The Long Weekend (5 page)

He'd go to the loo and then decide what to do. Sam crossed the room to the bathroom, and then stopped suddenly in mid-stride. Jingle jangle, jingle jangle, and then the click of a key turning in the lock.

Sam swivelled round.

He was locked in. Again! Why? Well, it didn't take an A Level in Science to know the answer to that. Science was his worst subject, and it wasn't as though he didn't try – he did, and he wanted to be good at it, and that's what made it even worse. 'Just do your best,' his mum would say. But what if your best wasn't ever good enough?

Sam looked at the locked door, knowing that looking at it wasn't going to get it unlocked. Only a key would do that and he didn't have one. The man had it. Something hot prickled his eyes. It was the warning sign before the floodgates opened and he mutated into a snivelling baby, and he couldn't have that, not now. Not when there was so much to do.

Sam turned back round and went to the bathroom. It was as plain and sparse as the bedroom: a loo, a sink and a bathtub, soap and a towel. He splashed his face with ice-cold water from the tap, and the prickling in his eyes abated for a while, but then it started again and he couldn't control it this time. Within seconds, he was on his knees sobbing, blubbering, crying for his mum like he used to do when he was really little and had had a scary nightmare. He crawled out of the bathroom and curled up on the bed, burying his face in the pillow to the muffle the sound of his distress. Long minutes passed, it could have been hours, but Sam knew it wasn't. His watch said ten thirty when he checked it after the fountain had finally run dry. His pillow was soaked with tears. It was amazing how much water could come out of your eyes, and one day Sam would find out exactly how and why that happened, if he didn't almost fail his Science exam again that is.

He sat up on the bed, pulling the duvet out from under him, and huddled beneath it. The room had got colder. His eyes strayed to the locked door again, and he threw off the cover and jumped off the bed as a sudden thought struck him. If the man could lock him in, he might be able to lock the man out.
Might,
Sam thought, sizing up the chest of drawers. It was about his height and almost as long – and it was ancient looking, which meant it probably weighed an absolute ton. It was worth a go. 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained,' his dad, the king of clichés, always said. But what exactly would be gained by locking the man out? Actually, quite a lot, Sam thought.

He should be able to manage it: it couldn't be that heavy and he didn't have to carry it anywhere. All he had to do was slide it across the doorway. 'Easy peasy, lemon squeezey; no problemo; piece of piss,' Sam said loudly, enjoying each and every word with relish as his voice echoed round the empty room. He almost smiled to himself because in normal life he probably wouldn't say any of those things – and never out loud. But nothing was normal at the moment, and saying something out loud, even though it was a load of rubbish, didn't make him feel so wretched and alone. Actually having a project was pretty good. It would pass the time until help arrived. Although Sam didn't really think the cavalry were going to charge in and kill all the baddies because no one knew they were there. But surely the man would let them go in the morning? Sam was counting on it.

He set his feet a little bit apart and planted his hands on the chest of drawers, and then he pushed. It didn't move much. Okay, it was going to be tough, but Sam was well up for the job. He pushed harder, and the chest of drawers shifted a couple of inches. Hurrah, progress, but yes, it was going to take a while, he thought glumly, and he had no clue how much time he had before he had a visit from the man. 'Come on, Sam, put your back into it,' his mum cajoled. 'It's not that heavy. Oh, all right, I'll get Tab to give you a hand,' she would say in a resigned voice. His mum had a bad back so she couldn't lift heavy things, push furniture around, or even mow the lawn, and with his dad working long hours Sam was always called on to help out. He wished he did have Tab there to give him a hand: she was tough, and she never asked for help. The hot prickling sensation was coming back, but Sam couldn't let it win this time – he really had work to do.

He pushed again, and again, and again, and then he turned around and pressed his back into it, and slowly, slowly, agonisingly, painfully slowly, the chest of drawers inched its way across the wall. Sam kept pushing, his arms and legs going all soft and quivery, and it took all his strength to make them hard again, but he kept on pushing, and yelling, 'Put your back into it!' like his mum might have done if she was a yelling kind of person, which she wasn't, but if she could see him now, she would definitely be yelling it. Sam was sure of that.

