by Alex North
Much like Jake Kennedy’s former home, of course.
The scary house.
The man remembered that monstrosity from his own childhood. It appeared to have been common knowledge among the other children that the place was dangerous, although none of them had known why. Some said it was haunted; others claimed that a former murderer lived there. All without reason, of course—it was solely down to how it looked. If they hadn’t treated Francis the same way, he would have been able to tell them the real reason the house was frightening. But there had been nobody for him to tell.
It felt like a long time ago. He wondered if the police had found the remnants of his old life yet. Even if so, it didn’t matter; he’d left little behind but dust. He remembered how easy it had been—how simple it was, on one level, to become someone else if you wanted. It had cost less than a grand to acquire a new identity from a man sixty miles south of here. Ever since, he had been building a shell around himself to enable him to begin his transformation, the same way a caterpillar emerges from its own cocoon, vibrant and powerful and unrecognizable.
And yet traces of the frightened, hateful boy he had once been remained. Francis had not been his name in years, but it was still how he thought of himself. He could remember his father making him watch the things he did to those boys. From the look on his father’s face, Francis had understood only too well that the man had hated him, and that he would have done the same to Francis if he could. The boys he killed had only ever been stand-ins for the child he despised most of all. Francis had always been well aware of how worthless and disgusting he was.
He couldn’t save the boys he’d seen murdered all those years ago, just as he couldn’t help or comfort the child he had once been. But he could make amends. Because there were so many children like him in the world, and it wasn’t too late to rescue and protect them.
He and Jake would be good for each other.
Francis sipped his coffee, then stared up at the night sky and its meaningless patterns of constellations. His thoughts drifted to the violence back at the house. His skin was still singing with the thrill of that, and he knew it was a sensation his mind should avoid. Because even though he had known in advance the evening would involve a physical confrontation, it had been surprising how natural it had been when it happened. He had killed once, and it had been easy to kill again. It was as though what he’d been forced to do to Neil had turned a key inside him, unlocking desires he’d only been dimly aware of beforehand.
It had felt good, hadn’t it?
Coffee slopped over his hand, and he looked down to see that his hand was trembling slightly.
He forced himself to calm down.
But a part of him didn’t want to. It was much easier now to remember what he’d done to Neil Spencer, and he couldn’t deny that there had been enjoyment in the act of killing. He had simply been afraid to acknowledge it until now. Thinking back, he could imagine that his father had been there with him.
Watching.
Nodding along in approval.
Now you understand, don’t you, Francis?
Yes. Now he understood why his father had hated him so much. For being such a worthless creature. But he wasn’t anymore, and he wondered what it might be like to look into his father’s eyes now. Whether they could forgive each other for what they had been in the light of what they had become.
I’m like you, you see?
You don’t have to hate me anymore.
Francis shook his head. Jesus Christ—what was he thinking? What had happened with Neil had been a mistake. He needed to concentrate now, because he had Jake to care for. To keep safe. To love. Because that was what all children wanted and needed, wasn’t it? To be loved and cherished by their parents. His heart ached at the thought.
They wanted that more than anything.
He sipped the last of his coffee and grimaced. It had gone cold, so he poured the dregs into the weeds at the side of the doorstep, then went back inside, leaving the silent world out there for the silent one within.
Time to say good night to the boy.
No more mistakes.
And yet, as he headed upstairs to Jake, he kept thinking about killing Neil Spencer and how it had made him feel.
I’m like you, you see?
And he wondered if perhaps it hadn’t been so terrible a mistake after all.
Fifty-five
When you woke up from a nightmare, things were supposed to be okay.
Not like this.
When Jake had first opened his eyes, he had been confused. It was too bright in his room. The light was on, and that wasn’t right. And then he’d realized this wasn’t his bedroom at all, but some other child’s, and that wasn’t right either. But his head was so groggy that he couldn’t make sense of it, beyond feeling a tightening knot of wrongness in his heart. The world had swum around him when he’d sat up. And then a memory had come back to him, and the knot had tightened more quickly, squeezing panic out into his whole body.
He was supposed to be at home. And he had been. But then there had been the man coming up the stairs, and then into his room, and then something on his face. And then …
Nothing.
Until here.
That had been perhaps ten minutes ago. Since then, he had spent a short amount of time thinking that this must be another nightmare—a new one—because it certainly felt like one. But he knew, even before he pinched himself to test, that it was too real for that. The fear was too strong, and if he had been asleep it would have woken him up by now. He remembered about the man who had taken Neil Spencer and hurt him, though, and he wondered if maybe this was a nightmare after all, just not the kind you got to wake up from. The world was full of bad men. Full of bad dreams that didn’t always happen when you were asleep.
He glanced to one side now.
The little girl was here with him!
“You’re—”
“Shhh. Keep your voice down.” She looked around the small room and swallowed hard. “You mustn’t let him know that I’m here.”
