The Taken (25 page)

“I need to show you. You need to see.”

“Okay. Show me.”

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“Close your eyes.”

She did so and the little boy came around behind Alex and put his hands over her eyes, the cool skin making her flinch slightly.

“Are you ready?”

She nodded.

“Now open them.”

Once again, the world turned, nauseating giddiness spinning Alex out of control.

When it finally settled, she was in blackness. No, it wasn’t entirely dark. As her eyes adjusted she could make out shapes in the gloom, gray and fuzzy. Where was she? I’m looking down. I’m looking down on things as if I’m on the ceiling.

Just like he was in the bathroom. With the room in perspective she tried to piece it together. Below, she could see stairs, wooden stairs, old and untreated, and at the top of them, a door. From the small gap under it, bright yellow light crept out. The air was musty and cool, leaving a taste of splinters and staleness in her mouth, as if no one had let any fresh air in for too long a time. Along the far side she could make out a high bench, maybe attached to the wall, she couldn’t tell in the dark, but the objects on it reflected slightly in the light. A workbench maybe? The pieces dropped into place. It was a cellar.

She was in a cellar.

A sniffling sound caught her attention and she focused on the dark shadow in the far corner. Was there someone there? The shape moved and let out a tiny, terrified, muffled sob. Straining to see, her consciousness shifted, launching part of her across the room and downward. With a silent scream, the part of her left on the ceiling tried to pull back, but it was too late, and suddenly she was inside. Inside, looking out.

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The boy’s body froze for just a fraction of a second as she slipped into him, and then continued its shivering, his whole form shaking with fear. He doesn’t know I’m here, Alex thought with wonder. He doesn’t know I’m right inside him.

She could feel the heat of his panicked skin that was hers but not hers, and seeing through his wide eyes every shape in the cellar seemed to be a snarling monster waiting, just waiting for him to move or try to shift his numb legs to a new position where the rope didn’t cut into them quite so hard.

He slowly twisted his head and wiped the stream of snot coming from his nose onto the shoulder of his tank top, the gag tied tight around his head cutting into the edges of his lips. And all the while, he kept one eye fixed on the small glint of light under the door. Because that’s where the real monster would come from. That’s where he lived. The man monster. Alex could see the red and yellow of the sweater even in this darkness and her heart squeezed tight. What happened to you? Who’s made you so frightened?

The part of her left on the ceiling looked down and thought of the boy’s words.

This boy’s words spoken in a place so far away from here. You need to see. You need to understand. She pushed her remote consciousness forward, digging deeper into his mind so that she was truly inside him, so that she was him.

Callum. His name was Callum Parker and he was nine years old and all he wanted was to go home and he was so very, very scared. She pushed backward into his memory. Sunday afternoon. Walking home. Bethnal Green. Scared, but not scared like now. Nothing like now. He’d been to church with Mum and Gran while 248

Dad stayed home to mow the grass, and he’d really wanted to stay and help because that would be so much more fun than sitting on the hard bench in the church that was never warm, not even on summer days like today, but knew better than to ask, especially when Gran was visiting.

She’d knitted him the new tank top he was wearing so that he’d have something like all the big boys at school wore, and although he hadn’t known how to say so, he really liked it. When she’d unpacked it the previous day his mum had gone out and bought him a new shirt to wear underneath, a shirt he knew she couldn’t really afford because he never even got brand-new shirts for school and he’d worn them both for church. Billy had been there too, squirming in the old-fashioned, uncomfortable suit his mum made him wear every Sunday, which surely must have been getting too small for him now, and afterwards he had asked Callum to come back to his house to play. His mum had wanted him to go home and change first, but that just seemed like too much time to waste, and there would only be two hours before lunch and he promised he wouldn’t get messy and eventually his mum had agreed.

And that’s where it had gone wrong. He had got dirty. He’d tried not to, but Billy caught a frog down at the pond and Callum had to go and see it, he just had to. He’d crept so carefully down to the water and stroked the back of the cold slimy creature before Billy let it jump away, and as they turned to get back to the safe dry grass, Callum had slipped, his Sunday shoes not made for gripping the mud, not like his sneakers that were at home in the kitchen, and as he fell one sleeve of

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that new crisp white shirt got covered with mud. And that wasn’t the worst of it. There was also a tiny hole in the sleeve where it must have caught on a twig or where it tugged when he landed.

