Earlier, when the whole thing changed, when Molina turned to him in the corridor, his orang-utan head pushed forward, glasses misted, the knife held to Oliver’s throat, his thoughts went into slow motion. Like Matilda, he had accepted the reality of these two men being cops and it took a jump to adjust to the realization that they weren’t police at all and that Kable wasn’t really stalking the woods outside. Likewise his stubborn refusal now to give up that hard-won interpretation and see that the tables have turned again and that these men aren’t merely opportunistic thieves. They are back and there is even more to this story than meets the eye.
Oliver wants to resist, it’s in his nature to, but he can feel the subtle pulling in his chest where the doctors have opened him up. He can imagine that scar unzippering. He’s made a decision not to struggle. He knows enough about hostage situations to know that the victim’s best window of opportunity is in the first few moments. The family’s chance to fight back has already come and gone.
Bear scratches frantically at the place her collar is hoisting her off the floor. Honey stops and gives her a long look. Then he walks to the centre of the room. Every movement is theatrical in its nature – as if this is one huge play. There is something beyond that performance of his – a nervy self-consciousness maybe – which makes Oliver even more scared. As if something in Honey could lose control at any moment.
Lucia has turned her back to the room and sullenly lowered her face, her shoulders hunched up, her attention focused on her hands, manacled to the fridge door. It’s the same attitude she used to adopt as a teenager in her room whenever Matilda or Oliver reprimanded her for anything. She’d shut out the world by studying whatever homework or subject she could find to block out the attention. He hopes she can block this out the same way.
He tries to study the handcuffs. They’re chainlink, not the speciality Hiatt ones the UK police use, but something American. Very strong, very efficient. He tries to think which company made them – Bianchi or Chicago or Winchester – hoping it will give him a clue as to who these men are. Anything to avoid looking at Matilda. She’s in the periphery of his vision, though. Just the bottom half of her. Her right leg on the tiled floor. She’s wearing slacks and comfortable gardening shoes. He’s glad she isn’t wearing a skirt.
Honey stops at the table and holds the carrier bag in the air. Then with a small smile he upends it. Everything tumbles out on to the table. He begins to sort through it calmly, collecting up the folded cash that’s come from Oliver’s wallet. He holds it in front of him and inspects it, as if it was a huge curiosity. It isn’t a lot of money, thinks Oliver. Only a hundred pounds at most, but he’s making a big thing of it.
‘That,’ he says with a frown. ‘Is an irritation to me.’
‘An irritation?’ Molina’s voice is so automatic it could be a puppet’s. ‘How so?’
‘An irritation that these people could mistake us for the sort of scum that would do a house raid.’
‘A house raid? We’re not here for a house raid.’
‘Of course we’re not. Of course we’re not. People assume things too easily.’ Honey uses his fingers to fan out the money. ‘Look at this. People have a fatal attraction to this. And it never occurs to them how easily it can disappear.’
He produces a cigarette lighter from his pocket and holds it under the wad of notes. It takes a moment to catch light, and when it does he drops it into the sink, standing back to watch it burn.
‘What is this all about?’ Oliver asks. ‘Are you friends of Kable? Do you know him?’
Honey turns and regards him coolly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Kable? I know of him – of course I know of him. But as far as I’m aware, he’s still in that high-secure unit they locked him in. Best place for him, considering what he did to those kids. You don’t do the things he did with their insides, decorating trees with them and such, and expect to get away with it. Do you, Mr Molina?’
‘No. You don’t.’
‘Then why did you do all of this?’ asks Oliver. ‘What’s your agenda? What do you want?’
Honey smiles patiently. ‘You’re a sick man, Mr Anchor-Ferrers. Please, don’t waste your breath.’
‘If we don’t know what you want, how can we help you?’
Honey thinks about this, his mouth pursed. At length he nods reasonably, as if it’s dawning on him Oliver has a point. ‘Fair enough – since you’re being generous enough to offer to help me, I’ll do that. I’ll tell you what we want.’
