The Toy Taker (35 page)

‘Is it like Neverland? Do we have to fly there?’ Samuel asked as he slipped silently from his bed and searched for his slippers.

‘Better,’ Allen told him.

‘Better?’

‘Yes, better. Better because it’s real.’ He waited for the boy to tug his dressing gown on and took him by the hand, still kneeling on the floor. ‘Now remember – we have to be totally silent and not wake anybody up. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ the boy answered, lowering his voice. ‘I’ll be very quiet, promise.’

‘Good,’ Allen told him and struggled to his feet, still holding the boy’s hand. ‘Now we need to go,’ he continued and began to lead the boy to the bedroom door and out into the waiting hallway, all the time listening for the sounds he feared most – of a woken parent, a nanny or housekeeper come to challenge him, incapable of understanding why he had to take the children, instantly brandishing him a monster. But there were no such sounds, just the eerie, still silence of a sleeping house. ‘Come on,’ he told Samuel conspiratorially, as if they were on a great adventure together that had to remain a secret just between the two of them. The boy nodded his agreement, smiling nervously.

Together, hand-in-hand, they made their way down the flights of stairs, Allen steering the boy away from any creaking floorboards, pressing his finger to his lips whenever he felt the boy was about to speak and accidently betray them, until they were finally past the sleeping parents’ room and halfway down the stairs that led to the first floor and comparative safety. But Samuel’s growing concerns could wait no longer as he ignored Allen’s signals to be silent and spoke – spoke too loudly.

‘I don’t think I should go,’ he half-whispered. ‘Mummy will be too cross with me.’

‘You don’t have to be afraid of Mummy any more,’ Allen desperately whispered his reply, pulling the boy closer to him. ‘She can’t follow us to the magic place – no one can.’

‘I don’t want to go,’ Samuel told him, the fear returning to his eyes. ‘I don’t want to go with you.’

‘Yes you do,’ Allen insisted, frantically looking back up the staircase, trying to hear the sounds of danger above his own words. ‘Of course you do. Look,’ he pleaded, ‘Tommy wants to go.’

‘No he doesn’t,’ Samuel answered, his voice dangerously loud now, but not loud enough to conceal the sound of voices coming from above – from the parents’ room – voices growing ever more awake and alert.

‘We have to go now,’ Allen told the boy. But Samuel pulled away from him and slumped on the stairs, back against the wall, shaking his head in defiance, making Allen’s already fluttering heart begin to pound out of control. The sheen of sweat across his brow turned to small drops that ran down the sides of his face, dampening his hair and sticking it to his skin. Footsteps now, on the ceiling above them, moving to the hallway and making him stop breathing until he realized they were heading upstairs towards the boy’s room and away from them.

He only had a minute or two to escape at best. He looked down at the shivering boy, waiting to be told what to do – waiting for the voices in his head to return − but nobody spoke to him. Panic was his only guide now. He grabbed the boy up and smothered his mouth with a hand, pressing him against his body as he ran as silently as he could down the remaining stairs, trying not to drop the boy or his bag, hearing the increasing commotion above, wide-awake voices now, shouting to each other as he fumbled with the Yale lock, the boy beginning to kick and buck in his arms, his screams muffled by a gloved hand.

As soon as the front door opened he was hit by an unexpected rush of freezing air that stole his breath and almost pushed him back into the house where only danger waited. He forced himself through the opening and into the moonless night, fleeing along the deserted street, his footsteps almost totally silent as the rubber soles hit the pavement, adrenalin taking him halfway along the street, closer and closer to his waiting car and safety. But the boy grew heavier and heavier, while his own ageing body grew weary under the weight of him, arthritis robbing his joints of any spring as his run slowed to a jog and then to a walk. The freezing night air burned his lungs as he gulped at the oxygen, the realization dawning on him that he would never make it before the danger from the house hunted him down in the street.

Tears of pain and fear began to sting at his eyes that were already sore from the cold as they searched for a place to hide – a place where he could wait with the boy until the storm had passed. Quickly he looked over the railings of the nearest house and down into the basement area. He could see bins below. The gate wasn’t locked and he knew he had no choice. Holding the boy as tightly as he could, his gloved hand still pressed over his mouth to keep him quiet, he skipped down the stairs and sat on the ground, pulling the bins carefully in front of them as silently as he could. He waited, trying to control his own frantic breathing, afraid the plumes of his frozen breath would betray him. Loud footsteps filled the street above, a man’s voice calling into the night, desperate, bloodcurdling screams. Douglas Allen held the boy tighter than ever and squeezed his eyes shut, shivering and trying not to listen to the screams, the pain in his head beginning to hammer violently until at last the screaming and pounding footsteps passed by, fading as they headed further along the street. Time to go.

