The Nightmare Game (19 page)

“Ask me what?” Shelley materialized from nowhere. When she recognized Robert, she raised her eyebrows. “What are you doing here? Has she sent you to apologize?”

“Apologize?” Robert said cautiously.

“Or does she think it's all right to dump people without an excuse?” Shelley scowled. “She was all over me yesterday.
Of course I'll bring a cake. Do you want some chips, too?
I even paid for her movie ticket last night, because I was so sure she was coming. And then she didn't turn up.”

“What?”
Robert said.

That was nearly a disaster. Just in time, Tom realized what would happen if Fipper got the idea that Emma hadn't been home last night. She would never live it down. He kicked Robert's ankle, to keep him quiet, and said, “Didn't she even send you a message?”

Shelley looked hurt. “I must have phoned her ten times last night. But she had her phone turned off. She was deliberately avoiding me.”

Fipper leered over her shoulder. “Maybe she didn't want to be disturbed.”

“Very funny,” Robert said. He'd spotted the danger now. “I thought she'd come around already, but she won't be long. She'll explain then. She doesn't want you to think—”

“Too late for that,” Fipper said gleefully. “We've all been
thinking
already. Haven't we, Shells?”

Shelley dug him in the ribs with her elbow. “Don't be mean. Just because we let you barge in here, it doesn't mean you can be rude.” She pushed him back into the house and gave Robert a pale smile. “As long as Emma's OK,” she said. And then, “She
is
OK, isn't she?”

“Yes. Oh yes, she's fine,” Robert said. He was backing away quickly now. “It's just—well, she'll tell you herself. When she sees you. Bye, Shelley. Bye, Fipper.” He waved a hand and jumped onto his bike as though he hadn't a worry in the world.

Tom let him cycle ahead until they were out of sight of Shelley's house. Then he overtook him and stopped by the curb.

Robert pulled in behind him. “There's bound to be some simple explanation,” he said, before Tom could speak. “She'll have gone somewhere else instead. She's sure to be fine—”

“She's
not
fine.” Tom interrupted, to make him stop. “She's disappeared, Robbo. What are we going to do?”

For a moment, Robert stared uncomfortably at him. Then he said, “It's Mr. Armstrong, isn't it? He's taken her.”

Tom nodded miserably. “That's what it looks like. Do you think we should tell the police?”

“What do we say?
Officer, my sister's disappeared and I think I know who's taken her. No, I haven't got any evidence—except that we kidnapped his daughter a few days ago.
” Robert shook his head. “It'll take hours. And she's been there long enough already.”

That was right. Of course. If Mr. Armstrong had really kidnapped Emma, he wasn't just going to ask her polite questions. He'd be determined to find out where Hope was. If Emma wouldn't tell—

“Let's go and get her,” Tom said grimly. “As fast as we can.”

TWICE BEFORE, ROBERT AND TOM HAD CLAMBERED ALONG THE highway embankment to reach the back of the Armstrongs' house. The first time, the journey had taken them over an hour. They'd crawled carefully through the bushes, moving silently and making sure that they stayed hidden.

This time, they covered the ground in under twenty minutes.

Robert moved like a wild creature. Not noisily, but fast, unerringly following the route they had used before. He was so quick that Tom struggled to keep him in sight. He panted along behind, ripping his clothes on brambles and grazing his sore, bruised flesh on branches and loose stones.

Robert didn't slow down until he was level with the Armstrongs' high evergreen hedge. Scuttling the last few feet, Tom found him squatting at the top of the embankment, looking into their garden. Although it was only early afternoon, all the blinds were pulled in the conservatory.

Tom's ribs ached as he gasped for breath. “What now?” he said as soon as he could speak. His head was spinning and the bushes were beginning to blur around him. He wanted a few minutes to calm down and make some kind of plan.

But there was no time for that. Before Robert could answer his question, there was a noise from inside the conservatory. A loud, hoarse shout that rang through the glass. They couldn't make out the words, but the voice was unmistakable.

