The Whisper Man(88)

Even if I couldn’t be with him physically, I could think of one way I could at least feel closer to him. I was conscious of the weight and importance of what I was holding. Jake had never told me I couldn’t look inside it, but he hadn’t needed to. His collection was for him, not for me. He was old enough to be entitled to his own secrets. And so, however tempted I had sometimes been, I had never violated that trust.

Forgive me, Jake.

I opened the clasp.

I just need to feel you close to me.





Fifty-seven


When Francis woke up, the house was silent.

For a while he lay very still in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening. No sound at all. No movement that he could detect either. But he could sense the boy’s presence directly above him, and the house felt fuller as a result. There was a feeling of potential to it.

There is a child up there.

The peace and quiet were encouraging, because of course that was how things should be. It meant that Jake understood the situation and was happy with it. Perhaps he was even excited to be in his new home.

Francis thought back to how easily the boy had settled in last night—already asleep and comfortable when he had gone up to check on him. With Neil Spencer, there had been so much crying and shouting at first that, even with the neighbors he did and didn’t have, Francis had been glad for the soundproofing he’d installed behind the walls of the attic. With Neil, he’d been too patient, writing that period off as a tantrum, whereas now he understood that Neil had been bad from the start, and there had been no chance of it ending any other way than it had.

Perhaps Jake really was different.

He isn’t, Francis.

His father’s voice.

They’re all the same.

All hateful little bastards that disappoint you in the end.

Maybe that was true, but he shook the thought away for now. He had to give Jake a chance. Nowhere near as many chances as he’d given Neil Spencer, obviously, but an opportunity to enjoy and appreciate a happy home where he was looked after and truly cared for.

Francis went for a shower, which always made him feel vulnerable. With the door closed and the water loud in his ears, it was impossible to hear the rest of the house, and when he closed his eyes he could imagine something creeping into the bathroom and standing just outside the shower curtain. He sluiced the foam from his face quickly, and opened his eyes to see the water trailing away down the drain. He’d had to unblock that after dealing with Neil. He could unblock it again if it came to it.

You know what you want to do.

His heart was beating a little too fast.

Downstairs, he prepared coffee and breakfast for himself, made the phone call he needed to make, then set about getting food for Jake. He wiped crumbs off the counter with his forearm, then put two crumpets into the toaster. Both were leftovers, with speckles of mold around the rims, but that was good enough. Francis had no idea what Jake liked to drink, but there was an open orange juice box on the side, the one Neil hadn’t had a chance to finish, and that would do as well.

Start as you mean to go on.

He carried the plate and carton upstairs, and then paused on the landing, pressing his ear against the door to the attic.

Silence.

But then he wasn’t so sure. He could hear something. Was Jake whispering to someone? If he was, it was so quiet that it was impossible for Francis to make out the words. Impossible even to be sure that it was happening.

Francis listened carefully.

Silence.

Then the whispering sound again.

It raised the hairs on his neck. There was nobody else up there—nobody that Jake could be talking to—and yet Francis suddenly had an irrational fear that there might be. That in bringing this child into his house, he had somehow brought someone or something else with him. Something dangerous.

Maybe he’s talking to Neil.

But that was stupid; Francis didn’t believe in ghosts. As a child, he would sometimes go near the door to his father’s extension and imagine one of the little boys standing on the other side, bright and pale, waiting patiently. There had even been times when he’d thought he could hear breathing through the wood. But none of it had been real. The only ghosts that existed were in your head. They spoke through you, not to you.

He unlocked the door and opened it, then climbed the stairs slowly, not wanting to scare the child. But the whispering sound had stopped, and that annoyed him. He didn’t like the idea that Jake was keeping secrets from him.

In the attic, the boy was sitting on the bed with his hands on his knees, and Francis was at least pleased to see that he had already dressed himself from the selection of clothes he’d provided in the drawers. Although less pleased to note the chest of toys didn’t appear to have been touched. Weren’t they good enough or something? Francis had kept those for a long time, and they meant a lot to him; the boy should have been grateful for the opportunity to play with them. He looked around for the pajamas Jake had been wearing, and saw they were folded neatly in a stack on the bed. That was good. He would need them when it came to returning the boy later.

“Good morning, Jake,” he said brightly. “I see you’ve got dressed already.”

“Good morning. I couldn’t find my school clothes.”

“I thought you could have a day off.”

Jake nodded. “That’s nice. Is my daddy going to be picking me up?”