Silent Children (33 page)

"We'll all be doing that, so you may as well get used to it."

"Why?" Ian pleaded. "Why all of us?"

"Because I don't care what you try and say, she wouldn't be able to keep her trap shut once she went. I've heard the kind of fuss she makes."

Ian saw the truth of that, but would have done his utmost to persuade Woollie otherwise if the man hadn't said "That's it now. Do her and you a favour and stay quiet like she is. I want a chance to think."

He snapped the last word so harshly it was clear he was close to some edge. His agitation might be capable of wakening Charlotte, and Ian saw it was best not to aggravate it—not to seem to be there at all. He closed his eyes and tried to do without all his senses except for hearing. It took some time for his awareness of the head looming above him to fade, but eventually his awareness of the arm that was pinning him down relented too: it was just a weight he mustn't disturb or think about. Listening for his mother was more important, although knowing she was nearby gave him strength only if he focused on that, otherwise it kept reminding him of his inability to reach her or to rescue Charlotte. The trouble was that he couldn't hear his mother for the pounding of his blood—hadn't heard her since the visitor had left, and might have thought she'd left the house if the sound of the gate hadn't preceded that of the front door. Any noises she was making must be inaudible through the wall, which suggested that for her to overhear anything from Janet's house, it would need to be louder than Woollie imagined, but Ian didn't know if that was reassuring or the opposite. Was she downstairs or had she gone up to her room? She couldn't have guessed why he'd left the keys on display in the drawer, but suppose she belatedly understood? The prospect of her entering the house to check if Ian was there no longer seemed desirable, given how near Charlotte was to the knife. He found himself willing nothing to happen until daylight, when Charlotte would at least have slept and he would be able to plan or see a chance. Then, in the darkness that was far short of dawn, he heard her whimper, and her side of the mattress creaked.

She was only dreaming, Ian thought so fiercely his head throbbed. The dream must go away before it wakened her, so that there was no need for Woollie's hands to drag at the quilt, scraping it over the mattress. But she whimpered again, and as Ian's eyes sneaked open he glimpsed the blurred head ducking toward her. "What's the squeaking for?" Woollie said with a heartiness all the more menacing for being restrained to a murmur. "Think you're a mouse?"

"Want to go."

Charlotte sounded by no means fully awake or in control of her voice, and Ian was suddenly very afraid for her. "We're going nowhere till I've thought," Woollie muttered, "so stop making a row about it."

"I've got to. I need to."

At least her words were growing clearer, and Ian had to hope her sense of the situation was. "Plumbing problem, is it?" Woollie said. "Then we'll have to come with you. You're still awake, aren't you, son? Stop pretending."

Had he known all the time or was he trying to convince Ian he had? Ian thought of attempting to persuade him he'd been wrong and still was, but that wouldn't help Charlotte. "Now I'm awake," he mumbled.

"He's a laugh, isn't he?" Woollie said, hitching himself down the bed, his knuckles bumping along Ian's side and presumably along Charlotte's. The movements of his indistinct bulk grew less jerky as it left the bed and moved to the doorway, where its face was no more discernible in a faint glow. "Come on if you're desperate," it said. "You know the drill. Walk quiet and don't touch anything. This way, straight across the bed. Make yourself useful, son, and get her hand."

Ian found one of Charlotte's hands. It was limp with disuse and clammy as fever, but responded by clutching his so gratefully he felt like an older brother. He helped her off the bed and escorted her toward the doorway, and was almost close enough to touch the hulking silhouette when it retreated. In the glow that the glass above the front door admitted to the hall, features appeared to float up from the murk within the outline of Woollie's face: a glint of watchful eyes, a glistening crescent of mouth. "You know what you have to do if you want to go, don't you?" the mouth muttered.

Charlotte took a firmer hold of Ian's hand. Perhaps that was intended to signify assent as well as distress, because she was silent until the mouth insisted "Say it then, love. Let's be sure."

"Leave the door open and don't pull the chain," Charlotte said, barely audibly.

"That's the routine. We want to see you aren't tempted to get up to any kind of mischief in there, don't we? And we can't have you making a noise for the neighbours to hear." The silhouette moved to block the stairs, resting one hand on the top of the banister, the other on the pocket containing the knife. "Tiptoe in, then. Get it done," the mouth urged.

