The Hunted, page 17
‘Have you seen one before?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘A long time ago.’
‘Surprisingly small, aren’t they?’
She gave him a strange smile. ‘Yes. Surprisingly.’
‘I mean, to start off so small and to get so . . . well . . . big. To think that we all started off like that.’
‘Yes. Well, shall we go?’
And together they walked on towards the delicatessen.
To say the Hartingers had tired of Tarrin would not be strictly true. But they had got used to him, certainly, and he to them. His novelty had worn off, just as the novelty of the Persian cat had worn off and the novelty of owning the priceless Picasso painting which hung in the hallway had worn off. That wasn’t to say that Tarrin, along with the cat, the painting, and all the many other precious objects in the house, was no longer treasured, for he was. He just no longer held the same immediate curiosity and fascination for them.
Why, there were days when Mr Hartinger didn’t even bother to glance at the Picasso painting at all or, if he did, it was to pay no more heed to it than he did to the hall table, the lampshade or the umbrella stand. He paid more attention to the daily newspaper.
Similarly, there were days too when Mrs Hartinger’s diamonds no longer seemed to sparkle for her with their usual vitality, when even the emeralds and the pearls in her jewellery box had lost their lustre. And there were mornings when the seemingly eternal handsomeness of her unageing, time-frozen face no longer pleased her eye. She felt jaded in body and soul, as if – even in the midst of yearning to live, and in fearing and not wanting to die – she felt that she had already lived far too long.
Though she was barely a day over a hundred and twenty. Whereas Mr Hartinger was a hundred and sixty if he was a year.
Which made him a cradle-snatcher, Mrs Hartinger said.
Which was their ancient and familiar joke.
The boy, the cat, the painting on the wall – in the currency of the Hartingers’ lives these familiar things were the watermarks. They were background, decor, essential, appreciated, but in the endless quest for novelty, which was a concomitant part of this long, long life, they were not enough. There was always the lure of something new.
If you could afford it.
But, even then, what did you give to the man or to the woman who had everything? Where did those who had been everywhere now go? What did those who had tried everything try? What did those who had done everything do?
Boredom, lassitude, tedium – these had taken the place of infirmity, illness and frailty. These were the things to fear, these were the enemies now.
If you had money.
If you were poor, they were less of a problem. Your worries were more immediate, like how to earn your day’s living, and how to save enough to put a little aside so that you could enjoy your retirement. All forty, fifty, sixty, eighty, a hundred or more years of it.
That evening, after dinner, the Hartingers announced that they were going to the opera and then on afterwards to eat a light supper with some friends. Tarrin was afraid that they would want him to go with them, but tonight they left him to amuse himself.
‘Anything you want, Tarrin . . . just ask Bradley if you need anything.’
More than anything he wanted a friend, a friend of his own age. Not a PP. Not a pretend boy or a pretend girl, with sixty years of living hiding behind a mask of childhood, but a real live companion of his own age, with his own uncertainties, fears and feelings. Someone who would understand.
But he didn’t ask and he didn’t mention it. It would have made the Hartingers feel uncomfortable, as if they were responsible for his isolation and his loneliness and for his being one of the few.
‘I’ll read and maybe go on the computer for a while and watch a film.’
‘OK, Tarrin. And tomorrow we’ll go to the stable. Maybe you can start to take riding lessons, and soon go out on one of the horses.’
‘Yes, that’d be great . . . Mum.’
‘We’ll look in before we go.’
They did, both looking distinguished in their evening clothes.
‘Bye, Tarrin.’
‘Night, Mum.’
Her lips brushed his cheek.
‘Night, Dad.’
A squeeze on the shoulder – in a fatherly way.
And then she was gone, in a cloud of perfume and a swirl of silk, and he was gone with her, holding the door for her, always impeccable, always so well dressed and groomed, always the gentleman.