Lucy Hargrave slept soundly, her slightly too slim body lying some distance from her husband’s in the super-king size bed. But invading voices jarred at her subconscious, stirring her from her sleep until finally her eyes twitched open. Was her mind playing cruel tricks on her? Could she hear
voices
? She sat up in bed, her silk night vest revealing her slim, muscular arms, neck and shoulders, pulled taut by the strain of listening, unsure if she was still asleep and dreaming. But then she heard them again, and she was sure. She snapped the duvet off and sprang from her bed, the sudden movement waking her husband.

‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered.

‘I heard something,’ she hissed in reply. ‘I think it’s one of the kids – downstairs.’

‘They wouldn’t go downstairs,’ he told her dismissively, throwing his legs out of the bed, yawning and scratching the back of his head. ‘Check their bedrooms first. If they were downstairs they’re probably back in their rooms by now.’

‘We should have got the alarm fixed already,’ Lucy said, genuine fear in her voice.

‘They’re doing it as soon as they can,’ he assured her, ‘and nobody’s broken in. This house is like Fort Knox.’

‘I definitely heard something.’

‘Check their rooms then, but if it’s Sam don’t try and deal with it tonight – we’ll speak to him in the morning.’

‘Fine,’ she answered, leaving him sitting on the edge of the bed as she headed into the hallway, more and more willing to accept her husband’s reassuring conclusion that the sounds had merely been those of a mischievous child wandering in the night. She wearily climbed the stairs to the floor above and headed for the open door of her son Benjamin’s room. Pale blue light leaked from within and already she was sure the three-year-old wasn’t the one responsible for her broken sleep, but still she peered around the corner of the door at the tiny figure huddled at the top of an oversized bed that was low to the floor. He was sleeping soundly, his mouth slightly open, his head and body surrounded by his favourite cuddly toys, his breathing too perfect to be faked. She smiled a little and retreated from the room, taking the few steps towards Sam’s room. Her heart beat quickening as she noticed that his door was far wider open than she remembered it being when she’d checked on him just before going to bed herself.

The sudden, undeniable realization that her worst nightmare could be coming true instantly knotted her stomach and began to induce a mild case of shock, the blood retreating from her non-vital organs, her stomach and intestines, rushing to keep her heart and brain protected, making her feel nauseous and light headed, turning her lips pale and skin white and clammy. She felt an almost overpowering urge to sit down and breathe deeply, but she pushed on, driven by a mother’s instinct to protect her young at any cost.

The last two steps to Samuel’s room seemed to take her for ever, her legs like lead weights, but reach the room she did, pushing the door fully open, wary of the dark shadows in the corners yet determined to press on, no matter what – no matter what danger she sensed. Then she saw the empty bed, the duvet rolled down, only the scent of the boy remaining in the room: the smell of fabric conditioner from his clean pyjamas, the bath oil for his dry skin, and Nivea cream. She felt the air rush from her lungs as if they’d been punctured by silent bullets, increasing levels of shock making her legs buckle, but she managed to stay upright, padding deeper into the room, her arms outstretched in front of her as if she was blind or searching in the pitch-black, not trusting her eyes, more willing to rely on her sense of touch. But she could neither see nor feel the boy. He was gone, somehow he was just gone, and she knew it. ‘Samuel,’ she whispered softly, afraid she might scare the boy from revealing himself, praying her intuition was wrong. ‘No more games, Samuel – you need to come to Mummy now. You’re not in trouble, I promise.’ Her pleas were met with silence. She abandoned stealth and strode to the boy’s bed, dragging the duvet aside, although she already knew he wasn’t underneath. She dropped to her knees and peered into the gloom under the bed, her eyes needing to see what her heart already knew was true, her arm stretching underneath, feeling in the dark for a little boy she knew wasn’t there, the sound of her own rushing blood deafening inside her head as she leapt to her feet and ran for the light switch, flooding the room with the harsh white light from the halogen spotlights set into the ceiling. Then she moved back across to the bed and on to the floor again, scanning underneath the bed, confirming her fears when she saw nothing but shadows. She sprang upright, her body beginning to burn with adrenalin as she spun around the room, opening every cupboard and drawer, not matter whether Samuel could have fitted inside or not, until she was as physically sure he was gone as she was psychologically, the memory of what had first broken her sleep, first electrified her body with fear, telling her where she needed to go. ‘Downstairs,’ she told herself, not caring who heard. ‘He’s gone downstairs, that’s all.’ But the vague, sleep affected memory of voices magnified her terror.
Why were there voices? Why wasn’t it just Samuel’s voice? How could there be someone else? How could someone else be in their home?
‘No,’ she said through a thick panic like she’d never experienced in her entire life. ‘No, Samuel, no,’ she began to almost shout, her tears constricting her throat, making her voice break as she tried to speak. She ran from the room and down the stairs, tripping in the semi-darkness, her shoulder hitting the bannister hard, but she didn’t feel the pain, springing back to her feet and clearing the remaining stairs, only for her husband to catch her as she made it to the landing. He wrapped one arm around her waist while the hand of the other covered her mouth as he put his lips to her ear.

