The First Rule Of Survival (39 page)

Suddenly, he stops. He holds his breath, feels a shiver pass down his back. He hears a voice. It is deep, echoing down the corridor, grasping at his heart like a clenched hand. He cannot hear words, but he knows now that he is not alone. He swallows, becomes aware that his mouth is completely dry. He stifles a cough, retreats until his back hits the wall, rests his stinging fingers against the cold and damp. He stares at the doors to the prison block, but he cannot discern any movement, hear any words. In the stultifying silence, he wonders whether he has imagined the voice; thinks perhaps that he dreamt it, that his senses are shutting down on him just as they did before.

He edges down the corridor, aware of the gradient taking him further underground. When he reaches the doors, he realizes that he has been holding his breath again, and he pauses to stabilize his breathing. He opens one door a crack and peers through. The three dim bulbs are lit in the anteroom, but he cannot see more than a sliver of the space through the gap in the doors. His ears strain, alert for any sound. Suddenly the voice speaks and de Vries jumps. It is close by, but not in the anteroom. Someone is in the cell area. Then he hears whimpering, a child crying. He knows that this is the missing boy, Joe Pienaar; knows that he has found him, that the man he is seeking has returned to where he is in complete control.

He pushes open the door more fully, hears the hinges creak in the silence . . . but does not think that this is audible inside the cell-block. He slips inside and, keeping low, takes two long steps to the left so that he is not visible from the door to the cells, which is half open. He searches the worktops for something to use as a weapon. He sees a table knife, picks it up, slides it into his jacket pocket. There is nothing else he can see which could be useful.

He hears the voice again; this time it is clear. It strikes such fear into him, he cannot believe how it reverberates through his entire body. He knows that he must move now, or he will become frozen, impotent to act. He steps to the door of the cell-block, sees the back of the man and, inside the middle cell, the boy he recognizes as Joe Pienaar, his torso naked, his face bloodied. He goes to speak but catches himself, swallows, urging moisture to lubricate his throat.

Then he says: ‘Trevor.’

The man jumps, flashes around, stares at the doorway. The boy screams, high-pitched and hysterical. Then, just as quickly, he stops, and de Vries hears the thudding silence again. He wills himself to speak.

‘Trevor Henderson.’

De Vries takes a step inside the doorway, faces the tall man. He seeks confirmation, not from the man, but from his own eyes. He scans his features and he knows that it is true.

‘Get back.’ The voice, before so deep and calm, is strangled.

‘I have no weapon. I am on my own. You are in control.’ De Vries is surprised to hear his own voice penetrate the silence, controlled, saying words he had not prepared but which instinctively he knows he must say.

‘I know you,’ the man states.

‘It’s Vaughn. It’s Vaughn de Vries. And you are Trevor Henderson.’

‘I am Terry Hardiman . . . Terry Hardiman.’

De Vries takes another step inside. Henderson darts to his right, grabs a short pistol from the table against the wall, points it at de Vries.

‘Stay where you are.’

De Vries stops, shivers with cold fear. He has been so focused on the boy, he has failed to make even a cursory search of his surroundings. His brain is processing the man’s voice. He knows that this is – was – Inspector Trevor Henderson, a man with whom he worked for two years; knows that this man has taken three boys and now a fourth; knows that he has taken his own son, locked him away for seven years and abused him beyond understanding. He looks up at Henderson, stares at the barrel of the gun.

‘Let the boy go,Trevor. You have me now. Do what you want, but let the boy go. He has his own family waiting for him.’

‘No.’

‘Let the boy go and we can talk about this. We can move forward the way you want.’

‘Joe is mine.’

Three words, uttered so calmly, with such total assurance. If de Vries could only be certain that he was not dreaming, he would be so afraid. He struggles to compute what he must say.

‘Steven, Toby, Bobby. They were your boys.
They
were your boys. But Joe – he isn’t. Let him go.’

The man’s right eye twitches. Vaughn watches every tiny move, tries not to stare at his face directly; knows that all his body language must be subservient. He must keep talking, engage this man, persuade him slowly but consistently, yet make him feel that he is in command. He feels so tired, has so little strength, but the wide-eyed, pleading gaze of the child, now on his knees, drives him on.

‘Let me see Joe,’ de Vries hears himself saying.

