The One Safe Place (55 page)

He knew what Marshall had been wearing yesterday, and she was certain how he knew. The room around her seemed to grow clear and bright and even emptier. The next moment she was running downstairs to the phone, and then she knew she had no time to try to convince the police. Where had she put her keys? She dodged into the front room and saw them huddled on top of the essays, and selected the key for the alarm as she snatched them up.

All at once her nerves were working for her, her brittle sleeplessness concentrating her actions. She turned the key in the control panel, and was immediately through the inner door, closing it behind her, and locking the house. She let herself into the Volvo, which started the first time, and reached the speed limit almost as soon as the car swung away from the curb.

The police might well not have believed her. They might have pointed out that the Fancy boy could have learned from the appeals on the radio what Marshall was wearing. But they hadn't seen how the boy had arranged his face—they hadn't glimpsed the realisation which he had almost succeeded in hiding. It would take far too long to persuade them of all this. She had to reach his house before he left it. He knew where Marshall was, she had seen he did, and he was going to lead her to him.

She braked at the corners and more decisively at the Wilmslow Road. A car flashed its headlamps to invite her into the rush of traffic, and it wasn't until brakes screeched as she accelerated out of the side street that she understood it had been sunlight making the lamps flare. The driver leaned on his horn and thrust his grimace close to the windshield, but she was across the road now, just ahead of a bus, so near that a sample of it filled her mirror. She swerved left into the first side street. That was the direction for the Fancy house.

It wasn't the precise route the police had used to bring her home. The narrow roads were breaking out in old cobblestones which made the car and her head jounce. Blocks of small shops alternated with blocks of houses as flat-faced. All the shops appeared to sell secondhand goods, some of which loitered outside them. She was driving as fast as the law allowed—indeed, unless she kept glancing at the dial, somewhat faster. Her senses were trawling everything she passed. The blank screens of a dozen televisions piled in a window turned from grey to blinding white as sunlight trailed over them, a cat lying on top of a refrigerator between two armchairs on the sidewalk stretched its black and white body like a movie projected through the wrong lens, and Susanne was wondering if the immediacy of details such as these had caused her to lose her way—she was wishing she'd thought to ascertain the name of the main road nearest the Fancy house so that she could ask for directions, although just now there was nobody in sight to ask—when the street curved, and at the end of it she saw the very road, the saplings tottering on crutches in front of the low brown boxy houses on the far side of the concrete strip which divided it. She drove to it only as fast as the limit, and braked at the intersection, and looked left. No traffic was coming. She trod on the gas pedal and spun the wheel right, and was speeding toward two lanes of traffic which raced headlong at her.

There was nowhere to go. The concrete which split the road in half was surmounted by a metal railing. She clutched at the gearshift and slammed it into reverse. The gears shrieked, the car juddered, and then it was veering backward at speed, not quite along the same curve it had just described. She felt one rear wheel mount the curb, and a lamppost hurtled toward her in the mirror.

It scraped her rear bumper as the car bucked to a halt. The traffic flashed past the intersection without slackening its pace, and blared at her like trumpets of doom. She leaned her forehead against the windshield and tried to breathe and swallow. If she could see she could drive, which was all that mattered. When the mirror showed her several people hurrying out of a shop toward the car she took a deep breath and turned left onto the main road, scraping her bumper again. She was almost in sight of the Fancy house.

As she indicated right to turn across an intersection controlled by lights, she saw the people from the shop still watching her. Maybe they would call the police. Fine, if that brought police to the Fancy house, so long as they didn't prevent her from finding Marshall. A green arrow sprang into being above her, urging her to cross the intersection. As soon as she was beyond the double yellow lines which trailed along the side road into which her turn had brought her, she pulled over to the curb. Any farther and she might be visible from the house around the corner.

She withdrew the keys from the ignition as she stooped onto the sidewalk She eased the door shut, and felt absurdly overcautious; surely a slam couldn't alert anyone at the house. She let go of the handle and heard, like an impossible echo of the noise she had avoided making, a sharp flat sound, somewhere close.

