The Nightmare Game (2 page)

But his father had been right all along. The kidnappers had found out about her and they'd sneaked in and snatched her away.

 

AFTER A WHILE, HE REMEMBERED THE PHOTOGRAPH. HE WENT into the study and turned on the computer, sorting through all the picture files until he found it.

It was one of the kidnappers. The tall one. They'd caught him snooping around, a few days ago. That must have been when he'd seen Hope, but Warren knew his dad hadn't realized that. So they'd just taken a photo to scare him off.
If you come back, we'll call the police and show them your picture
.

That wasn't true, of course. They could never call the police, because of Hope. But the tall boy had no way of knowing that. He'd looked scared and furious as Warren's father tugged at his hair, dragging his head around to face the camera.

And there was the picture on the computer. Warren opened the file and stared at the wild, fierce eyes and the angry mouth, pulled sideways, into a snarl. That was exactly how he'd looked. Cruel and savage, with a strong nose and dark, untidy hair.

The sort of person who could frighten you into doing anything.

 

THE SKY WAS STILL DARK WHEN THE CAR CAME BACK. WARREN heard it pull into the curb and stop, with the engine idling. One of the doors slammed and footsteps came up the path.

Then the car started up again, driving back down the drive and away.

His mother came in on her own, with her shoulders slumped and the flashlight in her hand, still switched on. She looked haggard and wretched.

“We couldn't catch them,” she said dully. Before Warren could ask. “We chased them right across town, but they ran through all the back alleys.”

“But Hope can't run,” Warren said. “She—”

“They dumped her into a supermarket cart and pushed her away—like a bag of potatoes. She must have been so scared—” His mother broke off, pressing her lips together to stop them trembling.

“Dad will catch them,” Warren said quickly. “He's got the car. He'll find them and bring her home.”

But his mother shook her head. Vaguely, as though she couldn't take in what he meant. “I always thought it would be the police who came,” she said. “Or maybe social workers. But they're just teenagers. What could they possibly want—?” Her mouth twisted suddenly and she sat down on the chair in the hall, covering her face with her hands.

“It's probably just a joke,” Warren said. Babbling desperately, to stop her bursting into tears. “Why would they want to keep her? They'll probably bring her back after an hour or two. They're not going to take her to hospital—”

His mother was rigid, her face still hidden in her hands.

“Mom?” He dabbed nervously at her shoulder. “We will get her back, won't we? You don't think she's really—going to die?”

His mother was crying silently into her hands. It took Warren a few moments to realize that he was crying, too.

 

IT WAS ALMOST MORNING BY THE TIME THE CAR CAME UP THE street again. It bumped onto the drive and stopped abruptly, as though the engine had failed.

Warren was asleep, with his head on the kitchen table. He was woken roughly, by the edge of the table ramming into his stomach as his mother pushed it away from her. She jumped up and ran into the hall while Warren was still struggling to catch his breath.

Without standing up, he saw her wrench the front door open, but it seemed a long time before anyone came through it. When his father finally walked into the house, Warren was so stunned that all he could do was stare.

It was like watching a different person. Someone who walked mechanically, looking blank and dazed. Over his shoulder, the car was just visible. It was parked carelessly, half on the drive and half on the grass, with the lights left on and the driver's door hanging open.

What had happened to him? He'd gone out full of energy and anger, determined to get Hope back. And once he'd decided to do something, he never gave up. It must have taken something shocking—something cataclysmic—to change him like this.

Hope's dead already.
That was the worst thing Warren could imagine.
She's dead—and he's seen her body.

He gripped the edge of the kitchen table, afraid to move. This was different from anything else in his life. There weren't any instructions about what to say, or how to behave. He was petrified.

His father walked straight down the hall and into the kitchen. For a second, he looked as though he was heading right for the place where Warren was sitting.
It wasn't my fault,
said the panicky, terrified voice in Warren's head
. I didn't know—I didn't guess—

But his father went past him without even a glance, heading into the utility room. Warren heard him open the cupboard where he kept his tools. And he still hadn't spoken.

Warren couldn't bear the tension any longer. “Where's Hope?” he said. The words came out in a squeak. “Where have they taken her? How can we get her back?”

His father answered without looking around. “There is no hope,” Warren heard him say.

“We must be able to do
something
,” Warren muttered. Babbling again, to fill the silence. “We have to get her back.”

His father shut the cupboard and turned around, with the big claw hammer in one hand and a jar of nails in the other.

“Weren't you listening?” he said. His eyes were cold. “There is no such person as Hope. There never has been.”

Warren stared with his mouth open. His brain wouldn't make sense of the words. “But—”

“You've never had a sister,” his father said harshly. “Ask your friends. Ask anyone. You've always been an only child.”

He came back out through the kitchen, knocking his wife aside as though he hadn't even seen her. She watched him cross the hall and go into the living room. Then she looked around at Warren.

“I don't understand,” she said, in a scared, bewildered voice. “What's he talking about?”

Warren didn't know what to say. He stared back at her, shaking his head stupidly.

And then the noises started.

They came from beyond the living room, from the conservatory. There was a dragging, scraping sound and then the unmistakable thump of a hammer against wood. Warren heard his mother catch her breath. She went straight out of the kitchen and across the hall.

When she reached the living-room door, she gave a cry. Not loud, but full of pain.
I don't want to see,
Warren thought desperately.
Whatever it is, I don't want to see.
But he forced himself to stand up and follow her. She had stopped in the doorway, but he could see over her shoulder, across the living room and into the conservatory.