Tears had sparked in the back of his eyes, and although Billy’s mum had told him it was going to be all right, Callum knew differently. Callum knew that his mum would be upset in the worst way, not in the angry way, but in the sad way like she was when she argued with his dad. And Callum hated that. He’d drunk his Panda Pop with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and then said it was time to go home. He didn’t have any play left in him, and slowly he began to drag his feet along the quiet Sunday roads toward home.

He was two streets away from his house, his face hot with tears, when the car pulled up alongside him.

“Callum? Callum Parker?”

Stopping, Callum looked into the car. A man smiled at him from the driver’s seat. He was wearing dark sunglasses and his curly hair hung over the collar of his blue denim shirt.

“What are you crying for? Are you okay?”

Callum stared at the man for a moment. “How do you know my name?”

“Easy. I work with your dad. Me and my wife Peg came to your house for New Year.

And your dad’s birthday party. Don’t you remember?”

Digging deep in his memory, Callum searched for a name and then one came to him.

“Mr. Wentworth?” he asked hesitantly.

“That’s right.” The man took off his sunglasses, revealing dark brown eyes, so dark that the pupil and iris blurred. “Come over here, son.”

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Feeling slightly awkward, but not nervous—after all, Mr. Wentworth wasn’t a stranger, he knew his name and he’d been to his house—Callum moved to the open car window.

“Why are you crying?”

The sweet stink of slightly stale whiskey came with the man’s words, and Callum slightly cringed, but it didn’t unduly disturb him. It was Sunday lunchtime and all the men he knew drove to the pub and didn’t go home till dinner was on the table. Even his dad.

Sniffing, he pulled his shirt around, tugging the sleeve into view. “My mum bought this new. I wasn’t supposed to get dirty, but I fell and now there’s a hole in it!” With just the telling of it to an adult more tears sprung to life in his eyes and his nose began to run.

“Now that’s a shame. That’s a real shame.” Mr. Wentworth looked up at him.

“You’re mum’s going to be mad about that, ain’t she?”

Callum nodded, his bottom lip trembling, and it seemed Mr. Wentworth stared at him for a long time, those slightly glazed, slightly drunk dark eyes looking into his, then down to his ruined shirt, and then up again. Eventually he spoke, his conspiratorial whisper forcing Callum to step closer.

“You know, I reckon we could get that sorted out without your mum ever knowing about it.”

Callum’s eyes widened. “How?”

“Well, we could go back to my house. My Peggy’s pretty good with a needle and thread. She could stitch it up and wash out that dirt in no time at all. Iron it dry and bob’s your uncle.” He winked. “What do you say?”

Hope raised its head in Callum’s heart. “Really?”

“Yep. Us men have got to stick together, ain’t we?

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Now come on! You’d better hop in if we’re going to get you sorted and back home in time for lunch.”

Callum didn’t hesitate. His heart thumping with excitement and tears drying on his face, he ran to the passenger side and climbed into the car, grinning. It was going to be okay! It was really going to be okay and he wasn’t going to make Mum mad or sad or disappointed.

Mr. Wentworth pulled the car away quite fast, and taking in the smell of leather and stale cigarettes, Callum was too elated to notice how he checked in the mirrors just a little too often and how when he turned to smile at Callum and squeezed his knee how his hand rested there just a little bit too long.

When they got inside the cool of the Wentworth’s house, Mrs. Wentworth wasn’t home. Standing awkwardly in the hallway and staring at the unfamiliar surroundings, Callum felt his heart sink. “Maybe you’d better just take me home, Mr. Wentworth.” He didn’t want to be late on top of everything else, and for the first time he got a trickle of the feeling that his parents might not be happy with him forgetting in Mr. Wentworth’s car. It was different when he’d thought that Mrs. Wentworth would be home. Women were different. Here alone with just the grownup man he suddenly felt weird. Maybe it was the intensity of the way he kept looking at him that uneased Callum.