Finally, it did reach the door, and a bit more pushing, and yelling, got it in front of the door. The door was well and truly blocked. No way anyone was coming in now. Sam fell to the floor in a heap, laughing breathlessly, and maybe a little hysterically, too.

He rolled over onto his back, where he stayed until he'd managed to stop the silly laughing, and get his breath back. He brought his wrist up to his face and his watch now said eleven. It had taken him half an hour to get the chest of drawers across the door! That was a ridiculously long time. Either he was much weaker than he thought, or the chest of drawers had been really, really heavy. Did that mean that the man wouldn't be able to get in? Of course it did. There was no way he could open the door into the room, so there was no way he could get in. The chest of drawers was a good height – it covered over half of the door. If the man got an axe and chopped his way in, he might have been able to get through the gap above the chest of drawers and the top of the door. But that only happened in films, Sam thought. So he was okay.

But, duh-brain, didn't that mean that he was stuck, too? Trapped? Forever? He stared up at the ceiling, thinking. And then he thought:
camera.
The man was probably doubled over having a laugh at the stupid kid with jelly arms and legs and tear-streaked face. Sam glanced around. No red dots, no glass eye watching silently. Phew, no camera. He wasn't being watched. He was alone, and he preferred it that way.

All alone by himself – the way Lloyd didn't want to be. Sam hoped he
was
all alone, like him. But Lloyd hadn't been locked in. The man had said he was going to check in on him, to make sure he had everything he needed. He hadn't done that for Sam. He'd shown him to his room and locked him in. What would Lloyd need, anyway? He was just going to go to sleep, like Sam, and when he woke up that famous band would be there and they were going to have a brilliant day. Weren't they?

Maybe the man just didn't like him, Sam thought, because he had been a bit of a baby, and that's why Lloyd was getting better treatment. Lloyd had been cool, and friendly, and Lloyd's dad was high up in the music business, so the man had to be much nicer to him than to Sam.

But it all kept going round in circles in Sam's head. Round and round like a crazy carousel with no brakes. 'Come on, Sam, focus. Keep your eye on the ball.'

He heard water running. He must have left the tap on in the bathroom. It was funny that he'd only noticed it now – it must have been running for an hour. He was just getting off the floor when somewhere, not too far away, he heard a door slam shut. He bolted towards the bedroom light switch and flicked it off and then ran into the bathroom and in one swift move turned the tap off and the bathroom light on. He left the door slightly ajar so he had some light in the bedroom, but nothing that could be seen through the cracks. He took the bedside table and placed it next to the chest of drawers and climbed up. For a moment all he could hear was the thudding of his heart.
Baboom, baboom, baboom, baboom.

Sam knew it was beating too fast, but how do you slow it down? Breathing might help, he thought. So that's what he did. He breathed in and out slowly a couple of times, and then couldn't wait any longer and pressed his ear to the door. The babooming had quietened down a bit, or at least it wasn't pounding in his head as much. But from the rest of the house all he heard was silence. He listened harder.

Or were there some sounds? Could he hear some music? Voices? Laughter? Maybe the band had arrived and Lloyd was having a ball with them. Or maybe the music and laughter were all inside Sam's head. He couldn't work it out. He suddenly felt exhausted. Too tired to think. He should try and get some sleep. Things always looked better in the morning, at least that's what his mum always promised, and most of the time it was true. But not always.

He clambered back down off the chest of drawers and picked up the bedside table to put it back where it came from. Click, click, click, click. Sam knew instantly what it was and he almost jumped out of his skin. A key was turning in the lock. He dropped the table, but it didn't make any noise on the carpet and it had saved Sam from screaming the house down like that girl had done in that scary film they had watched in the car. The door didn't open, but the key was turned in the lock again, and again. Click, click, click, click. Someone was trying to get in and thought the key wasn't working properly. It wouldn't take them long to work out that the key was fine, and that it was the door that wasn't opening.

