowly as possible, she moved her head until she could see up the hall. A shadow, a flash, and she shot back round again, her hand resting on the frame. She’d seen the voice. For the first time, she’d seen him. She’d seen his back and shoulder and the side of his head. He was wearing a black jumper and smart trousers. Although he wasn’t that tall, his bony body made him seem long. He had grey hair. It was messy. In his hand, he was holding a plate with pale-blue-and-pink marshmallows, which he’d arranged in a small pyramid.
Robin held her breath and felt warm tears on her cheeks as he stepped right past the doorway and to the stairs. She listened – one, two, three, four, creak on five, six, seven, eight – then she had another peek. The side table, by the front door. A set of silver keys. She crossed the tiles and used a thumb and finger to pick them up. They jingled so she squeezed the rings together to keep them still. Crouching to check up the stairs, she walked backwards, slowly, slowly to the door.
Then fast. She tried one. It didn’t fit. Her fingers scrabbled, the keys clinking loudly as she tried another. She slid it in – the lock didn’t move. The final key in her hand, in the lock, turning and working and a terrible noise upstairs.
He knew. He knew she was gone. Thudding, loud footsteps above. A slammed door. On the stairs now, coming down. Hard and loud behind her. She shielded her face and fell to the floor.