Silent Children (42 page)

It was still deserted. Far too soon Ian saw the clock display a two. His legs were uncertain whether to grow stiff or to shiver with anticipation of his being asked to count, but seconds pulsed by, the colons between the digits throbbing like holes in an artery, and Woollie didn't speak. If his sense of time was slowing down, perhaps Ian could double or more than double the extra he was claiming on Jack's behalf. If the man was as intent on watching for Jack as he appeared to be, Ian could risk trying to free his wrists. He inched forward so that his hands weren't trapped against the sofa. Then a police car made itself heard in the distance, and Woollie's forehead nudged the window.

"He's never got himself arrested, has he? He's supposed not to be attracting attention. Too fond of publicity for his own good or anyone else's. It's not as if nobody ever showed him how to keep things quiet. That's the way, carry on, you'll have her upstairs awake in a minute."

The exhortation was pronounced in such a vicious whisper that his spittle glistened on the pane, but Ian thought his savageness might be an attempt to keep him awake, because his mutter sank into itself as the siren sped closer. "Meant to keep the peace, aren't they, the law? Not doing much of a job. Maybe he's had to tell them where he's coming and they're so excited they've forgotten to switch their row off. Maybe he called them or his mother did."

He must be talking in his sleep or close to it, otherwise surely the ideas he was considering would have infuriated him more than they seemed to be doing. The police car sounded as though it was at least as close as the park. Ian was willing it not to disturb Woollie further when the siren began to dwindle, and shortly there was no question that it was speeding out of earshot. "That's more like. Leave us alone. Let her have some peace," Woollie murmured, and then his head wobbled round. "How long's it been now?"

His voice was blurred, his eyes were losing the energy to keep their lids up. If Ian could avoid rousing him, he might nod off. Ian drummed a heel on the carpet, exerting all the control he could find in himself not to make more noise than Woollie wanted nor so little that the man would have to strain to hear. One muted thump, two, three, and as he performed the fourth the final digit of the clock increased. It might be safe to ignore the latest minute, but suppose Woollie had noticed that Ian's foot was hesitating in the air? He dealt the floor a last dull reluctant blow and took the opportunity to sit forward another inch. "He's had half his allowance then, hasn't he? He'd better be halfway here," Woollie mumbled, and leaned his forehead against the glass.

His voice was nearly gone. His face was so close to the pane that each breath swelled up before his eyes like fog. Surely he couldn't have borne that if he were awake. Ian bowed forward and dug the knuckles of his left hand into the side of his right forearm and levered at his wrists with all his strength.

The tape didn't give even a fraction. When he succeeded in jamming both hands against each other's forearms, all his efforts achieved was to pierce his arms and shoulders with an ache. He barely managed to swallow a gasp of frustration that might have roused Woollie. As the inflamed three transformed itself into a four, he tried to screw his wrists free of the adhesive, but they were bound too tight for that—only the bones ground back and forth inside the flesh. In films whenever captives had to release themselves from their bonds there was always a sharp object somewhere within reach, but the sole item of that kind in sight was the knife under Woollie's fingers on the windowsill.

Ian couldn't use that, and the knowledge lent the slab in his mind more weight and substance. Woollie might as well not be asleep for all the advantage it gave Ian—and then Ian saw it had. He could sneak out of the open door and upstairs to waken Charlotte, and, if they were swift and silent enough, they could steal out of the house. He only had to get off the couch.

He pressed the hot prickly backs of his knees against the edge of it and tried to ease himself to his feet. He hadn't begun to imagine how painful this would be. All his weight was dragging at the muscles of his calves, and he'd risen no more than a few inches from the sofa when the awkward posture gave way. The pain in his calves brought tears to his eyes as he managed to lower himself rather than sprawl on the couch.

He took several deep breaths while the pain subsided and his vision grew less moist and blurred, then inched himself forward until he was perched on the edge of the sofa. He had to stand up this time or he never would. The heat surged through him, locating all the places it could make him sweat, and his arms began to ache and shiver like his legs. The red scratches that composed the four rearranged themselves into a five, putting him in mind of the count at the beginning of a race. He threw his weight onto his calves in a last effort, and the knife slipped from Woollie's fingers. It skittered down the wall and clanged against the skirting-board and stood on the end of its handle for at least a second before toppling over with a thud.

