Seven Days(39)

Sometimes – and these were the worst – it scuttered around, making sinister, high-pitched noises.

She waited for it to bite her, waited in the darkness for its needle-sharp teeth to pierce her cheek, waited to feel her blood flow as the rat lapped it up.

And when she thought she could bear it no longer, when she thought she was going to lose her mind, the light came on and the door opened and the man came and took the rat and the helmet away.

He stood by the door, his arms folded.

‘Don’t do that again,’ he said. ‘Got it, Fruitcake?’





Wednesday, 20 June 2018


Three Days to Go



1


Max sat on the end of the mattress, trying to balance the tinfoil ball on top of a Duplo tower. It was a precarious situation; even if he got it to stick, as soon as he moved, the mattress shifted and the ball fell down.

Every time it fell, Max burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter. Maggie wasn’t sure why he found it so funny, but she was glad he took so much joy in it. It wasn’t unexpected; Max was one of those people who always saw the light side of everything. Whatever happened, however simple the pleasure, he was almost always happy.

That was how she would remember him. Despite the tininess of his world, the lack of fresh air and friends and sweets and ice cream and all the things a child should have, despite everything he had to put up with, he was happy.

He had a constant smile and bright, inquisitive eyes, and at the slightest provocation – a tickle or a song or a funny face – he would let out an explosive laugh. She could see the man he would have become: charming, engaged and warm. He would listen and smile and laugh and make people feel good about themselves. He made her feel good about herself; if his guffaws were anything to go by, she was the funniest person in the world.

He reminded her of James. He had been prone to fits of giggles; a memory came to her of him, aged about six, clutching his stomach, bent double with laughter at the sight of their dad miming to the song ‘Daddy Cool’.

Max would never get the chance to watch her dad miming. In a few short days he would be gone.

She picked up her pencil and the calendar and put a line through the date. More than halfway there. More than halfway through the last week of Max’s life.

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The image was with her always, now. In her dreams, at night, in her thoughts during the days. All she saw was herself, sprawled in the corner of the room, beaten back and powerless, while the man stood in the doorway, Max in his arms, screaming and looking at her, pleading for him to save her.

Pleas that she could not answer.

And then the door shutting. Max’s screams fading. Silence.

And after that? What would happen to Max, to her laughing, gentle, beautiful boy? The same as happened to Seb and Leo, no doubt. She didn’t know what that was, exactly, but she was sure it was nothing good.

She’d asked the man where Seb was. He had left her alone for two nights after Seb had been taken, but when he came down, wearing his blue robe tied at the waist, she had fought back the tears and asked him.

Where is he? she said. I want to see him. Please.

He shook his head.

That’s not possible.

Why not? Is he OK? Please, tell me he’s OK.

The man didn’t reply. He loosened the belt of his bathrobe and pointed at the bed.

Lie down.

Please. Is he safe?

The man ignored her. Lie down, he said again.

I need to know he’s not suffering. That’s all.

The man nodded. He’s not suffering.

And that was all he said. Over the weeks she asked for photos, for an item of his clothing, anything, but the man ignored her. Eventually, though, he could not ignore her any more.

Don’t ask about him again, he said. Ever again.

She carried on. How could she not? He was her son. The next time he came, she badgered him with questions until he turned and left the room.

He never answered. All she had were the man’s final words.

He’s not suffering.

She had turned the words over in her mind a million times. She always came back to the same two possible interpretations.

Seb was not suffering because he was alive and well and happy somewhere – maybe living in the man’s house, or in some foster care – or he was not suffering because he couldn’t.

Because he was dead.

And she was pretty sure she knew which one it was. It was inconceivable to her that the man would take the risk of having a three-year-old in his house, or of trying to find a foster home. People would ask questions. Far easier to get rid of Seb. All he had to do was dispose of the body, and that would be simple enough. He could put it anywhere – in a lake or a forest or even in his back garden. No one would report Seb missing, because no one knew he existed.