Silent Children (34 page)

Ian took hold of the frigid carton. A glass would have been a weapon, but so was the juice—it could sting Woollie's eyes, it might even blind him long enough for both his captives to escape. As if sensing Ian's thought, Woollie stepped close behind Charlotte and began to run his fingertips up and down the outline of the knife. "Knock it back, son. Can't be much for you to finish."

There was little more than a mouthful, but Ian took less than that while he strained to think. If he opened the refrigerator and left it open, might Woollie head for it? He was halfway to standing up when Woollie said "What do you reckon he's thinking of doing, Charlotte?"

"Putting this away," Ian told him.

"Nothing to put, we both know that. There's been too much light around here as it is. Chuck it in the bin."

The bin was full of glass. Ian didn't know how he would use it, he didn't want to think about it yet—he had to ensure Woollie neither saw nor heard him conceal a piece in his fist. He moved in front of the bin and was resting his toe on the pedal—holding his breath as if to show the contents of the bin how silent they must be—when Woollie said in a voice like a protracted mirthless laugh "Just stick it on top of the lid, son. Bin's full, and we don't want anybody getting hurt on all that glass."

Ian let the lid drop, jarring a muffled tinkle out of the bin. He dumped the carton on the lid and turned on Woollie with no kind of plan, only rage that felt as though it might somehow be enough. The man was already in the hall, and leading Charlotte backward with one hand on her shoulder, the other tracing the shape of the knife. "Get a move on, son," he murmured. "Your playmate doesn't like you being all that way away."

The sight of Charlotte being led into the dimness that closed around her face and wiped it out returned the slab to Ian's mind. Woollie held onto her as he retreated beyond the stairs. "You go first, son. Back to the woods."

If there was anything Ian could do except obey, his mind was unable to grasp it. He felt chances falling out of reach behind him—the front door, the telephone, the weapons he'd failed to use—as he trudged upstairs. He sensed rather than heard Charlotte start after him: all he could hear was Woollie's mutter that sounded as though he were thinking aloud. "You won't be here much longer. Thanks for helping me see that, son."

Ian:
I've gone to work. PLEASE RING to let me know you're back.

Leslie stared at that and saw it was no good. What was it supposed to be expressing? Impatience, anger, self-righteousness? Certainly none of the feelings she wanted him to know she had—none of the love that, however much he worried her, made her want him back. She had plenty of time to write before she had to go out; the dawn was only starting to renew the colours of the roofs beyond Jericho Close. Soon the streetlamps would acknowledge that one more night was dealt with, and the street would brighten like a stage awaiting an entrance—a stage as empty as the street was now. She took a harsh gulp of coffee in case that reduced her need for the most of a night's worth of sleep she'd missed, and retrieved the message pad from the low table in front of the sofa. She crumpled the top sheet and stared at the blank page, and thought of putting on some music to help her think or rather find words for her state. It was too early, even though there was nobody next door to be disturbed, and besides, it would seem too much like taking advantage of Ian's absence to listen without having her pleasure impaired by her sense of his dislike of the music. She gave the deserted street another imploring glance and crouched over the pad.

Dear Ian,
Please read all of this.
I'm sorry for letting you think I could say what you thought I did. I never would have, but maybe I almost considered it, and I know that's bad enough. Try and understand it wasn't because I was suspicious of you—it was me being so anxious to know what's happened to Charlotte I couldn't think. She's still gone. I know you care about her however much of a pain she can be, so do you blame me for trying every way I could to figure out what's happened to her? Maybe you have too—maybe you've been looking for her, that's what I hope. When I asked you if there was anything you hadn't mentioned I ought to have said anything you might have forgotten that could help the police.

