John Harvey: Trouble In Mind

Drawing a slow breath, Resnick turned the handle. The bed had been hastily made; the wardrobe doors stood open, and several garments had slid from their hangers to the floor. There was no one there.

They turned back towards the other room, its door ajar.

The closer of the two, Kiley looked round at Resnick enquiringly then nudged the door wide.

There were bunk beds against the right-hand wall. Posters on the wall, a white melamine set of drawers. Several clear plastic boxes, stacked on top of one another, filled with toys. Stuffed animals and pieces of Lego and picture books strewn across the floor.

Kiley felt the muscles in his stomach relax. “They’re not here.”

“Thank God for that.”

Back downstairs they stood in the kitchen, Resnick taking in the evidence of hasty sandwich making, the fallen chair.

There were a dozen explanations, mostly harmless, some more plausible than the rest. “You think they’ve done a runner?” he said.

“I think they might have tried.”

“And if they didn’t succeed?”

Kiley released a long, slow breath. “Then he’s taken them, that’s what I’d say.”

“Against their will?”

“Odds are.”

Resnick called the station from the car; arranged for the place to be secured and scene-of-crime officers to attend. Jumping to conclusions they might be, but better that than to do nothing and wait for bad news.

Terry Anderson had waited, cautious, van parked just around the corner on Exchange Road, back towards the primary school. From there he could see the house, see if Rebecca had any callers, visitors in or out, make sure the coast was clear. Waiting. Watching. Alert. Ready for danger, the least sign. It was nothing to him. What he was trained for. Northern Ireland. Iraq. Afghanistan. Belfast. Basra. Sangin. Someone waiting to take your head off with a rifle or blow you to buggery with an RPG.

Little happened. The occasional couple returning home from visiting friends, an hour in the pub, an evening in town. Men taking their dogs for a last walk around the block, pausing, perhaps, to light a cigarette. Television screens flickering brightly between half-closed blinds. House lights going on, going off.

He sat behind the front seats, leaning back, legs stretched in front of him, out of sight to passersby. Beside him in the van were blankets, sleeping bags, bottles of water. A few basic supplies. First-aid kit. Ammunition. Tools. Tinned food. His uniform, folded neatly. Waterproofs. Rope. Prepared.

As he watched, the downstairs room of Rebecca’s house went suddenly dark and he imagined, rather than heard, the sound some moments later as she turned the key in the front-door lock.

Careful, he liked that. Not careful enough.

Eleven thirty-five.

She’d been watching, he guessed, a rerun of some American soap or a late-night film and had either got bored or found her eyes closing, unbidden. How many times had they sat together like that in the semi-dark, the change in her breathing alerting him to the fact that she had dropped off, unwillingly, to sleep? Her warm breath when he had leaned over to kiss her, her head turning away.

The upstairs light went on and, for a brief moment, he saw her in silhouette, standing there, looking out, looking down; then the curtains were pulled across, leaving a faint yellowish glow.

Automatically, he rechecked his watch.

Imagined the children, already sleeping.

The houses to either side had gone dark long since, but up and down the street there were still signs of life.

He would wait.

Rebecca stirred, wondering if she had ever really been asleep and, if so, for how long? The bedside clock read 01:14. It was her bladder that had awoken her and, grudgingly, she slid her legs round from beneath the duvet and touched her feet to the carpeted floor. The house was smaller than she might have liked, and at times, even for the three of them, barely large enough-bedlam when one or more of Keiron’s friends came round after school to play. But the fixtures and fittings were in better nick than in many of the other places she’d seen and the rent, with her parents’ help, was reasonable enough. If it weren’t for them, she didn’t know what she could have done.

Careful not to flush the toilet for fear of waking Billie-a light sleeper at best-she eased back the door and slipped into their room. Keiron’s thumb was in his mouth and carefully she prised it free, causing him to grunt and turn his head sharply to one side, but not to wake. Billie, pink pyjama top gathered at her neck, was clinging to edge of the blanket she had slept with since she was three months old.

Straightening, Rebecca shivered as if-what did her grandmother used to say?-as if someone had just walked over her grave.

Rubbing her arms beneath the sleeves of the long T-shirt she was wearing, she turned and went softly back to bed, this time, hopefully, to sleep through. The morning would come soon enough.

When she woke again it had just gone two. Levering herself up on to one elbow, she strained to hear. Had one of the children woken and cried out? A dream, perhaps? Or maybe Keiron had got up and gone to the toilet on his own?

No, it was nothing.

The wind, perhaps, rattling the windowpanes.

Her head had barely touched the pillow when she heard it again, for certain this time, the sound that had awoken her, a footstep. Next-door, it had to be next-door. Quite often, late at night, she heard them moving. Early, too. Her breath caught in her throat. No. There was somebody in the house, somebody down below, a footstep on the stairs.

Rebecca froze.

If I close my eyes, will it go away?

It.

He.

Whoever…

For the first time she wanted a phone beside the bed, a panic button, something. With a lunge, she threw back the covers and sprang from the bed. Three, four steps and she was at the door and reaching for the light.

Oh, Christ!

The figure of a man, turning at the top of the stairs.

Christ!

Her hand stifled a scream.

“It’s all right,” the voice said. “It’s all right.” A voice she recognised, reassuring, commanding.

“Terry?”

He continued slowly towards her, his face still in shadow.

“Terry?”

“Who else?” Almost smiling. “Who else?”

With a sob, she sank to her knees, and he reached down and touched her hair, uncertainly at first, easing her head forward until it rested against his body, one of her hands clinging to his leg, the other pressed hard against the floor.

They stood in the bedroom, Rebecca with a cotton dressing gown pulled hastily round her. She had stopped shaking, but her breathing was still unsteady. He was wearing a black roll-neck sweater, camouflage trousers, black army boots.

“What are you… What are you doing?”

When he smiled, nothing changed in his eyes.

“Terry, what…”

“Get the children.”

“What?”

“Get yourself dressed and then get the children.”

“No, you can’t…”

When he reached towards her, she flinched.

“Just something sensible, jeans. Nothing fancy. Them the same.”

She waited until he turned away.

“Keiron and Billie, they’re in back, are they?”

“Yes, but let me go first, you’ll frighten them.”

“No, it’s okay. You get on.”

“Terry, no…”

“Get on.”

“You won’t…”

He looked at her then. “Hurt them?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “They’re my kids, aren’t they?”

Billie was awake when he got to the door and when he moved closer towards her she screamed. Rebecca, half-dressed, came running, brushed past him, and took the three-year-old into her arms. “It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s only Daddy.”