by Ayre, Mark
“He should stay at ours.”
James turned to find the couple watching him, and the attention made him so uncomfortable he almost ran after the cops as they dropped into their car, begging to come with them.
“Agreed,” said Megan. “We can go to the station together tomorrow. Give this stupid official statement. We should have recorded ourselves this evening. Could have played it back. Saved some time.”
“What do you say, James?” Mark said. Behind him, James watched the police car depart, like seeing the last lifeboat float into the distance.
“I can’t,” he said. The idea of spending the night so close to Megan was intoxicating. But he felt the man sharing her bed would somewhat ruin it.
“I promised I’d be home,” he continued, deciding not to mention ‘home’ was a bed & breakfast. Of course, there was that lasagne to think about.
Megan looked disappointed. Or he imagined she did. Mark put an arm around her shoulder, as though rubbing it in.
“Understood,” he said. “But I got to thank you. For looking after my Meg. I should have been here, but I’m glad someone was.”
James nodded and might have mumbled 'you’re welcome' but couldn’t be sure. He wanted to get away. With a forced smile he turned from them both, and for the second time, that night saw a women burst through the alley, barrelling towards him.
This time he protected his shoulder, but she was more in control and stopped before she reached them. He recognised her.
“Claire, what’s wrong?” said Megan.
Another girl appeared from the alley. Young, white as a sheet. Speed both women ran they were lucky they’d not slipped in Mohsin’s blood. This girl James didn’t recognise but could guess who she was, having heard her mentioned.
Amy the babysitter.
“Claire?” Mark pressed because she had only stood and stared in response to Megan. He stepped forward, and she collapsed into his arms, sobbing. He looked at Amy, his eyes asking the question.
“It’s Charlie,” Amy said, tears filling her eyes.
“He’s gone.”
CHAPTER FOUR
As though he was born for it (or had at least had plenty of practice), Mark took instant and decisive control.
“Meg, get Claire into ours and call my mum, she’ll know what to do. Claire, come on, it’s going to be okay.”
Maybe heroes didn’t reference their mothers so freely, but it wouldn’t lose Mark many points. He held Claire’s hands and looked into her eyes, demanding her focus with the will of a toddler determined to get his way.
“We’ll find him, I promise. He can’t have gone far. I’m going to get him now.”
Megan joined her boyfriend, arm around Claire’s back, as James watched on, useful as a cricket bat on a football pitch.
“He’s never done anything like this,” Claire whispered, haunted eyes flicking from Mark to the sky, as though expecting to see her son in the stars.
Together, Mark and Megan pulled the distraught mother to her feet.
“Try not to worry,” Mark said, like asking the grass not to be green. “I’ll get him back.”
“He’s never run away. Why would he run?”
Why would he run? Why did you let him run?
The second voice galloped into James’ mind unannounced and uninvited. Pressing a hand to his skull, he saw a flash of a living room long since forgotten. The tears of a grown woman, large and desperate.
“Go away, go away,” he muttered, hitting his head.
In other circumstances, this might have been noticed, but Megan was turning Claire away, leading her towards the house, and a lost look had crossed Mark’s face. The confidence slipping.
This pulled James back from his vision, and a thought occurred to him, sudden and clear.
“It’s my fault. I should have been watching.”
It was the girl, Amy, talking. James allowed Mark to go to her as he stepped back into the alley.
“I should have been watching. I was meant to be looking after him. I should have -“
“Amy, stop it,” Mark snapped. “It’s not your fault. Don’t ever think it.”
“I should be in there. I -“
“No,” Mark cut her off again. “You need to go home. Go to bed, and don’t let this play on your mind. Give it an hour, and we’ll have Charlie back. I’ll text you soon as we do.”
Maybe she nodded. James wasn’t looking, and if she spoke, he didn’t hear her. There were a few seconds of non-movement, so it must have taken another Mark stare to get the message across.
“You’ll text?” she said.
“Right away.”
Feet departing. Soft and unsure, as though afraid the ground might collapse. Then the two men were alone.
“You can head off, mate,” Mark said, arriving by James in the alley. “I’ll have him back in five minutes. Probably some kid game.”
“I don’t think it’s that.”
“What do you mean?”
Instead of responding, James took a careful step over the dark stain of Mohsin’s blood and quick-stepped through and out the other end of the alley. Once again that feeling of breaking water as he stepped onto the street, and once again a look to the house ahead.
The door was hanging open.
“What’s going on?” Mark asked, stepping out of the alley, casting James an annoyed look that vanished when he saw the open door. James chanced a quick glance to where the horny teens had been (and wasn’t surprised to find them gone) then pointed at the window above the open door.
“Charlie’s room?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
James turned to the side, his back to where the sexy car had been. The idea had come in an instant, and he was sure it was right.
To his left was Charlie’s window. To his right, the alley. The line of sight was perfect. Unbroken. Anyone looking out tonight could have been treated to quite a sight. A frightening sight.
“Shit,” said Mark, getting it. “He ran. Where?”
Where did he go?
