by Deborah Finn
“HELP!” she screamed, her voice cracking with the effort. The sound echoed off the buildings. “HELP! HELP!” she yelled again.
“SHUT UP!” Farren yelled. He tightened his grip on the boy’s neck. “Shut up or I’ll hurt him.”
Jango sprinted across the yard and grabbed the woman by the hair. She winced as he pulled her to her knees. He smacked her across the face with an open hand. “Shut up you stupid bitch,” he shouted.
“MUM!” the boy whimpered.
“Leave her,” Farren shouted. “Just get her inside.”
He loosened his grip on the boy a little. “She’s alright,” he said to the boy. “It was just a smack.”
The woman was stumbling along over the rubble, her head twisted at an angle as Jango pulled her by the hair.
“Fucking dickhead,” Farren muttered.
Jango and the woman disappeared into the darkness beyond the doorway.
“Come on, kid,” Farren said, as he pushed the boy forwards and in through the door. He stopped for a moment on the threshold and allowed his eyes to adjust. A little light filtered in through gaps in the boarded windows. There was ancient machinery covered in brick dust and sheets of broken glass stacked up in the centre of the floor. In the corner was a sofa that looked as if it had been set on fire at some point.
“Where’s this vault?” he asked Jango.
Jango nodded and pulled the woman to the far corner of the room. As Farren followed, he realised the room didn’t end there. What looked like a wall of darkness was actually an archway through to another huge room, with an industrial rubber coated floor and broken glass crunching beneath his feet. He could feel the kid shaking, his teeth were chattering and he was stumbling as he walked as if his legs had gone.
“It’s alright,” he muttered. “I’m not going to hurt you.” As he said the words, he realised they were true and he felt a little lighter. He wasn’t going to hurt the kid, and he wasn’t going to hurt that woman. And he wasn’t going to let Jango hurt them neither. He was going to Spain, and Lester Gallagher could fuck off.
“It’s down here,” Jango said, pulling the woman through another doorway and down some stairs.
“What’s that?” she screamed, pulling away. Jango yanked her hard and she stumbled down the steps.
As Farren got to the doorway, he realised what she’d been talking about. There was a strange rushing sound that filled the stairwell. It was like a big motor running, but nothing was working in here. He got out his phone and switched on the torchlight.
“That’s better,” he said. He pointed the torch down the stairs. The stairs twisted back on themselves going down two flights. At the bottom was a corridor, sloping further down into the ground. The noise was even louder here.
“What’s this noise?” Farren shouted.
“It’s the river,” Jango shouted back.
“What?” Farren said, stopping dead. “There’s a fucking river down here?”
“Yeah,” Jango shouted back. “Sometimes it floods up on this level. That’s why it stinks.”
“Shit,” Farren muttered, as he looked uneasily into the darkness. There weren’t many things that frightened him, but being trapped underground in water was one of them. He’d tried pot holing once as a teenager and had got wedged in a gap. The more he struggled, the more stuck he got. His mates had broken his ribs pulling him out. And all the time he’d been listening to the sound of water somewhere, imagining it building up and suddenly bursting into the chamber where he was stuck.
Ahead, he heard Jango pulling open another creaking metal door. “Get in there,” he said to the woman, giving her a shove into the room.
Farren arrived alongside and pushed the boy towards his mother. The room was small and it stank. The walls were damp and slimy.
“In here?” he said. “We’re supposed to keep them in here?”
“It’s the vault,” Jango replied. “That’s what he said.”
Farren shook his head. “This isn’t right,” he said.
“Whatever,” Jango said as he started to pull the door shut.
Farren saw the shadow of the door obliterate the torchlight in the room, saw the woman and the child huddled together, their round eyes staring at him in terror. He watched Jango lock the door.
“I’ll take them,” he said, holding out his hand for Jango to give him the keys.
“The boss gave them to me,” Jango said.
“And I’m taking them now,” said Farren. His tone was flat, no trace of uncertainty.
They looked at each for half a minute. He’d always let Jango act like he was in charge, but he’d always known that he could finish Jango without raising a sweat. And now Jango could see it in his eyes, and he knew it too. He handed the keys over and they headed back up the passageway.
Twenty Seven
Martin drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited at the traffic light.
“Come on!” he groaned. “Yeah, finally,” he said as the light turned green. He took off down the dual carriageway, slowing briefly for the camera. As he came alongside the park, he forced himself to slow down then he turned the corner into the street. The house was about half way down a row of Victorian semis. He pulled up at the pavement and jumped out, pressing the lock button as he opened the gate.
When he was a few feet from the door, he realised it wasn’t closed. It was closed over, but not properly shut. His step faltered momentarily, then he leapt onto the step and opened the door, bursting into the hallway.
“Beth!” he shouted. “Ben!”
No reply. He checked the sitting room and the study, then went through to the kitchen diner. Everything looked completely normal, but there was no one at home. He unlocked the back door into the garden. If the door was locked then they weren’t going to be out there, but he looked anyway. Nothing. Just an empty patch of sunny lawn, a watering can left on the stone wall of the rose garden, a sweatshirt thrown over the climbing frame. Bees buzzed around the buddleia and one flew close past his face. Everything looked normal. But it wasn’t.
