by Alex Lake
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It did. Let’s build it again and see if we can make it stay on, OK?’
2
Max concentrated on the Duplo tower. She noticed he was holding his tongue between his teeth; that was new. It reminded her of Leo. He had done that.
Probably around this age, too, right at the end of his life. She had known what the man would do, and so when he had come for Leo she had refused to hand him over, holding him on the bed and shaking her head when the man gestured for her to hand him over.
He asked again; she refused again. He clenched his jaw and said, in a tone of forced reasonableness that she recognized, Give him to me.
She did not. And for the briefest of moments she thought he might leave, but then, with surprising speed, he marched to her and hit her hard on the head with the base of his hand. She was dizzy and faint, but some instinct made her hold on to Leo.
Then he pinched her nose and covered her mouth with his free hand. Her chest tightened and she started to panic.
The panic grew until she felt her chest was about to explode, and then her vision darkened.
When she came back to consciousness, he was gone.
And so was Leo.
It would be the same this time. She had wasted her chance. She was powerless; he was too strong and now he would be suspicious of her. The only way she could do anything was if she had a weapon, and there was nothing she could use as one. He had designed it that way. All she had were their clothes, two toothbrushes, and her calendar. In terms of furniture there was the mattress, the toilet bucket, the plastic basin and the bath. Next to her bed were a handful of paperback books and the needle and thread she used to mend clothes.
Other than that there was only Max’s paltry collection of Duplo bricks.
Oh, and a rolled-up ball of tinfoil. Don’t forget that. It was hardly a deadly arsenal she could use to deal a mortal blow to the man.
She heard the scrape. Waited for the knock. Max got up from his Duplo tower and climbed into her lap. The door opened.
The man put a tray down. There were two paper plates and, unusually, four paper cups.
‘Breakfast,’ he said. ‘Toast and jam and water.’ He indicated the other cups. ‘And orange juice.’
Max laughed. ‘Orange juice!’ he said. ‘It’s orange juice!’ He slid off her lap and looked at the man. ‘Can I try it?’
The man stepped back. ‘If your mother says so.’
Maggie paused. Was there some trick? Was it drugged? It was unlikely. If the man wanted to drug them he could put it in their food. He didn’t need to waste orange juice. So why deny Max a treat? ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You can have it.’
Max laughed again and walked over to the tray. He picked up the paper cup and peered into it. He glanced at Maggie, then took a sip. After a pause, he began to drink greedily, until the orange juice was gone.
‘Yum,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’
The man smiled at him.
‘I’m glad you liked it,’ he said.
Max looked at Maggie. He pointed at the other paper cup. ‘Can I have this one?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maggie said. ‘That’s a lot of orange juice. A lot of sugar.’
‘I think it’s fine,’ the man said. ‘A special treat.’ He grinned. ‘After all, it’s nearly his birthday.’
3
Maggie flinched at the word.
He had never made a reference to Seb or Leo’s birthdays. He had just come and taken them.
This was different. He had given Max orange juice. He had said it was a birthday treat, after a fashion.
She felt dry-mouthed and on edge. Something had changed. Maybe he didn’t mind her having her son this time; maybe the day would come and go and nothing would happen.
Maybe he would fall in love with his son and want more for him than this room.
‘Do you have anything else in mind? For his birthday?’ she asked.
The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not really.’
‘It would be good for him to have some new toys,’ she said. ‘And some books. He can read, almost. He knows his letters. He’s a very bright boy.’
The man did not reply.
‘Like his dad,’ Maggie said. ‘I don’t think he gets it from me!’
She happened to think he did get it from her; she had been a straight A student in school, but that wasn’t the point. She sensed that the man was softening and she wanted to make him feel some connection with Max.
The man took a step towards the door.
‘He won’t be getting any toys,’ he said. ‘There’s no point.’
Maggie tensed. ‘What do you mean, “there’s no point”? It’s his birthday.’
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘His third birthday. I think you know by now what happens when these children’ – he waved in Max’s direction – ‘turn three.’
‘What?’ Maggie said, her throat tight. ‘What happens?’
‘You know.’
She did know. But not why. If she knew why, maybe she could reason with him. Find a way to change his mind.
‘I do,’ Maggie said, the struggle to draw breath making her voice a gasp. ‘But why? Tell me. Why is their third birthday so important?’
The man blinked. ‘They become people at that age,’ he said. ‘And then you become too attached. I didn’t want to take them earlier because you needed some company.’ He smiled, almost proudly, as though he felt he should be praised for having thought of her.
Maggie let out a groan. She couldn’t be more attached, and the fact that the man didn’t see that – couldn’t see it – showed how vain her hope that he would feel some tenderness and love for Max had been.
He thought Max was company, but he was wrong. Max was a child. He was her son. He was so much more than company. He was her flesh and blood, in his face she saw herself and Seb and Leo and her mum and dad and brother.
But the man didn’t understand, and he never would. He was not capable of it.
She held out her hands. ‘Max,’ she said. ‘Come here.’
