Saving a Child From God, page 13
“Not at this point. I’m sure the police will contact you if they need anything.”
“Of course... This is a bit of a shock. I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes.”
“But Tiverby’s a very safe place. In all my years of teaching, we’ve never... I mean, they wander off all the time, that’s children, you can’t keep an eye on them 24-7 and – ”
“If you don’t mind, I have to speak to the police now.”
“Of course. As for our other... business, I’ll contact you at a more appropriate time. Please keep me informed about Abdullah and don’t hesitate to ask for help.”
“Thank you.”
Ibrahim put the phone away and glanced at the darkness pressing up against the window. He got up on slightly unsure legs, recalling the time Abdullah had told him about flying with the birds. He closed the curtains and did his best to answer the police’s questions. Yes, Abdullah was a happy child. No, they weren’t aware of anyone threatening him recently. No, he wasn’t being bullied. No, he hadn’t mentioned anyone hanging around the school or home. No, he wasn’t allowed a mobile phone. Yes, he had been warned about the dangers of getting into a stranger’s car.
The police continued to ask questions and make notes while indicating what would happen next. Given Abdullah’s age and stable circumstances, the matter was being treated as a priority, although they stressed that most missing persons turned up within forty-eight hours. Local hospital admissions had already been checked, CCTV footage was being reviewed, a Child Rescue Alert had been sent to the media, Abdullah’s details would shortly be added to the Police National Computer database and a full-scale search would begin at first light.
It all sounded most comprehensive, although Ibrahim found himself listening in a vaguely befuddled way. He couldn’t quite take everything in. Abdullah should be here right now being bathed by Khayla before she read him a bedtime story.
After an hour or so, the two police officers stepped outside to confer. He got up, sat next to his wife and held her tightly.
“Oh, Ibrahim...”
“He’ll come back. Don’t fret. Any minute now. They’ll find him. You’ll see.”
“We should have got him a mobile.”
He stiffened. “Khayla... Don’t...”
“What?”
“We agreed a six-year-old child does not need a smart phone. I am not having him looking at... having any contact with that filth on the internet.”
“But we could’ve just got him an ordinary phone, one that wasn’t connected to the – ”
“Why are you always questioning my decisions these days?” He took his arm away and stood. “You keep undermining me. I know how to raise my son.”
“I am sorry, I don’t mean to, but... I just think some flexibility, some compromise can sometimes be for the best. Did you not see how the police looked at us when we said he didn’t have a phone? Like... like we’d been negligent or something.”
“We haven’t been negligent. What are you talking about? We are excellent parents and we have been raising Abdullah in exactly the right way.” He paced the room. “He is a very happy, well-adjusted child. You heard what the school said about him the other day.” Ibrahim resisted the urge to go outside and smoke again. He’d already gone through a pack in a couple of hours. He sat by her side again. “I am sorry. I did not mean to raise my voice. I am just... worried, that’s all.”
“I know. What do you think has happened? Where do you think our baby is?”
“I don’t know... How can I answer that? It’s too early to say. It’s perfectly possible he’s... stuck somewhere. You know, he went exploring and just... I don’t know. I just... I keep thinking about...”
“What?”
“This dream he told me about. When we were on our way to fajr.”
“What dream?”
“He said he was flying with the birds... That they’d come and picked him up and when he looked down he saw me really small in the back garden.”
“And...?”
“He kept calling to me but I just stayed where I was and he couldn’t understand why. He made me promise to come with him the next time.” Ibrahim chewed his bottom lip. “He made me promise.”
Khayla squeezed his knee. “And where did he go with the birds? Where did they take him?”
Ibrahim frowned. “He... He didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. He couldn’t tell me where they took him.”
****
Chapter Nine
...Professor Jeggert came to a magnificent oak tree and began to climb, scaling its trunk and lower branches with ease. He had no fear of falling, even when occasionally glancing down to see the ground a great distance away. He did not know why he was climbing but just felt it was the right thing to do.
After a while he stopped and took in the magnificent view. He felt safe, sure of his position in the world.
He plucked a big green leaf, a little confused when it immediately began to shrivel and turn brown. The leaf crumbled on his palm before its brittle remnants were snatched away by the wind.
Then the tree shuddered violently.
He grabbed a sturdy branch, wondering what was happening and more than a little worried as another tremendous vibration shook it. He stuck his head out of the foliage to see what was going on.
Ferninckle and Hooligan were methodically swinging axes at the base of the tree.
Thump. The blade of one axe bit into the trunk. Thump. Woodchips leapt into the air.
