Shatter - v4, page 34
54
When we first married, Julianne and I promised ourselves that we would never go to sleep angry at each other. It happened last night. My apologies were ignored. My overtures were brushed aside. We slept back to back on the same white sheet but it could have been an icy wasteland.
We checked out of the hotel at ten; our romantic weekend cut short. On the train back to Bath Spa Julianne read magazines and I stared out the window, pondering what she said to me last night. Maybe I am miserable or looking to blame somebody for what’s happened to me. I thought I was past the five stages of grieving. Perhaps they never go away.
Even now, sitting next to her in a minicab on the journey home from the station, I keep telling myself that it was just an argument. Married couples survive them all the time. Idiosyncrasies are forgiven, routines adopted, criticisms left unsaid.
The taxi pulls up outside the cottage. Emma comes tearing down the path, wrapping her arms round my neck. I hoist her onto my hip.
‘I saw the ghost last night, Daddy.’
‘Did you. Where was he?’
‘In my room; he told me to go back to sleep.’
‘What a sensible ghost.’
Julianne is paying the taxi driver with her company credit card. Emma is still talking to me. ‘Charlie said it was a lady ghost but it wasn’t. I saw him.’
‘And you had a chat.’
‘Not a long one.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, “Who are you?” and he said, “Go back to sleep”.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ask his name?’
‘No.’
‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘She went for a bike ride.’
‘When did she go?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t read the time.’
Julianne has paid the fare. Emma squirms out of my arms and slides down my chest. Her sneakers touch the grass and she runs to her mother.
Imogen has come outside to help us with the overnight bags. She has two messages for me. The first is from Bruno Kaufman. He wants to talk to me about Maureen and whether they should go away for a few weeks when she gets out of hospital.
The second message is from Veronica Cray. Five words: ‘Tyler is a trained locksmith.’
I call her at Trinity Road. The seesaw whine of a fax machine punctuates her answers.
‘I thought locksmiths had to be licensed.’
‘No.’
‘Who trained him?’
‘The military. He’s been working nights for a local company, T.B. Henry, and driving a silver van. We have matched the plates to a vehicle that crossed Clifton Suspension Bridge twenty minutes before Christine Wheeler climbed the fence.’
‘Does he work from an office?’
‘No.’
‘How do they contact him?’
‘A mobile phone.’
‘Can you trace it?’
‘It’s no longer transmitting. Oliver is keeping a close watch. If Tyler turns it on we’ll know.’
There’s another phone ringing in her office. She has to go. I ask if there’s anything I can do but she’s already hung up.
Julianne is upstairs unpacking. Emma is helping her by bouncing on the bed.
I call Charlie. She still has my mobile.
‘Hi.’
‘You’re home early.’
‘Yep. Where are you?’
‘With Abbie.’
Abbie is also twelve and the daughter of a local farmer who lives about mile out of Wellow along Norton Lane.
‘Hey, Dad, I got a joke,’ says Charlie.
‘Tell me when you get home.’
‘I want to tell you now.’
‘OK, hit me with it.’
‘A mother gets on a bus with her baby and the bus driver says, “That’s got to be the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen.” The mother is really angry but she pays the fare and sits down. Then another passenger says, “You can’t let him get away with that. You should go back and tell him off. Here, I’ll hold the monkey for you”.’
Charlie laughs like a drain. I laugh too.
‘See you soon.’
‘I’m on my way.’
55
It begins with a number: ten digits, three of them sixes. (Unlucky for some.) Next comes the ringing… then the answering.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mrs O’Loughlin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Professor O’Loughlin’s wife.’
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘I’m afraid your daughter Charlie has had a little accident. She fell off her bike. I think she lost control on a bend. She’s quite the daredevil on that bike. I want you to rest assured she’s completely all right. In good hands. Mine.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I told you. I’m the person who’s looking after Charlie.’
There’s a tremor in her voice, a dim stirring of approaching danger, something large and black and dreadful on the horizon, rushing towards her.
‘She’s such a pretty thing, your Charlie. She says her real name is Charlotte. She looks like a Charlotte but you let her dress like a tomboy.’
‘Where is she? What have you done to her?’
‘She’s right here, lying next to me. Aren’t you, Snowflake? Pretty as a peach, a sweet, sweet peach…’
Inside she is screaming. Fear has filled every warm wet place in her chest.
‘I want to talk to Charlie. Don’t touch her. Please. Let me speak to her.’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry. She has a sock in her mouth, taped in place.’
That’s when it starts, the first fracture in her mind, a tiny fissure that exposes the soft unprotected parts of her psyche. I can hear the hysteria vibrating through her body. She calls out Charlie’s name. She begs. She cajoles. She cries.
And then I hear another voice. The Professor takes the phone from her.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘Want? Need? I want you to put your wife back on the phone.’
There’s a pause. I’ve never understood what people mean when they say a pause is pregnant. Not until now. This one is pregnant. This one is pregnant with a thousand possibilities.
