Authors: Ramsey Campbell
"Ian..."
"See, that's what she was asking you in the first place, son. Look how upset she's getting just to think you might go off and leave her like your dad left you. She wants you to stay and not make any row, and then we'll find a nice quiet game we can all play to take her mind off things. You can see that's what she's crying out for, can't you?"
Ian saw. From the stool on which he'd been directed to sit in front of the dressing table he saw both Charlotte and her captor. She was seated on the quilt and leaning against the headboard of the double bed: she was propped up immobile as a doll except for her mouth, which kept not quite opening and then pinching its lips together for fear that too much of a noise might escape, and her eyes, which kept straining leftward before renewing their plea to Ian. She mustn't be able to see much of the old tramp, who was resting his shoulders against the closed door, the fingers of his large hands splayed on his thighs and covering two of the jovial pink fish on the yellow dress that reached halfway down his baggy trousers, his gums baring themselves in a raw moist smile that was impatient at being alone with itself, his face a caricature of how Jack might look when he was old. The stale heat of the room, the smell of the man's sweat and shabby clothes, the faint trace of Janet's scents, all seemed to gather in Ian's throat and drive out words like spit. "You're him. You're alive."
"Careful. Don't scare your playmate."
"You—" Ian almost blabbed what the man had done, but no longer wanted to frighten Charlotte. Instead he thought of another offence the man was responsible for. "You made people think I'd done something to her."
"That's people for you, son. They've always got to have someone to blame. Who thought that, then?"
"My mother."
"Don't go raising your voice round here. Keep your temper. Think of your playmate," Woollie said with a smile at her that made her mouth wince like a wound. "There's no accounting for women, son, no joy in trying to predict them. You'll find that out when you're a bit older." He ran his tongue around his lips as though to check their shape before murmuring "Will she wonder where you've got to?"
"Better believe it. I'm supposed to be home since they chucked me out of school because they thought I was like you."
"Then you'd best tell her where you've gone."
"Sure enough. She won't have left work yet. I'll give her a phone from downstairs."
"And tell her what? Tell her you've got your playmate?"
"Sure, if that's what you want her to think, only she won't if she doesn't hear Charlotte. I'll have to take her down with me."
"You reckon that'll solve things, do you?"
"Should."
"He's a laugh, isn't he, Charlotte? Wants to start you chattering to people and making all sorts of a racket, I shouldn't wonder, after all the trouble I've been taking to get you to hush."
Ian had been hoping Woollie was as mad as his appearance suggested—mad enough to be persuaded by the first trick Ian could think of. His own aching disappointment was bad enough, but the way a version of it flickered over Charlotte's face was close to unbearable. "Don't expect my mother to believe me, then," he protested in a whisper that was growing intolerable too. "She knows I didn't know where Charlotte was."
"He must think I'm as senile as I look, mustn't he, Charlotte? He must reckon I've forgotten he just said she thought he'd made you vanish."
"She did till I showed her different."
"Better start thinking what to say to change her mind, then. And don't bother getting any more ideas about the phone. You'll be writing her a note."
"What with?"
"Try that bit of paper in your pocket there."
Ian grabbed his shirt pocket as he tried to think whether it was best to keep Jack's number or give it to his mother on whatever note he might be forced to send her. "I've got nothing to write with," he said.
"Better find something."
"I saw a pencil by the phone."
"He's eager to get there, isn't he, Charlotte? What do you reckon he's thinking? We'll go down with him so he doesn't forget he's meant to be helping look after you. Are you going to be able to stay quiet or will I need to do up your mouth?"
Charlotte's hands flew to her lips but shrank from touching them. Her teary gaze lurched toward the floor between the bed and the window, and Ian noticed for the first time what was there—a roll of insulating tape. Even if he'd imagined worse treatment for Charlotte in the months his father had lived with her, the reality was another matter. Woollie must have seen his fury at it, because he sat on the edge of the bed and hugged Charlotte to him. "You know how to hush, don't you? You were being nice and quiet before he came and spoiled things," he whispered in her ear, and rubbed his stubbly chin over her tangled hair as he turned his face to Ian. "Concentrate on what you have to write, son. Never mind anything else."
