Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

She tried to pull away from him, to run down into the cold darkness below, her only instinct to run to her child. ‘Samuel,’ she called out, louder than before, struggling against her husband’s restraining grip. ‘Let me go,’ she shouted. ‘Let me go. You don’t understand — someone’s taken him.’

‘Wait,’ he told her, his minding spinning. ‘Wait. Go to our bedroom — call the police. I’ll check downstairs.’ He pulled her backwards to the bedroom, nodding wide-eyed at her to encourage her to make the call, before he headed to the stairs. He went as fast as he dared, peering into the corners where the shadows seemed to be constantly moving, trying to see into the dark recesses, listening like he’d never had to listen before. All the while the freezing stream of air invaded from outside, drawing him ever further down until he could see the yellow street-light pouring through the open door that should have been the firmest of barriers between the outside world and his family. Now it had been breached, and there was no denying the undeniable any more, the rising sense of panic covering his body in a thin layer of sweat despite the cold as he stepped off the last step on to the ground floor.

Eyes wide in the dimness he moved forward into the house that was still new enough to feel like a stranger’s, every sound and sight unnerving him further. He pushed forward, feeling the wall until he found the light switch, flicking it on and flooding the hallway with brightness that temporarily blinded him. Drawing a long breath he blinked the blindness away and moved to the living room, flicking on every light switch he could find, hoping, praying to see Samuel cowering in a corner. A noise downstairs had woken him and drawn him downstairs. He’d seen an intruder and been terrified, but the intruder had fled, leaving the boy who was now too scared to move or speak . He had to believe, but the light only brought more silence and emptiness, his eyes scanning every inch of the room, refusing to accept he couldn’t find his son.

‘Samuel,’ he called hoarsely, terror leaving his throat raw. He tried to consciously pump saliva into his mouth, swallowing the tiny amounts to lubricate his larynx. ‘Samuel, you can come out now — there’s no need to be afraid any more. It’s Daddy — you can come out now.’ Silence. No movement, except the tormenting breeze from the front door swirling around his ankles. He ran to the ground-floor study, his panic becoming intense. ‘Samuel. Please, Samuel. You need to come out now. You need to come to Daddy now.’ Nothing. He looked slowly over his shoulder at the open front door, as if it was a porthole to another world, a world he knew his boy had been taken to — a porthole that might slam shut any second, for ever separating them. Suddenly he found himself running towards it, its yellow light warm and inviting. But as he burst into the world beyond the door, the freezing air gripped his body, naked but for his pyjama bottoms.

He ran into the empty, silent street, looking frantically in both directions, standing in the middle of the road, desperately searching for a clue as to which direction to run in. ‘Samuel,’ he shouted into the night. But the night didn’t answer, the only sound the distant rumble of the city traffic. ‘Samuel,’ he shouted again, allowing the boy’s name to tail off slowly, eventually fading and dying into the night, a collapsing echo reverberating off the house fronts. ‘Samuel.’ Even louder this time, some lights beginning to flicker on in the windows of the other houses as the freezing air flooding his empty chest felt like toxic fumes. Again he span in the road, unsure which way to run, tears of frustration, anger and fear blurring his vision, the light from the street lamps star-bursting in his eyes, until his instinct told him that to do something was better than doing nothing, and he ran, he ran along the street, unwittingly heading in the same direction as Douglas Allen had, his naked feet hitting the road surface hard as he sprinted, ignoring the pain in his body, not even feeling it as he ran past the basement entrance where Allen cowered, and where his boy grew weaker and weaker, struggling to breathe through the hand clamped over his tiny mouth, his once wide brown eyes now only half-open as the pounding of his father’s naked feet grew fainter and fainter, like his own breathing and heartbeat, until neither could be heard any more.

Once he finally turned into the street where his home was Allen turned off the headlights and coasted until he found a space close to his own front door. He was physically and mentally exhausted. The incident earlier and the constant need to watch for and avoid police patrols and roadblocks had drained him, but his guides had eventually seen him home safely. Although how much longer he could carry out his work living where he did he began to wonder. His dream of moving to the country might have to be moved forward. The patrols and roadblocks would surely only get worse — especially after tonight.

He checked the road ahead and behind before hauling himself from his car, quietly closing the door before again searching for signs of life in the eerily silent street. He moved to the rear passenger door only when he was satisfied he was unobserved, opening it soundlessly and peering in at the tiny figure of Samuel Hargrave lying still and silent under an old, tartan blanket, just the hair on top of his head visible. Allen leaned into the back of the car and gently rocked the little figure, but the boy didn’t stir or make a single sound.

‘Samuel,’ he whispered, but the boy didn’t move. ‘Sam,’ he tried again, but the boy didn’t respond. A terrible feeling of dread began to sweep through Allen’s own body — a feeling he hadn’t had since two years ago when he’d finally had to accept that he was losing his beloved wife and that he’d be for ever alone. At least that’s what he’d thought at the time, before the voices had begun — the comforting voices that offered him guidance. But now the voices had fallen silent. He swallowed hard to keep his throat from closing as the grief swelled, his lips beginning to tremble as he tried to pretend the unthinkable hadn’t happened. He reached into the back seat and wrapped the lifeless little figure tightly in the blanket before pulling the boy through the doorway as gently as he could. He cradled the bundle to his chest, carrying it like a mother would a new-born baby, fighting back tears as he closed the car door with his foot and headed stealthily along the street holding the bundle ever tighter as he whispered comfortingly. ‘Let’s get you inside, Sam — out of the cold.’

Allen hurried to his front door and fumbled in his jacket pocket for the house keys, managing to keep hold of the boy’s dead weight as he turned the locks and eased the door open. The sudden sound of the alarm-activated warning pushed panic into his chest as he stumbled into the darkness and found the keypad, entering the numbers carefully, terrified of making a mistake and shattering the silence of the night, bringing unwanted attention crashing down on him. Finally he pressed ‘enter’ and silenced the high-pitched warning. He stood motionless, barely breathing as he listened to the sounds from inside his own house, for the children who should be sleeping two floors above him. At last he allowed himself to exhale and closed the front door, locking it top and bottom. The weight of the boy still pressed to his torso began to tell, his knees creaking as he carried him across the main downstairs area that remained in almost complete darkness to a room at the back of the house that he used as an office. He closed the door before laying the boy on the small desk and turning on the old lamp that stood next to where the boy’s head was, his hair still poking from the top of the blanket.