Oliver can sense Matilda and Lucia both holding their breath. ‘Please do.’ He has to fight to keep his voice steady. Polite. ‘Please do explain.’
‘We want you to be scared.’
There’s a moment’s silence. Then Oliver speaks. ‘OK. Well, you’ve achieved that. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you. But actually, when I say scared, I mean really scared. Let’s say your current rating on the scared gauge is – oh, I dunno, I’m plucking at numbers here, but let’s say it’s at four now. What me and my partner are aiming for is a ten rating.’
‘You want us to be scared? Is that all?’
Honey laughs. ‘Well, only having you scared would be pointless, wouldn’t it? That wouldn’t achieve much. So of course it’s more than that. Of course we want something.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No – the first stage is to scare you. Like I said: let’s aim for that ten. And when you’ve reached a ten, when you’re so scared that you’d do anything, anything at all, then we’ll tell you what we want. Call it a way of ensuring you do what we ask.’
‘Desperation,’ Molina says, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘True desperation.’
‘That’s right, Mr Molina. Desperation is a kind of holy state, if you ask me.’ Honey wafts the smoke from the burning notes in the sink. Peers at them with interest. ‘Did you ever see that film Hunger Games?’
‘No.’ Molina shakes his head. ‘Can’t say I did.’
‘Well, don’t worry – you didn’t miss much. Dumb-ass film, where all these stupid Hollywood cute kids go around killing each other just to save their own skins. Desperation, like you say.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ says Molina.
‘Not very.’ Honey turns on the tap to douse the smouldering money, watching the fizz and steam. He pushes the ashes down the drain, sloshes water around and wipes the sink clean. Then he dries his hands on a tea-towel. He turns and seems surprised to see the family all staring at him silently.
‘Hey, stop looking at me like that. What’s going to happen here is not going to be anything like that stupid movie. It’s a ridiculous premise – so just you put that idea right out of your minds. You understand me? Just put it right out of your minds now.’
Dog Food
MATILDA’S BEEN FIGHTING tears so long, but now there’s no holding back. She can’t wipe them away, so she has to content herself with turning her face and burying it in the sleeve of her blouse. Her eyes leak soundlessly into the material.
A noise. She looks up. Honey stands at the other side of the table, licking his fingers as if he’s trying to cool them down. Then, with his hands folded around his middle, he bends over to peer down at the pile of jewellery.
‘These must have cost a lot. I can see a lot of good things in here.’ He shakes his head, as if what people spend, and what they spend it on, will never cease to amaze him. ‘A lot of good things.’
‘Molina’, who is smoking a very thin cigar which he keeps moving between his teeth as if he thinks he’s in a Clint Eastwood movie, cups his hands for DI Honey to drop a handful of the jewellery into. Matilda can see her wedding ring and her necklace tangled in his thick fingers. Molina stands for a moment, looking round the kitchen, as if trying to find the most inappropriate place to dump the jewellery. It’s probably going to be the waste disposal. The waste disposal fits with the way these men are acting.
But Molina does neither of these things. Instead he goes to Bear’s bowl and drops
the gold into the food, then he crouches next to it and makes sure the dog food coats it thoroughly.
Honey has crossed to the sink where Bear is still scratching at her neck and hopping from foot to foot.
‘Don’t touch her!’ Lucia says.
Honey raises his eyes to her and smiles. It’s a vague, idiot smile as if he can’t quite work out where the sound came from. Then he unsnaps Bear’s lead from the collar and, before the dog can scuttle away, grabs her up in one hand. Bear twists and struggles but he carries her to the table, puts her down and leans over, both elbows placed on either side of the tiny dog’s ribcage to hold her steady. Honey raises his eyes expectantly to Molina, who is juggling the dog food and jewellery from one hand to the other as if he’s working a ball of dough.
