by Kevin Brooks
Yeah, that’s it. It has to be.
A straightforward kidnapping.
Dad’s probably speeding down the motorway right now, whacked out of his head on brandy and dope, tired and grouchy, pissed off with me for costing him big again. I can just see his face, all scrunched up, his bloodshot eyes squinting through the windscreen at the glare of motorway lights, muttering madly to himself. Yeah, I can see him. He’s probably wondering if he should have tried bargaining for me, offered 150K, settled for 300.
First thing he’ll say when he gets me back is, ‘Where the hell have you been for the last five months? I’ve been worried stupid.’
The lights have gone out.
Tuesday, 31 January
8.15 a.m.
Day three.
I haven’t eaten since Saturday.
I’m starving.
Why isn’t he feeding me? What’s the matter with him? Why doesn’t he show himself? Why doesn’t he threaten me, get tough, tell me to shut up, do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt … why doesn’t he do something? Anything.
Why am I still here?
Where’s Dad?
I’m beginning to think he’s refused to pay the ransom. That’d be just like Dad. I can just imagine him thinking it’s all a joke, or a set-up. That I’ve kidnapped myself. Yeah, that’s it. Mixed-up rich kid with semi-famous father, desperate for attention, sets up his own kidnapping to put one over on his dad.
Shit.
I’m so hungry.
There’s a bible in the bedside cabinet. Last night I got so bored I picked it up and started leafing through it. Then I realized that I wasn’t that bored, and I put it back in the drawer.
Each room has one. I’ve checked. Bible in the top drawer, blank notebook and pen in the middle. This notebook, this pen. The drawers have locks and there’s a little key on the top of each cabinet. Six keys, six notebooks, six pens, six rooms, six plates …
Six?
No, I haven’t worked it out yet.
The notebooks are good quality – black-leather covers, fresh white pages. Blank pages. Lots of blank pages. I don’t know why, but that bothers me.
The pen’s a Uni-ball Eye, Micro, black. Waterproof/fade-proof. Made by the Mitsubishi Pencil Co. Ltd.
Just in case you’re interested.
It’s quarter to nine now.
The lights have been on for forty-five minutes.
Last night I spent some time sharpening the broken plastic fork. I only had my fingernails and teeth to work with, but I think I did a pretty good job. It doesn’t look like much, and I don’t think I could kill anyone with it, but it’s sharp enough to do some damage.
If I’m right, the lift will come down in five minutes.
It did. Only this time it wasn’t empty.
There was a little girl in there.
When I first saw her, my heart iced over and my brain went numb. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything. It was too much to take in. She was sitting in the wheelchair, the same wheelchair I’d arrived in, kind of slumped to one side, with her eyes closed and her mouth half open. Her hair was all messed up and knotted, and her clothes were crumpled and covered in dust. Tear stains darkened her cheeks.
I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to feel. Didn’t know anything. All I could do was stand there with the sharpened plastic fork in my hand, staring like an idiot at this poor little girl.
Then my heart grew hot and a rage of emotions welled up inside me. Anger, pity, fear, panic, hatred, confusion, despair, sadness, madness. And I wanted to scream and shout and tear the walls down. I wanted to hit something, hit someone. Hit him. How could he do this? How could anyone do this? She’s just a girl, for God’s sake. She’s just a little girl.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
Think, I told myself.
Think.
I opened my eyes and studied the girl, looking for signs of life. Her eyes were still closed, her lips not moving.
Breathe … please breathe.
I waited, watching.
After a long ten seconds or so, her head twitched, she gave a little gulp, and her eyes fluttered open. I shook the paralysis from my body, hurried over to the lift, and wheeled her out.
Her name’s Jenny Lane. She’s nine years old. She was on her way to school this morning when a policeman stopped her in the street and told her that her mum had been in an accident.
‘How did you know he was a policeman?’ I asked her.
‘He had a uniform and a hat. He showed me his badge. He said he’d take me to the hospital.’
She started crying again then. She was in a terrible state. Streaming tears, shocked eyes, shaking like a leaf. She had a slight graze on her lip, and her knee was cut and bruised. Worst of all, she was breathing really fast. Short, sharp, gaspy little breaths. It was scary. I felt completely helpless. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with little girls in shock. I just don’t know stuff like that.
After I’d got her out of the lift, I took her to the bathroom and waited outside while she got herself cleaned up. Then I got her a drink of water and took her back to my room and tried to make her comfortable. It was the best I could do. Settle her down. Comfort her. Talk to her. Give her a smile. Ask her if she was all right.
‘Are you all right?’
She sniffed and nodded.
‘Are you hurt?’
She shook her head. ‘My tummy feels funny.’
