Rentboy (28 page)

I’ll keep you safe.

Cautiously Fox opened the bathroom door. If Baillie was still there, the twins would be terrified. But he was gone. “Bedroom!” It must have been the tone of his voice, because the twins looked nervous and ran.

Tonight is the night you die, Captain Baillie. I will not let you hurt my sister.

From the drawer in their bedroom Fox took two pairs of Winnie the Pooh pajamas and threw them at the twins, making them laugh. “Get them on.”

The twins dropped their towels on the floor and then pulled on their pajamas. He didn’t want them out of their bedroom now until he could take care of William Baillie. Fear had taken hold of him, and he couldn’t let it go. None of them were safe, but Arden was in greater danger than anyone.
I’d let him fuck me before I’d let him touch you.

“Do you need a bedtime snack? You can stay up here and look at the telly, and I’ll bring it up. Do you want Ovaltine?”

They nodded.

“Say ‘Ovaltine.’”

They looked at Fox and then at each other, but neither spoke.

The bedroom door opened slowly. Fox held his breath as his chest seized up and his throat constricted. He was having so much trouble breathing since the assault that he was light-headed most of the time. Knowing it was all due to panic and stress did not improve it.

“Afton?” It was his mum.

“They’re ready for bed. I’m going to get them some Ovaltine.”

He’s home
, she mouthed.

Fox nodded.
I know
, he mouthed back. They looked at each other with all the apprehension and horror they felt. Tara’s face, pretty these last few days as she tried her hardest to cut down on the drink and take part in their lives, was tense and filled with fear again. She would be falling down drunk before midnight. “Is he in his office?”

“He’s in the living room. He says we all have to go down and sit with him.”

Fox looked at the twins, who stood frozen, gripping each other’s hands. The deer-in-headlights analogy described them perfectly. “We have to go downstairs and see him,” he told them gently. As if released from bonds, they threw themselves at him and began to whimper.

Hugging the twins, Fox said over their shoulders, “Let’s play it as cool as we can, Mum. I’m going to take care of this tonight.” He forced as much meaning into the words as he could, and she knew what he meant. “Come on, it’ll be fine.” Whimpering like abandoned puppies, the twins refused to move, clutching Fox and each other.

“Come on, luvs,” Tara said. “Just for a few minutes. If you don’t come down, he’ll come up and get us. We don’t want that.”

As if they were going to the gallows, they all walked very slowly down the stairs, Fox holding the twins by the hands, Tara behind them. At the bottom of the stairs they could see into the living room through the wide arched doorway. William Baillie, dressed in camo trousers and a green T-shirt, sat on the couch watching them. Overhead the ceiling fan hummed softly. He took a long swig from the beer in his hand, then waved them into the living room.

Alder and Arden tugged on Fox’s hands, wanting to leave. He led them to the couch farthest away from their father, and all three sat down. Tara sat with them, lined up like children before an angry father.

“Fox, get me another beer.”

“Yes, sir.” When he stood, the twins got up with him.

“Sit down, you fucking morons,” Baillie shouted at them. They sat down again while Fox ran to the kitchen. The knife block absorbed his gaze for a long moment, and he stood caressing the handles. A knife would not work. He had to shoot him. When everyone was in bed, he would look for his father’s guns.

With a can of Newcastle Brown taken from the box on the floor, he hurried back. Not a sound came from anyone in the living room. The twins were holding hands and staring at the ceiling fan, their heads tilted back. Fox held out the can while Baillie looked him steadily in the eyes. He reached for the beer but instead gripped Fox’s wrist painfully in his much larger, stronger hand. “No hard feelings?” he said quietly.

“No, sir,” Fox said.

“It was business, nothing else.”

“I know.”

He released Fox’s wrist, and Fox quickly joined the others on the couch. Their bodies were so rigidly tense with fear and apprehension that they were like twigs in a fierce wind, ready to break at any moment.

“Arden,” Baillie said, “come and sit here with me.” The girl did not move and appeared not to have heard. “Get the fuck over here, girl.” Still she didn’t move. His face twisting with anger, Baillie said, “I want her dressed like a girl every day from now on, and I want his hair cut. No one knows he’s a boy. You see to it in the morning, Fox. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does she have any dresses?”

