The Nightmare Game Page 2

  “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.

  2

  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.

  Hope—

  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.

  Only six more hours to get through. Only five lessons until it’s time to go home.

  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!”

  And the girls giggled at that, too.

  Warren hunched forward in his seat, hating them all. Hating himself. There were no secret places in his mind anymore. He could feel himself giving in. Becoming Rabbit.

  When the bus reached the housing development, he let everyone else get off before he stood up. Then he loitered at the bus stop until they were all heading home. For a nasty moment he thought Platt was going to wait for him, but the girls saved him by trooping off toge
ther. The rabbit game was no fun without an audience. After one backward glance, Platt went with the crowd.

  As soon as it was safe, Warren dragged himself up the road and around the corner. The street seemed twice as long as usual and the house at the end—his own house—looked dark and grim. The curtains were pulled, but there was no car in the driveway and the windows were all unlit.

  He wanted to turn back, but there was nowhere else to go. He trailed along the pavement with his shoulders sagging and his bag hanging off one arm. When he reached the house, it took all his energy to find his front door key and slip it into the lock.

  He was just about to turn the key when he heard a voice. It was very faint and at first he caught just the intonation, without being able to make out any words. But, even so, there was something about it that made him hesitate. Something that made him turn his key very quietly.

  As the door swung open, the words suddenly came clear. The voice was saying the same thing, over and over again.

  “Out . . . out . . . out . . .”

  He stopped, half in and half out of the house. Listening so hard that he couldn’t move. Stunned.

  “. . . out . . . out . . .”

  It was Hope’s voice. He could almost see her frown as she concentrated on making the shapes with her mouth, sounding the last letter separately, to get it right. Ou-T . . . ou-T . . .

  He stepped into the house, pulling the door shut behind him. The voice stopped instantly, halfway through a word. Ou— For a second he couldn’t bear to move, in case he’d imagined the whole thing. But he had to know. He went forward and pushed at the living-room door.

  His mother was in there. On her own. She was kneeling on the floor, with a little tape player in front of her. In her arms she was cradling a cardboard shoe box, with the lid half off, as though she had snatched it up quickly.

  “Warren,” she said. She looked awkward and defensive. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  “Sorry,” Warren mumbled. “I didn’t mean—I just heard—”

  He started to back out of the room, but his mother leaned forward urgently, still clutching the shoe box.

  “Yes? What did you hear?”

  “I thought—” Warren didn’t know what he was supposed to say. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt huge. He looked down at the carpet. “It was Hope,” he muttered. “Wasn’t it?”

  He heard a slow, soft sigh as his mother let out her breath. “We didn’t make her up, did we?” she said. “She’s real.” Pulling the lid off the shoe box, she held it out for Warren to see. “Look! She’s real.”

  The box was full of photographs. Little colored snapshots, slithering over each other in untidy heaps. Warren glanced down nervously at the top one. It showed a baby in a frilly dress, sitting on a blanket. She was smiling and waving her arms as she looked toward the camera. Just like any other baby.

  “Go on,” his mother said eagerly, shaking the box. “Look at them!”

  He pulled out another one. It showed a girl of five or six, with a pale, narrow face and braids in her hair. She was kneeling by the entrance to the secret room, gazing down gravely into the darkness. Her head was turned to one side, in a slightly odd way, and she had a distant look that he recognized.

  “I didn’t know we had any photos of Hope,” he said.

  His mother reached out to take the picture back. “Father doesn’t know,” she said quickly. “You mustn’t tell him. If he finds out, he’ll take them away and burn them. And the tape as well.”

  “It’s OK,” Warren muttered awkwardly.

  “I have to have them.” There was a defiant edge to his mother’s voice. “I can’t just wipe her away. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Warren didn’t understand anything. And he didn’t want to answer the question, because he didn’t know where that would take him. All he wanted to do was keep his mouth shut and forget what he’d seen. But that wasn’t an option. His mother was looking straight at him, waiting for an answer.

  “You do understand, don’t you?” she said. “You do know that Hope’s real?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Warren nodded.

  “Then you’ll help me to find her?” his mother said quickly.

  He hadn’t expected that. All he could do was stare, with his mouth open. Did she really mean them to do it on their own?

  All his life, he’d done whatever his father said. Sometimes his mother gave him instructions, but he’d known that she was only repeating things that came from his father. Now his father was telling them that Hope had never existed. She was gone, hidden behind some mysterious door that his father had slammed shut. The truth about what had happened was locked away. How could he and his mother find it out by themselves?

  “Well?” she said. Still watching his face.

