The trees rounded with the bend in the driveway and then petered out within sight of the house. The outside lights were still on and lit up the vast expanse of lawn between Sam and the house. I can do it, Sam said to himself, I can do it. It wasn't that vast; he'd be across it in a flash. The man wouldn't see him because he was still down by the gate. Still Sam hesitated, unsure, glancing back down the drive and up towards the house. Was this being clever? Or was this the most stupidest thing he had done? The thing was he had run out of ideas. He could have gone round and round in circles, but the man knew the land better than him, and Lloyd was trapped inside the house. Sam couldn't get him any help. He was Lloyd's only help. This was his only chance to get Lloyd out. He had to go back for him – plus the man would never guess that Sam would go back to the house.
Then Sam thought of something that hadn't occurred to him at all. What if Lloyd was already dead? Don't be stupid, you moron, he hissed at himself. Lloyd wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. He was – he was ill, or something, but not dead. Definitely not dead. Sam started shivering. He had to get in the house and get Lloyd out before it was too late. Sam just wished he could stop shaking. He would go as soon as he did. It wasn't cold, or if it was it wasn't the cold that Sam felt. Breathing in deeply wasn't helping either. His hands had gone clammy and cold under their coating of mud. He clutched the stick hard with both hands to steady himself. He was running out of time. It had to be now.
He glanced back down the driveway towards the gate one last time and began the count.
One, two, three, GO!
He ran faster than he had ever run before, but the grass seemed to extend on further and further as he ran, and then he was past it. Within seconds he was across the gravel drive and at the front door. It stood wide open. The shiny, white flash car was still parked outside, but Sam barely glanced at it. The front door beckoned, and, for the second time that night, Sam entered the house.
10
Sam went past the gilded mirrors and the dusty portraits of the oldies, and it felt like a lifetime ago that he had been there last. But it hadn't been months, or weeks, or days, it had just been a few hours ago. He took the stairs two at a time, barely noticing the pain in his ankle. He was focussed again; intent on finding his friend and then getting as far away as possible. Sam knew there wasn't much time.
He got to the first floor and stopped to make sure he had his bearings right. The house was full of staircases; well, at least three that Sam could remember passing. What would have been useful was one of those state-of-the-art new watches that had a built-in compass; he could have made good use of it today. Soon they'd make one which had a mobile phone built into it too, and when they did he was going to get one no matter how much it cost. He wasn't even going to bother begging and pleading for it; he'd get a Saturday job and pay for it himself. He would have done anything for a mobile phone right now – even killed for it. If Lloyd had remembered to charge his stupid phone they wouldn't be in this mess now. Sam would get a mobile that had a solar battery built into it.
Phone! Land line! Why hadn't he thought of that before? There had to be one somewhere in this place. But first he had to find Lloyd. Or should he find a phone? Sam hesitated at the top of the stairs, uncertain. No, it had to be Lloyd first, before the man came back, and finding a phone would be faster with two of them looking.
He ran down the corridor opening every door on either side of it. None of them were locked. At the far end of the corridor, he found the games room and reached inside and grabbed his coat and their rucksacks from where they lay leaning against the wall. They had dumped them there as soon as they'd entered and beheld the land of dreams; the biggest and best array of games ever brought together in one room. Sam felt sick at the sight of them. He didn't think he would want to play one of those games ever again. He stuffed his coat into his rucksack, swung it over his back, picked up Lloyd's rucksack, and left the room.
He followed the corridor until it got to the point where it branched in two directions and this time he didn't pause. Their rooms were off to the right, he was sure of it. He went swiftly past the third staircase, knowing he was close. Lloyd's room was first. He couldn't remember the exact door, but it didn't matter. He'd find it. Further down the passage there was an open door, the light blazing from within, and Sam shuddered. The remains of his door were lying in a thousand bits of splintered fragments on the floor outside. He had been lucky. It could have been him.
