A slow, unexpected smile spread across his face. Propping the flashlight on the ground, he moved back slightly so that Emma could see his whole head. Then he began wiggling his own ears.
He was way beyond Emma, in a class of his own. He could move his ears together, but he could move each ear separately, too. And he could do it at different speeds, setting up a rhythm. Left, right, left RIGHT, RIGHT, left, right, left, RIGHT, RIGHT. Before she knew what she was doing, Emma found herself putting words to the rhythm.
We are the champions, we are the champions . . .
She began to laugh, snorting helplessly through her nose because she couldn’t open her mouth. It messed up her face, but she couldn’t help herself. Warren looked irresistibly funny, frowning with solemn concentration as he wiggled out the song. She rocked her head from side to side, hiccuping with laughter.
Warren stopped at last, looking pink and gratified. If he’d been standing onstage, he would have taken a bow. Emma gazed up at him, still grinning, and he studied her face for a second.
Then he muttered, “When Hope was here, I sometimes used to—she didn’t mind—can I—?”
What did he want to do? All the laughter drained out of Emma. She remembered Hope’s wasted body and her mumbling voice.
“It’s all right,” Warren muttered. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just—look, it’s all right.”
He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew Emma’s nose, very gently. Then he began wiping the tape underneath it and the skin all around the tape. As he worked, he muttered in a low, soothing voice.
“It’s OK. I won’t be a minute. You’ll look much nicer when it’s done. Just keep still. . . .”
Emma knew, without being told, that he was talking to her the way he’d talked to Hope. It was like peering through a window into the past. She hated the touch of his fingers, but she lay still and let him clean her face. Even when he licked the handkerchief without thinking, with his own tongue, and then rubbed it on her chin. She let him do it.
Until the handkerchief reached her right cheekbone. And it hurt.
Taken by surprise, she gave a loud grunt. Immediately Warren dropped the handkerchief and flapped his hands at her, signaling that she had to stay silent.
“I’m sorry,” he gabbled. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you. We didn’t know how hard we needed to hit. And then the van door—sorry. We just had to be sure we knocked you out.”
Suddenly, everything they’d just been doing seemed ridiculous. Emma cringed at the memory of herself pulling faces and trying to win him over. How could she ever have thought he might be on her side? The Armstrongs were all maniacs, completely cut off from reality. And they were never going to let her go. Never, never, never.
“No,” Warren said desperately, flapping his hands again. “Don’t cry. You’ll be home soon. The moment we get Hope back.”
You’ll never get her back. And nor will we. Not even Robert—though he wants that more than anything in the world. Hope’s lost forever. And now I’m lost, too.
She was gagged and trussed—and if she died down here, in this horrible, stinking hole, no one would ever know where her body was. Robert and Tom would try to find her, but the Armstrongs would be expecting that. They were bound to have some plan to keep her hidden.
Warren was patting her arm frantically, to try and keep her quiet. Babbling stupid reassurances into her ear. “Mom will give you a drink soon. I know she will. And something to eat as well. You’re going to be all right. All you have to do is be sensible—”
And then he froze.
A second later, Emma heard the noise he’d picked up. A car, crunching over gravel, close to the house.
Warren’s panic went into overdrive. “Sssh!” he hissed. “I’ve got to go. I’ll come back and talk to you soon, but just be quiet for now—or Dad will find you.”
He scuttled toward the trapdoor and scrabbled up into the conservatory. As the car’s engine stopped, Emma heard the noises she was coming to recognize. The scrape of the metal catches that fastened the trapdoor in place. The carpet sliding over it. The television being put back.
The television landed on the mat just as the front door opened. It was turned off now, and there was nothing to mask the sounds drifting down to Emma. She heard feet coming into the hall. The soft sound of Mrs. Armstrong speaking and then another, deeper voice.
Mr. Armstrong.
What had Warren meant? Be quiet for now—or Dad will find you. Didn’t he know already that she was there? Surely he was the person who’d come up behind and hit her on the head?