The man turns his back to de Vries for a moment, stares at the child. Then he swivels round, points the gun at de Vries’ head and walks towards him.

‘I told him,’ he snarls. ‘I told him that if it was anybody, it would be you.’

‘Who?’

The man steps forward, jams the muzzle of the gun into de Vries’ ear, grabs his arm, pulls him towards the bars of the cell. His teeth are clenched. He spits, his voice both threatening and pleading.

‘Don’t ask questions. That’s the rule here. No questions.’ He twists the gun in de Vries’ ear, penetrating it, jabbing it into him. De Vries grimaces from the pain, feels his legs quiver.

‘I told him that you were the type never to give up. Where are the others?’

De Vries concentrates on breathing. The gun fucks his ear again.

‘The others.
Where are they?
’

Now he feels that the reality is less frightening than the prospect. It is happening; any choice has evaporated. He is calm.

‘I told you: I’m alone. They are coming, but we have time to sort this out.’

He senses Henderson gulp. He sees the man’s eyes go out of focus for a moment, panic begin to set in. He knows that as the adrenalin hits him, he could do anything.

The man reaches in his pocket with his left hand, struggles to find something. Then he stretches across himself to his right-hand pocket. De Vries hears keys. He slowly lowers his own right hand; out of sight of Henderson, he feels the blunt, cold blade of the table knife in his own jacket pocket.

‘Step back,’ Henderson commands.

De Vries feels the gun muzzle leave his ear; he staggers back a pace. Henderson glances down at the lock to the cell, then up again to de Vries.

‘Joe. Stand at the back by your bed.’

From the corner of his eye, de Vries sees the boy’s eyes open wide again.

‘Joe! Do as I say!’ The man’s voice rises with frustration.

De Vries sees Joe Pienaar get up onto shaking legs, then fall again and crawl towards the back of the cell. He sees Henderson feel for the right key, insert it into the lock, turn it. Henderson points the gun at de Vries and gestures him towards the door.

‘Get in.’

Vaughn looks Henderson in the eye, looks down at the gun muzzle. He takes a tiny step forward. Then he stops.

‘
Move
.’

Vaughn holds up his hands slowly.

‘Trevor . . .Terry. Let Joe go. Let him live. You can do what you like with me, but let him go.’ He turns towards the boy, meets his stare, wills the expression in his eyes to resonate with the child.

‘I am his father.’

De Vries stands still, watching Henderson. The man glances quickly at Joe Pienaar, and then back to de Vries.

‘Get in the cell, de Vries. Move – now.’

Vaughn lowers his arms, turns himself at a slight angle from Henderson and reaches the knife in his pocket. He knows he has only one chance. He stops just in front of Henderson.

‘Are you hurt, Joe?’ he asks.

He stares again at the child, wills a response from him. Suddenly, Joe Pienaar lets out an ear-piercing scream. Henderson turns to him – and at that moment, de Vries drives both arms down onto Henderson’s right arm and then lifts his own right hand and stabs the table knife into the right-angle between the man’s neck and shoulder. Henderson screams, drops the pistol and lunges at de Vries, head down with all his weight, driving him away and smashing him against the iron bars of the adjoining cell. De Vries jabs him in the eyes with his fingers, struggles free of the howling man and then jumps on top of him, pinning down his hands with his own, his exhausted body a dead weight on top of him. He looks up and sees Joe Pienaar at the open cell door.

‘Run! Just run,’ he pants. ‘Go up the corridor ahead of you and get out.’

The boy looks startled and deathly pale. He stares at the two men, stumbles across the cell-block, out of the door, then through the anteroom. Over the sound of Henderson’s whimpering, de Vries can hear the child’s footsteps slow but not stop, and he imagines him trying to run, walking blind up towards the double doors and eventually to the green iron doors and out into the dark, cool night air.

He looks down at Henderson, who has stopped struggling. He feels an unnatural heat against his hands and sees blood oozing out from the man’s neck. He does not let up the pressure. He gasps for air, tries to steady himself. When there has been no movement for a minute or so, he releases his weight from one hand and levers himself up. He lets out a deep breath and wonders whether Henderson is unconscious or whether he is dying. He tries to stand up, but feels no strength in his legs; his arms ache as he tries to get upright. Suddenly, he is aware that the body is moving and, before he knows it, he sees Henderson’s arm grasp his legs and pull him back down in a vicious rugby tackle. He loses his balance, feels the concrete floor race towards him, the brutal pain as his head hits the rough surface.