Ha! Take that, you creep! Sam thought, but his elation was short lived.

It hadn't taken the man long to realise what was going on. Sam heard a yell, and this time it wasn't an imaginary sound, it was horribly real, and it meant one thing: the man was angry, very angry. Sam inched back towards the bathroom door. A violent shove jarred against the chest of drawers, but it didn't budge, not an inch. Another loud slam. The man must have put his shoulder to the door that time and the chest of drawers shuddered in response. It didn't look as though it had moved, but Sam couldn't be sure. He took another step back as another slam battered the chest of drawers. This time he saw it move, but not much, just a tiny fraction. Sam cringed, waiting for the next slam. Nothing happened. There was that silence again.

Back-up plan, Sam hissed at himself. You need a backup plan in case he gets in. The problem was Sam couldn't think of anything. His brain had gone on strike or something because he kept trying to think, and all he could see was the chest of drawers lying on its side and the bedroom door wide open. Focus, Sam. Focus. But Sam couldn't focus. His dad's voice began to fade and Sam couldn't work out why. Help, Dad. Please help me. Please come. I need you. Please, Dad, come now. Please – the words tumbled helter-skelter through his mind as the tears toppled down his face. Sam knew his dad couldn't help him.

Slam. Slam.
The man was back. He wasn't going to stop until he was inside the room and this time it didn't sound as though he was using his shoulder. He was using something big and heavy to pulverize the door. It was some kind of sledge hammer or battering ram, or maybe even an axe. Sam began to sob. He backed up, right up to the bathroom doorway, and listened to the steady beat of the
slam, slam.
What would he do when the man came in?
Slam, slam.
What would he do when the man came in?
Slam, slam.
What would he do when the man came in?

Part of Sam's brain must have been working because it came up with an answer. He would overpower him and kill him if he came anywhere near him. Oh really, Sam. How are you going to do that?

A weapon, that's what he needed. Now he was in a frenzy. The man could break through at any minute and Sam had no weapon. He searched round wildly for something to use, anything. He rummaged through the chest of drawers, but all the drawers were empty. The wardrobe had a couple of moth-eaten coats hanging in it and nothing else. The bedside table was the only thing left, and that wasn't a very practical weapon to wield. The only thing he could do with it was chuck it at the man and then try and run past him. He would have to aim for his head, try and knock him out or something. No, that wouldn't work. The man would just swat it away with one hand. Maybe he could hide it behind his back until the man was close, then he could swing it out from behind him and crack it across the man's head.

Get real, you stupid idiot, he told himself harshly. This wasn't an action movie where the kids all had stunt doubles, and never actually lifted a finger, never mind wield real weapons. This was real life, and the worst nightmare of Sam's life.

The man must have taken a breather because the slam, slam stopped for a while. Sam started thinking again, and the tears dried up. It was much easier to think without that racket going on. Okay, no weapon apart from the bedside table. Then he remembered his rucksack. Maybe there was something in there he could use. But where was it? He looked round the room, trying to think back to when he'd had it last. He had taken it out of the car with him and then they had gone straight to the games room. So that's where it must be, exactly where it was of no use to anyone.

There was probably nothing much in there anyway, Sam thought. A pocket dictionary would have been useless. There was his school homework, and considering the circumstances Sam thought his mum would probably write him a note explaining why he hadn't been able to do it. It would go something like, 'My son, Samuel Parker, could not do his homework because he and his new friend, Lloyd, were kidnapped on Friday by a demented madman, and locked up in a room.'

And that was pretty much all there was in his rucksack, oh, apart from his pencil case – his pencil case which contained a compass with a very shiny, sharp point. Now
that
would have come in very handy. But it was way down the corridor, past his blockaded door and the madman, and there was no way Sam was going out that way.

