Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

He entered the room and opened the curtains, but the light revealed no tiny bodies. Sean exhaled with relief before glancing around one last time and heading back into the hallway and across to the bathroom. The towels were folded neatly, but foul smelling, the laundry basket overflowing. He noticed something else too: next to the bath, almost hidden amongst the things an adult would need, he saw children’s bath soaps and lotion, flannels and sponges. The thought of Allen washing the children, even just watching them bathe, made him shudder. His eyes moved to the sink, instantly finding what he was looking for — three little coloured toothbrushes nestling in a filthy glass along with toothpaste for milk-teeth. There was no doubting it — the children had at the very least been kept here. But where were they now? Still he hadn’t heard any sound coming from the rooms he searched or from above. The dead made no noise. Leaving the bathroom behind, he headed for the last of the first-floor rooms, his pace increasing.

As soon as he entered the final room on the floor he knew it was evidentially the most important. ‘Fuck me,’ he whispered as his eyes came to rest on a large desk that was being used as a workbench. He took in the assorted half-assembled clocks, watches and mechanical toys, the fine tools needed for Allen’s trade spread amongst them and abandoned where they’d last been used. Without entering he scanned every surface until he found what he was looking for, all but hidden under the clockwork toys: disembodied locks, three or four of them, dissected as if they’d undergone a mechanical autopsy. ‘Jesus Christ. What was going through your mind?’

He walked away from the room to resume his search. Somewhere in the house the children waited for him, and there was only one place they could possibly be.

For a split second he was tempted to run up the stairs shouting Police, Police , but it didn’t feel right somehow. If the children were alive it would be best not to terrify them more than they already were by charging around shouting. And if they were already dead — if he was too late — he didn’t want to hurtle into a room and immediately be confronted by his worst nightmare. All he could do was silently pray as he climbed the stairs to the top of the house, pushing himself forward as fast as he dared.

When he reached the landing he could see there were only two doors leading off it — both closed. But he could see no locks or even keyholes, so either they were unlocked or they were locked from the other side. Allen hadn’t kept the children as prisoners in one of these rooms, they’d been allowed to roam the upper section of the house. He’d wanted them to treat his house as their new home — to come and go between rooms as they pleased, so long as they didn’t come down to the shop — so long as they remained quiet. A secret. But what if they hadn’t remained silent? What would he have done to them if they threatened to reveal their existence?

Sean pushed the questions away and turned the handle of the first door. Bright sunlight flooded through the windows inside, spilling on to the landing as he slowly swung the door open. He peered inside, holding his breath and squinting against the light that made his eyes slightly watery, blinking them clear until he could see the room in front of him and everything in it. Empty. The room was empty, except for some simple ivory-coloured furniture and two single beds, both with wooden headboards — one still immaculately made, with a porcelain-faced doll lying on the pillow, while the other had clearly been slept in and remained unmade. As he grew used to the brightness he could see the entire room had been lovingly prepared for the use of children, with clouds and rainbows, stars and moons covering the walls. Mobiles with unicorns, lions and birds hung from the ceiling, their intricate shadows gently dancing on the walls and floors. Some old-fashioned toys − a spinning top, clockwork train and a Jack-in-a-box − lay in the middle of the room, played with before being abandoned. Others looked on from the shelves of the seemingly idyllic children’s bedroom. But no amount of toys and furnishings could hide the atmosphere of fear Sean sensed in the room, stained deep into the walls. He shivered at the prospect of what may have happened in this place, the lack of any signs of violent struggle doing nothing to ease his fears as he remembered Samuel Hargrave’s barely touched body. He only had one more room to check.

Sean crossed the landing, resting his hand on the door handle, taking several deep breaths before almost reluctantly turning the knob and opening the door by no more than an inch, waiting for the scent of death to give him fair warning of what he was about to see. But he could smell no such thing. He began to push the door open slowly, confused by the lack of sunshine. This room was in semi-darkness, telling him the curtains or blinds were still drawn and no lights had been turned on. He took it as a bad sign and braced himself for what he would find, filling his lungs so he’d have something to exhale when his eyes fell upon the scene of horror.

When the door was finally open he peered inside, trying to adjust his eyes to the dimness. The main body of the room was around to his left. All he could see from the doorway was the wall to his right. As he walked further into the room, the scent of children, of living children, washed over him, increasing the rate of his already thundering heart — his heart that was suddenly full of hope. He rounded the door and looked into the twilight, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him as he looked down at the floor where three small figures sat silently facing each other. They looked up at him, neither smiling or crying, just staring expressionless, eyes wide open with wariness — the faces from the photographs he’d first seen pinned to the Missing Person’s Reports what seemed like a lifetime ago. And yet, here they were — real, living children.

Instinctively he stepped towards them, but sensing they were ready to scurry away like frightened mice, he froze where he was. He almost reached for his warrant card before realizing it would be a futile act — showing children something they would neither recognize or understand. Finally he opted simply to speak, crouching down low to appear as unthreatening as possible, slowly stretching out his upturned palm. But when he tried to speak the words stuck in his dry, tight throat. He swallowed hard and tried again. ‘It’s all right,’ he told them, his voice raspy and unpleasant. ‘I’m a policeman. You don’t have to be afraid any more. The man who brought you here is gone now.’ He waited for a response from the children, but they said nothing, looking away from him and turning to each other, as if they were communicating telepathically. Sean watched them as he tried to think of something else to say until finally the tiny figure of George Bridgeman got to his feet and faced him, apparently without fear.

‘Have you come to take us home?’ he asked, looking down at his fellow captives as if seeking assurance he’d asked the right question. Sean had to stifle a laugh borne of relief and elation.

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Yes, I have. I’ve come to take you home.’

Sean stood to the side of the elevated desks that were the focal point of the custody suite at Kentish Town Police Station. Two uniformed sergeants surveyed all they controlled from on high, behind the huge booking-in desk with its built-in computers. Oblivious to the hustle and bustle going on around him, Sean read each page of Douglas Allen’s custody record, focusing on the summary of the Mental Health Team’s findings. Already he could foresee a plea of not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility due to mental illness. ‘Why didn’t you just take the damn pills?’ Sean asked out loud. ‘You could have saved a lot of people a lot of pain — yourself too.’