The Taken (26 page)

For a while he lay there behind his shut eyes drifting somewhere just above sleep but not quite conscious, his head filled with monsters in denim shirts with rotten teeth, all trying to ruin his new shirt. He twitched and shook slightly, even in his daze his hands tingling sharply from the tight bindings around them, and it was only when light finally flooded in that he squinted his eyes open, blinking against the sudden brightness. Mr. Wentworth’s shape filled the doorway and Callums heart thumped into his throat. Without speaking, the 255

man came down the stairs and with each thud of his feet against the stairs Callum shrunk back against the wall as if he could somehow push his body through it to the safety behind the bricks.

When he reached the bottom, Wentworth paused and tugged on a cord, filling the room with a dirty yellow glow. Callum glanced up to see the unshaded bulb hanging above him, dust and dead bugs covering it and dulling whatever power the globe was giving out, sending shadows into the cracks and crevices of the approaching mans face. He whimpered quietly as Mr. Wentworth hunkered down next to him and grinned. “I’ve brought you some water. Thought you might be thirsty.”

His dry mouth raging, Callum’s eyes darted to the glass in the man’s hand.

“Now I’m going to take the gag off, but if you make any noise I’ll put it right back on. And I’ll hurt you. Do you understand?”

Callum nodded. There were ice cubes floating in the liquid. He could hear them clinking gently against the side of the glass. It looked so good and sweet and he didn’t think he’d ever wanted a plain glass of water so much in all his life.

Mr. Wentworth stroked his hand through Callum’s sweaty hair. “I don’t want to hurt you, Callum. I want to be your friend. You’ve got to understand that.” He leaned in closer to undo the knot at the back of Callum’s head and when he pulled away he didn’t come right back, but for a moment let his lips brush against Callum’s, filling the boy’s mouth with the smell of alcohol and stale breath. Terror clenched in the pit of his stomach and he sobbed ever so slightly. He could feel Mr. Wentworth’s breath dampening his cheek as he started to pant, one

256

hand tightly gripping the back of Callum’s hair. And then he heard the man’s zipper coming down.

That was the beginning. The beginning of the end, and from inside the little boy’s head Alex could see the blur of images and acts that he didn’t really understand, that moment of terror rushing toward this present one. She thought that maybe he had been in the cellar about three days now. It was hard to tell; time was all confused in his mind, but she had images of broken sleep, probably induced by pills, sparse meals and time spent bruised and sore and shamed, staring at the strip of light under the door.

But the worst part, the part that made her own heart feel as if it were bleeding, was that under his pain and his fear she felt the sheer desolation and despair that was an oil slick creeping across his soul.

She pulled back, making her consciousness whole on the ceiling, wishing there was something she could do to comfort the shivering child, broken and distraught below her, bringing some of his horror back with her, unable to shake it off entirely. But there was nothing. What she was watching was done. The past. Over.

The next time the cellar door opened it was the last time. Alex wasn’t sure if it was worse watching from above or within, but she screamed silently for Callum as the man pulled at his own clothes and then at the boy’s, the dirty glow of the bulb illuminating the depravity of his actions. But this time Callum didn’t struggle or cry, the fight gone out of him, as if he finally knew that he was never getting out of the cellar, or maybe he didn’t want to get out any more, to have to face the world and tell what had happened, and from 257

the ceiling Alex could see the expression on Wentworth’s face change, his lust mixing with anger, wanting more from the boy, wanting his fear to show. Pinning Callum down with just the weight of his body, the man moved his hands up to the boy’s throat, squeezing just enough to force Callum’s survival instinct to kick in. The boy’s breath became hoarse, and as he twisted and squirmed, Wentworth began to mutter under his breath, lost in the moment, the words hot and angry and indecipherable.

Her own breath caught in her throat. This is it. Whatever happens, it must happen now. Callum was choking now, the man’s grip tightening as his excitement grew.

A breeze rushed past her, the wind coming from nowhere and bringing with it the dampness of that musty rain, rain from no time and every time. For a moment, as she caught her breath, Alex shut her eyes, letting the mist settle on her skin.