Surely Warren and his mother couldn’t really have done it all on their own?
Could they?
It was a startling idea—but it had to be important. If they’d done it without telling Mr. Armstrong, that meant there was a split in the family. And she might be able to take advantage of that. She needed to think how she could play them off against each other. Forcing herself to ignore the pain that thudded in her head, she concentrated as hard as she could, trying to gather together everything she knew about the three of them.
If there was a chance for her to help herself, she had to be ready when it came.
12
AFTER WARREN RAN AWAY, EMMA WAS ON HER OWN FOR A LONG time. At first, she tensed at every noise overhead, every voice and footfall. But gradually she came to understand that none of them were aimed at her. No one came.
She began to wriggle as much as she could, shifting her body to avoid getting numb. There wasn’t much scope for movement but she worked out a sequence of exercises, flexing her muscles and arching her back and rolling her hips from side to side.
The exercise made her slightly warmer, but it made her feel even more hungry and thirsty. Her headache was almost unbearable now. She didn’t know whether it was caused by thirst or whether it had something to do with the blow to her head. What had they used to hit her from behind? And what had Warren meant about the van door?
Her memory of the kidnap was still very vague—and that was worrying, too. She thought they must have snatched her as she came out of the alley. But what had happened to her bike? Was it still there, propped against the wall? Why couldn’t she remember? Warren’s weird words danced in her head: Memory death. Mad Em theory. Hammered toy. Perhaps the blow had given her a concussion. Or even some more permanent kind of brain damage. How would she know?
She worried about how they were treating her now, as well. Why weren’t they feeding her? Maybe they meant to starve her until she was so desperate that she would say anything. She told herself that she would never do that, that she would keep on resisting them until Robert and Tom came to rescue her.
But when she dozed off, she babbled in her dreams. Hope’s very small now. If you dig up the hedge bank you’ll find her. She woke in a panic, clamping her lips together to keep the words back. Forgetting that she was gagged and couldn’t talk in her sleep.
THE NEXT TIME THE TRAPDOOR OPENED, IT WAS DARK OUTSIDE. The blinds were closed in the conservatory and the light that came through the trapdoor had a yellow, electric glare.
Mrs. Armstrong lifted the lid away from the opening and came down fast. As soon as her feet hit the black plastic, she turned around and reached up for something that Warren was handing down to her. A loaded tray. She took it quickly and scurried toward Emma. Warren was crouching up above, shining a flashlight so that she could see.
Emma’s eyes locked on to the tray, focusing on the important details. The plastic mug. The banana. The thick slice of bread. Behind her sticky gag, she swallowed dryly, wondering what she would have to do to get them.
Whether she would have to refuse.
But there was obviously no time for negotiations. Mrs. Armstrong put the tray down and knelt beside her. “I’ve brought you some food and water,” she said hurriedly. “But there’s not much time—and I’ll take it away if you make a noise.”
Emma nodded, to show that she accepted the conditions
, and Mrs. Armstrong pulled off the tape over her mouth.
“If you want me to hurry,” Emma croaked, “you’ll have to let me sit up. Otherwise I’ll choke.”
Mrs. Armstrong sighed impatiently, but she didn’t argue. Reaching over Emma’s head, she untied some of the cords that held her down. Then she put an arm behind her shoulders and heaved her up into a sitting position.
Emma felt dizzy, because she’d been lying so long. And, because of the way her legs were taped, she couldn’t keep herself upright. As soon as Mrs. Armstrong let go of her and turned around for the tray, she thumped backward on to the ground.
“For goodness’ sake!” Mrs. Armstrong said. She called up through the trapdoor. “Warren! You’ll have to come down and hold her, or she won’t be able to swallow anything.”
Warren leaned over the edge of the opening. “But if I come down, there won’t be anyone to watch—”
“That doesn’t matter.” Mrs. Armstrong was starting to get hassled. “She’s got to eat, and I can’t manage by myself.”
