Silent Children (36 page)

It was clear that not much would be needed to bring her down the stairs, encouraged by the boy's refusal to move. The sense that the situation was turning against him flared like a short circuit under Hector's scalp, and he snatched the knife out of the pocket of the beach dress he was hardly conscious of wearing. The boy's face hardened, doing its best to pretend not to care, but the girl's rebelliousness collapsed at once. "Don't hurt him," she wailed. "I'm going up, look. Come on, Ian, you come too." With that she bolted, almost tripping over the top stair, and vanished into the back bedroom.

The boy grimaced after her as though she'd failed to carry out a plan they'd concocted together. He stared at the knife in an attempt to appear unimpressed before he retreated upstairs, Hector close behind him, sliding the flat of the blade over the banister. "Look what you've done now," Hector whispered. "Upset your playmate for no reason. Better find a way to take her mind off things." Once that was achieved he would be able to determine how to bring John without revealing their whereabouts. Just now he was unsure of far too much. Having given a promise he had no intention of keeping, how could he know John would keep his? Doubts swarmed beneath his scalp, and he needed peace so as to think—needed the boy to calm his playmate down and cease being any kind of a distraction himself. That struck Hector as increasingly unlikely, but if he wasn't able to think because of the children and his own sleeplessness, he didn't like to imagine what he might do instead.

Each time Jack compelled himself to wait he became convinced all over again that there was more he could do. He'd heard a child's voice, for Christ's sake. His father had a child with him. She hadn't sounded frightened or aware of any danger, as far as Jack had been able to tell before his father had blocked the mouthpiece, but what could he allow that to prove? His father had seemed to imply that she wasn't alone with him, but Jack didn't see how that could be reassuring either. Call the police, his mind urged yet again, do it now. That was what people did in situations such as this—call the police.

Except that he was more convinced than ever they wouldn't believe his father was alive, and even if Jack succeeded in persuading them, what then? He had no idea where his father was, and any search might send the man deeper into hiding—might mean he wouldn't contact Jack. While Jack was trying to win over the police, suppose his father attempted to get through and realised why the line was busy? Any approach Jack made to the police might very well put the child or children at greater risk.

His thoughts did their best to settle on that before renewing their chase around the hollow brittle inside of his head. They sent him roaming the apartment, the very little of it there was to roam. In the perfumed pink bathroom with its frilly toilet seat and a joke on a wall plaque waiting to be re-encountered by anyone who sat down, he flung cold water in his eyes and let it drip into the sink the colour of healing flesh. In the kitchen overlooking a schoolyard for the moment empty of children, a coffee jar turned out to contain only a coating of brown dust, and he had to make do with tea out of a bag. He tried switching on the radio to help him wait, and found it was tuned to a wartime comedy show, the laughter of voices that might well be dead by now, laughter determined to fend off the state of the world. Even news seemed preferable, but tuning across the dial found none, and so he took his untouched mug of tea into the only other room besides his mother's bedroom, the large space that functioned as a dining room and television lounge and, when the sofa was unfolded, his temporary bedroom. The tea grew cold and stagnant as he sat on the sofa by the phone and fished for cable channels with the remote control, which brought him a good deal of dismaying news but none about a missing little girl. The lack wasn't reassuring: it simply reminded him how he'd failed to do even the least he could have. He ought to have made his father promise not to harm the child.

It wouldn't make any sense for him to hurt her, not when he wanted Jack to side with him, but that was assuming his father made sense. As soon as he called again Jack was going to extract the promise, and he'd insist on hearing the little girl speak. Those resolutions involved waiting, and pacing through the apartment that felt as though it shrank with each wander he took, and having his thoughts repeat themselves over and over and drag him through all the emotions attached to them, and worse still, hearing the children in the schoolyard at lunchtime. Their cries and laughter drove him back into the main room, but even with all the doors and windows shut tight they were audible. He was staring at the phone, willing it to ring or himself either to act or to resist acting, when he wondered how his father had known where to reach him.