When she opened them again, the scene below her had changed. Wentworth was still grunting, destroying the child, his big workman’s hands releasing the bruised throat to allow Callum to desperately suck in air and then gripping again. But despite his fight to breathe, Callum wasn’t focused on Wentworth or his pain.

And neither was Alex.

The tall man’s leather coat creaked as he crouched down close to the man and the child. From above Alex could see the smooth ridges on his pale blue naked scalp, a scalp that had never grown hair rather than been shaved bald, and under the darkness of his coat and trousers the steel-capped toes of his heavy boots were visible. Callum had twisted his head around and his bulging eyes stared in disbelief.

“You know he’ll kill you, don’t you? Maybe not this 258

time. But soon. Later today.” The stranger’s voice pierced Alex’s ears and she thought that if she were really here and real it would deafen her, its depth resonating so far inside that her insides shook.

“Who … who …” Callum was rasping the words out, words that Wentworth was oblivious to, and although he never got the full sentence out, Alex knew what his question was, and so did the stranger. Who are you?

“I’m the Catcher Man!” He paused and sniffed. “Do you know what death is, Callum?” It seemed to Alex that Wentworth was now moving in slow motion, unaware of the presence in the room, but still obliging the stranger, the Catcher Man—but the Catcher Man doesn’t exist, wasn’t that what Paul had said?—by giving him more time. Callum just stared, bewildered, his pain almost forgotten for a second, as if like Alex, his mind and body were temporarily separated, and the Catcher Man leaned in. “Death makes you nothing. As if you were never here!”

He sighed, and as he did Wentworth’s face crumpled slightly for a moment in disgust, as if he’d caught a glimpse of how terrible what he was doing really was.

“I can change that. I can take you somewhere else. Somewhere you can be forever.

It’s called the in between. But if you want to come you have to choose now.

Death, pain, and nothing here, or come with me.”

Callum mewled slightly, tears creeping out of his eyes, and Alex didn’t have to go back inside to know the fear and longing the child was feeling. He was afraid of the nothing. He was afraid of the pain. Just like everyone was. And all he really wanted to do was go home. To his mum and his gran. And all this was 259

over a damaged shirt; it was so unfair and he wished he could just take it back.

“He’ll bury you under these floorboards and you’ll rot there. And no one will ever find you. I can see it. What will be, will be.” The leather creaking again, the Catcher Man stood tall. “I can keep you and I won’t hurt you. But you have to choose. Will you come with me, Callum? You won’t be alone. There are other children in between. Other children that I have given the choice to. Will you come with us?”

Tears oozing down his cheeks, Callum nodded, a small movement, but definite. The air fell still and then wind and rain tore through the cellar, crackling with blue light, Alex’s hair whipping against her face, causing her to twist her face away, protecting her eyes. The weather rushed in her ears and then fell to stillness. Her heart racing, she looked back down, knowing what she would see.

Or actually, what she wouldn’t see. Wentworth had twisted around, his undone trousers revealing his suddenly flaccid penis, his breath short and eyes wide.

His head spun searching out the cellar, eyes darting into every corner like a panicked rabbit, his mind already unraveling.

Alex thought he might sit down there, staring at the old sleeping bag for a long, long time before he dared to move. It wouldn’t change anything.

Callum and the Catcher Man were gone.

And then, so was she. Back to the green of the forest. Callum took his hands from her eyes and came back around to face her.

“Did you see?” He searched her face. “Did you understand?”

260

Her heart breaking, she shrugged. “I’m not sure. I saw him take you. I saw what happened. The Catcher Man is real, is that what you wanted me to see?”

Callum’s forehead crumpled with frustration as he shook his head. “Come on.”

Taking her hand, he led her farther into the forest.

261

When Simon eventually opened his eyes, he didn’t know whether he had drifted for a minute or a lifetime. There had been dreams, he was sure of that, but all that was left of them was a bad taste in his mouth and a sense of dread and unquantifiable unease. Although maybe that was just the truth of their reality slowly sinking in. Dead children sending messages. Missing children. Long missing children haunting them from the corner of their eyes. It was crazy, but lying there, surrounded by the history of the village, he knew he believed it.