He went more slowly now, but opened all the doors on both sides of the corridor. He couldn't remember why he'd decided to do that any more, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Someone must have done it in a book he'd read and it had made sense.
He knew when he got there that it was Lloyd's room. It was the only other one apart from his that had an open door. The door stood ajar, which was good, but odd because it should have been locked. Sam hadn't even thought about what he would do next if it had been locked. He wondered why the man hadn't bothered to lock Lloyd in. Maybe he had been in too much of a hurry to get outside and see what had become of his other prisoner.
Sam glanced back the way he had come. The corridor was empty, but Sam didn't know how much time he had. If the man didn't spot the ripped-off cuff that he'd thrown outside the gate, then he'd probably continue his circuit of the perimeter fence. If he did spot it, he'd go after Sam down the bumpy track towards the road. Either way it meant that there should be tons of time to get Lloyd out, find a phone, and then hide until help arrived.
Sam pushed the door open and stepped inside Lloyd's room. He placed Lloyd's rucksack on the floor to keep both his hands free. The room was dimly lit by a soft lamp and it wasn't a bedroom. There were a couple of sofas piled high with cushions, a shiny glass coffee table, a big flat-screen TV, a camcorder set up on a tripod, a stereo system, but no cameras up in the corners of the room, and no Lloyd. There were two doors at the far end of the room on either side of the window. One would lead to the bathroom, Sam thought, and the other one to the bedroom, which would probably be locked and that was why the outer door had been open. What would he do if it was locked though? Break the door down? Kick it in? Get real, duh-brain, you know there's no way you've got enough strength for that, he told himself. It was possible the man had left the bunch of keys lying around somewhere. Sam should have looked for it on his way up, but no – that would have wasted too much time and, besides, the man probably had them in his pocket, or they were hanging off his trendy black jeans.
Sam tried the door to the left of the window first. It wasn't locked, but one look inside told him it was the bathroom, a very plush one full of knick-knacks and stuff and nothing like Sam's bathroom. Sam checked for cameras and a window. No cameras, but a nice big window. There were two large white fluffy bathrobes hanging off shiny chrome pegs, and Sam took the ties from both of them and stuffed them quickly into his rucksack. He took a bar of soap and a towel, and then spotted a large, heavy glass paperweight, like a marble which had had a serious dose of steroids. Not an ideal weapon, but a whack over the head with that would knock someone out for sure. It was solid and heavier than it looked, but it just about fit into Sam's fist. He put it in his pocket, within hand-reach.
He stepped out of the bathroom and crossed the room. Lloyd had to be in this room, behind that door. But was it locked or was it open? Sam reached for the handle but hesitated for a moment. He might find Lloyd fast asleep, oblivious to everything that happened, or waiting for the man to come and tell him that the mythical pop group had arrived. Maybe it was just Sam that the man had it in for. Or the door might be locked and then what would he do?
The thoughts tumbled through his head as he hesitated, and he knew he was wasting time again. But he was scared. He wanted Lloyd to be all right. He gripped the handle with shaking fingers and turned it. The door swung inwards, moaning gently on its hinges.
It was dark inside and at first Sam couldn't see a thing. He put his hand out for the light switch and then thought bett
er of it. A light being switched on might alert the man. He could think it was Lloyd, but Sam didn't want to take the risk. He waited a minute while his eyes adjusted to the darkness and when they did Sam saw that the room was huge and packed with large pieces of furniture, their silhouettes standing to attention like sentries on duty.
He did a quick check for cameras and an escape route; it had become second nature to him now. There was a large window to his left, veiled with a wispy net curtain that filtered the moonlight into the room, but the drapes were still tied back. No cameras in the top corners of the room. At the centre of the room was a king-size bed, tussled sheets covered it with pillows at odd angles. The duvet lay in a heap on the floor. The bed was empty, and there was no sign of Lloyd.
