Separate tracks, p.19
Separate Tracks, page 19
“I mean it.”
They argued in the kitchen for some time. Alison was in favour of calling the police immediately, Phil wanted to play for time. “If we can keep it quiet for long enough, Emma will be back anyway. Then she can sort him out.”
“But he’s insane. And what if the bloke’s badly hurt? He was unconscious—he wasn’t moving, Phil!”
“What’s the time?” It was only 7.30. “There’s no way she’ll be back before 11, that’s nearly four hours—”
“If we went and asked them—”
“That’s what he wants us to do.”
“Yes, but—yes.” They sat in silence for a moment; the situation was absurd beyond belief.
Orph stood listening by his door. He couldn’t hear anything. The policeman was conscious again, Orph had seen him shift position and heard him groan. He took no notice. He needed to piss but there was nowhere in the room to do it. He paced up and down a couple of times then screamed with all his might. “P H I L!”
There were scuttling footsteps, and Phil’s voice on the other side of the door. “Yes. Orph? Orph?”
“Do what I said.”
“Orph, let me in a minute please. Orph, you’re being childish—you don’t understand—”
After a pause, Orph said, “Fuck off.”
Phil went slowly down again. Alison beckoned him into the front room, and pointed to the window. A police car, driving very slowly, was just disappearing from view. “I’m going to ring them.”
Phil grimaced and turned away.
“Well what else can we do?”
Chapter 41
A police car arrived six minutes later. They had been at the end of the street. They’d already found the helmet. The dark uniformed men filled up the hall. Alison took them into the kitchen, and told them as much as she knew. “Where’s his room?” asked the one in charge. He went upstairs and listened at the door. There was no sound. Softly he tried the handle. It was locked.
Orph’s voice sounded very close. “Who’s that?”
“It’s the police. Open up please, sonny.”
“No.”
The chief inspector put his ear to the door. “Let me speak to the man you’ve got.”
“No. Where’s Emma?”
“Well how do I know he’s alive? I must see him.”
There was a sudden sound of frantic activity, a heavy piece of furniture being shifted across the doorway. When Orph spoke again his voice was muffled and breathless. “You can see through the window. Go in the garden.”
Chief Inspector Pike ran downstairs into the back garden. The uncut grass was soaking and heavy with dew. He stepped back and looked up at the house. At the left hand window upstairs a boy’s face was looking down. A pinched white face, with short sandy hair sticking up above it. “He’s only a kid,” Pike muttered to himself, and glanced along the row of sleeping houses where curtains were still drawn. He beckoned to his other men and they came out and stood with him, looking up. The boy’s face disappeared, and a gagged head came into sight. It was low down. He must be crouching or sitting.
“Open the window,” shouted the chief inspector. The boy shook his head. They could barely make him out, through the white reflections of the clouds on the glass. “Could be anything,” muttered the chief inspector. “The whole thing could be a bloody joke—could be a giant teddy he’s got in there.”
“But where’s Neep?”
“Yes. Where’s Neep?” Chief Inspector Pike stepped back again, shading his eyes against the glare of the light. Two heads were just visible, the white face of the boy and the other, gagged head. Pike sighed. Could be something or nothing, this. Some student joke probably. But mixed up with those demonstrators. They were a nasty crew. Found some lead piping on one. But the lad’s mad—He could not take it in, first thing in the morning—bobby on the beat disappears—a hysterical girl says a boy in her house has kidnapped him; the lad demands freedom for a load of people who’re about to be freed anyway, and stands there waiting for something to be done, with a knife at Neep’s throat. It’s 8 o’clock in the morning, people are having their cups of tea, wrapping themselves in dressing gowns and shuffling off to bathrooms up and down the street, turning on their radios and picking up babies from cots—it’s impossible.
He turned to the man beside him. “Go up and tell him it’s not good enough. We need to see Neep and hear him speak before we can start anything. Tell him to open the window.”
The boy’s face disappeared from the window. After a minute he came back, moved a catch and struggled to lift the sash. It was stuck. He hit it around the sides and managed to heave it halfway up.
It’s not possible. Pike told himself. He’s not got the strength. Are there two of them? Are they all in it? He cupped his hands to his mouth. Have all the neighbours out gawping soon. “Right, lad. I want to see my man and I want to hear him say he’s all right.”
Orph turned and the gagged head came into view clearly now.
“That you, Neep?” Chief Inspector Pike saw that it was. “Neep, you all right?” He saw the boy strike the other across the head and his blood suddenly ran cold.
Neep nodded.
The boy leaned forward through the window, holding out a long black knife. It looked like the family carver. Probably blunt. But Pike saw with dread that there was something wrong with the boy. Something strange about his face: he looked subnormal.