If Ian shoved their captor hard and unexpectedly, might he lose his balance? Falling had to injure him—but that would leave him in the way, either on the stairs or at the foot of them, and probably not unconscious. Ian let go of Charlotte and was trying to know what to do by the time she opened the bathroom door when the mouth renewed its moist grin. "Go with her, son, so I can see you both."

"You dirty shit." Ian was so furious he could hardly force his voice out. "I'm not doing that," he said, and tensed himself to throw all his weight at their captor—even if they both fell downstairs, that would give Charlotte a chance to escape. Then her hand fumbled into his and squeezed it clumsily. "It's all right," she whispered. "I don't mind."

At that moment he admired her courage as much as he hated their captor. He couldn't exert any less control than she was having to use, and the sight of Woollie's fist clenching around the banister showed how useless an attempt to dislodge him would be. Ian had to bide his time, and so he allowed Charlotte to lead him to the bathroom.

The snout of the bath taps announced itself with a hollow drip as she pushed open the door. A crumpled shower curtain dangled inside the bath and glimmered in the mirror. A scent of soap and talcum powder tried to disguise another smell. Ian turned his back as Charlotte reached the unlidded toilet, and then he stood between her and the watchful silhouette. He didn't care what the man said, he wasn't giving him a view of Charlotte. He stared fiercely at the silhouette as if that might stop his own face growing hotter at the various sounds she made. Eventually the final trickle trailed away, but he didn't move his eyes until she touched his arm. "Are you going as well?" she murmured.

"Better do what she says, son."

He meant so that he wouldn't be disturbed again, Ian deduced. All at once Ian's bladder was urging him. As he ventured into the bathroom he cupped a hand over his mouth and nose, and tried to hold his breath until he'd finished jetting into the mercifully invisible pool urned by the porcelain. He didn't quite succeed, and had to press the hand to the lower half of his face while he zipped himself up before turning to find Charlotte with her back to him. The spectacle of her braving their captor so as to spare Ian embarrassment made him all the more determined to prevent her from being harmed. "I'm coming now, Charlotte," he told her.

"It's back to the woods for the babes."

Charlotte raised a hand as if she were at school, then shook it and her head. "Thirsty."

"That's a bit of a laugh, isn't it? You've just let it out and now you want to put more in."

"I'm thirsty. It hurts."

"Oh, for God's sake let her past if it'll keep her quiet, son."

"Not water. A proper drink."

She wasn't wailing as Ian would have feared—she sounded more in control of herself than he would have dared hope. Could she have figured out a way for them to escape? At least her insistence would take them downstairs, closer to freedom. "There's stuff in the fridge," he said.

"How would you know that, son? This isn't your house."

"More mine than yours," Ian had to struggle not to retort. "I got a drink when I came in," he lied. "There's some juice."

"What kind?" Charlotte said eagerly.

Though she was trying to be positive, her question seemed to have ruined everything until, surely in time for his silence not to have exposed his lie, he thought of an answer. "The kind you like."

Woollie didn't move. Only his eyes did, dark wet bulges whose gleam flickered toward Ian and then back to Charlotte. When Woollie leaned at her to scrutinise her face she didn't flinch. "It'll be a chance, I reckon," he said.

That sounded as if it might be supposed to lead to a joke, but Ian couldn't ask the question either he or Charlotte was obviously meant to ask. When she stayed mute too Woollie said in a tiny shrill voice "Chance for what?"

His eyes searched for an audience reaction, then his mouth drooped like a clown's. "A chance to stretch our legs," he said in his ordinary mutter. "You follow me, love, quiet as that mouse you were making a noise like before, quieter than that, and the big babe can be right behind you."

He hadn't let go of the banister. His fist slithered down the curve of it as he edged backward. His foot wavered in the air, feeling for the top step, and that was when Ian should have pushed him, but Charlotte was in the way. Then the silhouette jerked several inches lower, and again, and no more until Charlotte followed it onto the stairs with Ian at her heels. "This is a funny way for me to go, isn't it?" Woollie said. "Worth a grin at least. Save your laughs for when we're back upstairs."

