The Nightmare Game (3 page)

And the girls giggled at that, too.

Warren hunched forward in his seat, hating them all. Hating himself. There were no secret places in his mind anymore. He could feel himself giving in.
Becoming
Rabbit.

When the bus reached the housing development, he let everyone else get off before he stood up. Then he loitered at the bus stop until they were all heading home. For a nasty moment he thought Platt was going to wait for him, but the girls saved him by trooping off together. The rabbit game was no fun without an audience. After one backward glance, Platt went with the crowd.

As soon as it was safe, Warren dragged himself up the road and around the corner. The street seemed twice as long as usual and the house at the end—his own house—looked dark and grim. The curtains were pulled, but there was no car in the driveway and the windows were all unlit.

He wanted to turn back, but there was nowhere else to go. He trailed along the pavement with his shoulders sagging and his bag hanging off one arm. When he reached the house, it took all his energy to find his front door key and slip it into the lock.

He was just about to turn the key when he heard a voice. It was very faint and at first he caught just the intonation, without being able to make out any words. But, even so, there was something about it that made him hesitate. Something that made him turn his key very quietly.

As the door swung open, the words suddenly came clear. The voice was saying the same thing, over and over again.

“Out . . . out . . . out . . .”

He stopped, half in and half out of the house. Listening so hard that he couldn't move. Stunned.

“. . . out . . . out . . .”

It was Hope's voice. He could almost see her frown as she concentrated on making the shapes with her mouth, sounding the last letter separately, to get it right.
Ou-T . . . ou-T . . .

He stepped into the house, pulling the door shut behind him. The voice stopped instantly, halfway through a word.
Ou—
For a second he couldn't bear to move, in case he'd imagined the whole thing. But he had to know. He went forward and pushed at the living-room door.

His mother was in there. On her own. She was kneeling on the floor, with a little tape player in front of her. In her arms she was cradling a cardboard shoe box, with the lid half off, as though she had snatched it up quickly.

“Warren,” she said. She looked awkward and defensive. “I didn't realize it was so late.”

“Sorry,” Warren mumbled. “I didn't mean—I just heard—”

He started to back out of the room, but his mother leaned forward urgently, still clutching the shoe box.

“Yes? What did you hear?”

“I thought—” Warren didn't know what he was supposed to say. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt huge. He looked down at the carpet. “It was Hope,” he muttered. “Wasn't it?”

He heard a slow, soft sigh as his mother let out her breath. “We didn't make her up, did we?” she said. “She's real.” Pulling the lid off the shoe box, she held it out for Warren to see. “Look! She's
real
.”

The box was full of photographs. Little colored snapshots, slithering over each other in untidy heaps. Warren glanced down nervously at the top one. It showed a baby in a frilly dress, sitting on a blanket. She was smiling and waving her arms as she looked toward the camera. Just like any other baby.

“Go on,” his mother said eagerly, shaking the box. “Look at them!”

He pulled out another one. It showed a girl of five or six, with a pale, narrow face and braids in her hair. She was kneeling by the entrance to the secret room, gazing down gravely into the darkness. Her head was turned to one side, in a slightly odd way, and she had a distant look that he recognized.

“I didn't know we had any photos of Hope,” he said.

His mother reached out to take the picture back. “Father doesn't know,” she said quickly. “You mustn't tell him. If he finds out, he'll take them away and burn them. And the tape as well.”

“It's OK,” Warren muttered awkwardly.

“I
have
to have them.” There was a defiant edge to his mother's voice. “I can't just wipe her away. You understand that, don't you?”

Warren didn't understand anything. And he didn't want to answer the question, because he didn't know where that would take him. All he wanted to do was keep his mouth shut and forget what he'd seen. But that wasn't an option. His mother was looking straight at him, waiting for an answer.

“You
do
understand, don't you?” she said. “You do know that Hope's real?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Warren nodded.

“Then you'll help me to find her?” his mother said quickly.

He hadn't expected that. All he could do was stare, with his mouth open. Did she really mean them to do it on their own?

All his life, he'd done whatever his father said. Sometimes his mother gave him instructions, but he'd known that she was only repeating things that came from his father. Now his father was telling them that Hope had never existed. She was gone, hidden behind some mysterious door that his father had slammed shut. The truth about what had happened was locked away. How could he and his mother find it out by themselves?

“Well?” she said. Still watching his face.

He dropped his head and muttered, “Might be better if we didn't . . . don't really know what happened . . . it must have been . . .”

It must have been terrifying.
That was what he wanted to say. If his father couldn't rescue Hope, if he couldn't even talk about what had happened, then it must have been—must have been—

Warren's mind cut out, refusing to let him imagine horrors.

Refusing to let him imagine his father being afraid.

“I don't care what it was like,” his mother said fiercely. “
Nothing's
as bad as not knowing. If only we could find out who took her, that would be a start. How did they know she was there?
Who are they?
I didn't even see their faces.”

Warren didn't want to hear what she was saying. He wanted to stay safely outside that locked door, where his father meant him to be. But he'd crossed the line and taken sides, before he realized what he was doing.

“There's a—a photo,” he stuttered. “Of the tall one.”

His mother's mouth fell open. “Where?
How?”

“That day the security light came on. Remember?” He could see she did. “That was him, snooping around. We took a picture before we threw him out.”

His mother scrambled to her feet. “Where is it? Show me.”

“It's on the computer—”

She was at the desk before he'd finished speaking. As the screen lit up, she grabbed at Warren's sleeve and pulled him into the chair.

“Find it. Quickly.”