He went swiftly through the kitchen and hallway and jumped up the stairs, three at a time.
“Ben! Beth!” he shouted again. The doors were all wide open apart from the bathroom. His vision seemed to zoom in on it. It looked strange, conspicuously shut. A sick image of blood and death flashed into his mind as he yanked the door open, and he let out a breath when he found the tidy marble tiles, mint green towels neatly hung on the chrome rail.
He bounded up the curved stairway to the attic, already knowing there would be nothing. He could feel the emptiness of the house. There was lego strewn across the floor; the velux window let in light that caught dust motes floating. Looking at the fantastical lego aircraft, he could almost feel Ben’s presence. But he wasn’t there.
He thundered down the stairs, back to the ground floor. He went into the kitchen and looked for a note. Nothing. He pulled out his phone and dialled Beth’s number. He listened to it ringing, then a moment later he heard it ringing next to him. He looked around, and then saw the phone, its screen lit up, lying on the kitchen worktop. He shut off the call.
She never went anywhere without her phone.
He stared at it for a moment, his mind refusing to work. No, maybe she’d just run across the road to the park to say something to Ben. She hadn’t pulled the door shut behind her. That was it. That was bound to be it.
He pulled the door closed behind him and jumped down the steps, running across the road to the park. He ran along the road, past the railings and then the hedge until he got to the gate. He jogged down the path towards the play area. Before he even got there, he knew she wasn’t there. He’d scanned all the women standing and sitting around. He looked again, carefully, just to be sure. Then he checked all the kids on the swings and the pirate ship. Ben was nowhere to be seen.
He was probably playing football. Martin jogged further along the path, around the bend to where it opened out into a flat area.
There were students with a Frisbee, toddlers running about and falling over, some people having a picnic. There was no sign of Ben or Beth.
He jogged on to the cafe. Maybe they’d gone for a drink or an ice cream. He could see they weren’t at the outside tables, and they never sat inside. He jogged up to the shop and stepped into the darkened interior. They weren’t there.
Martin stepped back outside into the light. He remembered sitting here with Marilyn. A stab of panic hit him and he bent over, forcing himself to breathe slowly. It was fine. It was bound to be fine. Maybe they’d even gone home. Maybe they’d gone out the other gate as he was coming this way. If Beth had left her phone at home, she only meant to be out for a moment. So, that was probably it. She’d probably just run across to call Ben back home, but they’d gone different routes.
He set off up the slope, out of the gate and along the pavement. He was panting by the time he reached the front door. It was shut now. He realised his hands were trembling as he fished in his pocket for the keys. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Beth! Ben!” he shouted.
It was like a replay. He could feel the stillness of the house. There was no one there but him. He ran into the kitchen. There was her phone, still on the counter. He opened it up, looking for calls, messages, anything. There was nothing new, apart from his own call a few minutes ago. He squeezed the phone, helplessly.
“Where are you?” he said aloud.
He went into her contacts and looked up Fiona. She answered on the second ring.
“Hi Beth,” she said.
“Fiona, it’s Martin. I’m using Beth’s phone. I’m trying to track her down. You haven’t seen her today have you?”
“I haven’t, no. Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” Martin said. “She didn’t say anything? Didn’t say she was going anywhere with Ben?”
“With Ben? No, she didn’t. You sure you’re alright?”
“Oh yeah, yeah,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “It’s just she’s left her phone, so I can’t get hold of her. It’s no problem, honestly. Thanks anyway. See you, yeah?”
He closed down the call and looked up Jane’s number, and repeated the whole performance.
Neither Fiona nor Jane knew where she was. She wasn’t at home and nor was Ben. She’d left the front door open and she’d left her phone behind. He leaned on the kitchen counter, trying to think straight. It could be nothing. Ben could be round at a friend’s; maybe she went out for a jog and just didn’t pull the door shut properly. Yeah, that made sense. He nodded to himself. That would be it. That was bound to be it. He looked at his watch. Half past four, and he’d arrived at about ten past, so that was twenty minutes. If she’d gone out for a jog, she wouldn’t be out for more than an hour. Somewhere at the back of his mind was an awareness of that phrase, what did they call it, the golden hour? He pushed it down. She was out for a jog. It was nothing more than that.
He paced around the kitchen, turned on the kettle, then turned it off again. He filled a glass with tap water and drank it and filled it again. He walked through to the study and looked at her desk. Nothing there. So neat. She was always so neat. He opened the top drawer; sticky notes, biros, pritt stick, envelopes, paper clips, a compass and an old swimming badge of Ben’s.
He walked into the conservatory and sat on the sofa. He stared into the garden. Would she have gone for a jog? She knew he was going out to see Gallagher. She would have waited in. She would have wanted to be here when he got back. No, maybe she got too wound up and thought that a run would help. That was possible. She got so wound up. She always said that running helped.