A man’s voice this time. A hand on his shoulder. Forget it. Think.
“Not out front.” Playing the scenarios fast as he could. “He wouldn’t have gone towards the attacker. Would have looked for someone in the house. Mum wasn’t there and if he couldn’t find the babysitter -
“Back door?”
“Shit,” Mark said again. “Come on.”
Come on. We’ll find him.
They ran, as though fleeing the voice in James’ head, onto the stretch of grass to the right of Claire’s home, a seven-foot fence to their left, boxing in her garden.
James felt this was time to strategise, but Mark ploughed on as though late for a very important date, hopping onto the fence and swinging his leg over in one smooth motion. A couple of seconds after it began, it was over, and Mark was out of sight, leaving only the sound of his voice as comfort to James.
“Back door’s closed but -“ the sound of Mark’s feet rushing across grass, then patio. A hand trying a handle and - “unlocked. Kid could easily have got out here. Charlie? Charlie, mate, you here?”
Toby? Toby, where are you?
The name hit him like a sledgehammer. He fell into the fence back first and placed his head in both hands.
“Stop,” he whispered, hitting his head again. It was worse than the water. Worse than the blood on the carpet when he thought of his parents. So long ago but -
“Charlie?”
Toby?
“Charlie?”
Toby?
“Charl -“
He smacked both palms on the fence, and everything stopped. A cool, perfect silence hit him, and for a few moments, there was nothing. Then came the footsteps, and Mark was calling him.
“What?” James said, composing himself.
“He’s not in the shed, but I don’t know how he can have got into the - ah shit. Get around back, will you? Think I’ve seen something.”
Panic touched James’ heart, bu
t he batted it away like a fly. Mark’s tone suggested whatever he had found was not so bad as James’ imagination might insist. A single shoe, dotted with blood, or even worse. These images he repressed as he rounded the fence.
Darkness greeted him. Another narrow alley, this one not cramped between wooden fence and stone wall but wooden fence and thick trees. Maybe a foot between one and the other, meaning James would have to turn side on to progress. He hesitated. Did he want to stare into the blackness of the trees or away? The former might encourage his imagination, and the latter would leave him open to attack by demons.
“Hey man, you coming?”
“Yeah.”
Stupid, childish fears. How many years had these woods been here? How many had walked through them without suffering attack? Most, he was sure. Not that such logic stopped fear from crawling over him like a boulder-sized spider.
Don’t be a baby, James. Just do it.
The voice of his mother. Always there and always partnered with fear, annoyance and regret.
Chest to the fence, he stepped along like a man walking a high ledge. Still afraid, though his mother’s voice had flitted into the woods to join the other monsters. Not that there were monsters. Such things were the recourse of stories and -
“Hey.”
It took a level of self-control he was not aware he possessed to hold the scream long enough to work out what was happening. To see the hand was not some severed apparition but the hand of Mark, poking through a hole in the fence, created by sliding loose planks aside.
As James watched, more of the planks were parted, allowing Mark to climb through.
“Well, I guess he could have come out here, run through the trees -“ Mark pointing into the darkness - “but why would he?”
“Fear,” James said.
“This place has got to be pretty scary for a kid, too,” Mark said. “Why exchange fear of attack for fear of the woods? Why not stay in the garden, or lock himself in the bathroom or something?”
James looked into the trees. Mark was right; it would be scary for a kid -
- Toby, oh God, Toby -
- Scary for an adult too, if they had any sense. James didn’t like the way the dark seemed to shift and twist and curl before him. Try as he might, he could not convince himself it was the wind pushing the leaves. Charlie, too, might have struggled, and yet -
“Kids don’t think like that,” he said, remembering his own childhood. Wondering if he’d changed. “He sees the attack, thinks it’s a monster and assumes he’s next. So, he runs. First thought is find the babysitter but, for whatever reason, he can’t, so he decides to run.
“Only, he can’t go out front, because that would bring him too near the attacker. Instead, he runs out back, through here, and into the woods. Probably thinks he can circle a few houses and get out to find his mum. Maybe doesn’t even think that much. Maybe he just wants to hide, and come back later. How big are these woods?”
Mark shrugged.
“Not that big. This is pretty much the centre point, and they run in a semi-circle around the village boundary. It’s probably a mile deep here. Half that at its narrowest point, twice at its deepest.”
James considered. A mile wasn’t so deep. Even two wasn’t bad. Though end to end there was a lot to work with if it covered half the village. If Charlie were using his head, it wouldn’t take him long to find his way out.
But in a blind panic?
He’s afraid. He’s alone. Oh god, Toby…
“We need to find him,” James said, the words from the past grabbing and spinning him into dizziness. Mark was giving him an odd look.
“No shit,” he said and disappeared into the trees without further comment or discussion, the darkness covering him like an invisibility cloak, leaving only the sound of his feet cracking through the leaves and twigs on the black floor, and these fading fast.
Afraid of the oncoming silence, and being left alone, more than the woods, James scurried after the departing uncle.