Perhaps he hadn't known: perhaps he had only guessed, but he'd seemed not at all surprised to hear Jack answer the phone—he'd sounded absolutely sure of finding him. Did he still know Jack well enough to realise he would have to take refuge with his mother? The notion that his father could predict his behaviour made Jack feel not just too close to his own childhood but in danger of being controlled, reached deeper into than he himself could reach and influenced. His father must have looked up the number of the woman who believed she was his widow, and Jack found himself consulting the directory as if confirming his suspicion could be any possible use. Wi, Wo, Woo, and here was a block of Woollies. The name dragged him down into his old buried self, but only until he saw his mother's number was unlisted.

It had to be too new. Just to check, and willing his father not to call while he did, Jack phoned Directory Enquiries. But the operator refused to give the number even when Jack assured her he was calling from it, and he had to restrain himself from starting an argument while his thoughts began to chatter. Had his mother lied to him when he'd attempted to convince her that his father was alive? Had she known then, or only when his father had managed to learn Jack's whereabouts from her? What could have persuaded her to tell? Far more important, might she have some idea where his father was?

Jack forced himself to wait some minutes in case his father had decided on whatever basis he might have that it was time to call, and then he dialled the Haven, hoping to speak only to his mother. It was indeed her breathless voice that eventually said "Haven Care Home."

"It's me. It's Jack."

"Is it very urgent? Only I'm in the middle of trying to be tactful about telling people not to just wander into the office when there aren't staff in it."

"It's pretty urgent, yes."

"Tell me then, but quickly if you can."

It wasn't only his sense of interrupting her work that made it impossible for Jack to accuse her of having lied to him. "Did you let someone know where to find me?" he said.

"Who, John?"

"Anyone."

"I wouldn't, not without asking you first, not unless you said I could. All right?"

"Not even someone we know?"

"Particularly not anyone like that, I should think. They'd know who you were, and I thought you didn't want people knowing till you said."

"But who knows where I am besides you?"

"Some of them here do, don't they?"

His thoughts had been so narrowed he'd forgotten that. He'd heard nothing other than honesty in her voice, and had to accept she hadn't spoken to his father. "Would any of them have given out your number, do you think?" he said.

"They might have, the way some of them are in and out of this office. Do you want me to ask?"

Jack wasn't sure what use he could make of the information, but said "If you wouldn't mind."

"Hold on then."

"Why don't I—"

Before he could propose to call her back, the phone clattered on her desk. She was gone for so long that he was about to break the connection when he heard the squeak of the office door and, after more of a pause than struck him as warranted, her voice. "Nobody who's here knows anything about a call for you, but Terence and the Arthurs have gone out for a walk. If it was any of them I'll get him to ring you."

"Any idea when?"

"Late this afternoon. Should be before I start back."

There was another problem to join the chase inside Jack's head: that his father mightn't call until his mother was home. Even more than previously, he could find nothing to do except prowl the apartment and keep returning to the news channels, none of which had any news for him, and repeat thoughts that felt like being unable to think, and wait for the phone to ring. He had to listen to the children in the schoolyard twice, during their afternoon break and at the end of the day, before it did.

"Hello?"

"Hey there, Mr. Woollie."

Someone was trying to sound American. All that Jack could risk in the way of an answer was "Yes?"

"How ya doin'? What's goin' on?"

"I'm not sure. What is?"

"You sayin' you don't know who you's a-talkin' to?"

"Put me out of my misery," Jack said through what felt like a grin only in terms of the shape of his mouth.

"It's Terence, Mr. Woollie. Terence from the Haven, the Haven Home. Terence that you were talking to the other day."

"I got you, Terence. Why were you speaking like that?"

"Like what? I can't remember how I did."

"Just now, I mean. Were you trying to sound like someone?"

"Lak theeyuss, you sayin'? That was just meant for a laugh."

"You weren't imitating anyone."