When none of this appeared to have roused Woollie, Ian let out an unsteady breath. He'd frozen in mid-air, supported only by his shaking calves which, having suffered as much as they could bear, deposited him on the couch. A cushion muffled his fall, and he was gathering himself for a renewed bid for freedom when Woollie's fingers that had been resting on the knife began to slide off the sill.

They did their best to retain their hold. The fingertips scrabbled back onto their resting place twice, nails scratching at the wood. Then they strayed off it and down the wall, and the knuckles grazed the skirting-board before the hand slumped on its side. Even this failed to disturb Woollie, but the fingers and thumb opened and closed in search of the knife. They had no success until his head wobbled round to peer at them. They closed on the handle as he twisted away from the window. "How'd that happen?" he demanded. "Was it you?"

Ian could barely find the energy to shake his head. Beyond Woollie's silhouette the street exhibited Jack's nonappearance while the silent pounding of the colon of the clock urged the final digit to increase. It was by no means reassuring that Woollie seemed not to know what to do with the knife or with himself. Ian felt as if the throbbing of the colon was his pulse rendered visible by the time Woollie decided to return the knife and his hand to the windowsill. "Is he coming?" he muttered. "Is that him?"

At first Ian couldn't hear anything. He'd begun to suspect Woollie's mind was having fun with its owner when he heard a car, so distant that the sound might have been a breath. It wasn't fading, it was staying constant: perhaps it was even approaching, if that wasn't just the effect of his straining his ears. Then the noise sank into the night, and in a few throbs of the colon it was gone.

"It wasn't him. What's keeping him? Does he think I'm just having a laugh?" Woollie rubbed his forehead against the pane as if that would enliven his mind, and apparently thought it did. "By God, I know what's keeping him. It's her. It's his mother, the interfering cow."

As he clenched his fists on the sill the knife jerked in his right hand, its point inscribing a scribble like a secret message in his fog on the glass with a small excruciating screech. "She wouldn't let him come alone. She'd want to know where he was off to so late," he snarled, no longer in a whisper. "She'll give us no peace. I wouldn't care, she was never much good with children. She'll be telling him to slow down, don't drive so fast or someone's going to be killed. She won't know she's got that the wrong way round, will she? What a laugh. How long have they had?"

He hadn't finished speaking when the five on the clock added a line to itself. That wasn't the only reason why Ian hesitated: he was trying to decide how much better or worse things would be if Jack's mother had indeed accompanied him. "It doesn't need any thinking about," Woollie whispered, turning an impatient ear to him. "How long?"

Ian hitched himself forward before starting to count. Even now Woollie was awake, there was still a way for Ian to intervene between him and Charlotte while he had the chance. The imminence of it drew his stomach into itself. He had to delay Woollie until Jack came, alone or otherwise. He began to drum his heel on the carpet as slowly as he dared. Seven thumps, and he thought of stopping—one more, and he did.

Woollie was silent for two beats of the clock, and then he let a moist disgusted noise trail out of the side of his mouth toward Ian. "And the rest," he muttered. "They've had it, haven't they?"

Ian pressed his feet against the floor so hard he was afraid it might creak and betray him. He'd regained enough strength to launch himself off the sofa, he was sure he must have, and he had to bear however much pain the effort took. He could reach the door ahead of Woollie and kick it shut and hold it closed: Woollie wouldn't dare injure him too badly when Jack would be here any moment. Ian leaned his torso backward, preparing to throw himself forward so hard it would carry him all the way to the door. Then Woollie crouched away from the window and came at him, licking his lips as though shaping his wet grin. "Let's see how clever the horse was."

He ducked his head toward the clock and then at Ian, and pointed at him with the knife. "Not such a good horse after all, eh? Not so well trained. Can't even count. I've still got all my wits. You've been having a laugh, haven't you, son?"

Ian wouldn't have known how to answer. He might be able to knock the man off balance if he flung himself at him, but what would that achieve? He was certain to be brought down before he succeeded in crossing the room. "We both have," Woollie murmured. "You didn't know that, did you? You thought you'd made me think you were being a horse."

His eyes and his loose smile glistened as he spun round in his crouch to survey the deserted road. "You've had long enough," he whispered to Jack or to Ian. "Time f—"

His movement had taken him almost out of Ian's way. Ian hurled himself forward onto his calves and staggered to his feet, and swung himself away from Woollie, toward the door. Woollie grabbed at his legs and missed. He sprawled on the carpet, and the knife flew out of his grasp, clattering against an angle of the skirting-board, Ian was already close enough to the door to hook it with one foot and slam it. He fell against it and fumbled for the doorknob.

