Dead End (32 page)

Brian nodded, his eyes fixed on his wife. ‘There's someone in there.’

‘Help!’ The muffled cry came again and something thumped against the door making it rattle violently. Marion jumped.

‘It sounds like a child,’ Marion whispered. ‘Brian, we've got to do something.’

‘Hold on!’ Brian yelled, suddenly decisive. ‘We're going to open the door.’

There was no response from inside the garage. Marion and Brian looked at one another but whoever was on the other side of the door was silent.

‘Stand back!’ Brian called out. He didn't sound so sure of himself now.

‘What are you going to do?’ Marion asked.

Brian opened the boot of the car, rummaged through his tool box and pulled out a fine screwdriver.

‘Brian, do you think you should?’

‘You'd better call the police,’ he answered, his face grim. ‘But we can't wait for them.’

‘But –’

‘Just make the call, Marion.’

Brian jiggled the tool around in the lock, screwing up his eyes in concentration. There was a distinct click and the door gave a sudden jolt. With a grunt, Brian tugged it and the door swung open. As he took a step forward to peer inside, he heard someone whimper and a small filthy figure emerged blinking into the daylight. It brushed past Brian and raced away up the road.

‘Oy! Stop!’ Brian called after it but the ragged figure kept on running, and disappeared round a corner before Brian regained his equilibrium. He turned to Marion. ‘What the hell was that? Some drugged up addict. Maybe this area isn't such a great choice.’

‘No, I think it was a child locked in there. You were right. I'm calling the police.’

‘Let's just go home.’

‘We can't, Brian. Someone had a child locked up in that garage. We can't just go home and pretend we didn't see anything.’ Brian stepped towards the garage. ‘Don't go in. Wait for the police. It could be a crime scene.’

Brain shrugged and went back to the car muttering under his breath. ‘This isn't bloody CSI.’

A police car arrived within minutes of Marion's call and two uniformed officers stepped out. They looked very young.

‘Marion Chorley?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell us what happened here?’

While the first policeman questioned Marion, the other one spoke to Brian who climbed reluctantly out of the car again. ‘Is this your garage, sir?’

‘No it's not. It's nothing to do with us. I'm Brian Chorley. My wife and I were just viewing that property.’ He pointed over the road to the empty house.

‘You just went in to have a look?’

‘Yes. No. That is, we met the estate agent here.’

‘Which agency, sir, if you don't mind my asking.’

‘Elliott and Parker. The agent who showed us round was called Nicola something.’

‘And what happened after you'd seen the house?’

‘We'd parked here and my wife heard something –’ He hesitated to tell the policeman he'd broken into the garage. ‘We called you at once but we could hear someone calling for help, and then it all went quiet, so we thought we'd better get the door open as quickly as possible and when we got it open some kid ran out and hared away off up the road. She looked – crazy.’

‘Can you describe her?’

‘She was a girl. She looked like a tramp. I think she'd been locked in there for a while, she was so dirty, and the daylight seemed to dazzle her.’

‘How old was she?’

‘I couldn't say really. A teenager maybe. Thirteen?’

‘What was she wearing?’

‘Um – it's difficult to say. I opened the door and she just dashed out and ran away up the road. It took me completely by surprise. My wife might remember more. I can't say for sure what she was wearing, it all happened so fast, and she was very dirty.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The two policemen muttered together for a few seconds then one of them began talking rapidly on his phone. He stepped cautiously over the threshold into the garage and shone a bright torch inside. Over the policeman's shoulder Brian glimpsed an upturned chair. Beside it on the filthy floor a length of rope lay twisted. Brian took a step forwards and grimaced in disgust at the stench of excrement and stale sweat. The policeman shone his torch slowly around, pausing at a pile of faeces in one corner. Brian listened to him talking on his phone.

‘There was definitely something living here. There's a chair, rope which looks like it's been used recently, and a pile of faeces which could be human.’ He moved the torch along the far wall. ‘And there's a grey rucksack, sir. It could be the one.’ He stepped back and bumped into Brian who was craning his neck to peer into the garage. ‘I'm sorry, sir, you can't go in there.’