Sighing, he knew that despite his fatigue he wouldn’t be going back to sleep, and he looked over at the clock. The red figures staring back at him from the bedside declared it was 5:45 in the morning.

Groaning, his muscles and soul screaming in exhaustion, he rubbed his face with his free hand and then turned to seek out the woman that had tumbled into sleep with him. The pillow next to him was empty.

262

He stared for a second, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

“Alex?” He barely spoke the word, staring at the room around him. The door to the bathroom was nearly shut and he couldn’t see a light on, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t in there. Pushing the covers away, he sat up on the edge of the bed, shaking the last of his doziness away. In the gloom that seemed to be all that daylight had managed since he’d arrived in the village, he could make out Alex’s clothes thrown carelessly on the chair in the corner. A minute of life clicked away on the digital clock and his brow furrowed. She must be in the bathroom.

“Alex?” He called her name a little louder this time. It was odd. He couldn’t hear running water. And she didn’t strike him as the kind of girl to leave the bathroom door ajar if she was using the toilet. He shook himself. It was stupid to be worried. Her clothes were here, for Christ’s sake. She couldn’t have gone far. She might even have gone downstairs in her dressing gown to get herself a coffee. He’d give it a couple of minutes and then go and check on her.

Thinking about her made him smile. There was something about her that was special, there was no doubt about that. When he thought about the way she had reacted with such grit to all the awfulness of the death they’d faced, it clashed with the ethereal quality of her nature, creating a fascination that struck his core. Maybe she was right to say that this wasn’t the time to be thinking of the future, and if that’s how she felt he wasn’t going to argue with her, but he thought that maybe now was the perfect time to be planning for something good. And this could be good, he was 263

sure of it. He hadn’t felt the growing pains of love for a very long time, but if he wasn’t mistaken he was feeling them now. More sharply and clearly than ever before.

There was still no sound from the bathroom and pulling his own crumpled clothes back on, cursing slightly to find them still damp, he padded over to the door, tapping on it gently. “Alex? Are you in there?” Again, there was only silence, and flicking the switch he pushed the door. The room was empty.

The unease that he’d woken with flared like acid in his gut and he tried to quell it. It was nothing. She’d gone downstairs, that was all. That was probably what had woken him. He splashed water on his face and tidied his hair before going back into the bedroom to get his glasses. Maybe she was on her way back up to him with a steaming mug of coffee, but he was awake now and he figured he may as well go and see how many others were up.

Pushing open the heavy door that led to the downstairs bar, Simon was struck by the surreal sight that greeted him. It seemed more like a scene from an apocalyptic nightmare film than what should have been, and what would have been only a couple of nights before, the stereotypical cozy English country pub. The natural warmth of the wood floor and pale yellow walls was dulled by the wash of the gray dawn light that filtered through the windows, cracking into tired shadows on contact with every surface. Some people were still dozing in chairs, others looking like they’d just woken up, hair and eyes blurred.

Paul was standing gazing out the window, his back ramrod straight, and Simon guessed that his friend hadn’t so much as shut his eyes for more than a blink 264

during the past few hours. What would he see in the darkness behind those veils if he did? His mother taunting a child to her death? Or Kay Chambers dying in front of him? Either way, it wasn’t good.

The strange morning light seemed to caress Paul’s face, inviting him to step outside if he were brave enough. Perhaps sensing Simon near him, he turned and gave him an imperceptible nod before looking back out at the new day. The storm may have stopped but the rain wasn’t appeased, the road outside a ghostly blur through the water that ran down the glass.

“Have you seen Alex? She’s not upstairs.”

Paul glanced around the room. “No. I thought she was in bed. I went upstairs to try and get some sleep, but I’m not sure that I did. Maybe half an hour here and there. I was just going to get some coffee and go and see if Mum was awake.”

Simon couldn’t squash his disquiet so easily this time. “All her clothes are still upstairs. Where could she have gone?’