They left the house and got into the waiting taxi. Bradley watched from the hallway until the cab had turned the corner of the street before he closed the front door. He didn’t see the man in the parked car, watching the house. But the watcher noted that the Hartingers had gone, and that the boy had not, and that there had not been such an opportunity in a long time. Nor might there be another for a good long while. And tonight was the night to act.
12
Kiddernap
Maybe Tarrin heard the bell ring, maybe he didn’t. Maybe the bell he heard was the one which came with the dreams – of the fields of wheat and the fields of corn, with a light breeze ruffling the stalks and stems. The fields moved like water, undulating in waves of pale, yellow surf. In the distance was the bell ringing the hour, ever so slightly cracked-sounding and out of tune. It was an old church bell in a crumbling belfry. So maybe that was what he heard as he drifted into sleep, or maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was a real bell after all, and the murmuring voices were real voices, but the sounds didn’t linger or bother him for long, and soon everything – real or imaginary – was silent again.
The darkly dressed man swiftly closed the front door and then dragged Bradley’s unconscious body along the hall and left it to lie on the drawing-room floor. Then that door was half closed and the footsteps moved softly on up the stairs. First one bedroom, then another, opening doors to rooms containing nothing but silence and shadow, the darkness of drawn curtains, or the shimmering of stars.
Doors opened, doors were left ajar, the footsteps moving on, up another flight of stairs again, opening another door, another, a third, and then . . .
There he was. Asleep. A book lying open on the floor, within reach of the hand that dangled down from where he slept on the bed.
Just a step or two more, a hand across his mouth so that he would not shout or scream, or make any sound of being afraid or startled when he woke, and then . . .
The boy’s eyes were open, afraid, staring wildly with terror. And then the fear gave way to perplexity, to curiosity, to bafflement.
The man in black, standing in front of him, put a finger to his lips. He relaxed the grip of his other hand, the one that covered the boy’s mouth.
‘Hiya, kid. How’re you doing?’
‘Deet!’
‘Thought I’d forgotten you, huh?’
‘Whatever are . . . what are you doing here?’
‘No time for the niceties, kid.’ He went to the chair and threw Tarrin’s clothes upon the bed. ‘Here – get yourself dressed. Where they keep the clean underwear?’
Tarrin nodded towards the chest. ‘In the drawer.’
‘I see it.’
Some items sailed across the room and joined the other clothes on the bed.
‘Come on, kid, let’s get moving. Let’s get the show on the road. No need to be shy about it. Here – I won’t look. Just get yourself dressed and let’s get moving.’
‘But, Deet . . .’
‘No buts about it, kid. Thought I’d forgot you, did you? Didn’t I say I was looking out for you? Didn’t I say your uncle Deet would never let you down. Come on, kid, move it!’
Tarrin sat up and rubbed his eyes. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed so that his feet dangled over his slippers. He was still half asleep and disorientated and confused.
‘Deet . . .’
‘Come on, kid. Come on. Time’s the essence, like I always say, and no more so than now.’
Deet went to the window and peered down into the street.
‘Deet, I don’t understand. What . . . why are you here? Where’s Bradley? Did he let you in?’
Deet chuckled. ‘Sure, kid. He let me in all right. But right now he’s sleeping some chloro off down in the drawing room. He’s lying there under the piano, but he ain’t playing it much. He won’t be waking for a while and, even when he does, he won’t be talking to anyone, as he’s all trussed and gagged up like a chicken for the oven. Come on.’
‘Deet . . .’
‘Thought I’d let you down, did you, kid? No way. Old Deet, he’s one bad, bad penny. He’s always turning up. Get dressed, kid, speed it up, come on.’
Mechanically, habitually, so used to always doing what Deet said, Tarrin began to dress himself while Deet paced nervously and quickly around the room, constantly returning to the window to look down into the street.
‘Deet . . .’
‘Come on, kid. Come on, come on, come on.’
Tarrin pulled his trousers on and zipped up the fly. He put on socks, a T-shirt and a fleece.
‘Where’s your shoes, kid?’