'Lloyd. Lloyd,' Sam whispered. There were too many dark recesses, too many odd-shaped shadows. Lloyd could have been hiding in any of them.
Sam crept round the room softly, listening carefully in the silence for the sound of breathing. The man had said Lloyd wasn't well. Sam had thought he was lying, but it was possible that Lloyd really wasn't well and had crashed out, or was lying unconscious somewhere. Or he just-might not be in the room and Sam was wasting his time, precious time that he didn't have. Maybe he should have run through the house calling Lloyd's name in case he'd been locked in another room, but it was too late for that now.
Please be here, Lloyd, please be here. I don't want to get caught. Please. Where was he? He had to be here. Tears tickled behind Sam's eyes and he swept away the few that made their way down his cheeks.
'Lloyd, Lloyd,' he whispered again, but louder, more urgently. 'It's me. It's Sam. We've got to get out of here. Where are you? Lloyd, stop messing about!'
And then he thought he heard something.
It came from the far corner of the room. He moved towards it, brushing past the bed and over the duvet on the floor. The further he went from the window the less he could see, and he cursed loudly as he stumbled into a small table. A vase fell to the floor with a thump, but somehow Sam managed to catch the table lamp that would have followed it. He could barely see a thing. He put his hands out in front of him and felt the back of a chair. He shuffled round it, and called Lloyd's name again.
He heard a sound, like a whimper or something and it made him stop. It scared him. He stepped back. His heart had started pounding in his ears again. He couldn't do this in the dark. He just couldn't; it was too hard. He struggled with the sudden urge to run away. Why hadn't he just stayed in the woods? Daylight would have come eventually and he could have hidden out until then. Or he could have waited and watched the house until the man left, which he had to do sometime, and then come and got Lloyd.
Sod the risk, he needed light. If he did it carefully, the man might not see it from outside. He backtracked to the small table lamp and found the switch, but he didn't switch it on, not yet. He had to be clever about it. He set the lamp on the floor in front of the chair and felt around for some cushions to place on top of the lamp and around it. There were a couple of cushions on that chair and two on the chair on the other side of the table. Then he switched the lamp on.
Sam had contained the light well. It only lit up the little circle within the cushion ring. He angled the lamp towards the corner where he thought he had heard the sound coming from and then removed the cushion covering the top of the lamp. Now he could use it like a torch.
He peered into the far corners of the room but there was too much stuff in the way to see properly. He crept forwards again and, maybe it was his imagination, but he thought he spotted a slight movement under a side table. Something was under there, and it had to be Lloyd. If it was him then why didn't he answer? And what was he doing hiding under a table when he was free to walk out of the house?
The sound of footsteps in the distance penetrated the silence. Sam had almost missed them, but they weren't in his imagination, he was sure of it. The man was coming back and he had to be coming this way. The lamp was still on with its bizarre arrangement of cushions around it, and that would tell the man all he needed to know. He had to switch it off and hide, but Sam couldn't move.
Hide, hide, hide, hide, he screamed at himself, but fear had overcome him and he was paralysed. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move.
He could hear the man, the ominous tread, the jingle jangle of the keys. Terror gripped hold of Sam and clutched him tight. The dark silent woods were way less frightening than this. He should have stayed out there. He should have burrowed a hole, made himself small, and hidden there. Why had he come back? A scream rose in his throat.
Jingle, jangle, jingle, jangle.
'Sam,' a voice croaked. 'He's coming . . .'
And the low timbre of dread-filled moaning started an accompaniment to the jingle jangle.
11
The moaning became a wail as the jingle jangle came closer. The man had reached the outer room. In a few strides he'd be in the bedroom. Sam moved. He scrambled under the bed and pulled the duvet up against the bottom of it. Then he tried not to scream. He clapped his hand over his mouth and screwed his eyes shut tight. But he couldn't keep his eyes shut because then he wouldn't know if the man was looking under the bed. He opened them, and waited.