Henderson struggles up, kicks de Vries in the stomach, causing him to double up, choke for breath. Henderson then stumbles across the cell-block, finds his pistol, checks it and weaves his way back to de Vries who is now curled up, foetus-like, on the floor. Henderson grabs his collar and drags him towards the cell. At the door, he half picks up de Vries and hauls him inside. He follows him in, turns to lock the cell door, then throws the keys through the bars, until they skid to a stop against two dusty white cabinets by the far wall. Henderson slithers towards de Vries and grabs his hair, forces the gun muzzle into his ear again, hissing, ‘We are going to die together, de Vries, you fucking bastard.’

He drops de Vries’ head on the floor of the cell, gets up and crosses to the little bed. He picks up Joe Pienaar’s rugby shirt and ties it around his neck. The blood has almost stopped flowing. It is not as deep a wound as de Vries had assumed; it is raw, but already healing. Henderson collapses on the bunk. When he sees de Vries stir, he raises the weapon.

‘There is nowhere to go, de Vries. Nowhere for either of us now. I condemned us both.’

They sit in silence for five minutes. De Vries begins to come round and tries to lever himself into a sitting position, to face Henderson. He can hear nothing but the sound of his heart throbbing in his head, most especially in his right ear.

Finally, de Vries says, ‘Why kill them, Trevor?’

‘No questions. No questions!’

De Vries waits ten heartbeats.

‘Why kill your boys?’

‘I never harmed them. I would never harm them. They were mine. I loved them.’

‘So why?’

‘I never killed them.
They
killed them. That fucking brother killed them.’

De Vries looks up at Henderson, cannot see through his bloodied eyes.

‘What brother?’

‘You know who. You know. You tried to arrest him, but he knew you couldn’t do that. Knew that could never happen.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Why? Why?’ Henderson is screaming quietly now, his hands on his temples. ‘You keep asking why. Because of
him
.’

De Vries waits, using the time to assess whether he has any strength remaining, whether he can possibly reach the gun, realizing that the keys to the cell are out of reach, knowing that Henderson has no escape plan, no hope, no chance.

‘Who is
him
, Trevor?’

When he hears nothing, he looks up again and tries to focus on Trevor Henderson. He cannot make out the expression or even the features on the man’s face. His head is bowed, and all he can see is the crown, where his hair is thinning. De Vries waits in silence, until he can hear Henderson’s breath catch and he wonders whether the man is sobbing.

Henderson looks up, muttering, slobbering: ‘Toby . . . wasn’t . . . my . . . real . . . son. He wasn’t mine. I can’t have children, so that . . . bitch . . . she screwed some other poor fuck and took his children. She said over and over again that he wasn’t mine, that he doesn’t belong to me. But he was my son, and I had to have him. And I brought him friends for company, so that we could all be a family . . .’

Now, de Vries hears him crying; wonders whether he can reach him in time to wrest the gun from him, wonders what he would do if he did get it. Suddenly, the crying stops and Henderson lifts his head, focuses on de Vries, and raises the gun shakily.

‘It was my family. They killed my family.’

‘Who killed them,Trevor? We can leave a message here for the police. We can tell them what you tell me. They can catch whoever killed your family.’

Henderson laughs through his nose, his head heavy on his shoulders.

‘The Steinhauers. He gave me my world and then he took it away again.’

‘Nicholas Steinhauer? Marc Steinhauer?’

‘No questions. No questions. The doctors knew what I wanted and they gave it to me. Do you have any idea what it is like to live one life and be denied your true self?’

De Vries watches him, his own head heavy and wracked with pain. He knows that his only chance is if Henderson is more badly injured than he believes and that suddenly he will go down.

‘What doctors?’

‘Doctors. Doctors . . . all of them telling me things.’

‘Was it . . . ?’ De Vries starts. ‘Was it Nicholas Steinhauer?’ He watches Henderson’s bloodied eyes, but he cannot read anything from them or from his silence. Henderson’s head begins to fall and then jolts back up.