Kane’s tough-guy mask slipped a little. Hesitancy replaced his anger. “You really think so?”
“I know so.”
“You want to come in my room? We could play on my Xbox.”
Harlan looked beyond Kane. There was nowhere for him to sit comfortably except Ethan’s bed, which would’ve been like trespassing on something sacred. His gaze moved to the damp patch over the rain-lashed window. Water was seeping down the wall, dripping in a steady stream into a cardboard box crammed full of plastic action-figures and other cheap toys. “It always does that when it rains,” said Kane, following Harlan’s line of vision.
“You’d better move that box.” Harlan started to turn away.
“Where are you going?” There was an anxious edge to Kane’s tone.
“To get a pan or something to catch the drips.”
Harlan went down to the kitchen and rooted through the cupboards until he found a large pan. As he made to take it upstairs, Susan opened her eyes and asked, “How is he?”
“He’s okay. A little shaken up, but okay.”
Susan glanced at the pan. “What’s that for?” When Harlan told her, she heaved a sigh. “The roof’s fucked. I had it fixed a couple of years back, but when it rains hard water gets into the boys’ room.”
“Whoever fixed it didn’t do a very good job then, did they?”
“It wasn’t the roofer’s fault. He wanted to replace some tiles, but I couldn’t afford it. So he just had to patch it up as best he could.”
“Have you got his number?”
Susan shook her head. “He was a mate of Neil’s. I can’t even remember his name.”
“Well we need to get someone out to fix it, otherwise Kane’s going to end up with pneumonia.”
Susan’s breath came with a tremor through her nostrils. She tugged at her hair as if trying to uproot it. “Oh Christ, I can’t handle this. Not now.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll sort it out. You got a Yellow Pages?”
“I think there’s one somewhere around here.” Susan’s gaze skimmed over the piles of missing-person posters.
“I’ll take this up to Kane while you look for it.”
When Harlan got upstairs, Kane had dragged the box away from the wall, exposing a patch of black fungal mush where once there’d been plaster. Harlan placed the pan under the drip. It began to fill slowly but surely. “We need something bigger. That’ll be overflowing in no time. Can you think of anything we could-” He broke off as he turned and saw Kane’s face. The mask had fallen away completely, revealing the fear that lurked behind it.
“He looked at me.” Tears hovered in Kane’s voice. “At the police station, that man Mum went for, he looked at me, and I looked at him, and, and…” He trailed off, trying to choke back the tears now forming in his eyes, lowering his head as if he was ashamed.
Harlan put his hands on Kane’s shoulders. The boy tensed a little, but didn’t pull away. “Look at me, Kane.” Kane reluctantly met his eyes. “You don’t need to worry about him. He won’t ever be able to hurt you. They’re going to put him in prison and never let him out.”
“What if he escapes?”
“He won’t. They’ll lock him away in the deepest darkest hole they’ve got. Do you hear?”
Kane nodded. Some, but not all, of the fear left his eyes. Harlan squeezed his shoulders. “Good. Now keep an eye on that pan.” He returned to Susan, who was in the kitchen, making tea. She pointed to a Yellow Pages on the table. He flicked through it, phoning roofers until he found one willing to come as soon as it stopped raining. Susan handed him a mug. It felt heavy as a rock as he lifted it to his lips. “I think I need to lie down.”
“What you need is something to eat. Get yourself on the sofa and I’ll bring you a sandwich.”
Harlan went through to the living-room and slumped onto the sofa. He was asleep within seconds. When he awoke, there was a sandwich waiting for him on the arm of the sofa. As he took a bite, his attention was drawn to the window by the clatter of a ladder outside. He rose and peered between the curtains. It’d stopped raining. A pair of workmen’s boots disappeared up the ladder. “They came while you were sleeping,” said Susan, entering the room and sitting down.
Harlan returned to the sofa and finished his sandwich. There was a knock. Raising a hand to indicate Susan should stay put, Harlan answered the door. “Alright, mate,” said a rugged-faced man. “I’ve had a look at your roof and someone’s done a right bodge job. They’ve slapped a load of bitumen over your busted slates. I ain’t got nothin’ with me to fix it properly today, but I can put another coat of bitumen on it. That’ll keep you dry for a few days, until I can get back.”
Harlan glanced inquiringly at Susan. She nodded, and he said to the roofer, “Do it.”
Harlan sat listening to the roofer working and Susan busying herself in the kitchen, and trying not to listen to the remorseless ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. The faint acrid smell of bitumen mingled with the scent of whatever Susan was cooking, making him feel a touch queasy. Tick, tick, tick. The clock seemed to be getting louder with every passing second. The sound of it got inside him, reverberating along his bones, echoing in his skull. How much longer? How much longer would Nash hold out? How much longer could Ethan survive? Tick, tick, tick. Even in his weakened state, he fidgeted restlessly. He wanted to do something, even if that something was only scouring the streets for Ethan or handing out leaflets. But he knew he didn’t have the strength for it. All he had the strength to do was sit and wait and listen. Tick, tick, tick…
His mobile phone rang. He snatched it out. A number he didn’t recognise flashed up. Heart hammering, he answered it. “Mr Harlan Miller?” said an unfamiliar male voice.
“Yes.”
“My name’s Guy Farrell of C and G Solicitors. I’m calling on behalf of Jamie Sutton’s-”
“Get off the fucking line, and don’t tie this phone up again. You hear?” Without waiting for a reply, Harlan hung up.
“Who was that?” asked Susan, poking her worry-lined face into the room.
“No one important.”
Harlan closed his eyes, massaging his temples. The details of Ethan’s abduction and everything that’d happened since reeled through his brain, like a movie on endless repeat. Occasionally he pressed pause to examine some minutiae or other, trying to figure out if it was the piece that would solve the puzzle. The piece that would deliver Ethan to him. But the solution remained maddeningly elusive. He felt as helpless and impotent as when Tom died. It made him want to shout, to scream, to weep. Tick, tick, tick. His fingers dug painfully into his temples. His eyes snapped open at a knock on the front door. He rose to answer it.
“All done,” said the roofer. He started to bang on about prices and materials, but his words barely registered on Harlan’s brain. He just kept nodding, until the man turned and got into his van.
Susan called Harlan and Kane to the kitchen. Relieved to get away from the clock, Harlan mechanically shovelled pasta down his throat without tasting it. Kane ate as if he were in a trance. He answered with only the slightest of nods when Harlan asked if he’d emptied out the pan. Once his plate was empty, he rose without asking permission to leave the table, and returned upstairs. Susan didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t seem to care. She wiped and re-wiped the work-surfaces, rubbing almost frantically at invisible stains. Harlan watched her, knowing what was coming. She stopped suddenly, and her head dropped onto her arms on the work-surface. Her shoulders quaked in time to her muffled sobs. Harlan rose and put his hand on her back. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, willing her the strength to go on. Her head jerked up at a knock on the door.
“I’ll go see who it is,” said Harlan. Peering through the living-room curtains, he saw the dishevelled figure of Neil. “Persistent son-of-a-bitch,” he murmured, with a wry smile of appreciation.
“Who is it?” Susan hissed from the opposite doorway.
Before Harlan could say, Neil’s voice rang out as if in answer. “Susan, it’s me. I know you’re in there and…and I know you still have feelings for me. If I’m wrong, tell me and I’ll leave you alone.”