“All right,” Warren said. But he didn’t sound very happy about it. He jumped down clumsily, staggering as he hit the ground.
“Hurry,” Mrs. Armstrong snapped. “Or he’ll be back before we’ve done anything.”
Warren dropped the flashlight and scuttled toward them. Mrs. Armstrong pointed irritably and he wriggled behind Emma and heaved her up again, propping her in place with his body. The whole thing was very quick, as though he knew what to do without thinking. Because he’d done it a hundred times before.
The instant Emma was upright, Mrs. Armstrong held the mug to her lips—and for a moment, nothing mattered except the water. Emma ducked her head forward and drank, so fast that she almost retched.
All the time she was drinking, Mrs. Armstrong was hissing in her ear, in an angry whisper. “We can’t keep you hidden like this for much longer. If you don’t tell us what we need to know soon, my husband will find you. And you’ll wish you hadn’t been so stupid.”
Leaning back against Warren, Emma felt him grow tenser as his mother talked. Was he afraid of his father? She remembered how Hope had cowered and hit her own face when she thought she’d made too much noise. This was the room where she’d learned to do that. Had Warren learned to be afraid here, too?
The last few drops dribbled out of the mug. Emma twisted her head away, to show that she’d finished, and Mrs. Armstrong’s free hand shot out for the banana. Dropping the cup, she pulled back the skin and aimed the banana at Emma’s mouth.
“All you’ve got to do is say a few words,” she muttered. “Just enough to tell us where to find Hope.” She was pushing the banana between Emma’s teeth with practiced efficiency. Not enough to choke her, but enough to keep her quiet. “As soon as we know that, you can go home.”
Emma felt Warren shift uneasily. “You’ll have to promise not to talk,” he said. “Otherwise—”
He stopped, and there was an uncomfortable stillness. Gulping at a mouthful of banana, Emma suddenly understood that they hadn’t really planned what was going to happen after they kidnapped her. They didn’t know how to get the information they wanted—and, if she did give them the information, they had no idea how to stop her going straight to the police as soon as they let her go.
They weren’t terrifying criminal masterminds. They weren’t expert kidnappers. They were a couple of ordinary people, bumbling around. They’d probably only managed to snatch her in the first place because she’d knocked herself out by accident, on the van door.
And that was much more frightening than being in the hands of experts. Because they might suddenly panic—and what would happen then?
She swallowed the banana in her mouth, very fast. “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “You don’t need—”
But she obviously wasn’t meant to be discussing anything. Mrs. Armstrong pushed the banana at her again and it squelched into her mouth, catching on her teeth and smearing itself over her top lip. Emma had to bite off the next piece to keep herself from choking.
Before she could eat it, Warren jumped up, letting go of her so that she went sprawling backward. “It’s Dad!” he said. And he sounded scared now. “Listen!”
Emma heard the car now, coming up onto the gravel much faster than last time. Mrs. Armstrong dropped the banana and hissed at Warren.
“Out! As fast as you can!”
They made straight for the hatch. Warren went up first, with Mrs. Armstrong pushing at his legs to speed him up. As she pushed, she snapped over her shoulder at Emma.
“Keep absolutely silent. If you don’t he’ll find out you’re here—and then you’ll be sorry.”
Then she hauled herself out of the hole, abandoning everything that she and Warren had brought down. In the flashlight, Emma could see the half-eaten banana and the lovely, thick slice of bread, just too far away for her to reach. She stared at them as the hatch cover went on and the carpet slapped down, quickly followed by the television.
It was all done just in time. A split second later, Emma heard a man’s voice, away at the front of the house.
She couldn’t make out what he was saying, and she had no idea whether it was really Mr. Armstrong or not. But it wasn’t one of her bumbling, panicky kidnappers. It was another person—and there was no gag over her mouth, and no television blaring overhead.
She didn’t waste time trying to decide what was the most sensible thing to do. She just seized the opportunity she’d been given. Gulping down the piece of banana in her mouth, she started to yell.