“Stop!” he shouted. “What’re you doing...? I’m up here.” He waved both arms above his head. “Can’t you see me? Stop!”
Thump. Thump.
He began descending but after a couple of minutes didn’t seem to be any closer to the ground. That made no sense, forcing him to pause and try to get his breath back. Now some invisible force was pushing him along the branch he was standing on. He tried to cling to the trunk but the entity was too strong and he continued to slide toward the edge.
The branch grew thinner and started to bend under his weight. He could hear it groaning. He was going to fall and the knowledge filled him with terror.
“No!” he yelled. “No...”
And then his feet found air and he was plunging toward the earth. He desperately flapped his arms, somehow managing to slow his descent. He looked at his feet again only to find they had changed into black claws and there was something golden clutched between them.
He kept falling, his attempts to fly jerky and unconvincing. He flapped furiously but still he fell. And then...
Thump.
His chest hit the ground and he bounced back into the air. He flapped even harder and managed to fly for a little while until the process repeated itself. The ground came closer.
Thump.
He rebounded.
Thump.
Professor Jeggert groaned.
Thump. Thump.
He opened his eyes to see his bedroom ceiling. Pain flooded in. Jesus Christ, how much had he drunk last night?
He put a forearm over his face. His throbbing head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice while his stomach was full to the brim with toxic sludge. The slightest movement and he’d be sick. He swallowed, feeling every millimetre of his Adam’s apple chafing against his parched throat. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he sucked in air noisily through his mouth.
Water. He desperately needed to drink but there was no way he could get to the bathroom without vomiting. He risked moving his head sideways to locate the bin, groaning after spotting it on the other side of the room.
He flexed his hands and tried to sit up in tiny increments but his stomach reached tipping point and a moment later he was being violently sick. Great ropey torrents spattered over his bedside table, the wall and the carpet. The sour acid stench was appalling. He fell back on the bed and curled into a ball with a horrible pulse beating like a drum in his head. He lay as still as possible, moaning every time a stomach spasm threatened to make him puke again.
Despite the acute distress, he felt better now that most of the poison was out.
He tried to sleep.
His hand hurt. He stiffly raised it, mystified to see a large, blood-stained plaster crudely wrapped around its edge.
What the hell...?
By the feel of it, it was obviously a puncture of some sort, but he didn’t want to peel it off to find out. Had he tripped? Put his hand out on something sharp while breaking his fall? He closed his eyes, trying to recall.
No pictures formed.
He tried to move his fingers, succeeding with all but the little one. He stared again at the plaster and gingerly sniffed it, unable to detect any putrefaction.
He let out a long miserable groan.
He didn’t want to move but it was essential to get some paracetamol and water. He slowly sat up, halting whenever he thought he was going to vomit again. He dragged himself to the bathroom and opened the mirrored cabinet with his eyes shut, afraid of what he might look like. The light hurt his eyes anyway. He blindly poured a glass of water and sipped it. Once he was sure he could keep it down, he swallowed three tablets. His stomach churned and gurgled as he drank glass after glass.
What time was it? He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock in the morning. He carried the glass back to bed, realising he was still in his work clothes.
The room reeked of vomit. It was splashed over everything. He couldn’t sleep there. He retreated into a spare bedroom, pulled off his trousers and shoes and crawled onto the bed.
Sleep. Just sleep it off. Everything would be fine in a few hours.
****
Professor Jeggert woke again. The hangover’s sheer intensity had faded but it was almost 10am and it was obvious he wasn’t going to make class. Every part of his body felt like it was under siege. He called in sick, saying he had a stomach bug.
He drank more water, took another couple of paracetamol and crawled back onto the bed again. Now he was sweating and shivering at the same time.
A few hours later he woke again with a dull, persistent headache. His acidic stomach kept churning. Downstairs in one of the kitchen cupboards there were some packets of powdered hangover cure. They weren’t the best, and were probably past their expiry date, but he needed every bit of help. He just wanted the awful discomfort to go away.
There was dried sick on his arm. The sight was offensive but he wasn’t sure if he had the strength or balance to stand under a shower. He might pass out and crack his head. Instead he slipped on a dressing gown and slippers, shuffled to the landing and began the arduous journey down the stairs. It was as if he’d aged twenty-five years. Halfway down he became aware of a football lying near the front door that was little more than a flattened slice of plastic.
Was that blood on it? He got to the bottom of the stairs only to see more dried blood spots staining the floor and wall.
What had happened? And why was the hat stand in the wrong place?
He glanced at the plaster on his hand again. For a while he sat on the bottom stair and slumped against the railings, willing his memory to return.