“It's Emma!” Robert hissed.

They both moved instantly, instinctively, sliding straight down the embankment through brambles and bushes and mud. Even before they reached the bottom of the slope, the television came on in the conservatory, drowning out any other sounds. But they didn't need to hear any more. Emma was in the house beyond the hedge, and they had to get her out.

Without hesitating, they pulled themselves up into the hedge and dropped over the fence beyond, into the Armstrongs' garden. Crouching under the thick evergreens, they studied the back of the house, wondering how to get inside.

“Do you think the kitchen door's unlocked?” Robert murmured.

There was no way of knowing, but it was worth a try. They sidled around the garden, keeping close to the hedge to avoid setting off the security light. They would have been clearly visible from the conservatory if the blinds had been open. But the blinds were closed, and the noisy television was their ally. It masked the padding of their feet over the grass and the faint click as Robert tried the handle on the kitchen door.

The handle went down, and the door opened in front of them.

For a second, they hesitated, looking at each other. They had no real idea of what was ahead. They didn't even know the exact layout of the house. But, somewhere beyond the kitchen, they could hear a voice that had to be Mr. Armstrong's. It sounded as if he was in the conservatory—and if he was talking to Emma, they needed to be there. Robert pushed the door further open and they slipped inside, closing it softly behind them.

Tom's heart was pounding hard. The tiles on the kitchen walls rippled sickeningly in front of his eyes and the air was thick in his lungs, as if he were breathing soup. Everything around him felt dark and oppressive.

Robert had already crossed the kitchen. He was standing in the doorway, peering into the hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he beckoned impatiently.
Come on.

Together they crept out into the hall and over to the living-room door. Leaning around the doorpost, they looked past the coffee table and the armchairs, and into the conservatory. Robert tensed, clenching his fists, but at first Tom didn't know what he was seeing. He was blinded by a dirty, swirling haze that smeared itself across his field of vision.

I can't,
he thought.
I can't.
And then,
I MUST.
Screwing up his eyes, he forced himself to concentrate, peering ahead. Slowly the mist cleared, and he saw the inside of the conservatory, with the television on one side and the carpet rolled up.

The hole in the floor was invisible from where he was standing, but he could see Mr. Armstrong kneeling on the edge of it, calling down into the darkness. His voice carried clearly over the sound of the television.

“Hope! Come here when I call you!” He sounded angry and impatient.
“Out!”

Mrs. Armstrong was standing just behind him, her hand held out toward him. Not quite connecting. She was speaking, too, but her voice was too soft for Tom to hear. And behind her was Warren.

Warren's plump, pathetic face skewered Tom's mind. For a second, the whole scene blurred again. Because it was unbearable to think about Warren. Unbearable to see him living in a world that didn't make sense, however he tried to rearrange the pieces.

Tom swung away from the door, standing with his back against the wall and his eyes closed. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he heard Mr. Armstrong speak again.

“Out!” And then—impatiently—“It's no good sulking. If you won't come when you're called, I'll come down and get you!”

“No!” said Mrs. Armstrong, loud and clear now. “No, Daniel! You don't understand—”

Tom felt Robert nudge him hard in the ribs. He opened his eyes again and Robert mouthed frantic words.
What are you doing? We've got to get in there!
And he was right, of course. They'd come to rescue Emma. They couldn't stand around doing nothing while Mr. Armstrong went down into the black room.

They should have had a plan, of course. But it was too late for that now, and Tom couldn't think straight. His head was throbbing savagely and the world outside seemed unreal and insubstantial. What was happening in this house was worse than anything he had felt before. It was battering at him, demanding—demanding—

But he didn't know
what.
What could he possibly do?

Mr. Armstrong was letting himself down into the hole now, maneuvering his shoulders awkwardly through the narrow opening. Robert was on tiptoe, poised to move. As soon as Mr. Armstrong was out of sight, he nodded to Tom, beckoning him forward. The two of them stepped into the living room.

