Mo Hayder: The Treatment

"Mrs. Church?"

And then, on the air in the hallway, he smelt urine. My God, an animal's in there. Food containers littered the hallway. A TV played somewhere in the back of the house. And at the top of the stairs something had been spray-painted in red.

He dropped the letterbox and turned, reaching in his pocket for his phone, his heart racing.

"Jack, listen," Souness was adamant, 'don't go in, Jack, don't go in. Wait for us. Are ye listening to me?"

"I won't. I swear."

He meant it. He put the phone in his pocket, and stood on the doorstep, his jacket held over his head to protect him from the drizzle, shifting tensely from foot to foot, looking up at the house then back along the road for the area cars. Minutes ticked by, and suddenly, from behind, came a noise. He shot to the letterbox in time to see something bolt out of the kitchen, through the hallway and hurtle up the stairs. Blurred and huge, he was carrying something in his arms and immediately Caffery knew that there was blood. He ripped off his jacket, wrapped it around his arm and rammed his elbow through the glass panel, loosened the bolt under the Yale, flicked the catch down, and now he was in, racing into the kitchen, flinging the door back on its hinges. The kitchen was hot full of that familiar smell -Jesus, what's happened in here? the lights were on, the curtains closed, and here, lying on the floor, shaking and covered in his own dirt, lay something

Caffery assumed was Mr. Church. Oh, Christ Church saw him and closed his eyes, turning his head away. Ignore him, find the child. The boards overhead groaned and sighed and Caffery snapped his head up. Now he knew what Klare was carrying.

"Police!" He threw himself into the hallway, grabbed the banisters, swung himself around, slamming his feet into the stairs, clearing two at a time. At the top of the first flight he stopped, hands out, pulse thundering.

"Here." A woman's voice. "Here." He spun around. The landing was dark and silent, it smelt of urine -ahead of him another staircase led up into the gloom, behind him was a door, to his left a door, and to his right a door, the word Hazard scrawled across this one in red.

"Mrs. Church?"

"Here." Her voice was weak. "Here…"

"Keep still I'll be right there."

"My little boy '

"It's OK just hold on."

She started to sob but Caffery had to turn away. Assess your areas of responsibility. Not her she's OK it's the child you want. The landing above creaked. He whipped back to face the staircase. Where's the fucking light switch? He patted the walls, found nothing. Another board creaked and now he heard, as clear as sound over water, a child crying above. Not calling or screaming but weeping, as if he didn't expect to be heard. What was his name? What was his fucking name? Come on now -think. He put his hand on the stair rail and there, at eye level on the wall, hung a framed photograph, a little boy feeding a goat. Grinning. And suddenly he had it. Josh.

"Josh?" he shouted up the stairs. "Josh. I can hear you. This is the police it's OK now, Josh. Just you keep still, OK?"

The crying stopped. Silence. He took a deep breath and quietly mounted the first two steps. "Josh?" Nothing above him, only a breathing so faint he thought he was imagining it. "Josh?"

Something toppled from the darkness above.

Jesus

He flattened himself against the wall, wasn't quick enough and was hit square in the stomach, the impact shooting him back down the stairs. He grabbed vainly at the walls, slammed against the bathroom door, his phone spinning out of his pocket and away down the next flight of stairs. Silence. He blinked. lJosh?" The boy had landed at the foot of the stairs about a yard away. Naked, winded and shocked. He had brown packing tape on his mouth. "Josh?" Caffery hissed. "You OK?" The child looked up at him, frozen with shock. Tears had made white tracks on his face and his wrists were taped. "Here." Caffery got to his feet and pushed open the bathroom door. "In here. Go on. Quick." He didn't have to be told twice he scampered inside in a crouch, a naked, bloodied little savage, tilting and tipping as if he was drunk. There was enough light to see a raw hole in his back. A bite. Caffery's heart sank. "Keep the light off," he hissed. "I'll be back." He pulled the door closed and turned back to the stairs.

"KLARE, YOU FUCKER."

He waited. Nothing.

He turned for the stairs, taking one at a time, stopping to listen to Klare moving around overhead. What the? The buckle and creak of aluminium. The loft ladder the fucking loft ladder. He threw himself forward up the last stairs, moving too fast to stop and take in the surroundings: a tiny landing, a door open into a bedroom beyond, the ladder rising up into the attic, Klare half-way up, trying to crawl slyly away. "STOP, YOU FUCKER He charged at the ladder and Klare sprang up the next few rungs, moving fast, Caffery behind, grabbing at his heels, their combined weight making the ladder creak. Klare was through the hatch and in the attic, and Caffery lost him for a moment, saw the underside of his trainers disappear away from the hatch, smelt him, heard the joists wheeze under his weight. Fuck. He launched himself up the last few rungs, into the darkened loft, the rain pattering on the tiles above, Klare disappearing in the gloom at the far end yes, of course, of course, that's where you'd go next door a quick breath of rotting food in his lungs as he followed, slammed into the rough breeze-block wall, found the gap and ducked through it in one, ripping his trousers, banging his head against the breeze blocks, dropping instinctively into a crouch in the adjoining attic, his hands out.

No light. It was completely black in here. He was still for a moment, getting his breath back, listening for Klare's breathing. At the far end of the attic a sudden shaft of sunlight shot into the darkness, illuminating Klare from below. He had ripped up the attic door.

"Stop!"

But he was standing astride the hatch, dropping the ladder on to the landing, his hands leapfrogging over the spooling aluminium. Caffery picked his way agilely across the joists, his heart slamming away -you're closing the reactionary gap here, remember your training reactionary gap it's there to save your life, if you close it you have to know exactly why and what you expect. Is this a good place to

Klare was quick: without a sound he had turned and dropped out of sight, so fast he almost didn't touch the ladder. "Stop!" Caffery was seconds behind, sliding down the ladder, battering his knees on the rungs, landing in a nearly finished hallway, cord carpet, magnolia-painted plasterboard and a glimpse of a bathroom, the sink and toilet still swaddled in plastic. On his right Klare's head disappeared down the stairs, crashing into brittle walls, plaster shaking out on to the air, leaving behind his yeasty smell. Caffery bolted after him, reaching the first landing and spinning back against the wall to face the next flight, clearing three steps at a time, landing on the ground floor with his foot half turned under him, getting his balance back, the cardboard taped on the floor by the builders slithering away under his feet, as Klare darted ahead into the kitchen, Caffery after him again, screaming and yelling, "You fucker," into the kitchen, identical to the Churches' next door, and at last Caffery slid to a halt in the doorway, breathing hard.

Roland Klare was at the back door, gripping the handle, one foot rammed against the base, his centre of gravity slung back as he tugged. The door was locked.

"STAY THERE!" Caffery yelled. Assess your areas of responsibility, Jack come on, a bit of fucking discipline what's your focus in this environment? The subject, the door "JUST STAY THERE!"

Klare turned, panting, his grey T-shirt riding up over his stomach, his soft woman's hair stuck to his face. "No He held his hands up. "No! Don't touch me!"