The Lost Ones

by Ben Cheetham

‘Please, Granddad! Erin’s my sister. I have to be there. I’ll stay out of sight. I promise.’

  Henry looked at Jake pensively. ‘Regardless of what I say, you’d follow me anyway. Wouldn’t you?’

  Jake nodded.

  Henry heaved a sigh. ‘All right, but you stay out of sight no matter what. And I mean no matter what. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  With a grave smile, Henry rested a hand on Jake’s shoulder. ‘You’re a good boy, Jake. I’m proud you’re my grandson. I want you to know that.’

  Despite his anxiety, Jake felt a flush of pleasure.

  ‘Right, let’s go get your sister back.’ As if it was an afterthought, Henry pointed to the diary. ‘Oh, and you’d better put that somewhere out of sight. We don’t want your mum or grandma finding it.’

  ‘Why? What does it matter if they do? We’re giving it to the police anyway.’

  ‘I know that’s what I said, but perhaps we should do some investigating of our own first. We don’t know if Hank’s even still alive. If he isn’t, and if he’s survived by a family, it’s worth considering what sort of impact this diary would have on them. We don’t want to needlessly ruin anyone’s life, do we now?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Jake returned the diary to its hiding place.

  ‘No one else has read the diary, have they?’

  ‘No. My friend Lauren knows about it, but she hasn’t seen it.’

  ‘Good. Now let’s forget about the diary for the moment and focus on the task ahead of us.’ They headed downstairs. ‘I want you to wait here for five minutes after I leave. We can’t risk being seen together in case the kidnapper is watching. I’ll go into the Ingham house and when I’m sure it’s safe I’ll signal for you to follow. OK?’

  Jake nodded. ‘Do you think I should take a weapon? A knife or something?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Remember your promise.’ Indicating for Jake to stand well back, Henry opened the front door. They exchanged a final glance, then Henry closed the door behind him.

  Jake darted to the living-room window, throwing a glance at the grandfather clock. Peeping around the curtains, he watched his granddad disappear through the gates. His gaze shifted back to the clock. Less than a minute had ticked by. He headed into the kitchen and slid a carving knife out of a block. He stared at it uncertainly, before returning it to the block. He looked at the time again. Still another three minutes to go. This was the longest five minutes of his life! His heart was beating so hard it made him want to puke. He futilely tried to calm himself with deep breaths. He thought about the chick and ran upstairs to the nest box. The chick appeared to be sleeping. Watching the rise and fall of its breathing had its usual, almost magical, calming effect. ‘See you soon,’ he murmured. He returned downstairs and checked the clock again. It was time.

  As he left the house and made his way along the lane, his eyes scoured the trees, hedges, fields and gardens for anything suspicious. There was a woman pushing a pram, a man mowing a lawn, a car passed by. All perfectly normal. Jake tried to appear normal too, resisting the urge to walk faster than usual until he reached the woods that fringed the river. Reasoning that if the kidnapper was watching it would be obvious where he was going, he allowed his nervous excitement to get the better of him. He ran to the flaking green gate. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat on the pentagram, before he skirted along the hedge. He crawled into the garden, peering through the long grass at the house. The sun beating on his back and the nerves churning in his stomach brought prickles of sweat to the surface all over his body.

  Once again, the minutes seemed to stretch out like melted plastic. Finally, his granddad poked his head out from behind the loose metal plate. Henry gave a quick thumbs up and drew back into the house. That was the signal! Jake sprang to his feet and sprinted to the boarded-up French doors. He slid into the echoingly bare room. ‘Granddad,’ he whispered, struggling to see anything in the gloom.

  His squinting eyes travelled over the dusty floorboards to the gaping fireplace, then along the graffiti-daubed walls. The room appeared to be empty. Goosebumps crawled up his arms. The house felt cold, colder even than when he’d gone there at night. ‘Granddad,’ he whispered again. ‘Where are you?’