The police had questioned her last night, less than an hour after she'd called them. They'd been represented by one stout red-faced avuncular constable with hair only below the rim of his monochrome helmet. Perhaps his age and slowness were supposed to be reassuring, but she'd wondered how skilled he could be at his job not to have risen to a higher rank. He'd asked her questions she had already asked herself—whom Ian could spend the night with, whether he had friends she wasn't aware of, as though the raising of that possibility would somehow furnish her with their names—and one she hadn't entertained: whether he might have taken refuge with her parents. The policeman had needed almost more convincing than she had energy for that Ian never would have—that if, incredibly, he had, her mother would have let her know at once. Perhaps the constable had allowed himself to be persuaded there was no point in troubling Leslie's parents only once he'd grasped how reluctant she was to phone them. He'd borrowed last year's school photograph of Ian and promised to circulate a description, and had taken some time to assure her that in his experience most children who ran away from home after an argument showed up shamefaced or defensive or determined to swagger the next day. That meant there were some who didn't, Leslie had reflected as she'd watched him drive away, and that was the start of the rest of the night—of Ian's night somewhere.

Now it was over, and soon, if not sooner, it would be time for him to come back. Maybe the thought of breakfast would tempt him. If it did, he'd better be quick—she hoped he wasn't assuming she would stay home for him. She'd had a shower and was dressed, and once she'd finished writing to him she would head for work. She aimed her ballpoint at her last words, and enlarged the bulb of the p of "help" to engulf the full stop, and coaxed the t of "the" not to be a capital, and leaned on a dot after "police." Doing all that helped her think of more to write.

But I care about you more than I care about her, just in case you were wondering. If you've stayed away to make me see that, you didn't need to. Just so long as you've come back, and obviously you have since you're reading this, that's all I care about. Better be ready for me to raise my voice a bit when I see you, though. PLEASE STAY, THAT'S ALL. Don't go away again. Phone me at the shop to let me know you're there, then I can tell your father we know where you are so he can stop worrying about you when he's already got someone to worry about. You've made your point, all right? If you love us, and I know you do, you'll put us out of our misery.
Lots of love, you know how much if you let yourself,
Mum.

She considered adding kisses, but her message might embarrass him more than enough without them. When she read it through she found it almost too much herself. She could rewrite it if she was quick, she thought, and then she clicked the nib into the pen and stood up. She'd written what she felt. She pinned the three small square pages down with the phone on the hall table and made for the kitchen to wash her coffee mug. When she became aware of gazing through the window above the sink in search of anything she could watch to keep her at home at least a few moments longer, she took herself out of the house.

Car alarms were greeting their owners as the houses sent forth a selection of the people weekday mornings sent forth. In the park, beneath an increasingly translucent blue sky, boys of about Ian's age were demonstrating ways they behaved: smoking, arguing, walking with girls and perhaps even holding their hands, laughing as loud as they could. They made her want to hurry home to see if Ian was back. Once she was on the train, trapped on a seat by more and more people who also had to go to work whatever else might be happening in their lives, she wanted to be already at the shop, to be close to the phone if it rang—when it did.

Under Oxford Circus a violinist was performing a jaunty piece by Saint-Saëns, which might have cheered her if it hadn't been so distant it sounded deep in the earth. It sank away, and before she stepped off the highest escalator she couldn't hear it. She let herself be crowded up into the sunlight, where she felt as though she were leading half the crowd to the shop, outside which she halted and sucked in a breath that was bitter with a stench of petrol. Melinda was replacing the phone on the counter, and whatever she'd just heard had left her close to tears.

Leslie managed not to speak until she'd shut the door behind her. "What is it? Is it Ian?" she heard herself demanding, and perhaps worse still "Is it about him?"

"Why should it be?"

That was too harsh to be anything but a denial. "I'm sorry," Leslie said, rediscovering some gentleness. "What, then?"

"Sally's leaving me. I think there's someone else."

"Oh, Melinda. You too? Us and our partners." Leslie gave her an awkward hug that came near to squeezing out Melinda's tears, and dared to say "I'd move in with you to help you get over her if I was at all that way inclined."

"You stay how you are. I don't want to be one of the people who tried to screw up your life. I'd rather have you straight as you are. Take that how you like." Melinda raised a smile that left her eyes moist, and blinked. "Why were you looking like that about Ian? What's he been up to now?"

"Stayed out overnight because I made him feel I thought he might have done something to Charlotte."