‘Downstairs.’
‘We’ll get ’em on the way. Anything you need to take?’
‘But, Deet . . . where are we going? Why? What’s going on? I thought you sold me. Why are you here?’
‘Call it a social call, kid.’ Deet tittered nervously. ‘Call it social.’
‘What about Mum and— Mrs Hartinger and Mr Hartinger . . .’
‘Mum and Dad? Is that what they got you to call them? Cheez!’
‘Deet . . . do they . . . I mean . . . will they know where I’ve gone?’
‘The hell they will, kid. Come on. Move it. Any stuff here you need to grab? You may as well take it. It’s no use to them. Did they give you any cash, kid? Did they give you any spending? Take it with you, may as well. What have you got?’
‘Nothing really.’
‘Don’t they give you spending money? What a couple of tight wads.’
‘Pocket money’s tomorrow, Deet.’
‘Well, we don’t have time to stay for it, kid. Come on. This your suitcase?’
He pulled the case down from the top of the wardrobe. ‘Throw what you want in it and let’s go. Hey, and don’t forget that nice pen I gave you.’
‘Er . . . I left it downstairs somewhere.’
‘Too bad. No time. Better forget it.’
‘But, Deet . . .’
‘You want this book, do you? They been buying you books?’
‘Yes, I—’
‘Move it, kid! Move it! There’s someone out there!’
But it wasn’t the Hartingers back early. It was some of their neighbours. They walked up the driveway of a house across the street. The sound of the closing door echoed through the night.
‘OK. Let’s go now.’
Deet snapped the suitcase shut and ushered Tarrin out of the room. He stumbled slightly on the stairs.
‘Careful, kid.’
‘Where are we going, Deet . . . I mean, why . . . why are we going? I thought . . .’
‘Tell you in the car, kid. Let’s get out of here.’
As they walked along the corridor to the front door, Deet saw that the drawing-room door had swung back open and, before he had time to shut it again, Tarrin had looked in and seen Bradley lying there, his eyes blindfolded, his mouth gagged, his hands and feet bound.
‘Deet . . . what did you do?’
‘Never mind that. Needs must, kid. He’ll be OK. They’ll untie him when they get back.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Grab your shoes. These them?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘This your coat?’
‘Yes, only . . .’
‘Let’s go then.’
‘Should I leave a note?’
‘You kidding me, kid? Come on. Move. Let’s go.’
Tarrin wriggled his feet into his trainers, managing to get them both on without undoing the laces. Then he felt the cool night air on his face as Deet pulled the door open.
‘Zip it up, kid,’ Deet said, handing him his jacket. ‘You don’t want a chill.’
‘Deet . . .’ The night air woke and refreshed him, but he still had the stale taste in his mouth and that groggy feeling of interrupted sleep.
‘Car’s down there, kid.’
‘You’ve got a car?’
Deet had never had a car before. He had always used taxis or trains. Tarrin hadn’t even known that he could drive.
‘It’s a loaner. Come on.’
They crossed the road and as they approached the car Deet fired the key at it and all four of its yellow indicator lights flashed briefly as the locks clunked open.
‘Get in, get your belt on and keep low, kid. And here – put that on your head.’
Deet pulled a folded baseball cap from his pocket, opened it up and put it on to Tarrin’s head, yanking the peak down low. It was too low, and Tarrin reached to adjust it, but Deet knocked his hand away.
‘Leave it. Just for now. Just till we’re outta here.’
He bundled him into the back of the car, closed the door, got into the driver’s seat and started the engine up.
Just as they came to the end of the street, a taxi turned in. Tarrin peered out and saw, from under the peak of the baseball cap, the Hartingers sitting in the back. They seemed not to notice him, nor Deet, nor the car. They were neither looking at, nor speaking to, each other. Each was just looking blankly out of the window.