His face was gathering more detail at each step, and Ian realised the same must be true of his and Charlotte's. The eyes within the silhouette were intent on their reactions, the mouth kept closing only to reopen in another expectant smirk. Woollie's hand slipped down the banister with a series of squeaks like the cries of a small terrified animal, and Ian heard the man's feet brush the carpet each time they groped for a foothold. Every one of the sounds made him wish he'd gone for Woollie at the top of the stairs. But the man was at the bottom now, retreating just enough to give his captives space to pass. "All the way along," he whispered, "and sit yourselves down for your midnight treat."

Charlotte sidled hastily past him and fled down the hall. She was out of his reach, and Ian was close enough to go for him. He tried to appear to be thinking of nothing whatsoever, which might have been why Woollie's hand darted to the knife and slid it out just far enough to produce a glint. "Keep up with your playmate," he murmured. "There's been enough fuss."

That couldn't stop Ian, not while Charlotte was out of danger, even if he got hurt himself. He was taking a breath that would help launch him at Woollie as he shouted at Charlotte to escape past them, when Woollie strode swiftly yet noiselessly after her. In a second he was patting her on the head while his other hand stroked the outline of the knife. "Come and join us, son. They're slowcoaches, these teenage boys, aren't they, Charlotte?"

He continued to pat her as far as the kitchen, a performance that dragged Ian's arms down stiffly at his sides and drew his hands into claws, their fingers aching, the nails tingling. Woollie reached past her and nudged the kitchen door wide, releasing the token glow of the room. He took hold of Charlotte's shoulders to place her on the low bench closer to the hall. "Sit the other side, son, and we'll see what you were talking about."

"We weren't talking," Charlotte blurted rather too loud.

Ian heard his heart thump several times before Woollie finished staring at her and said "What he was saying was in the fridge."

"She knew you meant that. She was just trying to make you laugh."

"I told you we don't want to be laughing down here."

"We promise," Ian said, and would have said anything necessary to prevent Woollie from deciding against opening the refrigerator. That would be Charlotte's solitary chance—she would have a clear run to the front door, and Ian would ensure she wasn't chased, whatever that took. He willed her not to speak except to promise too. When she didn't even do that, Woollie paced to the refrigerator as tall as himself and opened the upper door. "Surprise," he muttered.

"What is?" Charlotte pleaded.

"Your playmate hasn't let you down."

The light from the refrigerator spilled into the kitchen, turning her face pale. It couldn't be long before Woollie noticed that the light was rendering the three of them more visible than he wanted. Ian touched Charlotte's foot with his under the table and nodded at the hall. "Go. Go," he mouthed, and saw her shake her head.

"I'll fix him." He was grimacing now, and mouthing so violently he heard the movement of his lips. She had to shift at once or it would be too late. He jammed a fist against his chest and jerked its forefinger to point behind her. "Go. You've got to," he said, nearly audibly.

"What kind of a drink are you after, love?" Woollie said, and leaned into the refrigerator. "There's orange and there's lime."

If Ian jumped up he was almost certain that he could trap the man with the refrigerator door. "Charlotte," he said, desperately, aloud.

"You as well," she told him, and pinched her lips together.

She meant she wouldn't flee without him. He'd made her run away when he didn't want her to, and now he couldn't make her when he did. He was trying to think past the tangle of his admiration and frustration when Woollie swung toward her. "Let's be hearing from you, love. It's not much of a choice."

"Orange," she said, and with a politeness Ian found dismayingly grotesque, "please."

"That's what I'd have given you," Woollie said, and stood the carton with its gaping beak in front of her. "We don't want you crying the other stuff's too sour."

"Please may I have a glass?"

"Better do without. Could be dangerous." He shut the refrigerator and paced to stand between her and the hall. "Get it down you, only not so fast you start coughing. Remember we don't want a row."

He was staring a warning at Ian, who could only watch as Charlotte raised the carton to her lips and swallowed twice, and once more. She released a small terse gasp before planting the carton on the table with a thud. Though it wasn't loud, it was why Woollie's voice grew harsh. "Take your turn, son. Nobody wants you deciding you'd like a drink after we're back upstairs."