“Help! Help! Come and get me out of here!”
The earth still absorbed up most of the noise she made. But this time there was a real chance of being heard. And she wasn’t in any mood to give up. If she didn’t do something, she’d soon find herself gagged once more. She’d be shut up on her own in the cold darkness again, and she couldn’t bear the idea of that.
“They’re keeping me a prisoner!” she bellowed. “Help!”
She fumbled around with her crossed hands until she found the empty plastic mug. Grabbing it tightly, she began to bang it up and down on the metal tray.
“Help! Get me out! HELP!”
She could tell the exact moment when the man up above realized where the noise was coming from. His voice sharpened suddenly and his feet came running toward the hatch.
“I’m down here!” she shouted, hearing the television slide sideways.
(What have I done? whimpered Mary the Demo inside her head. But she hardly heard it. The Emma part of her mind was too busy saying, Good!)
The hatch cover came off with a thump. She stopped shouting and held her breath.
“Who’s down there?” Mr. Armstrong’s voice said sharply. “Come here!”
He was over the opening now, leaning down into the hole and angling his head to try and see up to the end of the secret room.
“Come here,” he said again, beginning to sound impatient. “Come where I can see you.”
Emma had forgotten how big he was. Lit by the flashlight from below, his heavy, jowled cheeks were grotesquely shadowed. His hands loomed huge as they gripped the wooden frame of the hatch. She took a quick, nervous breath.
He heard it. For a second, there was an odd silence. And then, in quite a different voice, he said, “Hope? Is that you?”
IT WAS THE SMELL OF SMOKE THAT ROUSED LORN. SHE OPENED HER EYES BEFORE she was properly awake and saw a dazzle of red light in front of her. For an instant, in the dark, she thought she was still Hope, staring up at the black, accusing figure behind the light.
Then her nose caught the other scent, behind the wood smoke, and her mind clicked into gear.
“Perdew!” she said.
He was standing over her with the glowing wood burning low in his hand, staring at the half-eaten grain in her lap. At the woody ends of the dried berries she’d eaten, and the shelled nuts lying on the square of leather.
“What have you done?” he said. He looked disgusted.
For a moment, she didn’t know what he meant. She looked up at him, bewildered, not realizing what he was seeing.
“You’ve been eating.” His voice was furious now. “How could you, Lorn? How could you?”
“I was hungry,” she said. “I needed food—”
And then she understood. Not from what he said, but from the expression on his face. He thought she’d taken the food herself.
It wasn’t me. It was Bando. The words were almost out when she knew that she couldn’t say them. She remembered Bando’s low, mumbling voice and his clumsy haste as he backed away toward the ramp. He must have been terrified. What had it cost him to break the rules like that?
Perdew was already edging away, toward the bottom of the ramp. Still watching her, he yelled up into the cavern. “Come into the storeroom! Quickly!”
That was all it took to set feet running overhead and bring the others racing down the ramp. Cam was in the lead, with a new, bright torch in her hand. When she saw Lorn she stopped in amazement. Looking horrified and scornful.
The others crowded down behind her. Lorn heard them gasp as they saw her sitting there. And then there was a terrible, angry silence. If they’d spoken, she might have tried to invent some kind of explanation, but she dared not speak into that anger.
Zak came down the ramp last, with Bando beside him. Lorn crouched where she was, staring up at the two of them. Bando looked puzzled and confused, but it was impossible to tell how Zak was going to react. His face was calm as the others parted to let him through and the first words he spoke were for someone else.
“Perdew,” he said. Not looking around but staring steadily at Lorn. “Perdew, your fingers are burning. Throw the wood away.”
Perdew glanced down impatiently, as though he hadn’t felt the fire. Then he tossed the wood into a corner, throwing it hard so that it burst apart, loosing a shower of sparks.
Zak let the sparks die in the air. Then he said, “There has always been a punishment for stealing food.”
The Nightmare Game Page 11
