Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

Tears of pain and fear began to sting at his eyes that were already sore from the cold as they searched for a place to hide — a place where he could wait with the boy until the storm had passed. Quickly he looked over the railings of the nearest house and down into the basement area. He could see bins below. The gate wasn’t locked and he knew he had no choice. Holding the boy as tightly as he could, his gloved hand still pressed over his mouth to keep him quiet, he skipped down the stairs and sat on the ground, pulling the bins carefully in front of them as silently as he could. He waited, trying to control his own frantic breathing, afraid the plumes of his frozen breath would betray him. Loud footsteps filled the street above, a man’s voice calling into the night, desperate, bloodcurdling screams. Douglas Allen held the boy tighter than ever and squeezed his eyes shut, shivering and trying not to listen to the screams, the pain in his head beginning to hammer violently until at last the screaming and pounding footsteps passed by, fading as they headed further along the street. Time to go.

Lucy Hargrave slept soundly, her slightly too slim body lying some distance from her husband’s in the super-king size bed. But invading voices jarred at her subconscious, stirring her from her sleep until finally her eyes twitched open. Was her mind playing cruel tricks on her? Could she hear voices ? She sat up in bed, her silk night vest revealing her slim, muscular arms, neck and shoulders, pulled taut by the strain of listening, unsure if she was still asleep and dreaming. But then she heard them again, and she was sure. She snapped the duvet off and sprang from her bed, the sudden movement waking her husband.

‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered.

‘I heard something,’ she hissed in reply. ‘I think it’s one of the kids — downstairs.’

‘They wouldn’t go downstairs,’ he told her dismissively, throwing his legs out of the bed, yawning and scratching the back of his head. ‘Check their bedrooms first. If they were downstairs they’re probably back in their rooms by now.’

‘We should have got the alarm fixed already,’ Lucy said, genuine fear in her voice.

‘They’re doing it as soon as they can,’ he assured her, ‘and nobody’s broken in. This house is like Fort Knox.’

‘I definitely heard something.’

‘Check their rooms then, but if it’s Sam don’t try and deal with it tonight — we’ll speak to him in the morning.’

‘Fine,’ she answered, leaving him sitting on the edge of the bed as she headed into the hallway, more and more willing to accept her husband’s reassuring conclusion that the sounds had merely been those of a mischievous child wandering in the night. She wearily climbed the stairs to the floor above and headed for the open door of her son Benjamin’s room. Pale blue light leaked from within and already she was sure the three-year-old wasn’t the one responsible for her broken sleep, but still she peered around the corner of the door at the tiny figure huddled at the top of an oversized bed that was low to the floor. He was sleeping soundly, his mouth slightly open, his head and body surrounded by his favourite cuddly toys, his breathing too perfect to be faked. She smiled a little and retreated from the room, taking the few steps towards Sam’s room. Her heart beat quickening as she noticed that his door was far wider open than she remembered it being when she’d checked on him just before going to bed herself.

The sudden, undeniable realization that her worst nightmare could be coming true instantly knotted her stomach and began to induce a mild case of shock, the blood retreating from her non-vital organs, her stomach and intestines, rushing to keep her heart and brain protected, making her feel nauseous and light headed, turning her lips pale and skin white and clammy. She felt an almost overpowering urge to sit down and breathe deeply, but she pushed on, driven by a mother’s instinct to protect her young at any cost.

The last two steps to Samuel’s room seemed to take her for ever, her legs like lead weights, but reach the room she did, pushing the door fully open, wary of the dark shadows in the corners yet determined to press on, no matter what — no matter what danger she sensed. Then she saw the empty bed, the duvet rolled down, only the scent of the boy remaining in the room: the smell of fabric conditioner from his clean pyjamas, the bath oil for his dry skin, and Nivea cream. She felt the air rush from her lungs as if they’d been punctured by silent bullets, increasing levels of shock making her legs buckle, but she managed to stay upright, padding deeper into the room, her arms outstretched in front of her as if she was blind or searching in the pitch-black, not trusting her eyes, more willing to rely on her sense of touch. But she could neither see nor feel the boy. He was gone, somehow he was just gone, and she knew it. ‘Samuel,’ she whispered softly, afraid she might scare the boy from revealing himself, praying her intuition was wrong. ‘No more games, Samuel — you need to come to Mummy now. You’re not in trouble, I promise.’ Her pleas were met with silence. She abandoned stealth and strode to the boy’s bed, dragging the duvet aside, although she already knew he wasn’t underneath. She dropped to her knees and peered into the gloom under the bed, her eyes needing to see what her heart already knew was true, her arm stretching underneath, feeling in the dark for a little boy she knew wasn’t there, the sound of her own rushing blood deafening inside her head as she leapt to her feet and ran for the light switch, flooding the room with the harsh white light from the halogen spotlights set into the ceiling. Then she moved back across to the bed and on to the floor again, scanning underneath the bed, confirming her fears when she saw nothing but shadows. She sprang upright, her body beginning to burn with adrenalin as she spun around the room, opening every cupboard and drawer, not matter whether Samuel could have fitted inside or not, until she was as physically sure he was gone as she was psychologically, the memory of what had first broken her sleep, first electrified her body with fear, telling her where she needed to go. ‘Downstairs,’ she told herself, not caring who heard. ‘He’s gone downstairs, that’s all.’ But the vague, sleep affected memory of voices magnified her terror. Why were there voices? Why wasn’t it just Samuel’s voice? How could there be someone else? How could someone else be in their home? ‘No,’ she said through a thick panic like she’d never experienced in her entire life. ‘No, Samuel, no,’ she began to almost shout, her tears constricting her throat, making her voice break as she tried to speak. She ran from the room and down the stairs, tripping in the semi-darkness, her shoulder hitting the bannister hard, but she didn’t feel the pain, springing back to her feet and clearing the remaining stairs, only for her husband to catch her as she made it to the landing. He wrapped one arm around her waist while the hand of the other covered her mouth as he put his lips to her ear.

‘Ssssh,’ he hissed. ‘Can you feel it — the cold air?’ She was suddenly aware of the freezing breeze drifting up the stairs and over her skin, making her hairs stand on end to trap the warmth of her body, her husband’s heart beating through her back, holding her tightly until they conquered their fear enough to speak again. ‘The front door is open,’ he continued. ‘Someone’s down there.’

‘Samuel,’ she tried to call out, but fear strangled her words to nothing more than a faint plea. ‘He’s not in his room. He’s gone.’

‘He couldn’t have opened the front door,’ Henry told her. ‘He can’t reach.’