“A few, sir.”

“Take her shopping, and get her something pretty.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at the twins, his face contorted with anger. “Hey, morons, get to bed!”

They did not move until Fox said, “Go.” Then they ran from the room and up the stairs.

“And you’d better start looking nicer too,” Baillie said to Tara.

“Yes, Billy, I’ve been meaning to.”

“You look like a filthy old slag most of the time. I’m sick of it. Now go upstairs.” With the same relief the twins had displayed, she left the room. At the foot of the stairs she made brief eye contact with Fox, pleading with him to do something.

“Who came?” Baillie asked.

“Sir?” Fox asked.

“Was it MI6? MI5 only deals with domestic situations.”

“Haven’t a clue. I passed out.”

“What about your queer friend?”

“I haven’t spoken to him.” At least that was true. There was no number for outside contact to the hospital. It wasn’t listed anywhere. Fox had arrived there unconscious, having no idea where he was, and when he left, he had noticed that there were no road signs or anything indicating that a hospital was there. He had no idea how to find the place again. And Eddie had not contacted him.

“You won’t be seeing Atherton again. I’ve got plans for the future.”

“What plans?” Fox asked cautiously.

With his boots still on, Baillie stretched out his legs on the couch. “I’m going to get Tara sober so she can look after the twins, and you’re going to Peru in the next week or so. There’s a training camp in the jungle. I’ve already spoken with the commander. He’s going to make you into a real man.”

“Oh yeah, what’s a real man?” Fox asked.

“One who can kill,” Baillie said.

“Mum can’t look after the twins. It will take her months to get sober. She needs to go to rehab.”

“I’ll get her sober. And I’ll be here to help her look after the twins. It’s time they started acting like a proper girl and boy. You’ve let them get strange like they are by indulging them. I’m going to make them normal. You won’t recognize them when I’m finished with them.”

Feeling nauseated, Fox stood up. “Can I go to bed, sir?”

“If you want.” Fox reached the bottom of the stairs when Baillie said loudly, “And another thing. I want the twins sleeping in separate rooms from now on. They shouldn’t be sharing a bed at their age. Put Arden in the spare bedroom at the end of the hall.”

“Right next to yours?” Fox asked.

“Yes. Next to mine.” He chugged the remains of his beer.

“I’ll do it tomorrow, sir.”

Heavy with responsibility and fear, Fox walked up the stairs. His father had to die, he’d known that for a while, but to have it thrust on him before he felt totally ready added to the burden.

When are you ever totally ready to kill your dad?

The twins were not in their bed, and neither were they with Tara when he slipped into her room to check. “Fox, I’m really scared. I didn’t like the way he was looking at Arden or the things he said. I know he’s a bastard, but he wouldn’t touch her, would he? He’s not that bad.”

Fox sank down on the side of her bed. “Mum, he’s that bad,” he said. “He told me to move her into the bedroom next to his tomorrow.”

A sob heaved her chest, and she pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle it. “No, no. I know he’s rotten, but that? I’ve been worried about Arden because she’s so pretty, but I never thought she’d be in danger in her own home. Would he really do that?”

“You have no idea what he’s capable of.” Fox would never tell her that her husband had ordered the torture of his own son. “I’m going to kill him tonight, so whatever you do, do not come out of this room till morning. I’d tell you to lock the door but he’s taken all the frigging locks off.”

Eyes wide with fear, she asked, “What are you going to do?”

Half a bottle of merlot stood on the bedside table with a dirty glass. She’d probably finish it as soon as he left. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll try and make it look like a break-in. Don’t worry. I’m going to stay with the twins until he’s asleep. He’s drinking. I don’t trust him not to try something with Arden tonight.” He kissed her and left.

Fox ran to his room to find the twins in his wardrobe fast asleep, hugging each other, huddled on the nest of blankets and pillows. With care he closed the door again and stripped down to his undies and T-shirt before lying down on his bed. With the same sense of hope he’d had for the last week, he checked his phone, looking for a text or missed call from Eddie or Nik. Nothing. He tried Nik’s number and left a voice mail. He had not been able to reach her by phone or e-mail in a week. He tried Eddie’s phone next and heard the same thing he had heard before.
This message box is full. Try your call later.