He found himself standing in the bedroom, not even aware of having got up from the sofa. He called it the bedroom, because it had always been their bedroom. It had been her bedroom for a long time, when she first banished him from the bed and he’d moved into the spare room. And then finally she’d banished him from the house. But now he was back, still in the spare room, but he was edging closer, perhaps. He sat on the bed, his side. It felt familiar, the bedside table, the lamp, the window to his right, her space to his left where he could roll over and wrap his arms around her. He lay back and looked at the ceiling, the familiar pattern of the ceiling rose, the crack where it had always been. He closed his eyes. He could smell her scent on the bedding and it hollowed him out.
He opened his eyes and looked at his watch; ten to five. He lurched upright. He walked to the bay window and pulled the curtain aside. He looked up and down the road. There was no sign of her. He stood watching the corner of the road, his heart lifting whenever there was movement, instantly deflated when it wasn’t her. “Where are you?” he whispered.
He walked downstairs and out of the front door. He jumped down the two steps to the pavement and sat on the front wall. The sight of his car gave him an idea. He could drive around the streets she normally ran, that way he’d find her quicker. He opened the car and got in and was off down the road and round the corner. It felt better to be doing something. He drove slowly, his eyes on the pavements, watching out for kids and women in running gear. He wound through the maze of streets, doubling back on himself, in case he’d missed her. She wasn’t here. She could have gone a different way. Sometimes she liked to run by the canal and finish up coming through the park to the house.
He drove back to the house, keeping his eye away from the clock. She was bound to be home now. She’d be there in the kitchen, sweating and knocking back pints of water. He pulled up outside. Something stopped him from rushing. He closed the car carefully and walked up the steps. Slowly, he put the key in the door and opened it. He stood in the hallway and felt her absence. He closed the door and leaned back against it. “Beth?” he called, just to be sure. His voice was swallowed up by the empty house. He lifted his hand and looked at his watch. Quarter past five.
He closed his eyes. “Just come home,” he said.
He would wait until half past. She would be home by half past, cooking for Ben. If she wasn’t here by half past... He didn’t know. What would he do if she wasn’t here by half past?
He went through the kitchen and out of the door that lead to the garage. There were all those boxes he kept moving around. He’d stack them up at the back; that was what she wanted. It took him ten minutes and then he went inside and washed his hands. He dried his hands and picked up his phone. He knew what he had to do.
He looked up the number and called Lester Gallagher. It rang three times and went to answer phone. He ended the call. He waited a moment then called again. Again, it went to answer phone.
“This is Martin Halton. I need to speak to you right now. Don’t keep me waiting.”
He ended the call then paced around the kitchen. He was calling Gallagher. What did that mean? He stopped and leaned on the kitchen counter, trying to think straight. Why would he take Beth? He wouldn’t. He felt a heavy darkness flooding through him. Only if he was trying to take Ben, and Beth got in the way. He could see it too clearly, and the image doubled him over. He rested his forehead on the cool marble counter top and tried to fight down the panic in his chest. He had to stay calm, concentrate.
No, it was unbearable. He opened his phone again and tried to remember the name of Jusef’s mother. Salma, that was it. He didn’t have her name in his phone. He looked through Beth’s phone. There it was. He rang the number and spoke to her. No, she hadn’t seen Beth for the last couple of days, yes, Ben must come round tomorrow; Jusef had a new game that he was desperate to play. He couldn’t stop her talking, but finally she got called away. He flipped the phone shut. It was hopeless. He knew Ben wasn’t round at anyone’s house. He was with Beth, and God knows where they both were.
Twenty Eight
The car pulled up on the side street behind the police station.
“I’m not taking in a lawyer, Steve. That’s it,” Gallagher held up his hand to end the conversation. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Taking in a lawyer, you know what that looks like.”
“What?” Steve shook his head in exasperation. “It looks like you can afford advice. That’s what it looks like. It’s normal. For fuck’s sake, you’re in the middle of an election. You need your lawyer to give a statement.”
“I’ll give a statement myself!” Gallagher said, his face reddening with the effort of controlling his anger. “Isn’t that what I do? I’m the fucking mouthpiece, aren’t I?”
Steve lifted a hand in a stop signal. “Lester, just speak to him. Get some advice. You’re in no shape for this.”
Everyone was telling him what to do. He could hardly think straight with all these voices in his ear. Gallagher pushed Steve’s hand aside and leaned so close to his campaign manager’s face that he could smell his rancid coffee breath. “You do NOT tell me what to do! I give the orders. And you do what I say. You got it?”
Steve shook his head and turned away.
Gallagher flung open the car door, got out, and slammed it behind him. The pavement was clear, but he knew there’d be journalists waiting round the corner. That bastard McIntyre had timed it perfectly for maximum exposure. But they had nothing on him. That was all that mattered. She worked for him a decade ago. She’d had some kind of breakdown, terribly sad. He just had to stick to the line, and he was alright. Surely they’d got hold of that photo of Halton by now, started putting two and two together.
Gallagher buttoned up his jacket and lifted his head as he walked. As he turned the corner, there were shouts from the press mob. He nodded in sombre acknowledgement as he moved towards them, no smiling business this. They crowded round him as he approached the door of the station.