It must have been a car backfiring, whatever it had felt like to her nerves. This was England, and guns weren't common here, not yet. The boxy houses stood unmoving beneath the translucently blue sky, reassuring her that nothing significant had just taken place. She dropped her keys into her purse and began to walk fast toward the house. Her legs were almost steady; she told herself there was no cause for them not to be. She had taken several steps before the screams began.

I
t was stopping, Marshall told himself. It was going to stop. He didn't really think he was a dog, even though he smelled like one—even though when he'd heard Darren calling to him under the bed he'd been afraid that he wouldn't be able to speak. That had only been because his throat ached from yapping, not because all he was able to do was yap. Now he was standing up like a person and talking like one, and he could stay like that so long as he didn't panic. He wouldn't have time to panic while he was helping his friend.

The people who had almost found him in his hiding place had hurt Darren. It had been Darren's idea for him to hide, but if Marshall had been with him they mightn't have hurt him. That made Marshall feel guilty, grubby inside himself, not least for hiding under the old man's bed rather than Darren's, where he'd been told to go. He'd only thought he would be safest where there was a witness who might have prevented them from hurting him, but it seemed as though he hadn't trusted Darren sufficiently to let him know where he would be. He took a firmer grip on his friend's waist as they performed another lingering step down the littered stairs toward the littered hall, but didn't feel he was caring nearly enough for his friend. "Maybe..."

Darren's voice was screwed tight by pain. "Maybe all sorts of shit, lad. What?"

Marshall heard himself suggesting they take the gun. His words were coming from somewhere outside him, and that brought him closer to panic. Everything was standing back so as not to be infected by whatever was still wrong with him: even Darren, whom he sensed pulling almost imperceptibly away from him; even his own voice. The slowness of each step he took alongside Darren seemed to threaten that some part of his surroundings or of himself was about to change for the worse. Now the voices, his and Darren's, had established that the gun was under the floor in the back; presumably that meant the back room. That gave him an excuse, not to leave Darren—he wouldn't dream of wanting to abandon his friend—but to move more quickly for a little while, perhaps long enough to let him feel in control of his body. "Can you manage while I get it?" he said, trying to reclaim his voice from the instability all around him.

The instability fought back. Before Darren could even have drawn a breath, it sent his mother out of the room where the gun was. She perched two spiders that were her hands on her hips and stared up. "God, what do you look like. What are you playing at now."

Did she mean Marshall, for walking as though he was as injured as her son? Surely as a nurse she ought to realise he was trying to help, unless she didn't realise Darren was hurt. Marshall hoped that was true, because otherwise it would mean she had been powerless to shield him. At least Darren appeared to be undisturbed by her attitude, and so perhaps it was all right in some way Marshall failed to understand. "We're going out, mam. We're going straight out," Darren said, and to Marshall, "Never mind what you were after, lad."

Was he saying that only because he couldn't see how Marshall would get the weapon past his mother? Marshall hesitated, trying to locate the solution in the slippery brittle hollow of his mind, until Darren stepped down quicker, pulling Marshall with him. "Move," he snarled through his teeth.

It must be important to move fast, or he wouldn't be hurting himself. His mother raced them to the front door as they reached the hall. Marshall relaxed his hand on Darren's waist, but Darren put an arm around his shoulders. Marshall couldn't go for the gun without shaking him off, and he assumed his friend most needed him to be close. At least their haste should mean that Marshall would be home sooner. Darren's mother pulled at the door, which seemed to be making several more noises than a door really should, and threw it open. But the noises continued with a screech of wood on concrete, and beyond them the end of the path was blocked by a lump of raw red. It was the van which belonged to the people he'd hidden from, and here came one of them, wearing motorcycle gear apart from the helmet. He felt his friend stiffen, and the next moment he saw something worse than Darren could know. The figure stalking toward them was the man who'd pulled a gun on Marshall's father and bullied Marshall into their house.