The slamming began again in earnest, setting Sam's heart pounding. He couldn't bear it any longer. He backed up right into the bathroom and closed the door. It muffled the sound a bit, but not enough. Then he noticed the key in the lock, and wondered why he hadn't seen it earlier. He locked the door. One more obstacle for the man to get through before he got to him.

Sam sat down on the edge of the bath; his legs had gone all wobblyish again and his hands were shaking. What he needed was a mobile phone. He wished he'd asked his parents for one for his last birthday, although he knew he probably wouldn't have got one then. Tab had only got hers last year and she was three years older than him. It was only for emergencies, but she was always texting her friends on it and there was never an emergency in sight. Lots more kids his age had them now and not
all
of them got mugged. He'd said that to his dad just a few days ago, but it hadn't cut much ice with him. He thought it might now though.

He looked around the bathroom just to make sure he hadn't missed anything like a razor blade or something else that could be used as a weapon. There was a loo brush, but Sam didn't think that was going to hold the man at bay for long. There were a couple of manky old bathrobes hanging behind the door, which were completely useless. And then he saw something better than a weapon. Something he must have been blind not to have noticed.

An escape route. A window.

It was small, above the sink, but Sam knew he could wriggle through it. He was only a skinny kid, wasn't he? No problem. He was getting out, and he smiled despite the fact that as he thought of escape and getting home, he realised that he was one floor up, and that Lloyd was still trapped somewhere in the house.

Sam clambered onto the edge of the sink, placing his feet on either side of the taps to balance himself, and lifted the handle and pushed. It must have been stuck because it didn't open straight away. There were cobwebs, which Sam didn't mind because he liked spiders, and a thick layer of dust on the panes, which meant it hadn't been used in a long time. He had to whack it open and that was okay because the man was making enough racket to hide any noise that Sam made. He slammed the heel of his palm into it, swapping hands after several blows as his hands began to sting and then throb with pain. Why couldn't it have just opened? Why was everything so hard? Sam cried. Tears ran down his face, but he didn't bother trying to control them. He knew they would stop eventually.

He had to keep stopping and checking that the man hadn't got through the bedroom door, which held him up because the window was still jammed shut and hadn't budged an inch. But with every slam from beyond the bathroom door, Sam knew the man was getting closer and closer.

Sam went frantic and pummelled the window with both hands, screaming and crying at the same time. He wasn't even aware of the noise he was making any more. He didn't care; he just had to get out. A final flurry of blows and the window shot open without warning, just as the bathroom door juddered with a sickening thump.

And then silence.

The man was on the other side of the bathroom door. When had he got through the bedroom door? Sam didn't know. He didn't know how long he'd been standing outside listening to him screaming and crying. Sam held his breath, and waited for the man to speak through the door. It wouldn't be long, he thought. He was right – it wasn't.

'I know you're in there, you silly boy. Come on now, open the door,' the man said. He said it very nicely, which wasn't what Sam was expecting at all. It would have been less freaky if he'd yelled and shouted at him.

'It would save us both a lot of trouble if you just open the door, Sam,' and again it was said in that cloyingly nice and pleasant tone that made Sam's skin crawl.

But Sam said nothing and he did nothing. He wasn't falling for that, and did the bloke really think he would be stupid enough to open the door?

'Come on, Sam. Open the door and I'll explain the whole thing to you. Man to man.'

Sam remained silent. As far as he was concerned nothing needed explaining. Sam was tempted to put his hands over his ears, but he needed to hear what the man was saying, too. It could all have been a silly misunderstanding, couldn't it?

The man continued, 'Lloyd's not feeling too good, Sam. He's been asking for you,' the man said. 'You're not going to let him down are you?'

Lloyd, why didn't you listen to me? Sam thought angrily, and then he felt really bad. It wasn't as though any of this was Lloyd's fault.

'I don't know what you're so afraid of, lad, but you're going to have to come out of there sometime. Lloyd's really not well. I've had to call the doctor out for him. Go and sit with Lloyd while I go down and wait by the front door for the doctor. He'll be here soon.'