‘Did he put a cloth over your mouth?’
She nodded again.
‘What about your knee?’
‘I knocked it. It’s all right.’
‘Did he … ?’
‘What?’
‘Did he … ?’ I coughed to cover my embarrassment. ‘Did he touch you or anything?’
‘No.’ She wiped her nose. ‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. Upstairs somewhere.’
‘What’s upstairs?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is he coming down here?’
‘I don’t think so.’
She looked around. ‘What is this place? Do you live here?’
‘No, the man brought me here.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know.’
Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know … probably not the most comforting answers in the world, but at least she wasn’t crying any more. Her breathing was beginning to improve too.
I asked her where she lived.
‘1 Harvey Close,’ she said.
I smiled. ‘Where? What town?’
‘Moulton.’
‘Moulton in Essex?’
‘Yes.’
I nodded, then nodded again, trying to think of something else to say. I’m not that good at small talk. I don’t know what you’re supposed to say to nine-year-old girls.
I said, ‘What time was it when the policeman stopped you?’
‘About half past seven.’
‘Isn’t that a bit early for school?’
‘We were going on a trip to the nucular power station.’
‘Nuclear.’
‘What?
‘Nothing. Is that why you’re not wearing school uniform, because you were going on a school trip?’
‘Uh-huh.’
She was wearing a little red jacket, a T-shirt, jeans, and trainers. There was a picture of a tiger on her T-shirt.
‘What’s you
r name?’ she asked me.
‘Linus.’
‘What?’
‘Linus,’ I repeated, as I almost always have to. ‘Lye-nus.’
‘That’s a funny name.’
I smiled. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Is there anything to eat, Lye-nus?’
‘Not at the moment.’
I looked down at the trainers on her feet. Newish but cheap. Stuck-on stripes. Frayed laces.
I said, ‘What do your mum and dad do, Jenny?’
‘Why?’
‘I was just wondering, that’s all.’
She pulled at some knots in her hair. ‘Dad works at Homebase. He doesn’t like it much.’
‘What about your mum?’
She shrugged. ‘She’s my mum.’
‘Does she work?’
She shook her head. ‘Nuh-uh.’
‘You’re not rich, then?’
Her face creased into a frown. ‘Rich?’
‘Forget it. Here.’ I passed her my hooded jacket. The room wasn’t cold, but she was starting to shiver again and her face was really pale. ‘Put it on, it’ll keep you warm.’
So, no kidnapping then. Not for the money anyway. He’s not going to get much of a ransom from a guy who works at Homebase, is he? And besides, if he knows who I am, why bother kidnapping anyone else? I mean, you don’t rob a bank and then stop on the way out to break into a bubblegum machine, do you? Not unless you’re an idiot.
There’s no point. No reason.
No kidnap.
Which means …
What?
I have to get out of here, that’s what it means.
We have to get out of here.
The trouble is, I can’t see how. Everything is solid concrete. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. The only way out is the lift. But that’s hopeless. When the lift comes down the door stays open. When the lift goes up the door closes. The door is solid metal. Very thick. And the lift itself looks indestructible. And even if I could get through the door when the lift is up, what then? I don’t know what’s behind it. I don’t how high the lift shaft is. It could be thirty metres of sheer concrete for all I know.
And anyway, he’s watching us.
This afternoon, while Jenny was sleeping, I had another look round. A really good look round. Walking about, checking this, checking that, poking around, kicking walls, stamping on the floor.
It’s hopeless.
It’s like trying to escape from a sealed box.
After a while, I sat down at the dining table and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t help thinking of him up there. What’s he doing? Is he sitting down, standing up, walking about? Is he laughing? Grinning? Picking his nose? What’s he doing? Who is he? What? Who? Why?
Who are you?
What do you want?
What’s your kick?
What’s your thing?
And it was then, just as all these questions were floating around in my head, that I suddenly realized what I was staring at. There was a small circular grille set in the ceiling, directly above the dining table. I’d been looking at it for the last few minutes, but my eyes hadn’t taken it in. A small circular grille, about 10 cm in diameter, made of white metal mesh, fixed flush to the ceiling. I stared hard, making sure I wasn’t imagining it, and then I looked round and saw more of them. One, two, three, four. Four of them, spread out evenly along the length of the corridor.
I got up and checked the rest of the rooms.
The grilles are everywhere. There’s one in the lift, one in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, one in each of the other rooms.
I went back and got up on the table for a closer look.
Each grille is a perfect circle, split in two. A faint breeze of warmish air comes out of one side, and an equally faint current is sucked in the other. Ventilation, I suppose.
Heating.
But there’s more.