He backtracked through the day. Work, letting the kids go early, wandering through town, the Prayer Bump guy, the Siamese cat, the DVD shop, watching Day of the Dead, opening a bottle of wine and...
“No more drink... Not for a month.” He attempted to shake his head. “This is insane.”
As he stood and turned toward the kitchen he saw another baffling item: a white skull cap in the middle of the hallway. He stared at it without a shred of comprehension. He stiffly stooped and picked it up. It was obviously a child’s but that didn’t help him understand what it was doing in his house.
A guest...? Had someone come round last night? At least there wasn’t any blood on it.
He made his way into the kitchen to see pieces of a broken plate on the floor. He couldn’t be bothered to pick them up, instead heading straight for the row of cupboards. Now which one contained the sachets? He opened the first two cupboard doors only to freeze at the sound of a nearby thump thump.
What the...?
He slowly turned and stared at the cellar door. He waited for it to come again, certain the weak noise had emanated from within. Had an animal got in? But how could that be? There were no windows down there, no storm entrances or connections that led anywhere. There was only one point of entry.
What the hell had happened last night?
He looked around the kitchen for any kind of clue.
And then the thump thump came again.
The noise was steady and methodical. Undoubtedly, there was someone in the cellar. He licked his lips and swallowed. Maybe there’d been an intruder last night. He’d fought with someone in the hallway, cut his hand and...
Should he call the police and let them deal with it?
He slowly approached the cellar door. He studied the key sticking out of the lock. His hand reached toward the handle.
Thump thump.
He jumped away, having seen the bottom of the door actually vibrate back and forth. At least there was no strength in the blows, giving a sense of something exhausted on the other side.
Again he thought of calling the police. There must have been a prowler and he’d managed to... No, that couldn’t be. Surely he would have remembered a burglar who’d attacked him?
He needed a weapon. He looked around, doubled back to the sink drawer and fished out a steak knife. He approached the door again, holding it with the serrated blade pointing at the floor.
Should he call out? He put his ear to the door and listened intently.
Nothing.
He turned the key, pushed the creaking door open and stepped back.
And there in the gloom about halfway down the stairs sat a little black boy with a swollen right cheek.
This was not happening.
The professor gaped as the boy groggily stood in his filthy, blood-stained clothes, staring with huge frightened eyes at him like he was the devil incarnate. The sight so bewildered him that his knees sagged.
“Let me out,” the boy said, revealing two missing front lower teeth. He reached toward him. “Please...”
The professor stepped forward and pulled the door shut.
“No...!” he heard the boy cry before he found a renewed burst of energy and began flailing against the door. It rattled in its frame as the professor dropped the knife and paced the kitchen, trying to think.
He’d abducted a child? Locked him in his bloody cellar? Why? Why would he do something so batshit crazy? He wasn’t a pervert. He didn’t have those kinds of urges.
Then why...? Why was there an obviously terrified child in his basement?
He ran a hand through his hair while trying to get his breathing under control. He put a hand on his chest and felt his heart hammering.
“Jesus Christ, what have I...?”
He felt his gorge rise. He dashed to the sink but the feeling of sickness passed as the boy kept yanking on the door handle and yelling. He held on tightly to the sink’s aluminium corners because they were hard and real. The questions kept forming and whirling in his head, chasing themselves round and round in front of a massive neon sign blazing You have a young boy imprisoned in your cellar.
He could work this out. Rational thought was his one true strength. He just needed to think in a logical manner, arrive at the best conclusion and act upon it.
At the moment, though, he didn’t have all the facts. He might be unnecessarily panicking. After all, crucial pieces of the jigsaw had been obliterated by the mother of drinking sprees. Maybe it was just a huge misunderstanding.
What could possibly have happened? Perhaps the kid had come in and they’d played a game. Hide and seek or something. That was why he was in the cellar.
But what about the blood, the punctured ball, that grotesque look of fear on the kid’s face...?
One thing was for sure: he’d imprisoned a child overnight. Not only that, but the kid’s face was bruised and swollen. Had he hit him? Abduction and assault could only possibly result in prosecution, adverse publicity, the termination of his job, disgrace and maybe even imprisonment.
He could lose everything.
That was not going to happen.
A mental picture popped up of Ferninckle and Hooligan sadly shaking their heads, saying something like It’s no real surprise. We always suspected he was odd.
The professor walked to the front door, opened it a fraction and peeked out. There was no one around, no curtains twitching across the way, no one yammering on their mobiles, no squad cars screeching to a dramatic halt, no cops running up his driveway. He shut the door again and slumped with his back against it.
Obviously no one knew he had the boy. That was one factor in his favour.