The police took Brian and Marion's address, asked them to be sure to contact them if they remembered anything else, and said they could go home.

‘Who was it, in the garage?’ Marion asked but the policeman shook his head.

‘I'm afraid we can't say yet, Mrs Chorley.’

58

WHITSTABLE

L
ucy had no idea how long she had been sitting in darkness before she finally managed to wriggle free from the rope that tied her arms and legs to the chair. Her wrists and ankles were burning from rubbing against the rough cord. She thought they were bleeding but wasn't able to see, and the skin was too painful to touch. In any case, she knew her hands were dirty and she didn't want the wounds to become infected if she could help it. Her legs trembled as she stood up, accidentally kicking over the chair which fell with a deafening clatter in the silence. She whimpered and shuffled across the garage, hands outstretched, until she came up against a brick wall. She felt her way along the wall into a corner and squatted down to relieve herself. The stench made her gag so she made her way back along the wall, as far from her impromptu toilet as she could go, until her hands met the cold metal of the door. She pushed against it as hard as she could but it wouldn't budge. In desperation, she kicked at it. The clanging reverberated in her ears but the door didn't move.

‘Help!’ she screamed out suddenly. Once started, she couldn't stop, crying and yelling, until she had to pause to recover her breath. The skin on the back of her neck prickled as she realised there was someone outside. It sounded like a woman's voice. ‘Help!’ Lucy called out again and she kicked at the door as hard as she could.

A man answered and Lucy recoiled in fear. He had come back. He was shouting about opening the door.

‘No,’ Lucy sobbed, ‘leave me alone.’ She drew back from the door and staggered sideways to the wall, pressing herself against it until her shoulder hurt. ‘Go away. Please. Go away.’

Someone was fiddling with the lock on the door. The man who had said he was Zoe's father.

‘Go away,’ she whimpered, shaking and helpless. There was a loud click and a shaft of dazzling sunlight appeared at her feet. Remorselessly the door rose, blinding her with a sudden burst of light. Lucy saw the silhouette of a man standing on the threshold, black against the brilliant background, and adrenaline shot through her. This was her chance. Ignoring the fiery pain in her ankles she charged out of the garage, past the man, and pounded up the street. She could hear him shouting after her but she kept on running, too terrified to look round in case twisting her head slowed her down. She raced left around the first corner, out of sight. Her chest was on fire, her throat burned with the effort of breathing, the muscles in her legs were screaming, but she didn't dare stop. Her only thought was to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man who had locked her in the garage.

She knew he would be following her so she turned again, to the right this time, ran to the end of the road and turned once more, left and then right. She was on another street, exposed to view. At any moment the man might drive around the corner and see her. She couldn't run any more, but hobbled as fast as she could, her legs aching horribly. Across the road she saw an alleyway running alongside a car park and tottered into it. On her right was a one-storey square brick building: WC. The door was open so she darted inside, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

On the periphery of her vision she caught sight of movement and barely managed to hold back a scream. She had to keep quiet. Someone was watching her – a face, blotchy with tears and dirt, red-eyed, with wild hair. With a shock she realised it was her own face, reflected back at her in a cloudy mirror. She looked like a crazed drug addict. In spite of her terror, she almost laughed and fought to control the hysteria bubbling inside her. She had to concentrate and think, or he would find her. Moving away from the horrible vision in the mirror, she splashed her face with cold water. The shock sobered her. She knew it was risky but she couldn't help herself and squeezed her head into the grimy basin to gulp down mouthfuls of icy water. It tasted like metal. When she straightened up she felt nauseous and threw up. The vomit was brown and watery but she told herself it was probably because she had drunk too much too quickly. There was no point worrying now about whether the water was contaminated.

Staring in the mirror, she did her best to comb her hair with her fingers, but it didn't make much difference. Her face was streaked with filth. She held the bottom of her t-shirt under the tap and scrubbed at her face. It wasn't easy to see clearly in the foggy mirror but she thought her cheeks looked cleaner, at least. No one had come in and she couldn't hear anyone outside, so she stole out of the building glancing fearfully around. The alleyway and the car park were deserted. As she limped along the alley the stink from the toilets followed her.

