Ann Purser - Threats At Three

He met Derek and Gran coming up the drive to the house, and stopped for a brief word. Then he was gone, and Lois touched her cheek with her fingertips.

“What are you smiling about?” Derek said, as they entered the house. “Has Jack been found?”

“No, and I’m not smiling,” Lois replied sharply.

“I see,” said Derek grimly. “Just a facial twitch? Anyway, we’d better have a family conference, see what we can do to help.”

It was now eleven o’clock, but Lois insisted on ringing Josie and Douglas, and Gran insisted on staying up until they’d all decided what would be best. “I suppose it’ll be on the telly news in the morning,” she said, “and then the Advertiser will be on to it. Let’s hope he’s found before all that malarkey.”

“It’s important people start thinking about what they’ve seen, and keep their eyes open,” Lois said. “The first forty-eight hours are critical, Cowgill said.”

THE HOUSE HAD ONCE BEEN A SOLID, MIDDLE-CLASS VICTORIAN residence, but had gradually fallen into disrepair and then dereliction, as a long-running legal battle was fought and refought by the family who had inherited it. In the end, the inheritors had grown too old to care, and the rest of the family had emigrated to South Africa and were no longer traceable.

So number thirty eight, Barcelona Street, Tresham, had become a squat for any homeless unfortunates and undesirables who needed shelter and a fix. It was no place to take a thirteen-year-old boy, even if he was shut away from scenes of degradation in the only room that still had a lockable door.

Jack Jr. was very frightened. He had been on his way along the deserted High Street to choir practise, humming “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” the only hymn he knew, under his breath, and thinking about driving Rebellion , when the battered old white van had stopped and his enemy got out. In seconds, he had bundled a fiercely resisting Jack into the back and banged shut the door. Jack had kicked and screamed, but the van chugged off towards Tresham before anyone could have heard him.

Now he sat curled up in the corner on a smelly duvet, desperately wondering what would happen next. Why had his enemy picked him up? What did he want? He was sure his mother would start a hunt as soon as she realised he was missing. But then, he had stayed out all night without telling her before, so it would be his own fault if she waited until the morning before alerting the police.

A key turned in the lock, and the door opened. His enemy came in and locked the door behind him.

“Can’t be too careful, can we, Jack Hickson,” the man said. His smile was cold, and Jack curled up tighter. “Your dad is a real Houdini, so it seems, so you’ve probably inherited his skill.”

“Who’s Houdini?” said Jack.

“Doesn’t matter,” said the man. “Let’s get down to business, then if you tell me what I want to know, I’ll get you something to eat. If you don’t, then I won’t. Simple, isn’t it? O’ course, after a while, you’ll be so hungry you’ll tell me anything, so you might as well start straightaway.”

“Sod off,” said Jack.

“Now, now,” cautioned the man. “You know me from old times, Jack. I never forget. What I want to know is how to find your father. And I am quite sure you know where he is. When did you last see him?”

Jack looked mutinously at the face held so close to him. He thought of spitting into it, but decided that might provoke something too bad to bear. So he said, “When he left home. Mum chucked him out in the middle of the night. He was drunk and making a lot of noise. Us kids woke up, and I got out of bed in case she needed help. I saw him tumble down stairs, and then she threw him out. That was the last time I saw him.”

The man slapped him, hard. “Try again,” he said. “When did he last get in touch with you?”

Jack fought back tears. “I told you,” he said. “I ain’t seen him since.”

The man raised his hand, and Jack flinched. “I’m telling you the truth, honest!” he said.

“You wouldn’t know the truth if it was a matter of life and death,” the man said, and added, “which it very well might be.”

Jack stared at him, willing himself not to blub.

“Has he spoke to you on the phone? You’d know his voice, wouldn’t you? I bet he told you where to find him if you needed him. He was always worrying about his kids, especially young Jack, his firstborn. So you know where to find him, don’t you?” He gave Jack a sharp kick on the leg. “Just to remind you what I can do if you don’t tell me the truth. And make it soon,” he added, hearing a screech from the other side of the door. “I can’t waste time with you. I’m needed.”

Jack thought quickly. He had no idea where his father was, and he didn’t care. But he had to get out of all this somehow. “Well,” he said, convincingly slowly. “I did hear he had gone to Scotland. My uncle lives in Carmunnock, just outside Glasgow, and we used to spend holidays there. Nice place,” he said conversationally. “My uncle and auntie are nice. My dad’s the black sheep.” He forced a smile. “Is that what you want to know? Can I go home now|?”

The man looked at him suspiciously. “Are you lying, you little devil?” he said.

Jack shook his head. “No. Sometimes I do, but now I’m not. You know the cops will be here soon, so you might as well let me go. I promise not to tell. I can say I was doing a sleepover with a new friend. If you’re quick, you could say you hadn’t seen me, or do a bunk yourself. They must be looking for you anyway, leading kids astray.”

The man loomed over him, his fist raised. “You bastard!” he hissed.

BY MORNING, THE WHOLE VILLAGE KNEW JACK JR. HAD DISAPPEARED. The early morning telly news had the story, with film of the village and the Hickson’s house. Later bulletins had a terrified Paula appealing for help in finding him. The local newspaper had a front page picture of Jack Jr. and one of his mother and the other kids huddling around her.

Jack Sr. had set out from his hut in the woods to go to work at the hall, and halfway there had stopped suddenly at the edge of a field. Something was wrong. He heard the whine of a police car, then spotted a couple of dark figures crossing the next field. They were too far away to recognize, but with the sixth sense that had got him out of trouble so many times, he knew they were policemen.

He did not hesitate. Turning away he ran like a swift shadow in the opposite direction, avoided all roads and well-used footpaths, and did not stop until he was miles away from Long Farnden. He had money in his pocket, and caught the next train that came in to Eastcote Junction. All he knew was that it was going south.

On the seat opposite, someone had left a folded newspaper, and Jack Hickson picked it up. On the front page was a large photograph of his eldest son, smiling at him from years ago, when all had been well. Next to this was a small photograph of himself with Paula, and, stunned and unbelieving, he read the story of his son’s disappearance.

“Are you all right, mate?” A railway employee, going off duty, had seen Jack sway, all color drained from his face.

Jack desperately pulled himself together and turned the newspaper facedown. “Might be getting flu,” he answered. “It’s all round the village,” he added.

“What village is that?” said the railman.

Jack ignored the question, and asked what was the next station and how long before they got there.

“Half an hour, we shall be into Southampstead. Is that where you’re going?”