On either side of the grille there’s a little hole cut in the mesh. Embedded in each of the holes are two little buggy things. One is a flat silver disc about the size of a 5p coin, the other is like a small white bead with a tiny glass eye at the end.
Like this.
Microphone.
Camera.
Shit.
I tried to tear it out. I reached up and dug my fingers into the grille, trying to wrench it out, but I couldn’t get hold of anything. The bugs are fixed too tight, and the grille is too strong to break. I picked at it, studied it, whacked it with the palm of my hand. I whacked it again. Punched it. Hard. But all that did was rip the skin off my knuckles.
And that’s when I lost it.
Something inside me snapped, and I just started spitting and screaming at the grille like a lunatic. ‘You BASTARD! What do you want? Why don’t you show your bastard face, eh? Why don’t you do something? WHAT DO YOU WANT?’
He didn’t answer me.
11.30 p.m.
I’ve calmed down a bit now. I’ve thought calm thoughts and silenced the rage in my head. Underneath it all, I’m still dead scared and I’m still really angry and I still feel like screaming my heart out, but I’m not on my own any more. I can’t just do what I want to do. Ranting and raving about things might make me feel a little bit better, but it isn’t going to do Jenny any good. She’s got enough on her plate as it is. The last thing she needs is a madman for company.
She cried for a long time when she woke up this afternoon, big snotty tears that streamed down her face and soaked into her clothes. Then she curled up into a ball and lay on the floor for a while, muttering quietly to herself. I didn’t like that, it worried me. I felt better when she started crying again. This time the sobbing wasn’t quite so snotty and wet, but it was a lot wilder. She called out for her mum and dad, she shook and shivered, she wailed, she bawled.
I did my best.
I sat with her.
Watched over her.
She sobbed, she howled, her body heaved, and I just sat with her, crying a few silent tears myself.
I wish I could have done more to help her.
But I didn’t have any more.
Later, after Jenny had cried herself dry, she said she was hungry. She didn’t moan about it or anything. She just said, ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Me too,’ I told her.
‘I bet you’re not as hungry as me.’
She was probably right. I don’t actually feel that hungry any more. I know I am, though. A couple of times today I felt really tired, like I didn’t have any energy left, and I’m sure it’s because I haven’t eaten anything for a long time. I’m not too worried about it yet. I’ve been hungry before. I know what it’s like. You can go a long time without food.
Shit. Thinking about it has made me feel hungry again.
Anyway, it’s a relief to know that Jenny’s hungry. I mean, that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Like when you’re ill and you don’t have any appetite, and then you start getting better and you begin to feel hungry again.
That’s good, isn’t it?
I don’t know.
What do I know? I’m just a kid. I’m sixteen years old. I don’t know anything about looking after people. No one’s ever looked after me, and I’ve only ever looked after myself.
But still, my gut feeling tells me that Jenny’s feeling a bit better. It’s not good that she’s hungry, obviously. But I’d be a lot more worried if she wasn’t.
Earlier on this evening, when I was putting the wheelchair back in the lift, Jenny asked me what the perspex thing on the wall was for. She called it a tray.
‘What’s that tray for, Linus?’
‘I don’t know.’
She studied it for a while, then turned her attention to the one on the corridor wall. She looked thoughtful. Clear brown eyes, a curious little mouth.
‘Why don’t we ask him for some food?’ she said. ‘Send him a note.’
‘He knows we’re hungry,’ I said.
She reached up and took a sheet of paper from the leaflet-holder. ‘Maybe he wants us to ask. Some people are like that. They won’t give you anything unless you ask.’
I looked at her. She reached up and picked the pen off the wall, then crouched down, put the sheet of paper on the floor and got ready to write.
‘What shall I ask for?’ she said.
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Ask him to let us go.’
She wrote: Please let us go.
‘What else?’ she said.
‘Ask him what he wants.’
She wrote: What do you want.
‘Don’t forget the question mark.’
She added the question mark, then wrote: Please give us some food. Bread. Cheese. Apples. Crisps. Choclate. Milk. And some tea.
‘You like tea?’ I asked her.
‘Uh-huh.’
She wrote: Soap. Towls. Toothbrushs and toothpaste.
I said, ‘You’re a good writer.’
She gave me a look. ‘I’m not a baby.’
‘Sorry.’
She nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘I think that should do it.’
She wrote: Thank you. Then she stood up and placed the sheet of paper in the leaflet-holder in the lift and clipped the pen back on the wall.
‘Do you think it’ll work?’ I asked her.
She shrugged, looking pleased with herself.
I said, ‘It doesn’t really matter if it doesn’t work, does it?’
‘No.’
‘We won’t be any worse off than we are now.’
‘Right.’
I smiled. ‘I suppose you think you’re pretty smart?’