“He’s all right,” said the boy. His high voice carried clearly in the still morning air. “I got him. I got him—none of you could stop me. I crept up behind him—he’s stupid, see, like all you pigs—I crept up behind him and hit him—easy. And I got him here. On my own. And now you’re gonna do what I want. You’re gonna do those demands or I’ll stick him. With this. It’s sharp.”
There was a pause. “And I’m not scared of doing it.” He turned suddenly and slapped Neep viciously across the face.
The chief inspector took a step forward, his fists clenching by his sides. “What’s your name?”
The boy stared at him. “Dick.”
“It’s not!” escaped from Alison, who had run out after them. The chief inspector looked at her. “Orph,” she said.
“Orf?”
“Yes.”
“Right Orf. Listen carefully. I don’t think you realize quite how serious this is.” His heart sank as he spoke the useless words. The boy was a nutter. And this was going to be a fucking mess. A real fucking mess. “What I want you to do is to drop that knife down here to me and unlock your door so my men can come in. Stand to one side, no one’ll hurt you. Let us get Constable Neep and then we can all sit down and have a talk about what it is you want. Right?”
Orph leant forward and hissed at them, “Fucking pigs. Fucking liars. I know what you do. You’ll never get me—you’re never gonna kick me around—never. Let Emma go. Let them all go. Now!” Gasping and heaving he struggled to shut the window, and yanked the gagged head out of sight.
The chief inspector talked to his men for a minute and they moved off in different directions around the house and garden. He took Alison and Phil into the kitchen and shut the door. “Right. Sit down. Now, what’s he going to do?”
“I should get Emma here.” Phil’s voice was eager. “That’s why he’s done it. He thinks she needs freeing.”
Pike glanced at his watch. “Is he all right in the head? How long have you known him?”
They looked at each other. “Yes—” both together, too quickly.
“Yes,” Alison went on. “He’s been here six months. Emma knew him before. He’s all right, he’s never done anything—”
“Right.” Pike stood up. “He’s under pressure now and he could crack anytime. I want my man out of there quickly and safely. We’ll go into the details afterwards. Anyone else he’d listen to? Mother, girlfriend?” They shook their heads. “She was on this Lowfield business yesterday, was she? Second name?” He took a little radio from his pocket and spoke rapidly into it. “—and pull up at the corner. I want to speak to her before she comes in here. OK.”
Alison suddenly pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “This. I forgot—he gave it to me first thing this morning. It’s for Emma.” The chief inspector glanced at his watch again, and unfolded the piece of paper.
Chapter 42
TO EMMA emma i am gowing going to fre you. i got a pig kin kidnaped in my room and he carnt go til your fre tel them i got im last nite in the stret and i will damidg im if they dont what i say.
1 FREE YOU
2 AND THE OTHERS WAT THEY GOT YISTE YESTEDAY
3 PROMIS NEVER AREST ENY OF US FOR ENYTHING AGEN
sined orph.
ps. else its the nife for the pig
Emma looked up from the paper, towards the house a hundred yards down the street. The street was blocked off and there were two police cars outside. The tall policeman who had got into the car next to her started talking quickly. She watched the lines around his mouth appear and disappear as he talked. The driver was just staring forwards. As if he was deaf, she thought.
The policeman stopped talking, he was looking at her. She looked at the note again. She had never seen Orph’s writing before. “Well?” he said.
“What—” her voice came out in a croaky whisper. She coughed to clear her throat. “What must I do?”
“He’s in his room with my man, and he won’t open the door. We’re going to go into the garden—right? Out the back—” she was aware that he was speaking to her kindly. “. . . just talk to him naturally. You can see what he’s asking for; right, tell him he’s got what he wants, you’re free, and nobody’s going to get hurt. What he must do is drop the knife out the window, open the door and just sit there quietly while we get the injured man out. He’s het up, so try to keep him calm, just agree with him, let him know he’s got what he wants—”
Emma twisted the note in her lap. “What—” Her voice was gone again. “What about this?” She pointed to the second of the three demands.
The man looked at her. “Yes, tell him it’s all right—everything.”
“But—” she folded the note up tightly. “What’ll happen to him?”
The chief inspector glanced out of the window. “We’ll talk about that afterwards. Just get him out, for starters. Are you ready?”
She nodded, and the car slid on towards the house. When she got out, it was terribly quiet and everything was very distinct and bright, as if the air had been taken away and there was nothing in between things. They went into the house. There were two policemen in the hall and two at the top of the stairs. They made it look small and dark. The policeman indicated the kitchen door. Alison and Phil were sitting in there. They stared at her without speaking. She noticed that Alison had been crying.
“Into the garden, then,” said the tall policeman. They all stood up. “You two stay here,” he told Alison and Phil. “I don’t want anyone hurt.”