Sam didn't believe him for a minute, although the bloke was good and Sam had to give him that. He was so convincing that just for a tiny split second, Sam almost thought about opening the door and going to Lloyd. He wanted to be with his friend. He was fed up with being on his own. But what good would that do any of them? No, the best way to help Lloyd was to get away and come back with help. Lots of it.

Sam stuck his head out of the window and peered into the darkness. It was pitch black and he couldn't see a thing. In the background the man's voice droned on in its softly persuasive tone. Sam kept looking out of the window until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Now he could make out the outline of trees beyond the house, and between them an expanse of lawn dotted with shrubs and bushes.

Then he looked directly down at the drop.

Okay, it wasn't going to be easy, but it was doable. It was better than the alternative. So what was he waiting for? He looked at the drop again. It didn't look so bad, plus at the bottom there was some grass and bushes that would break his fall. He gripped both sides of the window and hoisted himself up so he was crouching on the narrow ledge. He looked down again, hesitating. He glanced back towards the bathroom door.

The man was still talking, but the nicey-nice tone had gone and been replaced with extreme annoyance verging on anger.

'Don't be stupid and open the door now!'

Sam had no intention of being stupid enough for that.

'No one's going to hurt you.' The kick that whacked the door told Sam that that was a complete lie.

The threats would start next, Sam thought, and as if the man had heard him his next words proved Sam right.

'If I have to break the door down, it'll be worse for you. There's no way out that way, you know.'

And that's where you're wrong, Sam whispered softly.

There
was
a way out, and Sam was going to take it. All he needed was a rope or something. It didn't have to reach all the way to the ground, just long enough for him to dangle off and then the drop wouldn't be so bad. He noticed the bathrobes had fallen off the peg and were lying in a heap on the floor. They still had their cord threaded through the loops.

Unbelievable. Finally something had gone his way.

Sam was off the window ledge in seconds. He pulled the cords out from their loops and ran his fingers down their length. They looked strong enough to bear his weight, but could have done with being several feet longer, even when they were tied together. They were better than nothing; better than the alternative. He knotted them together securely with a triple knot, and then tied one end of it to a tap, his fingers fumbling with the knot. This bit had to be done right otherwise he didn't stand a chance. He started again and made a better job of it. No way was it going to come off that tap, ever. Sam threw the other end of the window and climbed back up onto the ledge. He peered down and saw it swaying in the light breeze. It could have done with being a bit thicker too, Sam thought. But it was still better than nothing.

Okay this was the tricky part. He had to get his legs out of the window first and try and wrap them round the cord. He manoeuvred his body round so that he was facing into the bathroom, and swung his legs out one by one, still keeping a tight grip on the window frame. Now he was dangling in open air, half in and half out of the window, and the problem was he couldn't see the dangling cord now because his legs were in the way. He swung his legs around a bit, hoping one of them would catch the cord, but he couldn't tell whether he had managed it. Okay, forget that part, he told himself. He would have to climb down, hand over hand instead. He had to let go with his right hand and take hold of the cord, but his fingers were reluctant to loosen their grip on the sturdy window frame. The cord wasn't too far to reach – it was right next to his hand, but he still couldn't let go of the frame.

Why did the cord look so flimsy all of a sudden, and what if he hadn't tied the knot properly? What if it gave way?

The bathroom door shuddered under the impact of a violent blow. The man had finally lost patience. It wouldn't take him long to get through the bathroom door now because it wasn't as solid as the bedroom door had been. Sam reached for the cord. If it gave way he would have to remember to roll as soon as he hit the ground. That's what skydivers and parachutists did, and, apparently, kids who jumped out of bathroom windows. Whatever happened he would have to leg it into the trees as fast as he could, because it wouldn't take the man long to get downstairs and out of the house after him.

Another heavy blow at the door jolted any thoughts of what he had to do when he landed right out of his head. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

And then he jumped.