The Lost Ones Page 9

  ‘We’ll find it. How are we going to search the basement without—’ Lauren’s eyes flitted towards the ceiling. Her voice sank to a whisper. ‘What was that?’

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘I thought I heard something.’

  ‘Don’t screw with me, Lauren.’

  ‘I’m not. There it is again!’

  This time Jake heard it too – a muffled tapping, scuffling noise from above. He got to his feet, suddenly aware of his heart beating. ‘Maybe it’s mice.’

  ‘Or maybe it’s someone tapping on the floor. Come on. Let’s check it out.’

  As quietly as possible, they returned to the stairs. The noise grew louder as they climbed towards a doorway slashed with sunlight. Jake’s fingers tightened on the lump of stone. The sun hit him in the face as he peered into the attic. His blinking eyes travelled over soot- and weather-stained brick walls, roof tiles collapsed in by flames and prised apart by ivy, cobwebby arched windows, teetering chimney stacks, drifts of leaves and twigs. ‘There’s nothing—’ he started to say, but fell silent as the noise came again. Scratch, scratch, tap, tap . . .

  Lauren pointed to the far end of the attic, mouthing, ‘It’s coming from over there.’

  They edged forward, testing to make sure the creaking floorboards would bear their weight. In the angle where the roof met the floor, there was a bundle of filthy white rags – just about big enough, Jake noted, to cover Erin. Exchanging a nervous glance with Lauren, he bent to lift a tattered edge of material. Something burst out from beneath it. All Jake saw was a flash of black, before whatever it was slammed into his face. He felt sharp points digging into his forehead and scalp. A sound like a child’s scream vibrated in his ears, painfully high pitched. He cried out too, reflexively closing his eyes and swinging the stone. There was a soft crunch as it knocked loose his attacker. The screaming stopped. He opened his eyes. Black feathers were swirling towards the floorboards where a rook lay motionless.

  ‘Fuck,’ he gasped, regaining his balance.

  ‘Ditto,’ said Lauren. ‘My heart’s beating so fast I think it’s going to burst out of my chest.’ She pointed at Jake’s face. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Just scratches. You’ll live. Might even have improved your looks.’

  Jake wiped a dribble of blood from his eye, one corner of his mouth hitching up. ‘Girls dig scars, right?’

  Lauren prodded the rook with her boot. It didn’t move. ‘It’s dead. Nice shot, killer.’

  Jake grimaced. He hated the thought of killing anything. As a little boy it had made him feel sick to watch his schoolmates pulling apart daddy-long-legs for fun. Lauren pushed aside the rags, revealing two grey-black balls of fluff curled together on a bed of twigs. ‘Poor little babies. We can’t leave them like this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why do you think? Because they’ll starve to death.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Well, either we can take them and look after them ourselves or we can put them out of their misery.’

  ‘What? You mean kill them? No way.’

  ‘It’s crueller to leave them alive. You don’t have to do anything, Jake. I’ll do it. A quick twist of their necks. It’ll be over in a second.’

  Jake thought of Erin. Perhaps she was crying for help somewhere with no one to hear or care about her. He put down the stone, gently laid the rags back over the chicks and gathered up the bundle.

  ‘You really wouldn’t make much of a Satanist,’ Lauren commented with a smiling shake of her head.

  ‘Who said I wanted to be a Satanist? Screw them dickheads. Let’s check out the basement. Then maybe we can leave this dump.’

  They descended to the landing. ‘Hold this a minute,’ said Jake, extending the bundle to Lauren.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We need the lighter, remember?’ But Jake wasn’t thinking about the lighter so much as the red rectangular object lodged under the floorboards. He started towards the bedroom. A voice brought him to a stop.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing in here?’

  His gaze jerked to the foot of the main stairway. A female constable was standing in the open front door. He recognised her from earlier. She was the one who’d told his dad about Erin. What was her name? Hutton or something.

  ‘I . . . Nothing,’ he stammered, wondering if she recognised him.

  ‘Come down here, both of you.’

  Jake and Lauren did as told. Constable Hutton indicated the rags. ‘What’s that?’