Emma followed him out on to the wet grass. Lots of people had walked on it, it was all trampled down. The garden looked strange. There was something black by the fence. Then she saw that it was a policeman, crouching there. He held a gun. She tugged at the tall policeman’s arm but he just nodded as if it was quite normal for there to be a man with a gun crouched by the fence. He took her to the middle of the lawn and turned her round. She looked up at the house, blinking in the light. Another man was crawling along the edge of the roof. All the windows reflected the clouds. The house was as calm as a house in a postcard, except for that odd figure edging along the top, crawling like a fly with its wings stuck together. She forgot why she was there.
The tall policeman stepped back, shading his eyes with his hands, scanning the house. Then he talked into his radio, to someone in the house. “Tell him we’ve got her outside. He’ll have to open the window.” Emma located Orph’s window, and watched half a white cloud slide across it. It was tranquil and quiet. Even the birds had stopped singing.
A movement distracted her and she saw that people were leaning out of the upstairs windows, next door but one. As if they were watching a play, she thought. Then Orph’s white face loomed into view at his window, like a fish coming to the side of a large murky tank. He leaned forward and heaved up the bottom half of the window.
“Orph!” She stepped forward. That’s what the man had said; he was in his room, they would talk through the window. It must be true then. He stood a little back from the open window, white face with black features like the holes in a mask.
She remembered that face, he had come out of the kitchen a long time ago, when she was lying in the sun; he had been carrying a yellow plastic bag, and his toes sticking out the end of his sneakers. She stood still staring up.
The policeman was talking to her. With a jolt, she turned her attention to him. “Tell him. Go on.”
“Orph—it’s me. They’ve let me out, Orph.”
The mask stared down, it could have been on a stick. Her mouth was dry. She had no words. The man on the roof was testing a rope he had tied to the thing in the middle. Now he leaned outwards and looked down to Orph’s window.
She tried again. “Orph. I’m free. Because of you. They let me go.”
He didn’t move. They all stood in silence, as if the film had stopped.
At last she managed to break it, half turning her head to the policeman. “What must I say?”
The man’s voice was brisk and irritated. “Tell him to come down for God’s sake. Tell him to throw out the knife and open the door.”
She watched Orph as the policeman spoke. He took a step nearer the window, as if to try and hear what the man was saying. She heard a sudden movement behind her, and shouted up, “Orph! Keep back—take care, they’ve got guns!” The mask retreated.
The policeman grabbed her elbow, pinching her. “Tell him to open the door,” he said fiercely.
She saw that crocuses were coming up under the kitchen window, the yellow ones already blitzed by the birds. In her bedroom window was a pot of blue hyacinths. The air was bright, it seemed to tremble and shiver. “Orph,” she said, calling to him now she could hardly see him. “Will you throw out the knife now and come down. You can see I’m here. It’s all right.”
The mouth in the mask moved. She couldn’t hear. It moved again. “Tell them to go away.”
“I—but Orph, they won’t—until you let him go.”
Silence.
The policeman touched her arm again. She opened her mouth and more words came out. “You can—they’ll do everything you say. Your demands. Throw down the knife, Orph!” The man with the rope was beginning to come down the front of the house, very slowly. Transfixed, she watched him. Orph suddenly bent and vanished, then reappeared closer to the window, dragging another man by the shoulder. He pushed the man against the windowsill—he must be kneeling on the floor. Just his head and shoulders were visible. Orph stood behind him, above him. She saw that there was a black pointed thing clutched in his hand.
“Tell them—” the voice was high and childish “—tell them to go away.”
She knew they wouldn’t. The man with the rope was coming down, infinitely slowly and carefully—he stopped now at a signal from the chief inspector. “They won’t, Orph. Please, throw it away. Let him go. They’ll do it, Orph, your demands, what you said. Look, I’m free—”
The white mask stared at her, old and cynical. He opened his mouth once. “Liar.”
“Orph—it’ll be all right—just let him go—it’ll be all right.”
“LIAR!” he shouted. The mask cracked and there was a child up there crying, a betrayed child sobbing in the dark window space, words spilling out, “Liar—liar—they told you to say that—they brought you here—they told you—liars—all of you—liars—” his white face dark and broken into moving pieces. The chief inspector moved quickly and the man on the rope landed on the windowsill, instantly. The noise.
Emma saw it clearly, each detail crystal clear. He landed. Orph must have sensed his shadow, because he was crying, eyes screwed up—the man landed and there came a terrible scream from Orph’s black mouth and the arm with the knife came down fast like a machine on to the gagged figure. And in the same instant of time, there was movement behind her and the noise—and the child’s white face had vanished and the man was half in the window and everything rocked with the crashing of the shot
and though she had seen it all, every fraction of a second, her eyes hadn’t caught that fraction—or hadn’t registered it—the fraction which she realized later had been there right before her eyes—the vital fraction—when Orph’s living crying face had been stopped by the bullet that pierced a small neat hole in his cheek and a big ragged one in the top of his skull, and splattered his brains and blood in an arc across the ceiling of his room.
Jane Rogers, Separate Tracks