  He dropped his head and muttered, “Might be better if we didn’t . . . don’t really know what happened . . . it must have been . . .”

  It must have been terrifying. That was what he wanted to say. If his father couldn’t rescue Hope, if he couldn’t even talk about what had happened, then it must have been—must have been—

  Warren’s mind cut out, refusing to let him imagine horrors.

  Refusing to let him imagine his father being afraid.

  “I don’t care what it was like,” his mother said fiercely. “Nothing’s as bad as not knowing. If only we could find out who took her, that would be a start. How did they know she was there? Who are they? I didn’t even see their faces.”

  Warren didn’t want to hear what she was saying. He wanted to stay safely outside that locked door, where his father meant him to be. But he’d crossed the line and taken sides, before he realized what he was doing.

  “There’s a—a photo,” he stuttered. “Of the tall one.”

  His mother’s mouth fell open. “Where? How?”

  “That day the security light came on. Remember?” He could see she did. “That was him, snooping around. We took a picture before we threw him out.”

  His mother scrambled to her feet. “Where is it? Show me.”

  “It’s on the computer—”

  She was at the desk before he’d finished speaking. As the screen lit up, she grabbed at Warren’s sleeve and pulled him into the chair.

  “Find it. Quickly.”

  This time, it only took him a couple of seconds. She stood over him impatiently while he opened the folder and selected the file. As the tall kidnapper’s face came up on the screen, she drew in her breath.

  “He looks like a giant. A monster. If he’s taken her away to hurt her—”

  “I think—he’s just tall,” Warren said hesitantly. “He’s not much older than me.”

  “You mean he’s still at school?” His mother’s voice was sharp.

  “I—suppose so.” Warren nodded, thinking about it. “Yes. He’s got to be. And the others as well.”

  His mother stabbed a finger at the picture on the screen. “Print that.”

  Warren obeyed, without asking questions. His mother stared at the photo coming off the printer. As soon as it was ready, she darted forward and snatched it up by one edge, flapping it to dry the ink. Then she held it out to Warren.

  “There you are,” she said. “Go and find him.”

  “What?” Warren looked at her in horror. “Me? But I can’t—”

  “Yes you can.” She took his fingers and closed them around the edge of the paper. “All you have to do is find the right school and ask someone who he is.”

  The idea made Warren feel sick. “Why can’t you do it instead?

  “Because I’m an adult. No teenager’s going to answer my questions. But you won’t frighten anyone off. They’ll tell you, if you do it right.”

  Warren looked at her stupidly. He couldn’t quite believe that she meant it.

  But she did. She grabbed his other hand and took it between hers, holding on tightly. “Please,” she said. And he could hear how desperate she was. “Please. It’s the only thing I can t
hink of. And I have to find out what happened to her.”

  Warren looked down at the picture. I can’t, he thought again. But he already knew that he would. He’d spent his whole life doing what he was told.

  3

  FOR AN HOUR THE NEXT MORNING, HE THOUGHT IT WAS GOING to be all right after all. He thought his mother had given up her idea of sending him out as a spy. When he came down to breakfast, she was scurrying around in the usual way, making toast and filling up his father’s teacup as she’d done every other day of his life. He almost expected to see Hope’s tray standing ready on the side, with her bowl of porridge and her plastic mug full of milk.

  But there was no tray. No Hope. Everything had changed.

  As soon as his father walked out of the house, his mother dropped her pretense of being ordinary. She took a sheet of paper out of her pocket and slapped it down on the table in front of Warren.

  He stared at a list of times and numbers. “What’s that?”

  “Buses,” she said briskly. “If you catch those, you can visit three schools today. Two when it’s break and one at the end of the afternoon. Those are the most likely schools, but if you don’t strike lucky today you can do three more tomorrow.”

  “You mean—go on my own? In schooltime?” He couldn’t believe that was what she meant.

  “How else do you think you’re going to find out?” His mother whisked away his cup and plate and took the cloth off the table. “Go and fetch the street map and I’ll give you your fare money.”

  “But what if people ask me why I’m not at school?” He was struggling now. Snatching at any excuse.

  His mother gave him a scornful, impatient look. “Tell them you’re on your way to the dentist. Tell them anything. What does it matter? Hundreds of children skip school every day.”

  But not me. I can’t, I can’t . . .

  IT FELT AS THOUGH THE DULL, FAMILIAR CITY HAD TURNED INTO a jungle. Behind every window, in every shop doorway, there might be danger lurking. Someone who would grab his collar and haul him off to the police station. Officer, I found this boy playing hooky.