  Lauren peeled them back to show her the chicks. ‘Their mother’s dead. We’re going to look after them.’

  ‘This is private property. You’re trespassing.’

  Jake’s eyes dropped contritely. Lauren treated the constable to a look of casual defiance. ‘So arrest us.’

  ‘I don’t want to arrest you. I’m more concerned that someone might get hurt. This house is dangerous.’

  ‘Why? Because it’s a church of Satan?’

  ‘No.’ There was a faintly amused glint in Constable Hutton’s eyes. ‘Because it’s ready to fall down around our ears. Is anyone else in here?’

  ‘No,’ said Jake.

  ‘And how did you get in?’

  ‘We climbed through an upstairs window,’ lied Lauren.

  Another constable appeared at the door. ‘Who are these two?’

  ‘It’s Jake Jackson and . . .’ Constable Hutton looked askance at Lauren, who compressed her lips into a silent line, ‘a friend of his.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Jake.

  ‘We didn’t. We’re here for the same reason I’m guessing you are – to look for your sister. But now we’ve found you I think we’d best take you home.’

  ‘You don’t have to go with them,’ said Lauren.

  Jake sighed resignedly. ‘I’d better.’

  They headed outside, descending steps flanked by ivy-wrapped pillars. A cracked concrete driveway made its way between a jungle of grass, weeds and bushes to a tall, rusty gate. Constable Hutton opened the back door of a police car.

  ‘You can forget it if you think I’m getting in that,’ said Lauren.

  ‘If I find you on this property again I will arrest you,’ warned the constable.

  Lauren raised her eyebrows as if to say, Try it, I dare you. She turned to Jake. ‘What do you want to do about our babies?’

  A faint heat rose into his face. Lauren’s words made him think about what it took to make babies and how often he’d fantasised about doing that thing – the sex part, not the baby part – with her. ‘I’ll look after them. After all, it was me who killed their mum.’

  He took back the bundle and, cradling it against his chest, ducked into the car. Constable Hutton waited until Lauren was out of the gate before starting the engine. As they pulled away, Jake looked over his shoulder at the decaying house. He half expected to see a pair of ghostly figures staring back at him from one of the upstairs windows. But there was nothing. He felt a sudden perverse reluctance to leave. As much as he disliked the place, its atmosphere of creepy unreality was preferable to the reality of what was happening out here.

  ‘What happened to your head?’ asked Constable Hutton, proffering a tissue.

  Jake explained about the rook, dabbing the scratches gingerly.

  ‘That’s what parents do,’ said the constable. ‘They protect their children at all costs. So don’t be too hard on yours for wanting to make sure no harm comes to you.’

  A mixture of guilt and irritation jabbed at Jake. The last thing he wanted to do was make things harder for his parents, but he couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. Why couldn’t they understand that?

  ‘What made you think your sister might be in that house?’ asked Constable Hutton.

  ‘I didn’t think she was, not really. It was Lauren’s idea.’

  ‘I take it Lauren’s the girl you were with.’

  ‘Yes. Why did you think Erin might
be there?’

  ‘It’s just procedure. We’re checking out all empty properties, sheds and outhouses in the area on the off-chance Erin might be hiding in them.’

  ‘Why would Erin be hiding?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me, Jake. Is there any reason for her to be hiding?’

  Noticing the constable watching him in the rear-view mirror, he answered quickly, ‘No.’

  ‘You can feel free to speak to me, Jake. I won’t repeat any of this to your parents.’

  ‘There’s no reason for Erin to be hiding,’ Jake stated, annoyed. His parents might treat him like a useless little kid, but that didn’t mean he was about to talk to this copper behind their backs, even if there was anything to tell – which there wasn’t.

  They pulled up outside his house. A balding, overweight man was taking photos of it from the street. ‘Who’s that?’ asked Jake.

  ‘A journalist.’

  The man turned his camera on them when they got out of the car. As Jake stepped through the front door, his mum rushed into the hallway. Her eyes bulged at him, like they always did when she was really angry. ‘Where did you find him?’ she asked, her voice ominously flat.

  ‘The Ingham house.’

