Saving a Child From God, page 12
The professor swung the door shut and stalked after him.
“How dare yer!” he shouted, towering over him. “How dare yer come my house!” The boy had curled up and was covering his head. He booted the seat of his jeans and reached down to rip off his headwear. “You goddamn people! Always chuckin’ things over my wall.” He hurled the skull cap at him. “Where’s yer respec’? Huh? Where’s yer bloody respec’?”
The boy started trying to crawl away.
“Where yer think yer goin’?”
He kicked him over onto his back before hauling him to his feet by the front of his blood-splashed T-shirt. An egg-sized swelling was ballooning on his left cheekbone.
“Wonyer ball back? Eh? Is that why yer ’ere?” He furiously shook him. “Answer me, boy!” The blubbing kid kept his head down. “Well, I’ve had enough! Yer hear me? Had enough. Time to teach yer a lesson.”
He grabbed the back of his stick-thin neck and dragged him out to the kitchen. He unlocked the cellar door and pushed it open.
“No...” the boy said.
“Get down there.”
The boy tried to push him off but was far too small and weak. “Why are you... I want my – ”
“Get down there or I’ll throw yer down!”
“Let me go! Please... Let me – ”
He cuffed him repeatedly around the back of the head. “Get down there! Won’t tell yer again.”
The boy tentatively put a hand on the banister, took his first few steps down and looked back.
“Please don’t – ”
The professor shut and locked the door.
“That’ll teach yer...” He hammered on the door. “That’ll teach yer, yer little bastard!”
He stepped away, distracted by the dull throbbing pain creeping along his arm. The gash on his hand had widened. He needed a Band-Aid to hold the flap of skin in place. He turned and traipsed up the stairs, stopping halfway and having to catch his balance. He fell to his knees and clung onto the banister until he could continue. The landing seemed a long way away and it was like wading through glue.
Eventually he made it to the top, entered the bathroom and began rummaging in a wall cabinet. He found the plasters and covered the wound with the biggest he had.
His eyelids felt really heavy. He badly needed to lie down. Just close his eyes for a while and have a nap. Once he woke up everything would be better.
He staggered out of the bathroom, aware of a faint banging coming from somewhere. He found his bedroom, bumped heavily into the doorframe on the way in and tipped face down on the bed.
****
Chapter Eight
With his hand violently shaking on the banister that ran down the left-hand side of the stairs, Abdullah glanced over his shoulder.
“Please don’t – ”
He caught a glimpse of the man’s red, twisted face before the door swung shut and was locked.
Darkness fell upon him.
“No!”
He turned and scrambled back toward the crack of light under the door.
“Let me out! Let me out! Come back!”
He repeatedly yanked on the handle. Then he banged the door with his fists and kept kicking, screaming for the man to return.
Exhausted, he broke off to listen. He heard footsteps going uncertainly up the stairs as if the man were struggling to go in a straight line and then... nothing. His hands hurt from hitting the door while a big toe felt badly bruised.
Panting, he lay on his front and wriggled down the stairs to look through the centimetre-high crack under the door. He could see the legs of a table and the base of a fridge, chest freezer and some cupboards. A broken plate was lying on the lino. He put his mouth up to the crack and shouted.
“Help! Help me!”
He turned and glanced down the rough wooden steps. He counted four before the rest were swallowed up by a deep pit of blackness. Before the door closed he’d caught a glimpse of a crumbling brick face on the right-hand side and a rusty horizontal pipe. It was all disgustingly dirty and he didn’t want to touch any of it.
He huddled onto the top step with his back against the door and squeezed his eyes shut.
“There is none...” he whispered with his hands clenched. “There is none... worthy of worship but Allah! There is none worthy of worship but Allah!”
He sobbed, his breath juddering in and out of his heaving body as he wiped away snot.
He tried to think what to do. He knew he should see if there were anything down in the cellar that could help, but found it impossible to move from the chink of light. His nostrils twitched, full of a damp odour that suggested oil, dust and rotting wood. He touched the swelling under his eye, amazed by its size, and thought about mum and dad. They would come and get him soon.
“Mummy... Daddy... Please...”
Why had this happened? What had he done wrong? Was the man going to kill him?
Then he thought he heard something. He held his shaky breath and listened hard.
The noise came again. Something was slithering along the cellar floor.
A snake.
Or maybe a rat.
A jittery feeling sprang up in his chest. Maybe it was a bald demon with a mashed-up face that was going to tear him apart with its big fangs.
Whatever it was, there was no way he was going down those steps to find out. He’d be much safer staying on the top step near the light. All he had to do was keep really still and not fall asleep and hope the thing went away.
Surely the angry man would come back soon and let him out?
Then he remembered the key in his pocket.
****
Khayla pulled the curtain aside and looked at the sinking sun. “Could you go and get Abdullah? Dinner’ll be ready in about fifteen.”
“Sure.”
“Can you pick up some bread and milk, too? We’re almost out.”
“Bread, milk and Abdullah...? I’m not a multi-tasker, you know. Which one do we really need?”