Which, of course, she wasn’t—he knew that deep down. But he was so grateful to see her that he wasn’t going to think about that. She was right, though. It wouldn’t be okay for the man to hear him talking to anyone. It would be …
“Really bad?” he whispered.
She nodded seriously.
“Where am I?” he said.
“I don’t know where you are, Jake. You’re where you are, and so that’s where I am too.”
“Because you won’t leave me?”
“I’ll never leave you. Ever.” She looked around again. “And I’ll do my best to help you, but I can’t protect you. This is a very serious situation. You know that, don’t you? It’s a long, long way from being right.”
Jake nodded. Everything was wrong, and he wasn’t safe, and it was suddenly too much.
“I want my daddy.”
Maybe that was a pathetic thing to say, but once it was out, he couldn’t stop himself. So he whispered it again and again, and then he started to cry, thinking that if you wanted something hard enough then it might come true. It wouldn’t, though. It felt like Daddy was the distance of the whole world away from him right now.
“Please try not to make any noise.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. “You have to be brave.”
“I want my daddy.”
“He’ll find you. You know he will.”
“I want my daddy.”
“Come on, Jake. Please.” Her hand tightened on him, halfway between reassuring and scared. “I need you to calm down.”
He tried to stop crying.
“That’s better.”
She moved her hand and was silent for a moment, listening.
“I think it’s okay for now. So what we need to do is find out as much as possible about where we are. Because that might tell us how we can get out. Okay?”
He nodded. He was still scared, but what she was saying made sense.
&n
bsp; He stood up and looked around the room.
The wall on one side of the room only went up to chest height before it began sloping inward the way that roofs did, so that meant he must be in an attic. He’d never been in an attic before. He’d always pictured them as dark, dusty places with bare floorboards and cardboard boxes and spiders, but this one was neatly carpeted, and the walls had been painted bright white, with grass drawn on at the bottom, and bees and butterflies fluttering above. It might have been nice, if it hadn’t been harshly lit by a bare bulb in the ceiling, giving everything an unreal quality, as though bits of the drawings might start coming to life at any moment. There was an open chest full of soft toys against the sloping wall. A small wardrobe against another. He looked behind him. The bed was decked out in Transformers sheets that looked old and worn.
So he was in some other child’s room. Except it didn’t feel right or natural in here, as though it had never really been meant to be lived in by a real boy.
There was a door in the opposite wall. He walked across and pushed it open nervously. A small toilet and sink. There was a towel in a circular hoop and soap on the basin. He closed the door again. Turning around, he could see there was a narrow corridor leading off from one corner of the room, but it only went a little way before there was another wall. He stepped into the space and found himself at the top of a dark staircase. At the bottom, there was a closed door.
A wooden handrail along the wall …
Jake stepped back quickly before he could see the bottom of the stairs properly. He ran back into the room and over to the bed. No, no, no. The stairs were almost exactly the same as the ones in the old house. And that meant he must not see what was—
His heart was beating far too quickly now. It didn’t feel like he could breathe.
“Sit down, Jake.”
He couldn’t even do that.
“It’s okay,” the little girl said gently. “Just breathe.”
He closed his eyes and really concentrated. It was hard at first, but then the air started to get in, and his heart rate began to slow.
“Sit down.”
He did as she told him, and then she put her hand on his shoulder again, saying nothing for the moment beyond soft, reassuring hushing noises. When he was more under control again, she moved her hand, but still didn’t speak. He could tell she wanted him to go down and check the door, but there was absolutely no way he could do that. Not ever. The stairs were out of bounds. It wouldn’t matter even if—
“It’s probably locked anyway,” she said.
Jake nodded, feeling relieved—because she was right, and that meant he didn’t need to go down there. What if the man made him, though? That was too much to think about. Too scary. He wouldn’t be able to, and he didn’t think this man would carry him.
“Do you remember what your daddy wrote to you that time?” the little girl asked.
“Yes.”
“Say it, then.”
“Even when we argue we still love each other very much.”
“That’s true,” she said. “But this man, he isn’t like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think what you have to do here is be very, very good. I don’t think you can afford to have any arguments here.”
She was right, he thought. If he was bad here, it wouldn’t be like with Daddy, where things were okay again afterward. He thought if the Whisper Man got angry with him, then things might end up very far from okay indeed.
The girl stood up suddenly.
“Get in bed. Do it quickly.”
She looked so frightened that he knew there wasn’t enough time to ask why. He pulled the covers back and clambered in. As he lay down on the strange little bed, he heard a key turn in the lock downstairs.
The man was coming.
“Close your eyes,” she said urgently. “Pretend to be asleep.”
