The Treatment (54 page)

He stopped. Caffery had just sat back so fast it was as if someone had wrenched him back by the collar. “Your wife smelled the stuff in the attic
before
.”

“She kept moaning about it—I couldn't smell it myself, but they say women have a better sense of smell than men.”

Caffery stood and went into the incident room, rapping his knuckles on Kryotos's desk. “Marilyn. How far's Danni?”

“She just called—she'll be back in fifteen or so.”

“Right. Can I leave Gummer with you until she's back? You could make him some tea or something.”

“I'll give him some shortbread. Where are you going?”

“Brixton. Tell Danni I'll call her later.”

W
HAT PITCHED HER OUT OF THAT LONG
, trancy sleep? The voice? Benedicte thought so. A man's voice, murmuring. She opened her eyes. A bluebottle was picking its way carefully through the crust on Smurf's nose. She stared blankly at it, lying on her side, trying to decide if she was dreaming or really hearing a man's voice in the kitchen below.

Hal? Was it Hal?
What's happening?
She raised her head. Maybe the troll had gone. Maybe Hal was talking to Josh.
Yes, that's what it sounds like—he's gone and I missed it because I was asleep.
She rolled onto her front and fanned her hands out on the splintered boards. The skin on her arms had taken on the papery, transparent look that dried honesty got—she almost expected to see the little veins in her hands turn blood-black and noded like seeds. Her throat was so dry it seemed no longer a functioning part of her body, but a long, living welt running under the muscles.

Another sentence spoken from below.

Hal?

Moving painfully she shuffled sideways and dropped her face into the gap between the boards. Everything was taking longer than it should, every move made her vision swim, the edges of light and matter blur. She wriggled her hand out until it cupped the light fitting. The light was on,
she could feel the heat of it against her palm as she applied a silent, steady pressure downward on it. With a quiet
swoosh
it fell down into the room below, circling wildly on the wire. She lay for a moment, panting, exhausted by the effort. I'm ill, she thought. He's killing us.

Gathering all her energy she inched her face into the gap, and immediately she could feel different air on her face, dry, full of the kippery smell of an animal's bedding.

My God. Is he still here?

And then she saw. She wanted to jerk back out of the hole but she couldn't move. She was transfixed.

Hal was gone. Only the man-shaped stain where he had been. And in his place the upholstered armchair which belonged next to the window in the living room. Sitting in the chair, facing away from her, into the family room, just ten feet below her, the troll. He had stripped down to T-shirt and jeans and was crouched on the chair like a bird, his hands between his legs.

Silently, carefully, she sucked in a breath.
You should have known—should have known.
All the lights in the two rooms were on, the curtains were drawn. A camera lay on the floor next to him. He hadn't heard her push the light through because he was intent on watching something out of sight in the living room. His face was creased and reddened, there was a diamond point of saliva on the lower lip, and now that she looked closer she saw his belt and fly were open and he was using one hand to massage himself.
Oh, God.
A bubble of nausea rose in her throat.
Oh God—the bastard.
He stopped masturbating for a moment to spit on his palm and Benedicte got a glimpse of the little white pudding of his penis—not even hard.

“Do it,” he murmured. “Do it.”

What's he watching? Christ, what's he watching? Can Josh see?

“Just do it,” he was saying. “Do it now.” His bottom lip was loose and moist, his loamy hand a blur, the saliva lengthened downward from his mouth.
Who's he talking to?
Ben closed her eyes, the darkness in her head switching and flickering.
Am I imagining it? Is this still a dream? My God, Josh—where's Josh?

From the living room came a wail. Her eyes snapped open. That was Hal. Screaming. Garbling out something in a thick voice she couldn't understand: “Ican't doitican'tican'tican't.
PleaseGODkillmeinstead
…” He wrenched in a breath and this time she heard the words clearly. “KILL ME.
Please. Kill me instead
.”

“Get off. Get off.” The troll got down from the chair and kicked something that lay on the floor just out of Ben's view. Something heavy. “Go on—” He began to pull the belt out of his jeans. “Get off.” He wrapped the belt around one fist, pulling the other end taut. The jeans slid down to his ankles, his legs bowed out like a mountain goat's. He dropped to his knees.

My God, what's he doing? He looks as if he's going to …

She could see only his lower body, the jeans crumpled around his feet, dirty gray Y fronts. But there was something in the tension of his buttocks, something that made her think of an animal feeding. The way a cat's hindquarters would twist when it was …

When it was chewing something
—

A thin cry. The troll's buttocks twisted again. Now Benedicte understood. Josh. “NO!” She jammed herself blindly forward into the hole. “
No!
Leave him alone.”

A sudden silence. The feet below became still.

“
I mean it. Leave him alone or I'll kill you. I'll kill you
.”

Silence. All she could hear was the swollen knocking of her heart. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, his face shot up next to hers—she could smell his breath, see blood on his teeth.
Ohmigod.
She jolted back. Jammed her ear against the edge of the boards, the pain boomeranging her back into the hole. No! She scrabbled for purchase, the plasterboard cracking, her free leg cycling crazily, trying to get a foothold on the carpet, expecting the foul breath on her at any second. She could hear him panting, almost as if he was afraid—
What's
he
afraid of?
—got a hurried, hectic glimpse of his eyes, panicked, nervous, his hands up to his mouth as if
she
terrified
him
, then
sniff, sniff, sniff,
and he started whimpering, lips quivering, and this time, with the
last of her strength, her hands scrabbling weakly at the carpet, she wrenched herself out of the hole, back into the room, and even as she did she heard the doorbell ringing in the hallway.

Caffery stood on the doorstep, the rain pattering down around him. He was breathing hard. He had walked around the perimeter of the Clock Tower Grove building site, passing heavy machinery and a saturated bundle of electrical conduit—
Champ—I'll never be able to look at conduit again without thinking of Champ
—until he could see Clock Tower Walk beyond the security fencing. All the houses were unoccupied, all except number fíve. Number five's curtains were drawn, and when he saw that he started to move a little faster, breaking into a trot along the little brick street, slamming his thumb on the doorbell.

“Mrs. Church?” He rang again, the heel of his hand flat against the bell. The house was silent. Standing on tiptoe he looked through the garage door. A lemon-yellow Daewoo was parked in the gloom. He knew he might be wrong. He remembered the woman who had answered the door to him here, more than a week ago. He remembered her talking about the smell in her house, just as Gummer's wife had done, just as Souness had done in the Peaches. He remembered the dog. He lifted the letter box. “Mrs. Church?”

And then, on the air in the hallway, he smelled 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 spraypainted in red. He dropped the letter box 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, 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 letter box 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 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 excrement, 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 smelled 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. You just 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, not quickly enough; it hit him 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. “
Josh?
” 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 were drunk. There was enough light to see a raw hole in his back and Caffery's heart sank. A bite. “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 aluminum.
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 halfway 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, smelled 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.