He caught a glimpse of Mr Hartinger’s face. He looked terminally bored. It was as if he had fallen into a vacuum, into some immense empty space, and it had sucked out his soul. He looked like someone in perfect health, who had known, possessed and experienced everything that life had to offer, over and over again. Yes, he had tasted every dish on the menu, except for one rare delicacy – death.
Tarrin swivelled in his seat and looked back to see the cab stop by the house. That was the last he saw of the Hartingers. Deet turned left and left again, then took a right. Soon they were driving through an unfamiliar part of the city and Tarrin had no idea where he was.
He took off the baseball cap. Deet saw him do so in the rear-view mirror, but he didn’t object.
‘Deet . . .’
‘When we get there, kid. I’ll tell you when we get there.’
He concentrated on his driving for now, keeping an eye on the mirror, making sure that they weren’t being followed.
‘It’s late, kid. Get some sleep for now.’
Despite his apprehensions, Tarrin slept. When he woke, Deet was shaking him, telling him to get out of the car.
It wasn’t a motel this time, but a private house, which Deet must have rented. He showed Tarrin where his room was and told him he had his own bathroom and then left him to sleep. Tarrin heard Deet lock his door from the outside.
The last thing he heard before he fell asleep again was Deet calling to him through the door. ‘Hey, I scammed them good, didn’t I, kid? I scammed them good!’
Then he went on down the stairs, laughing to himself.
‘Cereal, kid?’
‘Thanks.’
Deet saw him looking around.
‘Not the luxury you’d been getting comfortable with, I dare say, kid? Not the style you were getting accustomed to? Still, don’t you worry, you’ll soon forget all that. It’s you and me, kid, back in business.’
‘But what happened, Deet? I thought they . . . they’d paid you. I thought you’d sold me – to the Hartingers.’
Deet put the cereal packet down on the table so that Tarrin could help himself and he shoved the milk carton across.
‘Sure they paid me, kid. And I didn’t do anything till the cheque had cleared and the money was in the bank. Then I gave them a couple of weeks to get used to everything and to start taking things for granted, then I just snuck right in there and kiddernapped you away! Wasn’t it the neatest bit of kiddernapping you ever saw, kid? Wasn’t it?’
‘But why, Deet?’
Deet’s face clouded. ‘I thought you were supposed to be smart, kid, and quick on the uppertake.’
‘I just don’t see why . . . if they paid . . . and you had what you wanted . . .’
‘Because I’ve got the money, kid! I’ve got the money now! To pay for it!’
‘Pay for what, Deet?’
‘The PP. I’ve got the money now, kid, to pay for the PP implant. See, first I had you, but I didn’t have the money. Then I had the money, but I didn’t have you. But now, I’ve got you both! Smart, eh, kid? I couldn’t tell you the plan in advance in case you blew it, accidental. But wasn’t it a neat one? Didn’t I scam them good?’
Tarrin felt his body grow cold, cold and clammy, and fear filled his heart.
‘But, Deet—’
‘You can be a kid for always now, see, kid. And you and me can be partners. You can do the kid act and make good money now for all your days. OK, the PP implant is big money up front, but when you think that it buys you a living for a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred years . . .’
‘But, Deet . . .’
‘Why, it’s not spending, it’s investing, kid. You and me – partners! You’ll never have to grow up now, kid. Soon as you have the implant, you can be a kid for always. You won’t have to grow up ever! Isn’t that great?’
‘But, Deet . . .’
‘Pass the coffee pot, kid.’
‘I want to grow up.’
Deet stared at him. ‘You what?’
‘I don’t want to be a boy forever, Deet . . . I want to grow up.’
‘You want to grow up? What for?’
‘I just do.’
‘And do what?’
‘I don’t know.’
Deet sighed. ‘Grown up, you’re worth nothing, kid. But with the PP, you’ll always be worth something, always wanted . . .’
‘They aren’t real, Deet.’
‘Who aren’t?’
‘The PPs.’
‘They’re real enough.’
‘They’re spooky.’
‘No one else thinks they’re spooky.’