Jake clenched his eyes shut. It was usually easy to pretend to be asleep—he did it at home all the time, because he knew Daddy would keep checking on him while he was awake, and he didn’t want to be difficult. It was harder here, but as he heard the stairs creaking, he forced himself to breathe slowly and steadily, the way sleeping people did, and he relaxed his eyes a little, because sleeping people didn’t squeeze them shut, and then—
And then the man was in the room.
Jake could hear the sound of gentle breathing, and then felt the man as a terrible presence close by. The skin on his face began to itch and he could tell the man was right next to the bed, looking down at him. Staring at him. Jake kept his eyes closed. If he was asleep, then he couldn’t be being bad, could he? There was no risk of an argument. He’d gone to bed like a good boy, without being told.
There were a few seconds of silence.
“Look at you,” the man whispered.
His voice sounded full of wonder, as though for some reason he hadn’t expected to find a little boy up here. Jake forced himself not to flinch as a strand of hair was moved out of his face.
“So perfect.”
The voice was familiar, wasn’t it? Jake thought so, but he wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t about to open his eyes to find out. The man stood up, then moved away quietly.
“I’m going to look after you, Jake.”
There was a click, and the darkness beyond his closed eyes deepened.
“You’re safe now. I promise.”
Jake kept breathing slowly and steadily as the man went back down the stairs, and then as the door closed again and the key turned in the lock. Even then he didn’t dare open his eyes. He was thinking about what the little girl had said about Daddy. That he would find him.
Even when we argue we still love each other very much.
He believed that. It was one of the reasons why it didn’t really matter when they argued. Daddy loved him and wanted him to be safe, and however angry they both might get, they would always end up back in the same place afterward, as though none of it had ever happened.
But there was also a small part of him that knew he made Daddy’s life very difficult indeed. That he was often a distraction rather than a help. He thought about how Daddy had gone out without him tonight. And he wondered if, wherever Daddy was right now, he might even be feeling glad he didn’t have Jake to bother him anymore.
No.
Daddy was going to find him.
Finally, Jake opened his eyes. The room was pitch-black now, apart from the little girl, who was standing by the bed, perfectly illuminated. She was as bright as a candle flame, but in a way where the light didn’t leave her edges and reveal anything around her.
“What are we doing, Jake?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“What are we being?”
Now he understood.
“Brave,” he whispered back. “We’re being brave.”
Fifty-six
I lurched awake, immediately disorientated and confused by my surroundings. The room around me was dark and unfamiliar and full of strange shadows. Where was I? I had no idea, only that it wasn’t right for me to be here. That wherever this was, I was supposed to be somewhere else, and that I desperately needed to be—
Karen’s living room.
I remembered now. Jake was missing.
I sat very still on the couch for a moment, my heart beating hard.
My son had been taken.
The idea seemed unreal, but I knew it was true, and the tendrils of panic that brought were like a shot of adrenaline, knocking the leftover dregs of sleep away. How had I fallen asleep in this state? I was exhausted, but the terror humming inside me right now was already almost too much to bear. Perhaps I had been so tired and broken that my body had simply shut down for a while.
I checked my phone. It was nearly six o’clock in the morning, so I hadn’t been asleep for long. Karen had gone to bed in the early hours. She’d been adamant about staying up with me to wait for news, but had also been so wiped out by the evening’s events that I’d fi
nally convinced her that one of us should grab some rest. Before she went upstairs, she’d told me to wake her up if there were any developments. There had been no messages or missed calls since. The situation hadn’t changed.
Except that Jake had now been with whoever had taken him for a little while longer.
I stood up, flicked on the light switch, and began pacing back and forth across the living room. It felt like if I didn’t move, then my feelings would overwhelm me. The aching need to be with Jake kept smacking up against the knowledge that I couldn’t, and my heart was twisting and contorting inside me from the tension of that.
I kept picturing his face, the image so vivid that when I closed my eyes I imagined I could reach out and touch the soft skin of his cheek. He must be so scared right now, I knew. He would be lost and bewildered and terrified. He would be wondering where I was and why I hadn’t found him.
If he was anything at all anymore.
I shook my head. I couldn’t think like that. DI Beck had told me last night that they were going to find him, and I had to allow myself to believe her. Because if not—if he was dead—then there was nothing beyond that. It would be the end of the world: a hammer blow to the head of life, scrambling all coherent thought. After that, there would only ever be static.
He is alive.
I imagined he was calling out to me, and that somehow I could hear it in my heart. But it didn’t feel like imagination, more like his actual voice, crying out on a station I was almost but not quite tuned in to. He was alive. There was no way I could know that, but there had been so many inexplicable events that was it really so impossible?
It didn’t matter if it was.
He was alive. I could still feel him, so he had to be.
And so I formed the words in my head clearly and precisely, and then threw them out from me as hard as possible, hoping the message might reach him. That he might receive it in his own heart and feel the truth of it.
I love you, Jake.
And I am going to find you.
* * *
The house came to life shortly afterward.