  Still, there was no reply. That niggling feeling returned more strongly, a sense that he’d seen or heard something significant but couldn’t think what. He crossed the room and peered into the hallway. Dead leaves rustled as a breeze blew from somewhere. Suddenly, in a voice that seemed to be both inside and outside his head, it came to him. I love you too, more than my own life. That was what Hank had said to Rachel. And that was what his granddad had said to him. Gasping in horrified realisation, he turned to run for the French doors. At that instant he felt an intense pressure in his left side, like someone had punched all the air out of him. Eyes bulging, he looked down. A knife was sticking out from just below his armpit. His gaze moved from the hand gripping its handle up to a familiar pair of teary eyes. His mouth opened. All that emerged was a strangled whimper. He tried to reach for the knife, but his arms wouldn’t obey. His legs gave way as his granddad pushed the blade deeper.

  Henry caught Jake and lowered him to the floorboards as gently as he used to tuck him into bed. ‘That’s it, my sweet boy,’ he murmured. ‘Sleep now, sleep now.’

  As Jake spiralled down towards unconsciousness, a final thought flashed through his mind: What about the chick? Who will look after it? Then, like fingers snuffing out a candle, his eyelids came together.

  DAY 2

  12.28 P.M.

  The overhang was about half a metre high. Seth peered into its cool gloom. He made out a leg and arm covered with mud and scratches, grimy denim shorts and a once-white T-shirt, a face partly hidden by a tangle of auburn hair. Erin was lying on her belly with her arms at her sides. The hair above her forehead was matted with what appeared to be dried blood. There were reddish-brown streaks on her face and clothes too. Her eyes were open, but unfocused.

  She’s dead, thought Seth. Then she blinked and fear flooded her eyes.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, squirming towards her. ‘I’m here to help.’

  Erin showed no sign of understanding. She weakly tried to push Seth away as he slid his arms under her. As he manoeuvred her out from the overhang, she trembled like a terrified rabbit. Her hair fell away from her face, revealing sunburnt cheeks and cracked lips. A congealed gash jutted out of her hairline. The skin around it was swollen and discoloured. Seth attempted a reassuring smile, repeating, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’ She felt as light as a doll in his arms. He waded across the stream and climbed the opposite bank. He glanced down at Erin. She stared back, her bleary chocolate-button eyes no longer scared, but not at ease, just sort of watching. ‘Everybody’s been looking for you, Erin,’ he said. ‘Your parents, your grandparents, the whole of—’

  ‘Erin,’ she interrupted in a tiny hoarse voice that seemed to suggest the name was unfamiliar.

  ‘They’ll all be so happy to see you.’ Seth lifted his gaze. The other searchers were fanned out by the treeline. Holly was looking in his direction, shielding her eyes from the sun. Then they were all turning to look, and then shouts were ringing out and they were running towards him.

  ‘Oh my God, please tell us she’s alive,’ said someone.

  ‘She’s alive,’ replied Seth.

  ‘An air ambulance is on its way,’ Holly informed him. ‘Sergeant Dyer says to move Erin as little as possible.’

  Seth gently lowered Erin onto a blanket. Another blanket was placed over her. Holly tried to give Erin some water, but she pressed her lips together and looked at Seth. Holly pushed the bottle into his hand. ‘You try.’

  Cupping Erin’s head, Seth upended the bottle against her lips. She allowed some water to pass between them.

  ‘She likes you,’ Holly said with a little smile.

  He looked down as Erin’s fingers curled around his. Then, suddenly, it was like something warm was rushing into him, filling him up to ov
erflowing. Tears spilled uncontrollably down his cheeks. He fought an urge to hide his face and was relieved when his fellow searchers turned their heads at the whump-whump of a helicopter. A fat-bellied, yellow mountain-rescue helicopter descended a hundred metres or so away, flattening the heather, stirring up swirls of pollen. Seth shielded Erin’s eyes.

  Two paramedics in red jumpsuits emerged from the helicopter, carrying a medical kit and a collapsible stretcher. The searchers moved back to give them space. They worked on Erin quickly and methodically, checking her vitals, cleaning and bandaging her head, encasing her neck in a brace. Sergeant Dyer and several constables joined the onlookers. The paramedics lifted Erin onto the stretcher and carried her to the helicopter. Seth felt a strong reluctance to let her out of his sight. His gaze followed the helicopter into the sky. He flinched at a pat on his shoulder.

