Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘I can’t afford to get into trouble with the police,’ Richmond pleaded. ‘I’ll lose my job. I can’t afford to lose my job.’

‘You’re supposed to be at work today,’ Sean told her. ‘Why didn’t you go to work?’

‘I needed the extra money. It won’t happen again, I swear, but please don’t tell the school about this. Please.’

‘Who were you speaking to on the phone?’ Sean demanded, desperate to hold on to her as a suspect, ‘outside in the street — who were you talking to?’

‘I told you,’ she answered, ‘the children’s mother — Mrs Gardner. She just wanted to check I was close, you know, because the children were alone, but I didn’t know she’d left them. I would never have taken the job if I’d known she was going to do anything like this. Please don’t tell the nursery.’

‘Christ,’ Sean said, finally taking his hand away from her chest and stepping backwards, screaming inside as he fought the urge to run from the house and keep running until he was far away from this debacle. ‘I’m not going to tell the nursery,’ he told her, shaking his head. ‘I’m not going to tell anybody.’ He walked along the hallway without speaking, past Sally and into the light and cold outside, running his hands through his light brown hair as he allowed his eyes to close, feeling Sally’s presence before he heard her.

‘Where the hell are these children, Sean?’ she asked. ‘What’s happened to them?’

He opened his eyes and turned to face her. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he told her, his voice sounding shaky and broken. ‘No bloody idea at all.’

Douglas Allen moved quickly and nimbly around the small sparse kitchen on the first floor of his Edwardian terrace as he prepared lunch. Despite the meal preparation the kitchen was spotless, everything in its place, the old wooden table neatly laid for three — one adult and two children. Fading framed photographs from another era decorated the walls, mostly photographs of himself and his beloved wife — holidays in English seaside towns, the two of them together around the table set for dinner. But there were no pictures of children anywhere to be seen. An antique cuckoo-clock hung on one of the walls, ticking loudly as its brass pendulum swung gently back and forth. On another wall, a second clock, rescued from an old ship, lovingly restored and synchronized to keep beat with the cuckoo. The walls they hung on were painted in magnolia and regularly washed clean of any settling grease. The children’s plates and cutlery were smaller than his own, but essentially the same. He felt it was important they learned to use a knife and fork as soon as possible and shuddered slightly at the memories of seeing children as old as seven and eight having their meals cut up for them by their parents, or more likely their nannies, on the odd occasions when he had ventured into local cafés.

His appearance reflected that of his kitchen: he was quite small, only about five foot eight inches, clean shaven with greying hair immaculately groomed and smoothed back over his head with some old-fashioned hair tonic. His fifty-eight years had taken their toll on his body and he now sported thin wire-framed spectacles and a slight potbelly. But he was as quick and light on his feet as he’d been back in the days when he and his wife were regular visitors to the local ballrooms, although those, like his wife, had gone now. He wore a starched apron to keep his shirt and tie clean while he finished preparing the meal. He carried the two smaller plates to the table and the waiting children who sat peacefully waiting for their lunch. ‘There we are,’ he told them, stepping back proudly, a pleasant smile on his face as he awaited their judgement before collecting his own plate and joining them at the table. ‘You can have a drink after you’ve eaten.’

‘I want a drink now,’ Bailey Fellowes argued. ‘I always have a drink with my food.’

Allen’s smile shrank to a small grin. ‘Not any more,’ he explained. ‘You shouldn’t fill yourself up with drinks before you’ve eaten your meal. It’s not good for you.’

‘That’s not what my mum says,’ Bailey continued to argue as George Bridgeman looked on, his gaze flitting between them as they took turns to speak.

‘No, I don’t suppose she did,’ Allen agreed.

‘And I don’t like this sort of food,’ she persisted.

‘It’s good food,’ Allen told her in his accent-less voice, deep and baritone, like voices from the past. ‘You need to eat. You hardly touched your breakfast.’

‘And I don’t like these weird clothes. They smell funny.’

‘But they’re new and I’ve washed and pressed them,’ he replied, his smile replaced by concern.

‘But they don’t smell like my clothes.’

‘You’re lucky to have them. They cost me a lot of money.’

Bailey pushed her plate away from in front of her, making Allen’s already straight back stiffen even more. ‘I’m not eating this.’

‘But it’s sausages,’ Allen told her, confused by her ingratitude. ‘All children like sausages, don’t they?’

‘I like sausages,’ George joined in, something in his childhood instincts telling him not to push the man who had brought them here any further, memories of his father’s quick temper never too far away.

‘You’re a good boy,’ Allen told him, inducing a broad smile on the boy’s face.

‘I don’t like mashed potatoes or vegetables,’ Bailey pushed. ‘I never have to eat them at home.’

‘I know,’ Allen told her. ‘That’s why it’s better for you to be here.’

‘No it’s not,’ Bailey argued, her voice rising as her eyes grew misty. ‘I want to go home. I miss my mummy.’

‘This is your home now,’ he explained, ‘at least until we can all move somewhere better — somewhere in the countryside — on a farm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘You said you’d take me to a magic place — that’s why I came with you. This isn’t a magic place — this is a dump. You don’t even have a television.’

‘You’re being rude now, Bailey. I won’t have rude children in my house. Rude children need to be punished.’

‘You can’t punish me. You’re not my dad. I don’t know you. You’re a bad man. My mummy told me about men like you. I shouldn’t have gone with you.’ Water pooled in the bottom of her eyes before spilling over into tears.

‘Don’t,’ he raised his voice to her before he had a chance to quell his rising anger, swallowing it back down before he spoke again. ‘Don’t say those things. I’m not a bad man. I’m not like the men your mother warned you about. I’d never hurt you — either of you. I brought you here to protect you. To give you a better life.’

‘I like it here,’ George innocently claimed, having already learned in his short life how to defuse tension. Allen smiled at him and rested a hand on the boy’s head.

‘I know you do,’ he replied. ‘I know you do. What’s not to like?’ They sat in silence listening and waiting for Bailey’s gentle sobbing to fade and die, the sound of the grandfather clock outside in the hallway chiming to warn them it was one o’clock. When the chimes fell silent, George broke the uneasy silence.

‘Whose are the voices we can hear?’ he asked. ‘Downstairs? We can hear them from our bedroom sometimes — during the day.’

‘There’s nothing for you to worry about,’ Allen tried to reassure him. ‘They’re just … friends . There was more silence before George spoke again.

‘And sometimes we can hear music too.’

‘What type of music?’ Allen asked, unconcerned.

‘Children’s music, I think,’ George answered.

‘All music is for children,’ Allen told him. ‘That’s another thing your parents should have taught you.’