“I’m sure you’ll work it out.”
Ibrahim kissed her forehead and walked out to the car. He had still not heard from the school governors about the handshake. He didn’t like being in limbo and the whole unfortunate situation was having a noticeable effect on Abdullah. The boy had done very little except mope around the house over the weekend, despite multiple reassurances that he wasn’t in trouble because he hadn’t done anything wrong. To prove it, they’d happily driven him (and his new football) over to the park to play with his friends.
Ibrahim drove down the hill toward the common and turned right into Sainsbury Road. Less than three minutes after leaving the house, he was bumping over the water-filled potholes in the patch of dirt that passed as a car park alongside the park. He pulled out his cigarettes and wound down the window to watch the group of ten or so boys badly playing football. Talk about kick and rush. Halfway through the cigarette, he realised Abdullah wasn’t there.
He sat up and double-checked. No Abdullah. Perhaps he was having a pee in the bushes or something.
A few minutes passed. Ibrahim got out and called to Paul Robbins, one of Abdullah’s best friends. The sandy-haired child waved and ran over.
“Hello, Paul. How are you?”
“Fine, Mr Anwar.”
“Good game?”
“Not bad.” He rubbed at a grass stain on his Barcelona shirt. “I’ve scored six.”
“I can’t see Abdullah. Where is he?”
“He took his ball and went home.”
“Went home? What do you mean? When?”
“’Bout half an hour ago.” Paul pushed his sweaty fringe out of his eyes. “He got into an argument with Darren.”
“About what?”
“Well... it started about how many keepy-ups they could do and they had a competition and Abdullah won...” He swept his troublesome fringe out of his eyes again. “Then Darren pushed him and said he didn’t shake hands with Miss Davies because he didn’t like girls and was gay. Abdullah just took his ball and went.”
He glanced over at Darren, a bigger, none too bright boy who seemed to wear a permanent sneer. He’d once seen him put a hand down the back of his trousers, sniff a finger with a grimace and then run around trying to shove the finger under the other boys’ noses. Ibrahim thought about having a word with the charmless oaf but it would have to wait. He turned and pointed down Sainsbury Road.
“And Abdullah went that way?”
Paul nodded.
“OK. You go back to your game. Thanks for your help.” Ibrahim took out his phone and called Khayla. “Yeah, hi. Is Abdullah back yet?”
“No. Why?”
“The kids here said there was a bit of argy-bargy or something and he left half an hour ago.”
“Oh... Well, maybe he stopped off somewhere on the way or something. Probably just taking the long way round. Don’t forget the bread and milk.”
****
Abdullah jumped up on the stairs and frantically patted his jeans, closing his eyes when he felt the key’s hard outline in the right-hand pocket.
He swallowed.
“Thank you, Allah. Oh, thank you, Allah...”
Now he could get out. Soon he would be away from the angry man and back home with mummy and daddy.
He delved into his jeans and pulled the key out, only for its teeth to snag on the edge of his pocket. His hand came up empty and his attempt at a catch only batted it away. A moment later he heard the key dully strike a wooden step before softly pinging against the stone floor below.
“No... No... No!”
He began whimpering, barely able to believe it. How could he have been so clumsy? The key was his way out and now he’d lost it. It was down in the pit with the snakes and the bald rotting-faced demon.
He sat again, chewing a nail.
“I have to go and get it.”
There was no other choice. But he couldn’t. There were all kinds of bad things down there. They’d seize him in the dark and rip him to shreds.
Better to stay on the top step alive and wait for the man to come back.
But the man was so angry. The man might kill him.
He touched the back of his neck, still able to feel where his fingers had dug in.
But what if the man found the key on the floor when he came back? Then he’d take it away and he’d never get out. The man might also punish him for trying to escape.
He had to try to find the key.
But he didn’t want to go down there.
He took a breath and grabbed the wobbly banister. He lowered a foot onto the next step, half-expecting a hand to come shooting out of the darkness and drag him screaming and bumping down the stairs on his back. His shoulders and chest ached. The air tasted bad. He managed a few steps before the sheer thickness of the dark pushed him back. He ran up again and sat on the top step with his shoulder pressed hard against the door. Then he wrapped his arms around himself and began rocking back and forth.
“There is none worthy of worship but Allah! There is none worthy of worship but Allah!”
He shifted across to the other side of the stairs and searched the cold, dusty brick face with the flat of his hands until they closed on the metal pipe. He pulled but it wouldn’t move.
There was nothing else that could be used as a weapon.
He would have to go into the pit empty-handed.
He shuffled back across to the banister and took a downward step. And then another. With every step, the air grew thicker and more difficult to breathe. He stopped, certain he was near the bottom. Maybe two more steps and he’d be on the cellar floor. He raised a hand in front of his face, barely able to make out any fingers.
“I seek refuge in the perfect words of Allah – which neither the upright nor the corrupt may overcome – from the evil of...” He swallowed, unable to remember the rest. He concentrated, but the words wouldn’t form. “There is none worthy of worship but Allah!”