This time, it only took him a couple of seconds. She stood over him impatiently while he opened the folder and selected the file. As the tall kidnapper's face came up on the screen, she drew in her breath.

“He looks like a giant. A monster. If he's taken her away to hurt her—”

“I think—he's just tall,” Warren said hesitantly. “He's not much older than me.”

“You mean he's still at school?” His mother's voice was sharp.

“I—suppose so.” Warren nodded, thinking about it. “Yes. He's got to be. And the others as well.”

His mother stabbed a finger at the picture on the screen. “Print that.”

Warren obeyed, without asking questions. His mother stared at the photo coming off the printer. As soon as it was ready, she darted forward and snatched it up by one edge, flapping it to dry the ink. Then she held it out to Warren.

“There you are,” she said. “Go and find him.”

“
What?
” Warren looked at her in horror. “
Me?
But I can't—”

“Yes you can.” She took his fingers and closed them around the edge of the paper. “All you have to do is find the right school and ask someone who he is.”

The idea made Warren feel sick. “Why can't you do it instead?

“Because I'm an adult. No teenager's going to answer my questions. But you won't frighten anyone off. They'll tell you, if you do it right.”

Warren looked at her stupidly. He couldn't quite believe that she meant it.

But she did. She grabbed his other hand and took it between hers, holding on tightly. “Please,” she said. And he could hear how desperate she was. “
Please
. It's the only thing I can think of. And I have to find out what happened to her.”

Warren looked down at the picture.
I can't
, he thought again. But he already knew that he would. He'd spent his whole life doing what he was told.

FOR AN HOUR THE NEXT MORNING, HE THOUGHT IT WAS GOING to be all right after all. He thought his mother had given up her idea of sending him out as a spy. When he came down to breakfast, she was scurrying around in the usual way, making toast and filling up his father's teacup as she'd done every other day of his life. He almost expected to see Hope's tray standing ready on the side, with her bowl of porridge and her plastic mug full of milk.

But there was no tray. No Hope. Everything had changed.

As soon as his father walked out of the house, his mother dropped her pretense of being ordinary. She took a sheet of paper out of her pocket and slapped it down on the table in front of Warren.

He stared at a list of times and numbers. “What's that?”

“Buses,” she said briskly. “If you catch those, you can visit three schools today. Two when it's break and one at the end of the afternoon. Those are the most likely schools, but if you don't strike lucky today you can do three more tomorrow.”

“You mean—go on my own? In schooltime?” He couldn't believe that was what she meant.

“How else do you think you're going to find out?” His mother whisked away his cup and plate and took the cloth off the table. “Go and fetch the street map and I'll give you your fare money.”

“But what if people ask me why I'm not at school?” He was struggling now. Snatching at any excuse.

His mother gave him a scornful, impatient look. “Tell them you're on your way to the dentist. Tell them
anything
. What does it matter? Hundreds of children skip school every day.”

 

IT FELT AS THOUGH THE DULL, FAMILIAR CITY HAD TURNED INTO a jungle. Behind every window, in every shop doorway, there might be danger lurking. Someone who would grab his collar and haul him off to the police station.
Officer, I found this boy playing hooky.

He wanted to scuttle around, darting from one hiding place to another, but he had enough sense to see that he would be in more danger if he behaved like that. He could only survive by walking boldly, looking straight ahead, as though he had a right to be around.

And there were other survival skills he had to learn. When he reached a school, it was no use just standing at the gate, hoping to recognize one of the kidnappers. There were too many people milling around, and too many places to watch. He was never going to get anywhere without producing the photograph.

But that had its problems, too. He began by picking people who looked quiet and safe and asking the question straight out.
Do you know this boy?
That was disastrous. Even the most stupid-looking people edged away suspiciously. If he was going to get any answers, he needed a cover story.

It took him most of the day to invent one that sounded plausible. By then, he was on his third school. One of the big glass and concrete high schools that squatted outside a side road, on the far side of the city. Loitering by the gate, he peered up at the classrooms, piled one on top of another, and told himself that it ought to be simple.

No one would pay him any attention as long as he stood quietly at the gate. He knew that already. All he had to do was take his time and wait for the right person. Someone sympathetic who would take a proper look at the picture.

It
should
have been like that. But he couldn't get rid of the terrifying, tormenting thought that this time it might be the right school after all. And if it was, he might suddenly find himself facing one of the kidnappers.

They knew who he was. If they saw him there, they were bound to guess what he was doing.

He pictured them as massive, nameless figures who would come striding toward him, like shapes from a nightmare. They would be relentless and sadistic. That day before the kidnap, when they'd cornered him on the way home, they'd known exactly how to frighten him. They'd played on his worst fears, not spelling anything out clearly. Just hinting at danger, with little pinprick jabs to make him panic. That was how they'd bullied him into turning off the burglar alarm. They'd forced him to help them.

He didn't know which one of them was the worst. The tall one, the short one, or the ginger-haired girl with the sharp fox-face. He hated all three of them.

The idea that they might appear made him much too anxious to ask his question and escape. Instead of waiting for some lumpish, kindly girl who would give him a proper hearing, he spoke to the first person who looked his way. He blurted out his cover story all in one go, without a proper introduction.

“Hi can you help me I'm looking for someone—picked up my bag instead of his own—on the bus—no name—just a photo—”

Before he was halfway through, he knew he'd made a dreadful mistake. The boy he'd stopped was already smiling down at him. With the sort of cruel, amused smile that Platt always gave him. Even before Warren had finished explaining what he wanted, the boy was calling over his shoulder.