He had to squat awkwardly before his right hand found it and clenched on it. Pain reawakened in his calves, and then his shoulders set about aching, and his wrists that were pinned against the door. He mustn't let any of that distract him when there was more he could do. He clung to the doorknob and began to kick it with his right heel. The noise had to awaken Charlotte, and it might bring his mother too.

He'd accomplished two loud kicks when Woollie sprang at him amid a flapping of jolly pink fish and pried at his grip on the doorknob, but Ian held on until fingertips began to peel his nails away from the flesh. He aimed another kick at the door and missed as his captor whirled him round and threw him on the sofa. The backs of Ian's knees struck the upholstered arm. The cushions softened his fall, but his fingers blazed with pain as they took most of his weight before they could flatten themselves against him.

He saw Woollie glance toward the knife as he came after him. "No need for mess," Woollie muttered, "let's have all the peace we can have," and snatched a cushion from a chair. Before Ian could squirm off the couch or even suck in a breath, the cushion was over his face. In a moment Woollie was sitting on it and had wrapped his arms around the backs of Ian's calves to haul them toward him.

Ian couldn't move or breathe. His legs were pinned together above his stomach, and the agony in them seemed to have cut their muscles off from his brain. His hands were trapped beneath him, his head was sandwiched in a soft place in which there was no air, only a choking smell of faintly scented cloth. Above him he could just hear Woollie singing "Now I lay you down to sleep..." His thighs struggled to jerk him free, but the grip on his legs increased, grinding them together. For a moment the weight on his face lessened as though Woollie had raised himself to watch something, and then the cushion refitted itself to Ian's face without having allowed him to find any breath, and there was only the agony of waiting for the pounding blackness inside his head to burst its shell. At last it did, flooding his eyes with a blindness so solid it swept away everything he was or had ever been.

Leslie didn't know what wakened her. Until it did she hadn't realised she was asleep. She was lying on top of the quilt because of the heat that was stuffing itself under the raised sash of the window, but the shock of remembering that she had no idea of Ian's whereabouts sent a chill through her from her brain that was crawling with half-formed thoughts all the way down to her clammy feet. Could she have heard him sneaking into the house, too ashamed of having worried her to want her to know he was there? She pushed herself up on her elbows and lifted her head and held her breath.

The house was as quiet as a sleeping child. The silence made her ears feel exposed and empty and cold. She was beginning to think she remembered what she'd heard as she'd wakened—a knocking somewhere near the house. Perhaps she'd dreamed it, and in any case it had stopped. The only sound outside was the speeding of a car, and that wasn't in Jericho Close. She was lowering her head to the pillow, though she'd little chance of resting now that all her fears were jostling to be first to take shape in her head, when she wondered if it could have been the phone she'd almost heard.

Surely it would still have been ringing when she awoke—the way she was feeling she would have almost at once—unless it had been Ian and he'd panicked at the prospect of having to speak to her. He ought to know she couldn't be anything except relieved, but the idea wasn't going to leave her alone until she checked when she had last been called. She snatched at the light with the dangling cord and swung her legs off the bed, and came face to face with Ian's note she'd pinned down with the bedside clock.

Twenty-three minutes to one in the morning, I'VE GONE BECAUSE YOU SAID I TOOK CHARLOTTE. The time and the note seemed as unreasonable as each other—indeed, she felt as if they were encouraging each other to aggravate her frustration at not having a phone she could keep by the bed at night—but there seemed to be some insight buried in the midst of her feelings, some perception that her half-awake state might be capable of allowing her to reach. She dug her feet into her slippers and retrieved her dressing gown from the hook on the door, and turned back to the room as she tied the cord about her waist. Neither the clock nor the piece of paper seemed to have anything fresh to tell her, except perhaps that she ought to know better than to trust hunches she had when she wasn't fully awake. Nevertheless the impression was as reluctant to vanish as it was to make itself clear, and so she gazed at the note in her hand all the way down to the phone, where she dropped it on the pad as she picked up the receiver. A pieced-together female voice reminded her of the call she'd taken far too many hours ago. She was silencing the unhelpful machine when the receiver and everything around her took on weight and substance in an instant. She'd seen what she'd missed seeing.