At the other end of the alley was a wide road and beyond that a high metal railing, like the bars of a prison. Lucy crossed the road and went through the open gate. Somehow she felt safer with the railing between her and the man, although she knew he could follow her in. She glanced behind her but there was no sign of him. There were people standing around near the water's edge and she didn't want to draw attention to herself so, taking a deep breath, she slowed down and tried to walk normally, as though nothing was wrong. She passed a sign: Harbour Office. Rounding a bend on the wide walkway, the tarmac underfoot changed to a wide gravel path. To her right, the sea opened out along a channel between platforms supporting large huts and strange grey mechanical constructions surrounded by huge mounds of grey stones. Lucy thought it looked like a quarry, but it was built on the sea.

As she walked on the scene changed, like stepping onto a different planet, full of movement, sound and colour. Overwhelmed, Lucy forced herself to keep walking. She had to put as much distance between herself and the man before she collapsed from exhaustion. She had no idea how long it was since she had last eaten and the exuberance of noise and colour made her feel faint, but she didn't stop. One foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, she plodded on. To her right a man was sitting on a deckchair at the water's edge, a bucket of brightly coloured children's windmills by his feet. He saw Lucy looking at the windmills turning in the breeze and began to smile, then dropped his gaze abruptly. Lucy walked on. She passed a craft market on her left, a U-shape of roofed stalls like creosoted beach huts, selling an assortment of knick-knacks: wooden ornaments, toys, hats, jewellery, paintings, bags, dried flowers, meringues and furniture. In the centre of the market a stall with a green and white striped canvas awning displayed fruit and vegetables. Lucy gazed hungrily at the apples and bananas but she didn't stop. Her mouth was watering in anticipation, but she had no money.

Beyond the craft-sellers she passed an indoor fish market. She was watching a crowd of people swarming around a stall, and almost barged into a small child waving a flag.

‘Sorry,’ Lucy muttered. The child's mother gazed at Lucy in disgust, swept the child up in her arms and hurried away. Lucy glanced down at her jeans, rigid with dirt and dried blood, her hands filthy despite her visit to the toilets, and her damp blood-stained t-shirt. She looked a sight, like she was on drugs or crazy. No wonder the woman had snatched her little child away from contact with her. Lucy raised her eyes and began to notice other people's reactions to her as well. Most of them looked straight through her, as though she was invisible, but a few looked her over with derision. No one came near her. She felt as though she was walking inside a glass bubble, divorced from the rest of humanity who were all going cheerfully about their daily business avoiding her like a diseased rat. She wished she could crawl away and hide.

A group of kids about her own age went past eating chips out of cardboard cartons, and Lucy realised just how ravenous she was. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. One of the kids dropped a long fat chip on the ground and she had to restrain herself from lunging forward to seize it. The boy laughed and squashed it flat with his trainer. He saw Lucy watching and glared at her.

‘What's your problem, gipsy?’

Lucy hurried on. The harbour path curved round to meet a road and she walked unsteadily along the pavement, aware that people were staring and moving aside to avoid her. She knew she couldn't keep going much longer. As she passed a café, a warm aroma assailed her: bread, sausages, coffee, chocolate, she didn't know exactly what she could smell but she knew it was food. The door was open. The tables were empty. She stumbled across the step and fell against the nearest table.

‘We're closing,’ a voice called out. ‘Bloody hell, what's that?’ it added in surprise. Lucy thought it was a man's voice, but he sounded young, nothing like Zoe's father who wasn't Zoe's father. She was as safe here as anywhere and she couldn't walk any further anyway. Unresisting, she allowed herself to sink to the floor where she lay, whimpering and trembling. She no longer cared about what was going to happen to her, aware only of the intolerable hunger and thirst gnawing at her guts.

59

SCHOOL

G
eraldine was unable to concentrate on anything while a specially trained officer questioned Ben again, with his father present, but all the boy was able to tell them was that Lucy had said she was going to stay with her best friend. He had never heard her talk about anyone called Zoe, and Matthew was adamant he knew nothing about Zoe either.