On his back, his face almost directly beneath the hole.
Oh my God
His feet were up, at an odd angle, both ankles individually cuffed to the big oven handle; his hands had been stretched above his head and fastened by electric flex to the squat feet of the washing-machine. His shorts had been removed and put back on with both legs forced into one leg opening, secured with the orange and blue bungee cords from the Daewoo roof-rack, and his mouth was covered with a piece of brown parcel tape. A large stain, a corona of his own filth, surrounded him. Now Ben realized she could hear him snoring, as if he had simply got bored with the whole thing. As if he'd eaten Christmas dinner and drifted off in front of The Wizard of Oz.
She manoeuvred her face so her mouth was at the opening and whispered softly: lHal?'
Parallel to Brixton Hill, along the route of the old river Effra, consigned to the underworld since the last century, ran Effra Road, a hill that linked the lower, fashionably self-conscious slopes of Brixton with the poor council estates at the Streatham end. On this, one of the hottest days of the year, DC Logan was climbing the hill with slow deliberation, cooking in his own sweat. The sun had heated up the earth until the paving stones lifted at odd angles. In front gardens cats slept under bushes, twitching their ears at the midday insects. Jesus, he thought, what I could do to a cold Red Stripe is criminal.
Up ahead on the left was the new housing development, Clock Tower Grove he could see the hoarding and the flags and beyond them a concrete joist swaying in the claws of a crane. There were some bigger houses at the back overlooking the park. He supposed he'd have to go and find out if any of the places were finished, if anyone had moved in yet. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. There were eighteen more addresses to make that day he wasn't going to hang around at any of them. If no one answered the door he was out of there.
Meanwhile, in number five, Clock Tower Walk, Hal opened his eyes and thought he was seeing an angel. A sweet geometry her face in a circular frame. At first the eyes, those eyes like mirrors, seemed to take up the whole of the room.
Benedicte?
'Hal,' she whispered.
And then he thought, for the first time, that maybe they had a chance. He tried to jerk his head up in reply but he had been bound so he couldn't move. Tears slid from his eyes.
'Hal,' she murmured, her voice faint and sick. 'Josh? Is he…?'
He moved his eyes sideways, showing her the direction.
She pulled back from the hole and tried to reposition herself to get the angle right so she could see into the family room. She could feel the uneven temperature of the air, she could smell her own breath in the tiny space. As if all her tension and sickness had been converted to chemicals and breathed out through her lungs. She pushed her face into the hole until her flesh and eyeball bulged down into the room. Her eyes clicked open and closed. Rotated and froze.
Fastened to the radiator in the family room, curled up like a little fern, his knees pulled up under his chin, was Josh. Although he was grey and washed out his expression was calm, his eyes fixed, concentrating on trying to unpick the rope that bound him to the radiator. On the wrist he had already freed were deep furrows, shiny and red, and there was a rash on his mouth where a tape had been.
'Josh?' Softly at first, because she couldn't believe she wasn't seeing a mirage. Then: 'JOSH!'
He didn't react immediately, just remained staring at the ropes. It took him a while to break his trance, then his eyes rolled towards her, blinking.
'Josh!'
'M-mummy?'
Her child had changed. His head was thin, his eyes huge. He looked like Hal like a tiny twenty-year-old Hal with veins standing up on his forehead and hands. Poor progeric child he reached a hand up to her, not saying anything, just reaching it out in the air, the palm towards her, as if he was trying to feel her face. Check it was real. Then he dropped his hand, turned away from her and started pulling on the rope.
'Josh!'
'Daddy's not well,' he whispered, not looking up. 'He can't talk.'
'I know, darling. Have you had something to drink?'
He shook his head.
'No?'
'A little bit.' He wouldn't look at her. He's already a little man, she thought, already being the big little man.
'Do you feel all right, baby? How's your tummy?'
'Feels funny. I'm thirsty, Mummy.'
'That's OK, we'll get you something to drink.'
'I never meant to, Mummy, I had to go wee-wee on myself, I'm sorry.'
'Oh, sweetheart, that's OK. Don't worry.' Upstairs, with her bleeding fingers and her exhausted mind, she wanted to cry. This little boy, whom she had thought would be the casualty, was sitting up and getting on with it. He had nearly undone the rope. Instead of sobbing and despairing, like she had, he had been determinedly and silently getting on with escaping. 'The nasty man's gone now.'
Josh nodded. 'He's gone. He's been horrid and the police are going to beat him up and put him in prison and kill him.'
'Did you hear Mummy calling?'
'Yes I couldn't say nothing because I had a thing on my mouth.'
'Don't worry about that sweetheart. I love you.'
'Me too.'
'What are you doing down there?'
'Getting out of the rope. I'll come and I'll get you.' He was quiet for a moment. Then without looking at her, 'Mummy?'
'Yes?'
'Maybe he killed Smurfy.' His chin trembled. 'Cos I cos I don't know where Smurf is.'
'Oh, Josh Benedicte's throat was tight. 'You are such a such a good, such a clever… brave, brave little boy. Don't worry about Smurf, peanut, she's with me. She's feeling a little bit poorly but she's up here and she can't wait to see you. She sends you her love and a big lick on the face.' She paused because now she could see that his fingers were bleeding. 'Josh, I love you, darling, Mummy loves you so, so much '
In the hallway the doorbell rang. Josh's head snapped up, staring in horror at the door and Ben froze. No.' She couldn't believe it.
'Josh,' she hissed. 'Quick now. Come on now, baby, move it now Beneath her Hal jerked frantically and noiselessly on the floor and Ben's voice rose hysterically: 'Come on, Josh. MOVE IT. Just
MOVE!!'
He pulled frantically at the rope, tugging and pulling, biting it, the blood from his fingers staining his mouth. His teeth were strong but the rope was embedded.
'Quickly!'
He pulled harder, eyes on the door, preparing for the menace to hurtle down the hallway. Then Benedicte saw her little boy make a decision.
'No!' she screamed. Another crack ricocheted along the plasterboard. 'No! Josh, RUN, Josh, please RUN.'
But he couldn't have freed himself in time. So he took the brown parcel tape from the floor and pressed it to his mouth, smoothing it down with the flat of his palms, swivelling his little body round, pressing the rope behind him and turning so he sat with his back to the radiator. Ben's heart squirmed. 'God, no.' She began to weep, long silver threads falling out of the ceiling and landing next to Hal's face. 'No!'
And then the doorbell rang again.
Everyone froze. Ben stopped crying and Hal stopped thrashing on the floor. Josh's eyes flew to his mother. The troll never rang more than once. For a long time no one dared to breathe. The bell rang yet again and in the hallway the letterbox clanged.
'Hello?' A man's voice. 'Hello-oh?'
The police maybe Ayo's sent someone maybe… Benedicte opened her mouth to call out, but something stopped her, a survival instinct, maybe, a survival instinct older than her own cells. No, it's a trick it's him. It must