Were they avoiding him?

The farm, he should try there. Quietly so as not to disturb the twins, he went to his desk and sat down and switched on his laptop, opening the British Telecom Phone Book site. He punched in the Athertons’ name and address, but it came up ex-directory. Why the fuck did people have a phone number if they didn’t want anyone to phone them? Why hadn’t Eddie been in touch; had he taken a turn for the worse? Or had he decided after all that he could not be involved with someone who lied, stole from him, and involved him in international terrorism? Who could blame him, for God’s sake. True love could survive a lot, but maybe not lies and betrayal and torture.

At the sound of his father’s boots on the landing, Fox crept to the door and opened it a crack. Baillie stood outside the twins’ bedroom grasping the door handle. “Good night, sir.”

Obviously slightly shocked at being caught, Baillie looked at him and then grinned. “You’ll be in the jungle soon, and then there’ll be no one to watch me.”

He wasn’t even ashamed or trying to hide it. Fox closed the door, waiting until he heard Baillie’s footsteps recede to his bedroom and the door close. Everyone in the house pussyfooted around, except him. They always knew where he was, because he made sure they did.

Fox waited half an hour and then, barefoot, left the room to walk with well-practiced silence down the stairs. Without putting the lights on he knew where every creak in the house was and avoided them like land mines. Glancing up the stairs to ensure he was not being watched, he tried the office door. It was locked. All the guns were in there. Did his father suspect something? He never locked the office door.

Clenching his fists, Fox wanted to scream. A gunshot would be fast and clean. With a knife he might not be able to kill him with the first blow, and if they got into hand-to-hand combat, Fox would lose.

On tiptoe he made his way to the darkened kitchen. The floodlights outside were sufficient to see what he was doing without risking switching a light on. Just inside the door Fox leaned his back against the wall and looked around. He needed a knife or a blunt object heavy enough to kill with one blow. That crowbar Eddie had been struck with would be handy right now. There must be one in the garage. Halfway to the door he remembered the utility room. There was a toolbox in there with a large spanner and a couple of hammers. He went in and with shaking hands hefted a large claw-foot hammer and the heavy steel spanner. Panting with fear and anticipation, Fox wielded the weapons, throwing a few practice blows at the air.

Make sure he’s asleep, then one swift blow with the hammer to whichever part of his head is most easily accessible. That will knock him out, and then deliver the finishing blow.

The memory of the last attempt returned. What if his father was awake this time too? What if he grabbed the hammer as it descended and got it out of Fox’s much weaker grasp? Imagining the scenario, he raised the hammer, swung it down, envisioned it connecting with his father’s head, the crack, the blood spurting out. Then he raised the spanner and brought that down quickly, seeing the skull crack as he watched. When it was done, he would bury the weapons in the flower beds and break a window to make a point of entry.

Do it. Do it.

Silently he ran up the stairs and paused to listen outside his father’s door. Every other second, doubt seized him just long enough for him to remember the towel and the bin bag, drowning, dying of suffocation, but more important than anything, Arden, and what she would do when her father started to rape her.

Not a sound came from inside the room. Fox opened the door and stood just inside, watching the bed as if a cobra lay there waiting to spring. William Baillie lay utterly still in the darkness, seeming to sleep so deeply that Fox could not hear him breathe. Was it a ruse like last time? His father was an experienced soldier trained by Special Forces, used to living, sleeping, and surviving in deserts and jungles. He must always be on alert, sleeping with one eye open, always listening.

With carefully placed steps, Fox approached the bed.

Do it now. Do it!
He raised the hammer high, at the same time getting ready to swing the spanner next. Two blows in quick succession.

“Don’t ruin my handiwork, boy.”

“Ahh!” Fox screamed, dropping the hammer. On the other side of the bed someone flipped on the bedside lamp. It was him, the big man from Eddie’s kitchen who had killed the Mad Hatter’s tea party guests.

“Were you going to kill him, boy?”