Wanting to catch up quick, James was forced to go faster than he would have liked through the trees. Employing all the dexterity he had - not much - he only banged his shoulders a handful of times, and only ripped his top in one place before catching Mark, having used the braver man’s calls to Charlie as his lighthouse, guiding him to safety.
“He shouldn’t have run off,” Mark said, and James could make out a grimace of annoyance in the stretched light. “Claire should have taught him better.”
“He’s a kid,” James said and recoiled at the look Mark gave him. It said kids shouldn’t be afforded any more leniency than adults.
“I was a kid once,” Mark said, no hint of irony. “As soon as I was old enough to understand the words my mother spoke, she made sure I understood what I was supposed to do, and not do. You think if I’d seen someone being attacked I would have run off? No, I understood that actions have consequences. I would have gone straight to mother and, if I couldn’t find her, I would have made sure all the doors were locked and phoned the police.”
James tried to imagine an eight-year-old being so rational and couldn’t. Put himself in that situation and saw a small, scrawny boy crying under his bed, wishing dad would come home. He sympathised with the missing boy, and it must have shown because the annoyance dropped from Mark’s face.
“Sorry, I’m upset. Worried. Kid’s family and we’re all responsible for him. Not just Claire but dad, mum, Emma and me. When I worry, I get wound up, and I snap.”
“It’s good you care,” James said. Might have left it at that but another question flashed across his mind. “What about the father?”
“What about him?” The irritation was back, a small creature in Mark’s throat, tugging at the vocal cords, straining his voice.
“He’s your brother, right? He have anything to do with Charlie?”
“No,” Mark said, and for a minute it seemed he’d say nothing more. Then: “Luke’s out of the picture.”
Literally.
Further questions would not have been well received, so he kept quiet as they chewed through the woods, waiting for Mark to speak again. When he did, it was less a comment to James, than a monologue to reassure himself.
“We’ll find him soon,” though there was only silence around them. “Even if we don’t, woods aren’t that big. He’ll find his own way within a few hours. Tomorrow morning latest. We’ll see him soon, no doubt about that.”
Except there was doubt. James could hear it. Mark wanted to seem calm and confident, but he was begging James for reassurance. To hear everything would be okay from someone who believed it.
James wanted to offer such assurances. Problem was, he didn’t believe it.
A woman screamed.
James span as the sound tore through his -
Mind.
Except it sounded so real.
Mark turned with alarm, and James took two quick steps forward to avoid the stare, placed his foot on a rock and felt it desert its post, like a terrified soldier fleeing a watch tower at the sight of the enemy. In its retreat it dragged James’ foot with it, splitting his legs until he toppled and fell for the second time that day.
Landing on his back, he felt the ground reject him, pushing him down. His eyes searched the darkness, and he became sure he was about to slide into hell.
A hand grabbed him. It stopped his slide with a jerk, and they almost went over, but Mark was strong and held steady.
“Pretty clumsy, aren’t you?”
James sat up. The incline was deep enough you might speed up a little walking down it, but not so deep it would give a mountain climber - or even a child - much trouble on the ascent.
Feeling dumb, he used the hand attached to his good shoulder to shove himself up, almost slipping again as he went and giving himself an injection of pain using the hand attached to the bad shoulder to grab a tree.
“Sorry,” he said, and stopped. He could still hear running feet, and turned 360 to find its source
, though it was coming from somewhere he couldn’t see without a mirror. Finishing his pirouette, he saw Mark staring at him.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Looked like you heard something.”
James shook his head. An action that might have been lost in the darkness, though James doubted it, as he could make out the smile of Mark’s response even in the low light.
“Liar,” Mark said. James was tempted to do so again but evaded instead.
“Just remembered something. We should move.”
“Sure,” said Mark, holding out a hand without taking his eyes off James. “Lead on.”
James did, making his way carefully down the decline, trying to keep his eyes ahead, and on the present, but all the time he could see her. Body hunched. Tears pouring. Sobs rocking her whole form and seemingly the trees and ground around her.
He saw that distraught, pained face rise to him, all red and blotchy. He saw her scream and heard her words. The same words on repeat.
Your fault, your fault, your fault.
“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”
CHAPTER FIVE
For the next half hour, they swept the forest, moving with the speed of zombies, heads forever rotating, searching the darkness for some sign of the missing boy. Now and then, Mark would call his name, and once or twice James tried, but no response came.
To Mark, the only struggle was finding Charlie. To James, this was half the battle. The further through the woods they travelled, the more snippets of conversation continued to break into James’ consciousness, like voice memos from the past.
Worse were the images. Every few trees he would see her, bent over, sobbing. In the distance came the sound of children running, giggling, playing.
He stopped, grabbing a tree as though trying to rip the bark free. The water had started running again, and the giggling had turned to fighting. The voices of men and children overlapping, distorting. He closed his eyes and begged it to leave him alone. To let him be.
“James, over here.”
Mark’s voice was like an anchor, tying him to the dock of reality. Fighting boys and sobbing mothers drifted out with the tide and James fled them gladly, stepping through another line of trees and joining Mark in a clearing.