And Warren turned and saw them.

His eyes were wide with fear. For a second, Tom thought he was afraid of them. That he was going to shout a warning and give them away. But that was wrong. Warren stared steadily at them for a moment and then—quite deliberately—stepped away from the hole in the floor.

Tom wondered what he was thinking, but Robert's response was much more direct. He tugged at Tom's sleeve and then raced forward, crossing the living room in three or four strides.

Mrs. Armstrong saw him, out of the corner of her eye, and she turned to shout at him. But before she could make a sound, Robert had grabbed her and dragged her backward, with an arm looped around her neck. His other hand went over her mouth and above the hand her eyes were shocked and terrified.

The pressure in Tom's head beat harder and more insistently. He could see Robert frowning at him, gesturing with his head to tell him to get hold of Warren and keep him quiet. But there was no need for that. Warren was rigid and silent. Tom could feel the cold, paralyzing weight of his thoughts. How could he do anything if his world was completely senseless?

Mrs. Armstrong was scrabbling at Robert's arms, trying to free herself. But she wasn't thinking either. She was moving, moving, moving—because if she stopped she would despair and fall to pieces. Tom could feel that, too.

Everything was focused on that dark hole in the ground and the man who had just gone down into it. He was the key and the cause of it all. From underneath their feet, his voice sounded again.

“Hope!”

Without knowing why, or what difference it could make, Tom went toward that voice, led by some instinct to the very center of the terrible pressure he felt.

He walked across the conservatory and jumped down into the hole.

 

AS SOON AS HIS FEET HIT THE BLACK PLASTIC, THE NOISE from the television faded into the background. There was a flashlight lying on the black plastic and, by its light, he could see a dark bulky shape ahead of him. Its outline was indistinct, because he saw it through a dense, ugly fog, which hung around it like foul smoke. But he knew who it was.

The figure swung around sharply. Tom heard a quick intake of breath. “You're not taking her away again,” Mr. Armstrong said. “Now I've got another chance, I won't let her go. She's
mine.
”

His voice was like a wall of ice, blocking out any possibility of a reply. Tom dodged sideways, trying to see through the dark haze. He could just make out a twisted mass on the ground beyond, but he couldn't identify it.

Mr. Armstrong moved, too, stretching out an arm to bar his way.

“You can't take her,” he said, still in the same frozen, emotionless voice. “You saw what happened to her last time. She can't exist outside this room. It's where she belongs.”

Tom's eyes had adjusted to the dim light now. He could see that the shape on the floor was a person, but he didn't recognize the pale, dirty face or the cropped hair or the contorted body, swathed in shiny brown tape.

She recognized him, though. “Oh, Tom!” she said. “You've been so
long
!”

Tom wanted to leap forward and rip off the tape that plastered her body. But he knew he wasn't strong enough to fight off Mr. Armstrong. From somewhere, he managed to gather enough breath to speak calmly and reasonably.

“That's not Hope,” he said. “It's not your daughter. That girl is Emma Doherty. You have to let her go.”

Mr. Armstrong didn't even look around at Emma. “She's my daughter now,” he said. “And she stays here.”

“She doesn't even look like Hope,” Tom said desperately. “Hope's
gone.
”

Mr. Armstrong raised his head and looked straight at him. For one instant, Tom caught the full intensity of what was behind the ice wall. He felt a blast of anger and guilt stronger than anything he'd ever imagined. Only the ice walls held it in check. By sheer willpower, Mr. Armstrong was shutting out the rest of the universe. He was insisting that reality should be exactly as he defined it.

But he couldn't keep it up.

Standing there between Emma and Tom, he was losing control of the world he'd made for himself and his family. It had ceased to make any kind of sense—and the ice walls around him were beginning to melt and disintegrate. When they collapsed, the forces inside his head would blow him to pieces.

And he might do anything.