Julianne is sobbing. The professor puts his hand over the mouthpiece. I can’t hear what he’s saying to her but I imagine he’s issuing instructions telling her what to do.
‘Put your wife back on the phone or I will have to punish Charlie.’
‘Who are you?’
‘You know who I am, Joe.’
There’s another pause.
‘Gideon?’
‘Oh, good, we’re using first names. Put your wife back on the phone.’
‘No.’
‘You don’t think I have Charlie. You think I’m bluffing. You told the police I was a coward, Joe. I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to hang up and fuck your little girl and then I’ll call you back. In the meantime, I suggest you try to find her. Go on. Run along. Try Norton Lane, that’s where I found her.’
‘No! No! Don’t go!’
‘Put Julianne back on the phone.’
‘She’s too upset.’
‘Put her back on the phone or you’ll never see Charlie again.’
‘Listen to me, Gideon. I know why you’re doing this.’
‘Put your wife on the phone.’
‘She’s not capable of…’
‘I DON‘T GIVE A FUCK WHAT SHE‘S CAPABLE OF.’
‘OK, OK. Just give me a minute.’
He covers the phone again. He’s telling his wife to call the police on the fixed line. I pick up another mobile and punch in the number. The phone rings. Julianne picks up.
‘Hello, Mrs O’Loughlin.’
A sob catches in her throat.
‘If you let your husband take this phone from you your daughter will die.’
Her next sob is louder.
‘Stay with me, Mrs O’Loughlin.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you.’
She doesn’t answer.
‘May I call you Julianne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me tell you something, Julianne. If your husband takes this phone out of your hand, I will rape your daughter for a while. Then I’ll slice pieces off her body and hammer nails in her hands. And afterwards, I promise you this, I will cut out her pretty blue eyes and mail them to you in a box.’
‘No! No! I’ll talk to you.’
‘Only you can save Charlie.’
‘How?’
‘You remember when you were pregnant, how you kept those babies alive in your womb? Baby Emma and baby Charlie. Well, this phone is like an umbilical cord. You can keep Charlie alive only by staying on this line. Hang up and she dies. Let someone take the phone from you and she dies. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. She’s strong this one. A challenge.
‘Is your husband there, Julianne? Is he whispering in your ear like I’m whispering in Charlie’s ear? What’s he saying? Tell me what he’s saying or I’ll have to bruise her skin.’
‘He says you don’t have her. He says you’re bluffing. He says Charlie is at her friend’s house.’
‘Has he tried to phone her?’
‘Her number is engaged.’
‘He should go and look for her.’
‘He’s gone.’
‘That’s good. He should look outside… in the village. He should go to Abbie’s house. What about your nanny?’
‘She’s looking too.’
‘Maybe they’ll find her. I could be bluffing. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you have caller display on this phone, Julianne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look at the number. Do you recognise it?’
Her answer is not so much spoken as groaned. The strangled affirmation is trapped in her throat, barely able to get out.
‘Whose number is it?’
‘My husband’s mobile.’
‘What is Charlie doing with Joe’s phone?’
‘They swapped.’
‘Now you believe me.’
‘Yes. Please don’t hurt her.’
‘I’m going to make her into a woman, Julianne. All mothers want their daughters to grow up and become women.’
‘She’s just a child.’
‘Now, yes, but not when I’m finished.’
‘No. No. Please don’t touch her. I’ll do anything you want.’
‘Anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because if you don’t do it, Charlie will.’
‘I’ll do as you say!’
‘Take off your clothes, Julianne, your skirt and that pretty top— the one with the metallic thread through it. Yes, I know what you’re wearing. I know everything about you, Julianne. I’ve already taken off Charlie’s jeans. I’m sorry but I had to cut them. I was very careful. I’m very good with scissors and a razor. I could carve my initials into her stomach. She’d have a souvenir to remember me by. And every man who ever looks at her naked will know that I was there first… in every hole.’
‘No, don’t.’
‘Are you taking off your clothes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Show me.’
She hesitates.
‘Stand at the bedroom window, open the curtains— I’ll be able to see you.’
‘Will you let her go?’
‘That depends on you.’
‘I’ll do what you want.’
‘Charlie is nodding. It’s so cute. Yes, that’s right, Mummy’s on the phone. Do you want to say hello? I’m sorry. Mummy hasn’t done what I asked, so you can’t talk to her. Are you at the window, Julianne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Open the curtains so I can see you.’
‘And you won’t hurt Charlie?’
‘Just open the curtains.’
‘OK.’
‘You need make-up. On your dressing table; the vermilion lipstick, I want you to put it on and I want you to wear the malachite necklace in the velvet box.’
‘How do you—?’
‘I know all about you… all about Charlie… all about your husband.’
‘Please let Charlie go. I did what you asked.’
‘Nakedness isn’t enough, Julianne.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not enough. Charlie can give me more.’
‘But you said—’
‘Surely you can’t expect me to give up a prize like this one. Do you know what I want to do, Julianne? Now that I’ve cut off your daughter’s clothes, I want to open up her flesh. I want to unzip her from her throat to her cunt so I can climb inside her. Then I’m going to hold her heart in my hands and feel it beating as I fuck her from the inside out.’