  ‘Bloody good job,’ Sergeant Dyer congratulated him. ‘You found Erin just in the nick of time. She wouldn’t have survived much longer.’

  ‘How does it feel to know you saved her life?’ asked Holly.

  ‘I . . .’ Seth faded into uncertainty. All he knew was that for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt something pure and true. And he wanted to hold onto that feeling even more than he had done Erin’s hand.

  ‘I think that means he’s a bit overwhelmed,’ said the sergeant. ‘Now, Seth, I need you to show me where you found Erin.’

  Seth led him to the boulder. ‘At approximately what time did you find her?’ asked the sergeant.

  Seth glanced at his watch. The sight of it gave him a jolt. He should have been well on his way to the Ingham house by now. There was no way he’d be able to make it by the agreed time. He’d have to rearrange the exchange. He felt himself going cold at the thought. After answering Sergeant Dyer’s question and those that followed it and promising to attend the station to make an official statement, he headed off in search of a suitably secluded spot to make the call.

  Holly homed in on him. ‘Do you fancy going for that drink? I think we’ve earned it.’

  Sorry but I can’t, his grandma’s voice rang out. Go on, retard, say it.

  He started to put on a carefully self-schooled apologetic expression. It felt so easy, like slipping into old clothes. But then, as if he’d touched something slimy, his features creased. ‘No.’

  Taken aback, Holly said, ‘But I thought . . .’ She shook her head in an oh, forget it gesture and turned away from him.

  ‘Wait. It . . .’ It wasn’t you I was saying no to – that’s what Seth had started to say. But realising how crazy it would sound, he continued, ‘It’s not that I don’t want to go for a drink. I just can’t go right away. I have to make a statement at the police station. But after that we can meet up and do whatever.’

  He reached for Holly’s hand. She laced her fingers into his, a mischievous glint in her eyes. ‘I could go for a bit of whatever.’

  Seth’s cheeks grew warm at her suggestive reply. She smiled and tugged at his hand. ‘We’d better start walking or the bus will go without us.’

  ‘You go ahead. I have to make a quick call.’

  ‘OK, but first I just need to—’ Holly leaned in and stole a kiss, before whirling away.

  Seth stared after her in a momentary daze. He took out the pay-as-you-go phone and opened the contacts list. There were only two numbers on it – Henry Brooks’s landline and mobile. He deleted them both. It wouldn’t be difficult to find them again if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. Not ever. He stood basking in the silence of his mind for several deep breaths. Then he started after Holly.

  DAY 2

  1.04 P.M.

  Henry felt for a pulse in Jake’s throat and couldn’t find one. He tenderly kissed Jake’s forehead. Hooking his hands under Jake’s armpits, he dragged him out of sight of the French doors. He gripped the knife again. Steel grated on bone as he pulled it free. He retrieved the briefcase and placed it in the centre of the living room, before returning to his hiding place in the deep darkness to the side of the French doors. Holding the knife ready, he leaned against the wall to wait.

  His tongue moved slowly over his lips. He hadn’t been inside the house since the night of the murders. Before the last two days, he’d barely even thought about all that in years. But now waves of memory broke over him, threatening to overwhelm his consciousness. He saw himself creeping up behind Elijah Ingham. He saw the hammer crashing down. He heard the dry, then increasingly wet crunch of Elijah’s skull as he hit him again and again. Blood was everywhere – so intensely red it almost seemed to glow. He saw Rachel – her eyes so luminous they made the blood seem dull by comparison. It was a sweet agony to remember her so vividly, to know that the moment he’d thought she became truly his was instead the moment he lost her for ever.

  Or was it for ever? Was he about to see her in the flesh again for the first time in forty years? Or had she passed the letters on to someone else? Logic suggested the latter possibility. If Rachel was going to blackmail him, why would she have waited so long? But then again, there’d never been anything logical about their relationship. It had been doomed from the start. That was obvious to him now. Back then, though, it was as if they’d been possessed by something primordial, something beyond reason or rationality. Part of him hoped logic was right. He didn’t want to see what the passing years had done to Rachel. He wanted to preserve her as she’d looked the last time he saw her – perfect porcelain skin, hair like brown silk.