Ian struggled to produce a voice that wouldn't rise out of control. "Let me go and write it, then."
"We'll be quick all right, but don't you try being too quick. You haven't said yet what you're going to write."
"You tell me."
"Surprised you need to ask when you were wanting to say it on the phone before. Just tell your mother you've taken your playmate away for some fun. There's enough boys who do that these days," Woollie said, and rubbed his lips together in disgust.
"I'm not saying that."
"Don't start being difficult, you're worrying your playmate. You ought to feel how tense she's getting. We don't want her being nervy. Never know what might happen then and be your fault."
"Maybe you can make me say it, but you can't make my mother think it. She'd never believe I'd do that kind of stuff to you, would she, Charlotte?"
Charlotte's name was hardly beyond taking back when he wished he hadn't brought her into it—hadn't made Woollie even more aware of her while she was afraid to speak, afraid once she'd done it of having given her head a solitary shake. He saw Woollie's free hand finish digging its knuckles into the pillow and reach for her. He was preparing to fly at Woollie, to save her however he had to, when the hand set about stroking her hair. "Good enough, son," Woollie muttered. "You've changed my mind."
Ian couldn't take much pride in that as he saw Charlotte stiffen so as not to flinch away from the soft slow prolonged movements of the hand the size of her face. The heat was parching his throat, the smells of the room were massing like nausea, by the time Woollie let his hand drop to the pillow and murmured "I know what you want to write."
Ian had to swallow hard. "What?" he said, almost too low to be heard.
"You can tell your mother you've gone off by yourself because she thought you were up to something with your playmate."
She oughtn't to believe that either, which surely meant she would have to do her best to figure out where he really was, if he hadn't succeeded in rescuing Charlotte by then. "I could have too," he said.
"Time to play follow the leader, Charlotte. We don't want him writing anything that might cause an upset, do we? I expect he knows to be a good boy now, but no harm in making sure." Woollie patted her head and rested his hand there while he reached for the doorknob. "You lead, son. We'll follow," he said with none of the archness he was using on Charlotte.
Ian was furious with his legs for developing an intermittent tremor as he crossed the room. He was nearly at the stairs, and struggling to devise a plan, when he heard Woollie and his captive behind him. "Walk soft, son," Woollie murmured. "I know there's nobody in your house, but it'll do you no harm to practice not being heard."
Ian felt as though the man had seized him by the ankles, hindering his steps. The empty hall and the sunlight it led to looked like a joke at the expense of his inability to escape with Charlotte. The way the banister filled his grasp made him wish he were holding a weapon. If only he hadn't been so anxious for Charlotte that he'd given up the knife! Now it was the reason why he had to pretend to be doing as he was told. He placed one foot on the top stair, then lowered his weight gradually onto the next. He was repeating the performance from there when Woollie muttered "No need to take all day, son. I hope you aren't trying to be funny. That's not the sort of laugh we're after."
Ian hadn't just been following instructions—he was attempting to buy himself time to think. Each step brought him closer to the table with the phone on it, the message pad with its stubby pencil, and the problem of his having failed to memorise Jack's number. He ought to give it to his mother—at least it would be truer than the lie he was being forced to tell—but he mustn't write on the same side of the paper when Woollie was bound to examine the message. He descended a step and sneaked his free hand across his body, stepped down again and pressed his elbow against his side in case that helped conceal how his hand was creeping to his pocket. Another step, and two fingers nipped the edge of the paper, and Woollie said "What are you after, son? Everything you want is down there."
"I see it," Ian said, gripping the banister so hard his whole hand ached, and eased the page out of his pocket. He was straining his eyes downward and glimpsing a hint of the digits when Woollie said "What do we reckon he's hiding, Charlotte? Do we think it's something he oughtn't to have?"
Another inch would show Ian enough for him to identify the digits, but the high muffled sound Charlotte emitted made him screw his head round. She and Woollie were three steps above him, Woollie's left hand enclosing her right and her wrist. She had let go of the banister so as to cover her mouth. "It's nothing," Ian said, groping with his foot for the next stair down.