  Amanda’s eyes grew even bigger. She pointed at the bundle of rags. ‘What’s that? And how did you get those scratches?’

  Jake avoided her gaze and said nothing, worried she might not allow the chicks in the house.

  She heaved an exasperated breath. ‘Thank you, Constable Hutton. I’ll let you get back to what you were doing before you were side-tracked.’ She closed the door hard enough to rattle the glass and turned her intense green gaze on Jake again. ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘I told you, I have to—’

  ‘All you have to do is what I tell you,’ Amanda cut in, gesturing for him to follow her into the kitchen.

  ‘I was only trying to help.’

  Amanda took a tube of antiseptic out of a tin and rubbed the ointment on Jake’s forehead. ‘By breaking into an empty house? How’s that helping?’

  ‘The police think it’s worth searching. Erin could have been taken there by someone.’

  ‘And what if she had been? What if that someone had tried to hurt you?’

  ‘I’d have hurt them back, worse.’

  Amanda let out a harsh laugh as if she’d never heard anything so ridiculous. ‘You couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag.’

  Reddening, Jake opened his mouth to make a retort. Before he could do so, the front door opened and Cathy stepped through it. ‘There’s a reporter from the Gazette out there. I told him you’re not interested—’ She broke off, then continued in a relieved tone, ‘Jake, you’re back!’

  ‘Tell him, Mum,’ Amanda said sharply. ‘Tell him how worried we’ve been.’

  ‘It’s all right, Amanda,’ Cathy said, turning on her peacemaker’s voice. ‘He’s home now. No harm done.’

  ‘It’s not all right, Mum. I’m not just going to let this pass. He’s got to learn that everything he does has consequences.’ Amanda thrust her palm out at Jake. ‘For starters you can hand over your phone.’ Reluctantly, he gave it to her and she added, ‘You’re also grounded.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Until I say so. Now go to your room. I don’t want to see you down here again today. Do I make myself clear?’

  Jake ruckled his face at the injustice of it. ‘This house is a prison,’ he muttered as he headed for the stairs.

  ‘What was that?’ snapped Amanda.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t push me, Jake. I can think up plenty more ways to punish you.’

  Jake placed the bundle of rags on his bed. He flopped down beside it and lay staring at the ceiling. Bitch, he thought bitterly. What right does she have to treat me like this? He’d be sixteen soon. Old enough to get a job and his own place. Then she’d never be able to tell him what to do again. Perhaps he’d go down to London. That would really show her. His thoughts returned to Erin. What if he never saw her again? He vainly tried to recall the last thing he’d said to her. Going on recent form, he’d most likely either teased her about something or told her to go away.

  With a grimace of self-disgust, he stood up suddenly, strode over to the pentagram poster and tore it down. He scooped up the half-melted candles from his desk and flung them into a bin along with the poster. He was done with all the bullshit. From now on he wasn’t going to try to be anyone but himself. And if that wasn’t good enough for his parents or Lauren, well then screw them.

  He flipped open his laptop and Googled ‘What do rooks eat?’ A link to the RSPB website gave the answer – earthworms, insects, grains. He peered under the rags. The chicks were motionless. He laid his hand on them and felt their hearts flickering as fragilely as a candle flame.

  ‘I’m going to take care of you,’ he murmured, switching on his desk lamp and angling it towards them. ‘You’re going to be OK.’

  DAY 1

  1.28 P.M.

  Seth inhaled the pleasantly cool air. He’d never been a countryside type. His natural habitat was the bustle of the inner city, where it was easy to blend into the crowd. Wide open, empty spaces made him nervous. But here among the trees he felt at ease. Here you could choose to be seen or unseen. Here he could imagine lying down in the shadows with Holly, peeling off her clothes, sliding his lips over her smooth skin. He glanced across at her twenty-five metres away to his right. She was advancing at a snail’s pace, her gaze fixed on the ground. As if sensing his eyes on her, she looked at him and smiled. He was struck once again by how wrong he’d got it on first seeing her. She wasn’t plain at all. She was like one of those paintings whose beauty could be properly appreciated only from a distance. His instinct was to drop his gaze, pretend he hadn’t been watching her. He resisted the urge, mimicking her smile.

