Sally staggers out of the shed, clutching her throbbing head, bent almost double. The door frame thumps into her shoulder and she slides down it, sitting with her legs on the wet grass as the world spins.
Tristan goes from little yowling noises to full-throated diaphragm-rattling barks as Raymond slithers to a halt in front of her.
His mouth moves, but nothing comes out.
Blood drips between her fingers, disappearing into the red of her shirt.
Raymond stares. ‘What—’
‘I’m fine. Go. Go!’
A blink. Then he turns and sprints across the lawn to the gap in the hedge and stops. Looks left, then right, head cocked to one side as if he’s listening for something. Then he darts forward, disappearing into Skemmel Woods.
Sally clutches the door frame and does her best not to be sick.
Becca scrambled around a clump of jaggy green bushes. Jumped over stones. Ducked under a fallen tree. Running and running and running.
She darted around a tree and her trainers skidded in the slippy leaves, but she didn’t fall over! She thumped a shoulder into a branch, stayed upright, and kept going. Through the woods.
Looked back over her shoulder, but there was no sign of the Chasing Man.
Maybe he’d given up?
She slowed to a walk. Trees everywhere. All around her.
An old house sat off to the left — tumbled down and broken, its windows just big black holes in the stones. Roof a rusty saggy lump like wet cardboard. Could hide in there... But what if they set the Big Dog on her? What if the Big Dog sniffed her out and then bit her and she’d have to go in the Horrid Monster Lady’s shed again and they would chain her up and she’d be all sore from being bitten.
No. No hiding. Running.
Becca clutched Orgalorg tighter and ran away again.
A big green splodge of bushes blocked her way, covered in long brown beans that rattled as she fought her way through it — hissing like angry snakes as she wobbled out into a space where there wasn’t many trees at all.
They gathered around the outside, like kids waiting for a fight to start in the playground. But inside it was all sunny and bright and warm. The leaves beneath her trainers were orangey and yellow, like jelly and custard. Scrunching and crunching as she walked over to a gurgly stream.
Someone had tied flowers and an old grey teddy bear to a tree on the other side of a little wooden bridge. Its eyes were all scuffed and dull, most of its fur either missing or covered in greeny-black mould. Who would do that to a dead teddy bear?
She hugged Orgalorg, pressing his big soppy face against her chest so he couldn’t see.
All she had to do was cross the stream, march through the woods on the other side and she’d be free. They were going to make it. They were going to—
Behind her, the bush made its angry-snakes noise again, joined by crashing and snapping.
Becca barely had time to turn before the Chasing Man burst from inside the bush and leaped at her, arms out like the rugby people on the telly.
He thumped into her and Orgalorg went flying as they bashed down into the leaves. Rolling over and over. Only when they stopped, the Chasing Man was on top, pinning her down, face all red and sweaty, teeth bared, breathing hard.
‘HELP! MUMMY! HELP ME!’ She kicked and she squirmed and she bit, but he held on tight. ‘HELP! HELP—’
The Chasing Man slapped his hand across her mouth, but she kept on screaming — even though all that came out were muffled grunts.
‘Hold still, you little monster!’
No. Never.
Big fierce strong girl!
She writhed and wriggled and fought as he stood, dragging her with him.
He looked around. Smiled a nasty smile at Orgalorg — lying there in the churned-up leaves and twigs.
‘If you don’t hold still, I’m going to hurt your teddy bear. You want that? Want me to rip his arms off and poke out his eyes? That what you want?’
No!
Becca went limp.
‘Good girl.’ He scooped up Orgalorg. ‘No more bad behaviour, or else.’
The Chasing Man marched her back through the hedge into the garden again, one hand holding onto her dungarees and the other holding the chain. Being all rough and shovey, like a big bully. But she didn’t cry.
Becca squeezed Orgalorg to her chest. Cos he was scared. Cos he was only a teddy bear.
The Horrid Monster Woman was sitting in the shed doorway, holding onto her head like it was a broken egg — the side of her face covered in slithery red.
Good.
‘Keep moving.’ The Chasing Man shoved Becca across the garden till they were right in front of her. ‘Are you OK?’
The Horrid Monster Woman looked at them, eyes all puffy and pink, tears and blood on her face. A really good lump growing on the side of her head with an oozy red slash across it.
Becca grinned at her.
Big fierce strong girl!
The Horrid Monster Woman looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’
The Chasing Man pushed Becca closer. ‘You got something you want to say to the nice lady?’
‘My mummy’s going to kill both of you tits.’
‘Gah...’ He shoved her into the shed. ‘Don’t know how you got free, but you’re not doing it again.’
Ice melts through the tea towel, sending cold dribbles down Sally’s face to drip off her chin and onto the kitchen table. Even after two ibuprofen, two aspirin, and a couple of paracetamol, the world thuds and lurches. Like her head is a bass drum and God is stomping on the pedal.
Raymond slides the patio door open and steps in from the garden. Thumps it closed behind him. ‘Here.’ He flicks a small silver disk onto the table, it bounces and skitters to a halt by the tiny puddle in front of her. ‘Five-pence piece. She used it to unscrew the hasp from the wall. I’ve sunk four bolts through the upright and tightened the living hell out of them. She’s going nowhere.’
He walks over and peels the ice-filled tea towel from her forehead. Makes a pained face. ‘You might need a couple of stitches.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, I really think you need stitches.’
Why does no one ever listen to her?
She tries to hold it in, but it claws out anyway: ‘I’m — fine!’
And Raymond flinches, like he’s been slapped. Because it always has to be about him, doesn’t it? Men.
Sally stares at the coin, shiny and glittering as the puddle of meltwater envelopes it. She sighs. ‘I’m sorry. Just... don’t make a fuss.’
He rubs her back, between the shoulder blades, as if that makes up for everything. ‘She’s seen our faces.’
‘I know.’
Then Raymond presses the towel into her hand and marches out of the room, leaving her alone with the shiny five-pence piece.
It’s amazing — Becky’s only five years old, according to the morning news bulletins, and she managed to unscrew her chains with that. Concrete fills the bottom half of Sally’s lungs, dragging her chest down towards the tabletop. A five-year-old, alone and scared. How does this make them any different from the people who took Aiden?
Raymond reappears, carrying a leather satchel. He opens it and pulls out a plastic Ziploc bag. Tips the bag’s contents out in a small pile: blue pills, green pills, white pills, some tiny sheets of paper divided up into squares by perforated lines — like miniature postage stamps. Takes one of the mugs from the draining board and fills it with water. Drops two of the green pills into it.
Because no one ever listens to her. They always have to know best.