"Must be a job to take nothing out of your pocket, mustn't it, Charlotte? What you call a fuss about nothing. That's a joke." No louder but more harshly Woollie said "Give us a gander, son. Think of your playmate."
Ian snatched out the page and swung toward him, brandishing it upside down, the used side facing himself. "It's a bit of paper. Satisfied?"
"It nearly looks like nothing, doesn't it, Charlotte? Except what's that name I'm seeing through it? Something something cee kay. Blimey, it's Jack that's really John, and half of him the wrong way up. Give it here so we can see how you do that trick."
Ian felt his hand begin to clench. He could crumple the page and swallow it, but what might Woollie do to Charlotte then? Besides, if Woollie rang Jack he would be revealing he wasn't dead after all. Ian sent himself far enough up the stairs to drop the page into the out-thrust hand, and memorised the digits as Woollie stared at them, his lips and then his gums parting. "I know this number," he whispered. "So that's where he's hiding from his dad now."
His stare rose like two drowned objects breaking the surface and settled on Ian, who didn't think he was being seen. "I should have known, shouldn't I?" Woollie muttered, though not to him. "I'd like to know what stopped me thinking."
The possibility that he meant or was on the way to meaning Charlotte rendered Ian as incapable of action as he saw she was. He had to fight not to look directly at her while Woollie folded the page and slipped it into the pink and yellow pocket that contained the knife, where his hand lingered as he focused on Ian. "Write to your mother," he said with what sounded like the end of any patience. "We're watching."
Ian went quickly down to the hall, forgetting to be quiet about it, and took hold of the pencil. He was thinking of moving to block Woollie's view when the man said in a whisper that seemed to fill the hall "Let's see what you're doing, son."
Ian paced around the table and was almost within reach of the front door. He could be out of the house in seconds and yelling for help—but a glance showed him Charlotte in the man's grasp and her captor's other hand bulging the pocket in which he was holding the knife. Ian gripped the pencil so hard it started to bend, and dragged the pad toward him, and tried to keep his mind on words he would be allowed to write. He imagined scribbling draft after draft and never managing to satisfy the smelly old tramp who hid children under floors. A sentence that might have been his desperation speaking formed in his head, and he wrote it. "Fast as a rabbit, wasn't he, Charlotte?" Woollie said. "Hold it up."
Ian forced his fingers to relinquish the pencil so that he could display the pad. He saw Charlotte read the message and not dare to react—he felt as if she were showing him how obvious a trick it was. Then Woollie said "It'll do. You can take it home."
Ian nearly peered at the message to confirm he'd written what he'd intended to write, I'VE GONE BECAUSE YOU SAID I TOOK CHARLOTTE. His mother had said no such thing, and surely she would know that he meant her to realise. He tore off the page and dropped the pad on the table, and had taken a step toward the front door when Woollie said "Not quite so hasty, son. What are you planning on doing?"
"Sticking this through my door."
"And then you'll be straight back to see nothing's happened to your playmate, will you?"
Ian found himself hoping Charlotte didn't understand the threat and unable to look at her in case she did. "Right," he said.
"That'll take care of everything, do you reckon, Charlotte?"
When she didn't speak Ian had to look as she realised more than a nod was required for an answer. "Yes," she said like a plea.
"What's it going to take care of? Don't be scared to tell the truth. Good girls sleep best, and I know you'd give all your teeth for a sleep."
Her face worked as though it was afraid even to appear afraid, and that was too much for Ian. "Lay off her," he blurted, "or I'm not going."
"Why are you trying to shut her up, son? What don't you want her to say?"
Ian could think of no reply that mightn't put her more at risk, including the truth that he hadn't been aiming to hush her at all. He saw Woollie lose patience again, and was tensing himself to dash up the stairs before the knife could emerge from the pocket when Woollie said "Did you think she'd spotted you weren't going to put your keys to here back next door?"
Charlotte frowned, then understanding smoothed her forehead and her eyes gleamed with dismay. She might have been enacting Ian's realisation that the absence of the keys could have told his mother where he was. He felt his ability to think begin to dwindle under the weight that was lowering itself onto his mind. "Where d'you keep them?" Woollie said.