‘What are you looking at?’ Honey says calmly, not raising his eyes to Oliver, who is watching the men closely, his eyes flitting to and fro, the way he does when he’s concentrating. ‘What do you think you’re staring at?’
‘You.’
Honey pauses, as if he’s wondering whether to take offence. But eventually he merely smiles and applies pressure to Bear’s neck.
‘Don’t hurt the dog,’ Oliver says calmly. ‘There’s no need to hurt the dog.’
Honey doesn’t look at him. ‘Shut up. At least learn that – when to shut up.’
He leans his chest down and presses his weight on to Bear’s backbone, reaching up his forearms to Bear’s face. With his thumb and forefingers he prises her jaw open. Bear throws her head from side to side, but Honey holds steady and looks meaningfully at Molina.
‘Do it. Don’t wait. Do it now.’
Molina breaks away a chunk of the mess of gold and dog food and begins to palm it into the dog’s mouth. The dog convulses, her back legs twitching, her head thrashing, but the men are intent on their objective. When Molina seems to hesitate, Honey grabs the food from him and pushes it into the dog’s mouth – ramming his hand deep past the animal’s teeth, not reacting when Bear twists like a snared fox.
‘No! You shouldn’t be doing that,’ Lucia yells from the fridge. ‘That’s not necessary. Not at all.’
Honey ignores her. He holds the dog’s mouth closed, his face a mask of concentration, his gaze not on the dog but on the ceiling, waiting patiently for the animal to swallow the mouthful.
‘There.’ He releases Bear and steps back from the table, his hands open. ‘There – good girl. Good girl.’
The dog, suddenly free, doesn’t run but lies down flat on the table, coughing and groping at her jaw with her paws. Lucia lets out a long breath. She turns away and rests her forehead against the fridge door.
‘What is it, Lucia?’ Honey calmly drops the rest of the dog food into the bin. He washes his hands at the sink. ‘What? Did the jewellery mean that much to you?’
She doesn’t look at him. She keeps her forehead to the fridge.
‘OK.’ He claps his hands. ‘OK, OK. The show’s over, folks! Let’s move this party out of here to somewhere safer.’
Normal and Healthy
WHAT NO ONE in this room has noticed is that Lucia isn’t as switched off as she’s making out. In reality she’s on red alert. She’s got her head down, she’s made her eyes quite opaque-looking, but actually she’s monitoring everything. She’s listened to Bear being tortured, she’s listening to her squirming, and although it’s killing her, she finds the strength to turn away. She could easily crack over this part of it, but she won’t. She will contain it. Because Lucia Anchor-Ferrers is going to win this game.
She keeps her face to the fridge. A line keeps coming to her, something her counsellors made her repeat when she was in therapy after Hugo and Sophie were killed:
I am not stupid, I am not ugly or unattractive. I am a completely normal, healthy girl.
She repeats it over and over, reminding herself of what the therapists all said; that people can look at her, they can hear her speak, and they can make judgements. They can think she’s lawless and wrong because of her spiked hair and pale complexion. They can think that just because she wears black and studs in her ears she’s some sort of hooligan. But the important thing is that the only person who can know for sure what Lucia is, is Lucia. And at this moment Lucia is in complete control.
She concentrates on the record the two men are leaving. The record is the crucial thing. The good thing about having a father like Oliver is that he knows every modern gadget and has access to the newest security systems. Yes, the men may have tampered with the alarm to stop it working, but what they don’t know is the house is networked with invisible lenses. Although Dad’s the one who’s put them there, he hasn’t mentioned them today – not once – and Mum, if she has any sense, any sense at all, won’t mention it either. The men haven’t worked out the camera thing, whereas over the years she has had plenty of time to think about the system and the angles it covers. Even today, she’s still finding new places, new pockets it’s missed. While Bear is crying on the table, she scans the angles, finding parts of the kitchen that provide the best perspectives for the lenses, where the men’s faces will be best captured.