He knew the next step would take him onto the floor, but couldn’t shake the feeling that there was nothing solid there and he would just fall all the way into hell. Or maybe into a pit of maggots and barbed wire. He turned and clung to the loose banister with both arms in case something tried to drag him away.
Eventually he let go and lay on his stomach, taking great gulps of bad-tasting air. He stretched out a foot very slowly and lowered it, managing to touch the floor with the tip of his trainers.
Even though the floor seemed solid, he grabbed hold of the banister again as he awkwardly shuffled around to beneath the stairs. He walked forward until his forehead touched the rear of a step. Then he squatted and crawled forward on the damp, gritty floor with his knees crunching and popping on things.
A scream kept bubbling away in his throat.
He moved forward as far as he could until the top of his head bumped against the back of one of the lower steps. He swept his hands to the right, his palms bumping over a ring pull, something plastic he couldn’t identify, a piece of glass, the crunchy husks of dead beetles and woodlice, a cardboard tube and something that might have been a small bone.
No key.
He shuffled a couple of feet backward and began the sweep again. He found a short length of wire that might come in useful and stuffed it into a pocket. His right hand neared the wall again and brushed against a thick cobweb. A moment later he distinctly felt the feathery legs of a large spider dash up his bare arm all the way to the elbow and it was too much and he was jumping up and banging his head against the underside of the stairs as he screamed and slapped his arm and anywhere else that the disgusting creature might be.
He held onto the banister again and howled for his mother with mucous running into his mouth. He finally calmed, aware of a stinging pain on his scalp. His fingers found a cut, but when he held them up in front of his eyes to check for blood he couldn’t see anything except a pulsing greyness.
Still able to feel the spider’s tingling path along his arm, he knew he couldn’t get down on his hands and knees again.
Then a thought struck him.
Why not use his feet?
He tutted. “Stupid, stupid...” Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Why had he been crawling around in the disgusting muck?
He stood on one leg, put his arms out to keep his balance and began sweeping with his right foot. It was uncomfortable to keep the sole of his trainer a few millimetres off the floor and he often had to stop to let his aching leg recover. After a thorough five-minute search he touched the damp rear wall. He’d covered the entire area under the stairs. That meant the key hadn’t fallen straight through the stairs but must have bounced off at an angle. He would have to widen the search by moving out from beneath the stairs.
“Help me, Allah... Help me...”
He halted when he thought he heard something squeaking. He listened hard but the sound didn’t come again. The house was completely silent. His shoulders badly ached and he didn’t know why.
Then his sweeping foot touched something small and hard. A surge of excitement pumped though his stomach as he quickly stood on it. Even through the rubber sole of his trainer, he knew it was the key. He dragged it, hearing it grate against the stone. With an overwhelming sense of relief, he squatted and seized it. He tried hard not to cry again as he stood and grabbed the banister. He got back to the base of the stairs and quickly went up them with the key tightly enclosed in a fist.
This time he would not drop it.
But first he prayed, raising his palms up to his face.
“Allah akbar. You alone we worship and from You alone we seek help. Allah akbar. Allah is my Lord. There is no deity but him. On Him is my trust, and to Him do I turn. Allah akbar.”
The keyhole was easy to find because it was letting in a tiny fraction of light from the kitchen. Even so he used an index finger to line everything up very carefully. He was gripping the key so hard that his fingers ached. He pushed it in but knew straightaway that something was wrong. It didn’t properly fit.
He jiggled it in frustration, tried to turn it and then rammed it back and forth. It wouldn’t go in all the way. He finally pulled it out and put his eye against the key hole.
The original key was still in there.
“Knock it. I’ll have to knock it out.”
He thumped the door as hard as he could but the key stayed put. Then he remembered the piece of wire. He pulled it out and straightened it. It was about six inches long. He bent it in half to make it stronger and set about trying to dislodge the key. He poked and prodded, fighting a rising tide of frustration. The wire was too soft and kept bending whenever it met the end of the key. After ten minutes he gave up.
He would have to wait for the key to be removed. He just had to be patient. His key was going to get him out of this terrible place very soon.
It would be a bad idea to keep the key on him. The angry man might find it. Where could he hide it?
He found the metal pipe again and slipped the key behind it.
He sat on the top step and began thumping the door, waiting for the man to open it.
****
Ibrahim took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mr Anwar. This is Mrs Philpott at Tiverby Primary School. How are you?”
Despite the gloss of professional sunniness, he picked up on the tightness in her voice. He glanced across the living room at the slightly surreal sight of a female police officer sitting next to Khayla on the sofa. It’s the school, he mouthed.
“Not so good, actually. Abdullah is missing.”
“Missing...? Whatever do you mean?”
“He hasn’t come home from playing football. The police are here now.”
“Oh... I’m very sorry to hear that. I hope he returns soon. This... This hasn’t got anything to do with – ”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Right. Of course. He’s probably just at a friend’s or something. Is there anything the school can do?”