His father had dropped the wooden lid back into place, closing off the entrance to Hope's room. Now he was hammering nails in all around the edge, so that no one could open the trapdoor again.

Warren and his mother stood without a word, watching him hammer his way around the square. When the last nail was hammered in, he stood up and stepped aside, looking across at his wife.

“Put the carpet back,” he said crisply. “And the television. Get this room back to normal.” Picking up the jar of nails, he walked out of the conservatory and back across the living room. As he came through the door, his wife caught at his sleeve.

“Dan—”

He twitched his arm free and pushed past her, without answering. For a second she stood where she was, staring at the wooden square with its border of nails. Then she dropped her head and went to carry out his orders.

Warren scurried after her. “I'll help,” he said. He wanted her to smile, but she didn't even look at him. Just nodded and kept walking.

They lifted the carpet back into position and unrolled it, making certain that it covered the trapdoor. Then they carried the television from the side of the conservatory and placed it carefully in the center of the carpet. As they set it down, Warren's father came back.

“And turn that thing off,” he said sharply, waving his hand at the TV.

It was never turned off. There was always a television on in the conservatory, filling it with light and sound. It was so normal that Warren had never even wondered why it was there.

Now, for the first time, he understood that it was because of Hope. The blare from the television had covered the small sounds she made as she moved around under the floor, muttering to herself.

His mother reached for the button—and then stopped. Slowly she turned to face her husband. “Hope's dead, isn't she? Tell me. I need to know.”

He answered without looking at her, and there was something in his face that made Warren shiver.

“Our only daughter was called Abigail,” he said. “She died sixteen years ago, when the doctors insisted on taking her into hospital. We had no second chance. There was never any such person as Hope.”

Pushing past his wife, he pressed the button on the front of the television. The sound stopped and the picture disappeared. For the first time in Warren's life, the conservatory was silent and dark.

IT WAS ALMOST FIVE O'CLOCK WHEN WARREN FINALLY WENT back to bed. Three hours later, the alarm went off as usual and he sat up sharply, shocked out of a deep sleep.

His father was standing at the end of the bed. When Warren groaned and fell back against the pillow, he looked down at his watch with a frown.

“If you don't get out of bed you'll be late for school,” he said.

“School?” Warren couldn't believe he was supposed to treat this like an ordinary day. “But—I'm really tired. And the bus leaves in half an hour.”

“If you miss the bus, you'll have to take your punishment,” his father said coldly. “Don't whine.”

Warren slid sullenly out of bed and headed for the bathroom. As he pushed the door open, he somehow expected the room behind to have changed. It felt as though everything ought to be different now. But it wasn't. The bathroom was exactly the same as before. And, when he went downstairs, so were the hall and the kitchen and the living room. Everything looked as though Hope was still down in her room. But she wasn't.

And he was late.

He tried to catch up the time he'd lost, but he kept forgetting things and having to go back. He missed both the early buses and finally sidled into his classroom just as the second lesson was about to begin.

He deliberately chose the moment just before Mr. Robinson arrived, when the whole room was in an uproar. He was hoping that no one would notice—but that was pathetic, of course. Steven Platt spotted him before he'd even sat down.

“Hey up! Here's Rabbit! He
finally
finished his breakfast!”

Everyone laughed, and Platt leaned across and patted Warren's stomach. “Just
couldn't
resist those last sixteen pounds of carrots, could you?” He chewed grotesquely on the empty air, puffing out his cheeks and twitching his nose. “Watch out your buttons don't burst, little Bunny.”

Warren sat down quickly, before anyone could twang the waistband of his trousers. That was always good for a laugh. For everyone except him.

“Got to sit on his bottom, hasn't he?” jeered Platt. “To protect his little powder puff.”

Warren stared down at the table, trying to shut his ears.
I have to keep my head down. To guard the secret.
That was almost the first thing he'd ever learned, even before his first day at school.
Don't draw attention to yourself. Try and stay invisible.
It was his secret weapon. Platt always thought he was so clever—but he didn't know about Hope. He didn't know that Warren was a special boy, with special responsibilities.

Only the secret weapon didn't work anymore. When Warren tried to conjure up Hope's face in his mind, all he could see was his father's cold, domineering stare.

It wasn't going to work. Not ever again. He wasn't special at all. Just ordinary—and pathetic. The shock of it hit him so hard that he closed his eyes.

That was asking for trouble, of course. David called across the classroom. “Hey, Bunny! You can't nod off here.”

“Oh—I can't help it!” Platt squeaked in his rabbit voice. “I'm so full of food my tiny bunny-tummy is going to POP!” He reached over and slapped Warren hard on the stomach. Then he raised his eyebrows comically, grinning around the room.

Everyone laughed, even the girls. Even Karen, who sometimes told Platt to shut up when he was being really cruel. When he pulled that humorous face, Platt was irresistible and he knew it. It was no use protesting. The only thing to do was wait until he got bored. Warren hunched forward, miserably, protecting the soft round curve of his belly.

That was the other chant that got him through the day. But that one didn't work either. Not now. Because when he thought
home
, the only picture that came into his mind was a dead television standing over an empty hole in the ground.

 

BY THE TIME THE BUS TURNED INTO THE HOUSING DEVELOPMENT that afternoon, he was numb with misery. Platt had sensed something different about him—some extra weakness—and he hadn't let up all day. Even the bus wasn't a refuge. Warren sat at the front, as near as possible to the driver, but Platt slotted into the seat behind. All the way home, he kept making little bunny-snuffles and pulling at Warren's ears.

“Mmm!” he muttered. “
So
big and soft and furry!”