If people think they can control Lucia Anchor-Ferrers they can think again. She is perfectly capable of taking charge of this situation. It’s only a matter of time …
She tilts her chin slightly and opens an eye to look across the kitchen. The two men are talking to Dad.
The man who calls himself DI Honey unnerves her. He is so odd-looking, with tight curls and a shiny bald crown. He’s not a cop, of course, any idiot could deduce that. And Honey isn’t his real name, though it’s the only one she has for him. She has to admit the choice is clever – the way it connects with sweetness and purity and things that are trustworthy.
Now he is holding out a small pale pink container to Dad. She recognizes it as his heart pills. Since the operation he’s had a gazillion pills to swallow every day, something for every system in his body, it seems.
‘What do you need?’ Honey opens the lid and surveys the different pills. ‘Which ones?’
Dad is slow to respond. He’s not sure if this is another trick.
‘Come on.’ Honey shakes the box impatiently. ‘It’s your last chance.’
‘The section in the top right. All of those.’
‘Open your mouth.’
Honey tips the pills into his hand and places them on Dad’s tongue. Then he stands and fetches a glass of water from the sink and holds it to his lips. Dad swallows painfully. The water dribbles down his chin. Satisfied the pills are gone, Honey closes the case and tips the remaining water into the sink. Lucia casts a quick look at her mother, wondering whether she’s worked out that this means the men are serious, that they mean to scare the family. That they want them all alive in the process. And that it’s going to take time.
Honey’s shirt is laundry white and starched, his suit sober, just like a real cop. He bends and uses his shoulder to push up the table. Mum instantly pulls her hands back, but before she can get away he slams his foot down into the space between her arms. She ends up with her body canted towards him, embracing his leg.
‘Get up.’ He lifts his foot to release her, grabs the back of her blouse. Before she can react, he pulls her to her feet. She stands unsteadily, her cuffed hands half raised in front of her face, ready to fend off any blows, should they come. He pauses and glances at Bear, who is still choking and shaking her head as if to free something.
‘It’s going to puke everywhere,’ he tells Molina. ‘And if there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s dog puke. Something needs to happen to it – deal with it.’
Lucia can’t contain herself. She jerks at the handcuffs. ‘Let me have my dog. Please don’t touch her. Leave her alone.’
A shadow crosses Honey’s face at this. He is motionless for a while then very slowly he turns to her. He looks her up and down, letting his eyes travel over her legs. He smiles.
‘Nice to see you. Welcome to the party, pretty girl.’
&
nbsp; ‘I just want my dog. I don’t want her hurt.’
‘I want, I want,’ he mimics. ‘“I want” doesn’t get – didn’t Mummy tell you that? Or has Mummy been slack in her parenting skills?’ He gives Matilda a shake, making her head flip violently forward and backwards on her neck. ‘Slack slack. Slack slack. Have you been slack?’
‘Please,’ Lucia says. ‘Just let me have my dog. Please.’
‘I give the orders, not you. What you want doesn’t come into it any more, haven’t you worked that one out – with all your brain cogs turning over there?’ He jerks his chin at Molina. ‘Take her upstairs, then deal with the dog. I don’t care what you do with it, just make sure it doesn’t stay with her.’
Honey puts a knee in the back of Mum’s leg and nudges her forward. She walks clumsily to the door, not looking at anyone as she goes. Dad makes a small sound in his throat as they leave the room – a tiny whimper – then he drops his head. He must be crying. Lucia averts her eyes, sickened.
Molina takes the leash from the back of the door and secures Bear to the handle of one of the cupboards. Then he comes over to Lucia. She raises her eyes to his, expecting some communication, but gets none. His eyes are shuttered, turned in on themselves. He uses a key to unclip the cuffs – she’s amazed by how slickly he does this, as if it’s habitual, like cleaning his teeth – then recuffs them behind her back.
‘Please can I have my dog with me. Please.’
‘You heard what he said.’
He pushes her towards the door. She resists a fraction, just to give her father one last look, then allows Molina to push her out of the door.