"Sorry, Mr. Woollie."

Jack was beginning to feel the conversation would never get started, never mind come to an end. "Sorry, for what? Sorry for what?"

"I wouldn't imitate you ever. Sorry if you thought I was. I was only trying to be like the man who was going to help you with your book."

"Which man?"

"What was his name? A funny name, it was. Made me laugh. What was it?" Terence said, not far short of demanding the answer of Jack, and then preceded it with a giggle. "Mr. Dadd."

Jack felt his mouth wrench itself out of shape. "What's funny about that?"

"Sorry, is he a mate of yours? He must be if he's helping you, mustn't he. Sorry." Terence sounded close to retreating inside himself to avoid giving any further offence, but dared to add "It was a bit funny how he talked."

"How was that?"

"More American than you, even more than, but you're not a real one." Some or all of that seemed meant as an apology, though not one Jack grasped. "Did he catch you, then? Did he track you down all right?" Terence said, and allowed himself another giggle. "I thought he thought you were one of us."

"How come?" Jack said, harshly enough for his breath to rebound from the mouthpiece.

"He must have thought you were working here really. He took a lot of telling you weren't here."

"You're saying he expected me to be."

"I thought he thought I was trying to hide you at first, only why would you want to hide from him? How's he going to help you with your book?"

"Is that what he said he wanted?"

"I thought he did." Terence's enthusiasm slumped while he said that, then roused itself. "Does he make films? Is there going to be one of your book?"

"Right now I don't know what there's going to be." That was all their conversation seemed to have told Jack, and it might be getting in the way of a call his father was trying to make. "Thanks for phoning, Terence," he said, "I have to go now," and kept his hand on the receiver in case it was about to spring his father on him—in the hope that it would. He listened to the silence that was the absence of children and felt his thoughts preparing to swarm around the inside of his skull. He needed to catch hold of one before they did—whichever of them would explain his sense of having learned more from Terence than he understood. The impression made him feel as though he had heard a sound he had yet to realise he'd heard.

"I know a game that'll be fun for you both. It used to make John laugh when he was your age, Charlotte. Laugh till he cried, he would. He'd laugh till he tired himself out with it and had to go to bed. That's what you both want, a bit of a giggle. It's easier to rest when you've had a laugh."

It might work for Woollie, Ian thought. If they were lucky it might put him to sleep. Then—if Woollie didn't wake himself up by falling off the stool on which he was sitting against the door—Ian would be able to creep around the bed and retrieve the knife. "What game?" he murmured across Charlotte next to him on the bed.

"I never thought of a name for it, son. I made it up once when he wouldn't stop creating over some toy that got broken or wore out, I forget which. Tell you what, that can be part of the game, thinking what to call it. You see if you can think of a better name than your playmate, Charlotte, will you?"

He seemed placid, close to sleepy, but anything unwelcome was bound to jar him out of that state, not least having to wait too long for an answer. All the games he'd insisted on playing in a whisper—I Spy and Twenty Questions and Who Am I?—had visibly aggravated Charlotte's exhaustion, and it was clear to Ian that she was too tired to fall asleep, perhaps even to respond with any enthusiasm. He was about to answer for her in the hope of rousing her when she mumbled "What for?"

"For a bit of extra fun."

She shook her head impatiently, tapping the headboard against the wall. "What's the name for?"

"Keep that still. Get your head on the pillow. You too, son. Right on it so you're not tempted to try and send messages next door when there's somebody to hear. And I told you what for once, love. It's an extra part of our game."

He was wide awake now, and closer than ever to losing control. Ian had to lie on one side and watch him over the back of Charlotte's untypically tousled head. With an effort that sent a brittle shudder through him he contained his frustration at the way Charlotte and their captor were scraping each other's nerves. "She means what game is it going to be," he intervened.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you if I'm given the chance. Somebody says a word and the next one has to rhyme with it, and the winner is the one that makes someone else laugh. Sound good? Sound like fun?"