The face jerked closer above the creaking of the leather body, and Marshall saw he was mistaken. It wasn't the same man, although the lower half of the pale face jagged with bone and displaying a scar to show where it was fitted together looked like him, especially the sneer. His wasn't the only face which would turn into the gunman's if Marshall let it: he'd had to keep his friend's from doing so. Even if this wasn't the other man, he was just as dangerous, because Darren was falling back into the house, dragging Marshall with him. "That's right, you little twat," the man said with gleeful contempt on the edge of becoming more dangerous. "Limp off while you can still limp."

"Leave my friend alone," Marshall heard himself protest, but nobody else could have heard him. He was shrinking into a hollow at the centre of himself. Darren's mother retreated crabwise into the front room as the boys stumbled backward as far as the stairs, and the man planted his feet in the house with such force that the floor quaked under the rucked torn carpet. For a moment Marshall felt exactly as he had when the other man had forced his way into his house. The man in motorcycle leather raised one boot, and Marshall felt Darren flinch, but instead of kicking either of them the intruder thrust his heel against the door to slam it, shaking the floorboards again. The action sent him forward a heavy step, and the cramped hall filled with the smells of sweat and leather. "What's your game," he demanded of Darren's mother, "besides the one you're on?"

"I don't know what you mean, Barry."

"Even you aren't that stupid, and don't you fucking think I am. What do you reckon, I've got no eyes? I didn't see you letting him get away?"

"I didn't want anything happening—"

"Never mind what you want. You do what the fuck you're told. Who do you think you are, messing with me? I ought to give you a kicking you won't get up from."

All this was coming too fast and too loud for Marshall, but he deduced that the man called Barry had put Darren's mother on the street. No wonder they were afraid of him. He'd told her to keep either Marshall or her son in the house, and she'd been trying to save them when he came back too soon. Suddenly Marshall's fear for her was greater than his fear of the man. "She didn't do anything wrong," he blurted. "She's been looking after me."

Barry's eyes grew redder as they swivelled to take him in. The man's mouth had become a slit full of teeth, but now it turned into a sneer which was almost a grin. "Been good to you, has she?"

"She has, hasn't she, Darren?"

"Didn't know you did them that young, Marie. Whatever brings the loot in, eh?"

Marshall couldn't decide if the man was mocking him or genuinely mistaken, and Darren's face wasn't telling him—indeed, Darren had moved away from him as though he was an embarrassment. "No, I mean I was ill and she took care of me," Marshall insisted. "Darren brought me home because he knew she would."

Was that entirely true? Marshall's memories weren't quite fitting together, and Barry jabbed another question at him before he had time to think. "What kind of ill was that, lad?"

Barry's eyes and grin were wider, and Marshall could only ignore them. "I don't know exactly. Some kind of fever, what you call a bug. Mrs., Darren's mom will know."

"I bet she does. Mrs. who, lad?"

Barry's expression might have disturbed Marshall more if it hadn't looked so stupid. "Don't you know?"

"Don't get fucking clever with me." Barry's lips shifted, then reverted to the grin. "Shall I tell him, Marie?"

"Bit late to start asking my permission when you're behaving like you own the house."

"As far as you're concerned I do, bitch, while it's got my loot in it." Barry stamped a pace toward her, and Marshall threw out his hands. They came nowhere near touching Barry—it had been just a panic reaction—but the man gaped at him. "What's up? Don't you want to see the bitch get what she's asking for?"

"She isn't what you said." All at once Marshall's words rushed out of control. "You leave her alone, or—"

"This is fucking unbelievable, this is. Or what, you little dick?"

Marshall hadn't prevented any violence, he'd simply focused it on himself. He stood at the foot of the stairs, unable to dodge out of reach, his hands still raised, trembling in front of him. Even if he made them into fists they wouldn't be any use. Without warning Barry darted at him, and Marshall felt the lowest banister bludgeon his spine as he retreated. But the man hardly bothered to sneer at him before turning his back on him. "I'm bored of this," he muttered, and thrust a hand at Darren's mother. "Give us your keys."