  Holly’s smile faded. A frown grazing her forehead, she resumed scanning the forest floor. Seth frowned too, wondering if he’d done something wrong. His brain gave a squeeze of realisation as it occurred to him: You’re not supposed to be enjoying yourself. You’re here to find a missing little girl.

  His gaze moved beyond Holly. To her right was the thuggish-looking bloke who seemed to be best mates with Tom Jackson. He held no interest for Seth. Unlike Tom, who came next in the line, just barely visible among the tangle of tree trunks and branches. Seth had directed numerous furtive looks at Tom during the walk to their search grid. It was a habit of his – reading people. More than that, it was a survival tactic. After all, if he didn’t read others, how could he read himself? How could he know how to react, what to feel? Fear and uncertainty were written across Tom’s face. Also there, but less evident, he detected something else, something tightly coiled and ready to explode. It gave him a tingle of excitement, like standing too close to a lit firework.

  The search party emerged from the ranks of pines onto a gravel road, beyond which the trees were sparser, less mature. From somewhere overhead came a whump-whump-whump. Squinting at the cloudless sky, Seth spotted a blue-and-yellow police helicopter circling a few miles to the west.

  ‘Do you think they’ve found something?’ Holly called to him.

  ‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Let’s keep moving!’ The shout came from Henry Brooks.

  Seth glanced towards the florid-faced figure at the centre of the search line. He found it curious that it wasn’t Tom Jackson handing out the orders. The two men obviously came from very different backgrounds. Tom was well-spoken, but his accent was rough around the edges. Henry, on the other hand, spoke what Seth called proper posh. It seemed obvious, too, where the balance of power lay between them. More than once he’d caught a superior note in Henry’s voice as he spoke to Tom. Henry Brooks was clearly someone used to being obeyed. Seth found himself wondering what it would be like to be him, to have people listen – really listen, not just pretend to – when you spoke.

 
Another hundred metres of painstaking searching brought them to the edge of the forest. A sprawling swathe of purple-flowering moorland climbed towards a hump of a hill maybe a mile away. Sandstone crags scarred the hillside, glittering in the midday sun. A marker stuck up on the summit.

  ‘Everyone stop here,’ called Henry Brooks. ‘This is the edge of our search area. I’m radioing Sergeant Dyer for further instructions.’

  ‘That’s Tosson Hill,’ said Holly, approaching Seth. ‘The highest of the Simonside Hills.’

  Seth only half heard her. His gaze had moved to a stream that threaded its way into the trees a stone’s throw to the west. At the meeting of stream and forest there was a shallow bowl of marshy-looking grass. Something in the bowl caught his eye – a conical pyramid of branches with a scrap of tarp slung over the side facing the stream. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Looks like a bivvy.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A bivouac. A shelter made from branches and whatever else you can find lying around. It was probably built by kids. I built one once on a school trip here.’

  ‘Let’s take a closer look.’

  ‘Do you think we should tell the others first?’

  ‘Nah. Like you said, it was probably just built by kids.’

  They waded through the heather to the crude structure. Branches stripped of needles rested against each other like interlacing fingers. They were overlaid with smaller bushy branches. A circle with a capital ‘A’ inside it was daubed in red paint on the tarp. The grass in front of the bivouac was flattened and there was a mound of ash inside a circle of stones. A couple of sooty tins were half buried in the ashes. A pair of wet blue jeans was spread across a flat rock on the bank of the babbling stream.

  Holly pointed at the ‘A’. ‘I wonder what that means.’

  ‘It’s an anarchist symbol. I’ve seen them at anti-capitalist demonstrations in London.’

  ‘Are you an anti-capitalist?’

  ‘No.’ Seth had once tried to impress a girl by telling her how he went along to such demonstrations not because he gave a toss about their causes, but because he got a buzz from being around the trouble that inevitably broke out. After that she’d stopped returning his calls. He wasn’t about to make that mistake again. Squatting down, he held his hand over the ashes. ‘They’re still warm.’