Seven Days(72)

He stood, watching them writhe in agony.

Fucking idiots, he said. Get out of here before I decide to hurt you properly.

They did. They scuttled around the house and on to the street where Carl was waiting.

He asked if they had the cash. James had to give him the bad news; Davo was still groaning.

They stopped by a bench and sat down.

‘That went well,’ Davo said. ‘My fucking balls are killing me.’

‘What are we gonna do?’ Carl said. ‘We need some money.’

As he spoke, James’s phone rang. It was his dad. He rejected the call. He could speak to him later.

There was a buzz as a text message arrived.

Are you coming for dinner?

He hadn’t been. He wasn’t hungry.

At least, not for dinner.

‘I might have an idea,’ he said. ‘I can go to my folks’ place.’

He’d eat then get out of there as soon as he could. And his dad would give him some cash, or he could steal some.

He typed a reply.

Yes. On my way.





Four Years Earlier: July 2014


Maggie



1


Maggie woke up. She opened her eyes but the room was pitch-dark. Her mouth was dry; she tried to swallow but there was no saliva. Her nose ached. She lifted her hand and felt it gingerly. It was swollen and sore to the touch.

Where the man had grabbed her and suffocated her into unconsciousness.

Before he had taken Leo.

‘Leo!’ she shouted, her voice comically nasal. ‘Leo!’

There was no reply. She felt around her on the bed, her hands reaching in vain for his warm, sleeping body, then rolled on to the floor. In the darkness she crawled from wall to wall, covering every inch of the floor with her hands. She felt inside the bath and around the bucket and on every corner of the mattress.

Leo was gone.

There was no escaping it.

The man had taken him. It was Seb all over again.

Where was Leo? In the man’s house right now, eating chocolate and marvelling at the wonder of television? Or sleeping in a soft, warm bed of his own? No. The man could not be seen with a three-year-old boy. So what had he done?

Left Leo by the side of a road for someone to find and take to the police? She had a momentary fantasy of her parents hearing about the little boy who was found and adopting him, unaware that he was their grandson.

Or worse. What if Leo was dead? Thrown into a deep lake or buried in some remote forest? She curled up in a ball on the mattress, her hands covering her face.

‘No!’ she screamed. She banged her fists against the wall. ‘No! No! No!’ She wanted to destroy this place, get out of here and kill the man, but she couldn’t. She was trapped. Stuck, with no way of getting out.

All she could do was destroy herself.

She curled her hands into claws and dug her nails into her cheeks. The pain was shocking; she felt the blood run down her face.

She dug in harder, pulling downwards, until the pain was too much to bear, and then she stopped, and lay on her side as her tears mingled with her blood.

‘Leo,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘Leo. I love you. Be happy, my son.’





Saturday, 23 June 2018


No Days to Go



1


It was today.

Maggie picked up the calendar and drew a line through the last date.

S

Su

M

Tu

W

Th

F





1



2

3

4

5

6

7

8



9

10

11

12

13

14

15



16

17

18

19

20

21

22



23

24

25

26

27

28

29



30





Max was three.

He was sleeping next to her, his face turned to the wall. She lay behind him, watching his chest rise and fall. He’d wake soon, and smile, and laugh and ask for a story or to play with his Duplo or do some exercises. And she’d do it, but all the time she would feel heavy, numbed by the knowledge of what was to come.

The scraping sound. The handle turning. The man looking for him.

Where is he?

Her, shaking her head, refusing to say.

The man finding him anyway.

Her fighting. Him overpowering her, choking her into unconsciousness, leaving her lying there while he disappeared with her son.

Her waking up, realizing Max was gone, getting the bleach from under the base of the bath.

Unwrapping the foil. Drinking it.

She imagined a sour, bitter taste that burned as it went down her throat and into her stomach. She saw herself doubled over on the mattress in pain, foam flecking her lips, her body gradually slackening as the life left it.

She pictured the man coming in and seeing her lying there, running over and feeling her pulse, understanding what she had done.

Would he be sad? Did he love her, in some twisted way? Would he kneel by her body and wail in grief?