  Not that it had ever simply been about her looks. Really she’d been quite a plain girl – chubby-cheeked and snub-nosed. But her eyes! Such vulnerability. Such innocence. It had been almost hypnotic. He’d had to find out what was behind them. How deep did the innocence go? At first he’d seen her as a plaything. It had amused him to fill her head with nonsense about devil worshippers and demons and watch her turn against her parents. Then he’d learned what was beneath her surface and his world had shifted on its axis. He’d become the vulnerable one. That part of him yearned to look in those eyes again and feel that connection, that sense of twin souls coming together – even if it was only for an instant as he thrust the knife into her.

  Henry stopped leaning against the wall. Cold was seeping from the plaster through his shirt. How much longer was he going to have to wait in this damp old hole of a house? He squinted at his watch: 12.40. That couldn’t possibly be right. He put it to his ear. The damn thing had stopped ticking. He took out his phone. The screen cast a pale glow, highlighting the creases of his pinched jowls. It was almost two o’clock. Not too much longer to wait, especially if the blackmailer was shrewd enough to arrive early and check out the house – which Rachel most certainly was.

  As more minutes slipped by, Henry began to shiver. He silently swore at himself for not bringing his jacket. He was going to end up catching a chill at this rate. Eventually, judging that more than enough time had passed, he glanced at his phone again: 2.36. Where the hell was this bastard? What kind of idiot turned up late to collect their blackmail money? Surely not Rachel.

  Ten more minutes passed. He ground his teeth in irritation. This was ridiculous! Either this bastard was playing some kind of game or they’d lost their nerve. He’d give them five more minutes then . . . Then what? His brow wrinkled, but only briefly. The ‘then what’ was obvious. It would be a high-risk strategy, but what else could he do? He couldn’t ring the blackmailer. The police were certain to check his phone records. With all the forensics these days, they’d doubtless be able to determine he made the call after Jake died. And given the lies he intended to tell, that would be a quick route to a life sentence. Waiting around much longer doing nothing wasn’t an option either. Every minute the corpse lay there getting colder left his plan more exposed to failure. As far as he could see, his freedom hinged on one thing – greed. If the blackmailer made the love letters public, it would all come crashing down no matter what he did. But he felt confident that wouldn’t happen. You didn’t kill the golden goo
se.

  The allotted minutes, plus a couple more elapsed. ‘Bugger you then, whoever you are,’ scowled Henry, dialling 999. The call failed to connect. No bloody signal! With a snort of annoyance, he snatched up the briefcase and thrust his way out of the French doors. His phone pinged. ‘Ten missed calls’ – all from Cathy. Had she returned home and discovered Jake and he were gone? Whatever it was, it would have to wait. He opened the briefcase, revealing an empty interior. He tossed it into a bush and dialled 999 again. This time he got through. In a breathless, groggy voice he told the emergency operator, ‘I need an ambulance. My grandson . . . He’s been stabbed.’

  ‘How long ago?’ asked the operator.

  ‘I’m not sure. I think I lost consciousness.’

  ‘Are you injured too?’

  ‘My head . . .’ Henry faded into a groan.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is your grandson conscious?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is he breathing?’

  ‘I can’t tell. I’m pulling the knife out of him.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. What’s your address?’

  Henry told the operator, adding desperately, ‘Hurry. I . . . I think I’m losing con—’ He slurred off into silence.

  ‘An ambulance is on its way. Hello, can you hear me?’

  Henry didn’t reply. As he re-entered the house, the signal broke up. He knelt and pulled up Jake’s blood-sopped T-shirt. There was so much blood it was impossible to tell where the knife had penetrated from looking alone. He felt around until he found the straight-lipped wound. Very carefully, he slid the knife through the tear in the T-shirt and inserted it back into the wound. He planted his hands on the floorboards. As if performing a crazed prayer, he smashed his forehead against the rough wood again and again until blood streamed down his face.

  DAY 2

  1.42 P.M.

  Tom stared blankly out of the BMW, while Eddie lit a fresh cigarette with the end of his old one. They were parked on a dirt track in a copse of oak trees. Tom’s phone rang. He glanced at it, but didn’t answer the call.