"Anyone would have wondered that if they were you. It's the kind of thing we think even if we don't want to," Melinda said, and renewed her brave smile. "I shouldn't have bothered you with my love life when you've got your own worries."

"Don't fart at the mouth, Mel. I know we'll be hearing from him any time now. I left a note saying he had to call."

"I'm sure you'll see him before I see Sally," Melinda said, which dislodged two large slow tears. Leslie gave her another hug and had to dab at her own eyes, and then she and Melinda stared at passers-by to make them stop spectating. Leslie's tears were mostly at the realisation that secretly she hoped Melinda had spoken the truth. There would be plenty of time for the women to share a real weep once they knew Ian was safe.

"This is Haven Home. Hello? Haven Home here. It's the Haven Home."

"Say, boy, who's this I'm talking to?"

"It's Terence."

"You the head honcho there, Teerence? You in charge?"

"I just live here. It's Mrs. Woollie's, but she never comes till ten. Mark's in charge till she comes. He's looking at something in the kitchen. Shall I get him?"

"Tell you who you get for me, Teerence. You know John?"

"Which John?"

"Hey, you said a mouthful. He ain't called John no more, right? Rub that out. The guy I need is calling himself Jack."

"Mr. Woollie?"

"What's that, boy? What the—what you saying?"

"You mean Mr. Woollie? That Jack. Mrs. Woollie's son."

"That's the guy, sure enough. Hold a moment. Hush now, little lady. Save it, okay?"

Hector accompanied the latter part of this with a smile wide enough to expose his gums and a stare that peeled the skin back from his eyes, but Charlotte carried on emitting sounds not far short of mirth at the voice he was having to use. Any other time he would be happy to make her laugh; why had she withheld it until she might be overheard? Didn't she understand how she was endangering herself, or did she expect to be saved if she revealed she was there? She was sitting on the fourth stair up, more than close enough for him to grab, but he didn't want any upset when he had another way of solving the problem of her, or at least of postponing the solution. He let the fingertips of the hand that wasn't holding the knife outline the knife for her playmate, who was sitting as he'd been told to sit with his legs on either side of her, to see. "Quieten her down, son," Hector whispered, pressing the mouthpiece against his heart. "You know there's nothing to laugh at right now."

Ian learned forward and clasped the girl's shoulders. "No point in pissing him off," he murmured.

Her face convulsed at the bad word, and then appeared to begin to relax. Either he'd impressed her by wording it like that or the message conveyed more to her than it had to Hector. For the moment Hector couldn't ponder that, not when he'd come near to betraying himself on thinking Terence had identified him. He stared at Charlotte until her mouth sank inward, and then he raised the phone. "You still there, Teerence?"

"I've been here all the time. What was I hearing?"

He'd overheard Charlotte's stutters of hilarity or Ian's voice, Hector thought, glaring at his charges. "I dunno, boy. What you reckon you heard?"

"Some machine going bumper bumper bump."

"Must have been in your own head. I guess you need to see the doc to check you ain't got too much blood pressure."

"Is that what it was? Thanks. I will."

Terence was as suggestible as ever, Hector saw. He might have enjoyed amusing himself at Terence's expense, but Charlotte looked in danger of another fit of mirth. "So you got Jack Woollie there?" he said.

"He doesn't live here."

"Guess I never said he did. Hangs out there, though, ain't that the truth?"

"Sometimes."

"Like right now, boy?"

"Not yet. I expect he's still at Mrs. Woollie's, being a writer and not having to get up."

"When you looking to see him?"

"Not today. He said he was going to try and do a bit of a book."

"Gonna stay at his momma's, is he? Why don't you give me her number."

"It's up here on the board."

It sounded as if Terence assumed that was all he needed to say, and Hector felt his limbs growing stiff with frustration, not least because Charlotte was clutching her mouth with a hand that looked less than capable of restraining whatever it was doing its best to hold in. He was reminding himself not to raise his voice by the time Terence read him the number. He was in the midst of scribbling it on the pad with the pencil when Terence said "Who do you want me to say you were if he comes?"