He looked up at her, a piece of toast in each hand, red jam around his mouth.
‘Mummy,’ he said. ‘This is good.’
4
The man came that night. He stood in the doorway in his blue bathrobe, his shins bare, leather sandals on his feet.
He gestured and she moved Max from the mattress to the floor.
It took a long time. Longer than usual, or maybe it was the disgust she felt for him that made it seem longer.
That was all that was left now. Disgust. She had gone through periods of hating him, fearing him, being furious with him, even pitying him. She’d never liked him or admired him or wanted to be anywhere near him, but she had, once or twice, felt sorry for him.
But not now. Now she felt nothing but disgust. Revulsion. It was the inhumanity he’d displayed, the inability to understand anything about how she must be feeling. He was not a damaged, broken version of a human being. He was not a human being at all.
And he would come and take her son, without any remorse. Then he would keep her here. She would never get out. Never be free. He would see to that. He would rather she died here than leave.
And she couldn’t do it. Not without Max; maybe not even with him. She couldn’t stay here forever.
But there was no way out. None.
Eleven Years Earlier: Sunday Morning, 1 July 2007
1
Martin Cooper glanced at the clock on the dashboard.
‘We’re going to be late,’ he said. ‘It’s ten o’clock already.’
James shrugged. ‘Not that late. Only a few minutes. And we’re nearly there.’
‘But still late.’ They were always late. It drove him mad; it was so easy to be on time. He took a deep breath. He knew his words would go unheard, but if he said them often enough maybe they would sink in. ‘You know, all you have to do if you want to be on time is think for a few seconds and make a plan. So, if you know i
t’s a ten-minute drive to your tutor’s house then you leave ten minutes before the start time. And if you know it takes twenty minutes to shower and get ready, you start showering and getting ready twenty minutes before that.’
‘I had to have a shower, Dad. Or would you prefer me to go there without taking one?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you need to take a shower earlier, if you want to be on time.’
‘If I want to be on time.’ James wagged his finger. ‘Which I don’t. I’m quite happy to be late. I don’t exactly want to spend my Sunday morning doing extra maths with a tutor.’
‘Maybe,’ Martin said. ‘But that is how you’re spending your Sunday morning, and it’s disrespectful to turn up late.’
‘I don’t see why I have to.’
‘You know why.’
‘But I don’t care about Maths! I don’t like it.’
‘You still have to pass your GCSE. And get a good grade.’ Martin sighed. ‘Look. I know it doesn’t come easily to you. And you’ve had a hard year’ – that was an understatement; James had effectively missed most of the school year after Maggie disappeared – ‘and got behind, which isn’t your fault. But whatever the reason, you do need to catch up. And this is the way to do it.’
‘But it’s so lame.’
‘I know. Still, it’s only an hour and a half. And then you’ll be free. We can go to the game.’
‘Can I go to Louise’s house?’
‘Is she expecting you?’
James nodded. ‘I said I’d be there at lunchtime.’
‘So you don’t want to come to the rugby with me?’
James glanced at him quickly, but it was long enough for Martin to see guilt in his expression.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘But I told Louise …’
His voice tailed off; Martin patted him on the knee. ‘It’s OK, Jimbo. You want to see your girlfriend and not your old man. I understand.’ He gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I remember when you were a little boy how you used to trail around after me. You were like a second shadow. But now you don’t even want to go to watch the rugby with me.’
‘Dad!’ James said. ‘All right! I’ll come with you.’
Martin laughed. ‘That’s OK. I’m only kidding. Go and see Louise. I love you anyway.’
‘I love you too.’
They said they loved each other – Sandra, too – often these days. It had started after Maggie vanished; it felt urgent back then, necessary, a way of keeping the bonds between them visible and real. Now it was a habit, and a good one. Less urgent, maybe, but equally important.
At the time Maggie went, Martin had wondered what would happen to them. He had feared that he and Sandra would split up, grow apart, blame each other, and there had been moments when that seemed like it would happen, when they had reached a fork in the road and faced a choice about which way to go. Each time they had stayed together, and now they were closer – as a family and as individuals – than they had ever been.
It had spilled over into a renewed passion in their sex lives as well. Things had been a bit stale after they hit their forties, but now they had started to have more sex and – this was what surprised Martin the most – more adventurous sex.
In fact, since James had been going to maths tutoring, they had been taking advantage of his Sunday morning absences in ways which he would hardly be able to imagine, and which would probably have left him disgusted by what his parents were getting up to when he was out.
It was another reason Martin was annoyed at being late. There was less time for him and Sandra.
He pulled up outside the tutor’s house. James opened the car door, then looked at him.
‘Is something wrong?’
James raised an eyebrow. ‘Money?’ he said. ‘To pay him? I forgot it last week as well.’
‘Oh. Of course.’ Martin climbed out. ‘I’ll give him a cheque.’
They walked up to the front door and rang the bell. After a few seconds Martin heard footsteps and the door opened.