‘Ssssh,’ he hissed. ‘Can you feel it – the cold air?’ She was suddenly aware of the freezing breeze drifting up the stairs and over her skin, making her hairs stand on end to trap the warmth of her body, her husband’s heart beating through her back, holding her tightly until they conquered their fear enough to speak again. ‘The front door is open,’ he continued. ‘Someone’s down there.’

‘Samuel,’ she tried to call out, but fear strangled her words to nothing more than a faint plea. ‘He’s not in his room. He’s gone.’

‘He couldn’t have opened the front door,’ Henry told her. ‘He can’t reach.’

She tried to pull away from him, to run down into the cold darkness below, her only instinct to run to her child. ‘Samuel,’ she called out, louder than before, struggling against her husband’s restraining grip. ‘Let me go,’ she shouted. ‘Let me go. You don’t understand – someone’s taken him.’

‘Wait,’ he told her, his minding spinning. ‘Wait. Go to our bedroom – call the police. I’ll check downstairs.’ He pulled her backwards to the bedroom, nodding wide-eyed at her to encourage her to make the call, before he headed to the stairs. He went as fast as he dared, peering into the corners where the shadows seemed to be constantly moving, trying to see into the dark recesses, listening like he’d never had to listen before. All the while the freezing stream of air invaded from outside, drawing him ever further down until he could see the yellow street-light pouring through the open door that should have been the firmest of barriers between the outside world and his family. Now it had been breached, and there was no denying the undeniable any more, the rising sense of panic covering his body in a thin layer of sweat despite the cold as he stepped off the last step on to the ground floor.

Eyes wide in the dimness he moved forward into the house that was still new enough to feel like a stranger’s, every sound and sight unnerving him further. He pushed forward, feeling the wall until he found the light switch, flicking it on and flooding the hallway with brightness that temporarily blinded him. Drawing a long breath he blinked the blindness away and moved to the living room, flicking on every light switch he could find, hoping, praying to see Samuel cowering in a corner.
A noise downstairs had woken him and drawn him downstairs. He’d seen an intruder and been terrified, but the intruder had fled, leaving the boy who was now too scared to move or speak
. He had to believe, but the light only brought more silence and emptiness, his eyes scanning every inch of the room, refusing to accept he couldn’t find his son.

‘Samuel,’ he called hoarsely, terror leaving his throat raw. He tried to consciously pump saliva into his mouth, swallowing the tiny amounts to lubricate his larynx. ‘Samuel, you can come out now – there’s no need to be afraid any more. It’s Daddy – you can come out now.’ Silence. No movement, except the tormenting breeze from the front door swirling around his ankles. He ran to the ground-floor study, his panic becoming intense. ‘Samuel. Please, Samuel. You need to come out now. You need to come to Daddy now.’ Nothing. He looked slowly over his shoulder at the open front door, as if it was a porthole to another world, a world he knew his boy had been taken to – a porthole that might slam shut any second, for ever separating them. Suddenly he found himself running towards it, its yellow light warm and inviting. But as he burst into the world beyond the door, the freezing air gripped his body, naked but for his pyjama bottoms.