The long slow scream is like a mortar shell detonating in my ears.
Another pin has fallen.
The lock is almost open.
Her mind is giving way.
Memory feels like substance now. Memory is the only thing that’s real. I am running down Mill Hill, across the bridge, up the next rise between the hedgerows.
I talked to Charlie twenty minutes ago. Her friend Abbie lives about a mile along Norton Lane. How long does it take her to ride a mile? Any moment she’ll come around the corner, legs pumping, head down, tail up, imagining that she’s in the Tour de France.
I keep trying her mobile. My mobile. I gave it to her. We swapped so I could talk to Darcy. It’s engaged. Who is she talking to?
Norton Lane is a narrow strip of twisting bitumen, hugged by hedgerows, hawthorn bushes and fences. Vehicles have to reverse or pull into culverts to allow other cars or tractors to pass. In some sections the hedges are high and unruly, turning the lane into a green gorge, broken occasionally by farm gates leading to fields.
I see a flash of colour between the twisting branches. It’s a woman walking her dog. Mrs Aymes. She cleans houses in the village.
‘Have you seen Charlie?’ I yell.
Angry at being startled, she shakes her head.
‘Did she come along here? She was riding her bike.’
‘Ain’t seen no bike,’ she says, in a thick accent.
I keep moving, crossing a small bridge above a stream, which drops away over rapids.
Gideon doesn’t have her. Gideon only pretends to abduct children. Physical confrontation isn’t his style. Manipulation. Exploitation. He’s probably watching me now, laughing. Or he’s watching Julianne. He’s talking to her.
On the brow of the hill I look back at the village. I call Veronica Cray. Words tumble out between snatched breaths.
‘Tyler says he has my daughter. He says he’s going to rape and kill her. He’s on the phone to my wife. You have to stop him.’
‘Where are you?’ asks the DI.
‘Looking for Charlie. She should be home by now.’
‘When did you last speak to her?’
I can’t think straight. ‘Thirty minutes ago.’
DI Cray tries to calm me down. She wants me to think rationally. Tyler has bluffed people before; it’s what he does.
‘He must be somewhere close,’ I say. ‘He’s probably been watching the house. You should seal off the village. Close the roads.’
‘I can’t seal off a village unless I’m sure a child has been taken.’
‘Trace his signal.’
‘I’m sending cars. Go back to your wife.’
‘I have to find Charlie.’
‘Go back home, Joe.’
‘What if he’s not bluffing?’
‘Don’t leave Julianne alone.’
The farm buildings are silhouetted against the sky on the crest of the next ridge. A half-dozen barns and machinery sheds made of tin, brick and wood squat in the centre of muddy tracks. Old farm machinery lies abandoned in one corner of the yard with weeds growing beneath the rusting chassis. I have no idea what most of these machines do. The main house is nearest the road. Dogs bark excitedly from kennels.
Abbie opens the door.
‘Is Charlie here?’
‘No.’
‘When did she leave?’
‘Ages ago.’
‘Which way did she go?’
She looks at me oddly. ‘There’s only one way.’
‘Did you see her leave?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Was there anyone else on the road?’
She shakes her head. I’m frightening her. Already I’m turning, running back across the yard to the lane. I couldn’t have missed her. Where else would she go? It’s two miles to Norton St Philip. Surely Charlie wouldn’t have ridden in the opposite direction to home.
I call her mobile again. Why is she still on the phone?
The return journey is mostly downhill. I stop at farm gates, hoisting myself on the metal rail to get a better view of the fields.
Crossing the bridge again, I peer into the ditches on either side of the road. In some sections the brambles and nettles are thigh high. There are tyre tracks at the side of the asphalt. A vehicle must have pulled over to let another one pass.
That’s when I see a bicycle, half-hidden by weeds. I wanted to buy Charlie an aluminium frame, but she chose the matt black steel, with fireballs on the crossbar and shock absorbers on the front forks.
I wade into the nettles and thorns, dragging the bike free. The front wheel is twisted and buckled by an impact. I scream her name. Crows explode from the trees in a flurry of beating wings.
My arm is shaking. My leg. My chest. My head. I take a step and almost collapse. I take another and fall. I try to get up. I can’t. Swallowing hard, I let the bike fall and climb back to the road. Then I sprint down the asphalt like a madman. The horrors of hindsight and regret have stolen my oxygen and I can’t get Charlie’s name out any more.
Climbing Mill Hill my left leg suddenly locks as it swings forward and I land on my face. I don’t feel the pain. Dragging myself onto my feet, I start running again with a strange stumbling goosestep.
Two girls on horseback are clip-clopping towards me. One of them I recognise. She knows Charlie. I wave my arms. One of the horses grows skittish. I yell at them to look for Charlie, angry they don’t instantly obey.
I can’t stay. I have to get home. I have tried to phone Julianne. The number is engaged. Gideon is talking to her.