The main lights came on. Sam could hear laboured breathing as the man lumbered past the bed. He held his own breath until the man had gone past, hoping the man hadn't heard him.
'Been having a wander about, have you?' the man said. 'Told you not to bother, phone's been cut off for months. Seems your friend has taken a walk, too. Can't do as you're told, can you?'
The wailing stopped abruptly.
'Come on, out you come.'
Sam didn't think Lloyd had done as he was told because the man was getting angrier.
'Don't take all day about it, I haven't got much time. Get out of there!'
Sam cringed as the yelling started.
'I told you to come out. Now get the hell out or I'll drag you out myself!'
There was whimpering and shuffling. Sam pulled the duvet down just a tiny bit, just enough to peek out with one eye. He didn't want to see much, but he needed to see a bit. He needed to see Lloyd. Through the tiny peephole, all he could make out was the lower half of the man's body, and then a boy, crawling on his hands and knees, came into view. Sam almost didn't recognise Lloyd. He looked different, and it wasn't just because of the purple bruising round his left eye.
The man slumped down in the chair, his back to Sam, and beckoned with his finger. 'Come closer, Lloyd, we're going to have a little talk and I want you to listen to me carefully. I've got to go out for a bit, but I know you won't do anything silly. Not as stupid as your pal, are you? You know the only way out of here is with me, and like I said, you'll be going home tomorrow – if you're a very, very good boy.'
'I'll be good. I promise I'll be good. I promise. I won't do anything silly. I won't go wandering. I'll stay right here and wait for you. You can trust me. I promise. I promise.' His voice was barely a whisper and Sam had to strain to catch what Lloyd had said.
He knew Lloyd wouldn't let on that Sam was there. He knew he wouldn't dob him in. But Lloyd was scared and if the man threatened him, he just might tell on Sam. The man might promise to take Lloyd home now and Lloyd might be taken in again. If it was the other way around and Sam was out there and Lloyd was under the bed, would the promise of going home make Sam tell? Sam didn't know, but he wanted to think that it would be a no.
No, he'd never tell, and Lloyd wouldn't either. They were wise to that now. Somehow, Sam doubted that anyone would ever be able to take them in again. Ever.
'When I get back you can show me what a good boy you are, eh? We'll have ourselves a bit more fun before you go home. What do you say?'
Lloyd nodded, but his eyes were blank. 'Can I go home afterwards?'
''Course you can,' the man said softly. 'Didn't I promise you that? Didn't I?'
'Yes,' Lloyd whispered.
'As long as you're good, Lloyd. You know I don't want
to hurt you, but if you don't listen then I have to help you listen, don't I? I'll get you some ice for your eye when I get back. Doesn't hurt too much, does it?'
'No.'
'Now come over here. Nothing to be scared of. Closer. That's better, Lloyd. Much better. I told you you'd start to like it, didn't I?'
The man began caressing Lloyd, stroking his hair. 'You really are such a good kid,' the man sighed. 'Almost a shame you have to go home, isn't it?'
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears. He didn't want to hear, he didn't want to see. He felt sick. He began to retch silently, trying hard not to chuck up, trying hard not to make a sound, not to give himself away. Inside he was crying.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that. It could have been just a few minutes, or it could have been an hour. When he took his hands away from his ears he heard the man saying, 'Just to make sure you don't do anything silly and jeopardise your chance of getting home, I'm going to tie your hands. Make yourself comfortable on the bed, Lloyd, that way you can have a kip, too.'
They moved across to the bed and Sam edged his way deeper into the middle of it, desperately hoping the man didn't bend down to pick up the duvet.
'I'll just tie one hand to the bedpost, Lloyd, so you're not uncomfortable. There now, that didn't hurt, did it?'
He sounded so nice, so attentive, so considerate. He could have been a doctor, and not a complete whacko psycho sicko maniac.
Lloyd's response was a muffled no.
'Good. Right, I'll be back in a bit.'
The Long Weekend Page 7