“Don’t be silly. She’ll be home in five minutes. Probably just popped up to her mum’s for something.” He grinned again, and Callum could see his nicotine-stained teeth, some of them blackening at the edges. “Here you go. I made you a squash.”

He held out a glass of juice and Callum didn’t know what else to do but take it.

Feeling the man watching him, he took a sip and flinched, his nose wrinkling.

“It

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tastes funny.” Something tingled on his tongue and it seemed that some of the sweetness was missing from the drink.

“Nonsense. Anyway, it’s rude to complain.” Mr. Wentworth held up his own glass and drank some. “See? It’s fine. Must just be a different brand. Now drink it.”

Something in the man’s tone of voice made Callum not want to drink it at all; in fact, he wanted to put the glass down, make his excuses and go, but he was nine years old and he didn’t know how. Instead, he stood rooted to the spot and downed the drink. Maybe if he finished it Mr. Wentworth would let him go home.

Feeling it burn all the way down to his stomach, he put the glass down.

“Good boy. Good boy.” Mr. Wentworth took a step closer, and out of nowhere Callum felt tears stinging in the corner of his eyes again as his head began to swim. He vaguely realized that there might be worse trouble in the world than a ripped shirt and maybe he should have just gone home and maybe just because someone knew your name it didn’t make them any less of a stranger.

“When’s Mrs. Wentworth coming home?” Those were the words he tried to get out, but his stomach was feeling sick and the world was swimming at the edges and when he heard himself it seemed that all his words had run into one. His legs started to shake and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stand for much longer. The tears were flowing freely as the man scooped up his unresisting body and walked deeper into the house.

“She’s not coming home, son. She didn’t understand me.”

Callum tried to make sense of it, but the room was spinning. “Feel sick … “he mumbled, trying to quell the panic that was rising somewhere deep inside him.

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“That’s just the vodka.” They were at a doorway under the stairs, and Wentworth grunted as he shifted Callum’s weight in order to undo the latch. Cool, musty, dark air rushed out at them. “And I popped half of one of her downers in there too. Don’t worry, you’ll be right as rain in a couple of hours.”

Callum wasn’t sure which came first, the awful dark of the cellar or unconsciousness, but as he slipped into it he wasn’t sure that he would ever be right as rain again.

The first thing he noticed when he came around, other than the darkness, was the thick, musty smell of the cellar. His head thumped and his mouth was dry and sore. Something was in it, a cloth tied tightly behind the base of his skull. He moaned from behind the gag as more tears came. It wasn’t a dream, it hadn’t been a bad dream at all, and why had Mr. Wentworth taken him and why hadn’t he just gone straight home? The panicked thoughts filled him and he wriggled and thrashed in vain against the cord tied around his wrists and ankles until eventually the panic could no longer sustain itself.

Banting and sweating, he lay back down on the thin sleeping bag that was all there was between him and the freezing concrete floor. He stared at the thin strip of light that came from the bottom of the door. It was too yellow to be daylight. More like the light from a bulb. How long had be been down there?

Twenty minutes? An hour? Maybe even longer.

There was animal hair of some kind on his bedding and it tickled at his nose, but he didn’t have the energy to move. What was his mum doing now? And his gran?

Were they out looking for him? Were they angry?

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Squeezing his eyes shut he tried not to cry again. He needed to be a big boy. He needed to be less scared. But it was hard, so hard down in the dark. His fingers were starting to feel numb and he really needed a drink of water, his lips and tongue crying out for moisture.

The pain in his head seemed to originate behind his eyes, and despite not wanting to relax his vigil against the shadows and the strip of light, he found them slipping shut. Maybe he could sleep it all away and when he woke up he’d be back at home in his own bed and his gran and mum and dad would all be there keeping him safe. Maybe if he went to sleep Mr. Wentworth would realize he’d made a terrible mistake and just come and take Callum home and pretend it had all been a joke. And Callum would happily go along with it. He’d pretend it was a joke. He wouldn’t tell. He wouldn’t tell anyone.

Somehow though, to the part of Callum that had stopped believing in Father Christmas back when he was six, that option seemed less likely than waking up and finding it was all a dream. It was the eyes. The look in Mr. Wentworth’s eyes when he’d picked him up. He wasn’t going to change his mind. He wasn’t going to change his mind at all.