Mr Best, Sandra’s old teacher, smiled at him.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ Martin said. ‘My son and punctuality seem not to go together very well.’
‘That’s fine,’ Best said. ‘Glad you made it. Come in, James.’
Martin took out his cheque book and felt in his pockets for a pen. Best reached into the hall and handed one to him.
‘Sorry about the cheque. I don’t have cash.’
‘Thank you.’ Best took the cheque. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Pleasure.’ Martin grabbed his car keys. ‘I’ll be back in ninety minutes. See you then.’
2
Sandra was watching a politics programme when he came into the living room. She was sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed. It was clearly engrossing; she didn’t turn to look at him.
He watched her for a few moments then started to massage her shoulders. With James out of the house, they could do it right here.
Or in the kitchen. Anywhere, really.
She stiffened, and he stopped.
‘Is everything OK?’
She turned and looked up at him, her face red and her eyes wet with tears.
He sat opposite her.
‘It hit me when you left,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘I watched you and James go and then I thought, in a week from now she’ll have been gone a year. I’ve known the anniversary is coming up, but all of a sudden it was there. A year without our baby girl.’
Martin nodded. ‘I know. It’s been on my mind too.’
‘It doesn’t really get better, does it?’ Sandra closed her eyes. ‘It fades a bit, becomes part of the background, but when you remember it, it hurts as much as it ever did. I still find it hard to believe she’s gone.’
‘Sometimes I dream she’s home,’ Martin said. ‘And in my dream I’m so happy. Ecstatic. But then I wake up and remember she’s not there. It takes all day to recover.’
‘Me too.’
‘James as well, probably.’
‘How was he?’ Sandra asked. ‘Do you think he knows it’s coming up?’
‘I imagine so. I’ll talk to him later. Check he’s OK. I’m glad he’s got Louise.’
‘Kind of,’ Sandra said. ‘I like her – she’s a lovely girl – but I can’t bear the thought she might hurt him. I want him to be in love and happy, but I don’t want him to be vulnerable. And teenage boys in the grip of their first love are the definition of vulnerability.’
‘I think we have no choice but to let it go,’ Martin said. ‘We can’t protect him from everything. I will talk to him though, about Maggie and the anniversary.’
‘OK.’ Sandra looked at him, her expression suddenly serious. After a pause, she spoke. ‘Do you think she’s alive?’
‘You know,’ Martin said, slowly, ‘I think about that all the time. All the evidence says she isn’t. I’ve read everything, all the statistics about the likelihood of someone turning up alive after one day, two days, a week, a month, and they’re pretty clear: she’s more than …’ His voice broke, and he looked away. ‘More than likely dead. But some part of me is convinced she isn’t.’ He looked at his hands. ‘But sometimes, when I think of where she might be, I wonder whether she would be better off if she was.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Sandra said. ‘If she’s alive – wherever she is – that’s better than the alternative. Because if she is alive, she’ll come back to us. One way or another, she’ll find a way to come home.’
Martin caught her gaze. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I hope so.’
3
James looked at the equation. Mr Best – he insisted on being called that – had finished explaining how to do it, and for a moment he’d understood, but it was already gone. He shook his head.
‘I don’t really get it,’ he said.
Best was sitting on the other side of the dining room table.
‘Let’s forget that specific example,’ he said. ‘And talk about what quadratic equation
s are used for.’
‘OK,’ James said.
‘Let’s say you kick a football. It goes up and forward and then starts to come down until it’s still. A quadratic equation can tell you the height of that ball at any time.’
‘I don’t need it to,’ James said. ‘I can see the ball.’
‘What about a missile? You can’t see a missile.’
‘I don’t want to fire a missile.’
Best smiled. ‘Very admirable, but if you did, a quadratic equation would be very useful. It’s like probability. Which do you think is more likely to come up in the lottery? Six sequential numbers – like four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, or six unconnected numbers?’
‘Unconnected.’
‘No,’ Best said. ‘It’s exactly the same.’
‘So I should pick sequential numbers if I do the lottery?’
‘Pick any numbers you like.’
‘What would you do, if you won the lottery?’ James said. He was desperate to change the subject.
Best looked up at the ceiling. ‘Buy a canal boat,’ he said. ‘The canal network covers the entire country and you can move about it at your leisure. Undetected.’ He smiled, again. ‘Anyway, back to quadratic equations.’
James rubbed his eyes. He didn’t get it, and he didn’t care. He was never going to use it in real life. Best’s example was the proof of that: why did he want to fire missiles, or figure out how high a football had gone? All he needed was to get through his Maths GCSE and then forget this bullshit forever.
And then there was Louise. He thought about her all the time. When he tried to concentrate, his mind slipped to thinking about her. She went to a different school, so he only saw her on evenings and weekends, but all day long he imagined she was at his school, hovering in the background and watching him tell jokes and play football and hang out with his friends. In lessons he wrote her long letters about how much he liked her – he loved her, but he hadn’t told her yet – and describing in great detail all the many qualities she had: kindness, beauty, wisdom.