Still, he needed more information before he made any kind of decision. He would have to talk to him. He went to the cellar door, trying to remember if or where he’d seen him before.
But why was he here?
Like pretty much everything else, the answer was lost in the fog.
He gently knocked on the door.
“Hey... I’m gonna open the door, all right? Don’t be scared. I’ve put the knife down. I’m not going to do anything to you. I won’t harm you. I promise. I just want you to step back from the door. Then we’ll talk about things. Find out what’s happened. OK?”
“Let me out!”
“I will, I will... Just step back from the door. OK?” He waited for a reply but was met with silence. “OK?”
“Yes.”
The professor took a breath, rubbed his aching head and was about to unlock it when he realised the front door wasn’t properly secured. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to bolt past him in his hung-over state and make it out the front. He traipsed back up the hallway and double locked it. There was no need with the kitchen door because of the high walls. He’d never be able to scale them.
He returned to the cellar and pushed it open to see the kid standing at the bottom of the stairs looking warily upwards. God, he was tiny.
The professor smiled. “Look, er... What’s your name?”
“Abdullah.”
“Abdullah, right.” It rang a bell. “My name’s...” No, best not tell him that. “Before I take you back to your mum and dad, I just wanna find out how you got in my cellar because I can’t... I can’t remember, you see. Can you tell me?”
“Of course... This is a bit of a shock. I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes.”
“But Tiverby’s a very safe place. In all my years of teaching, we’ve never... I mean, they wander off all the time, that’s children, you can’t keep an eye on them 24-7 and – ”
“If you don’t mind, I have to speak to the police now.”
“Of course. As for our other... business, I’ll contact you at a more appropriate time. Please keep me informed about Abdullah and don’t hesitate to ask for help.”
“Thank you.”
Ibrahim put the phone away and glanced at the darkness pressing up against the window. He got up on slightly unsure legs, recalling the time Abdullah had told him about flying with the birds. He closed the curtains and did his best to answer the police’s questions. Yes, Abdullah was a happy child. No, they weren’t aware of anyone threatening him recently. No, he wasn’t being bullied. No, he hadn’t mentioned anyone hanging around the school or home. No, he wasn’t allowed a mobile phone. Yes, he had been warned about the dangers of getting into a stranger’s car.
The police continued to ask questions and make notes while indicating what would happen next. Given Abdullah’s age and stable circumstances, the matter was being treated as a priority, although they stressed that most missing persons turned up within forty-eight hours. Local hospital admissions had already been checked, CCTV footage was being reviewed, a Child Rescue Alert had been sent to the media, Abdullah’s details would shortly be added to the Police National Computer database and a full-scale search would begin at first light.
It all sounded most comprehensive, although Ibrahim found himself listening in a vaguely befuddled way. He couldn’t quite take everything in. Abdullah should be here right now being bathed by Khayla before she read him a bedtime story.
After an hour or so, the two police officers stepped outside to confer. He got up, sat next to his wife and held her tightly.
“Oh, Ibrahim...”
“He’ll come back. Don’t fret. Any minute now. They’ll find him. You’ll see.”
“We should have got him a mobile.”
He stiffened. “Khayla... Don’t...”
“What?”
“We agreed a six-year-old child does not need a smart phone. I am not having him looking at... having any contact with that filth on the internet.”
“But we could’ve just got him an ordinary phone, one that wasn’t connected to the – ”
“Why are you always questioning my decisions these days?” He took his arm away and stood. “You keep undermining me. I know how to raise my son.”
“I am sorry, I don’t mean to, but... I just think some flexibility, some compromise can sometimes be for the best. Did you not see how the police looked at us when we said he didn’t have a phone? Like... like we’d been negligent or something.”
“We haven’t been negligent. What are you talking about? We are excellent parents and we have been raising Abdullah in exactly the right way.” He paced the room. “He is a very happy, well-adjusted child. You heard what the school said about him the other day.” Ibrahim resisted the urge to go outside and smoke again. He’d already gone through a pack in a couple of hours. He sat by her side again. “I am sorry. I did not mean to raise my voice. I am just... worried, that’s all.”
“I know. What do you think has happened? Where do you think our baby is?”
“I don’t know... How can I answer that? It’s too early to say. It’s perfectly possible he’s... stuck somewhere. You know, he went exploring and just... I don’t know. I just... I keep thinking about...”
“What?”
“This dream he told me about. When we were on our way to fajr.”
“What dream?”
“He said he was flying with the birds... That they’d come and picked him up and when he looked down he saw me really small in the back garden.”
“And...?”
“He kept calling to me but I just stayed where I was and he couldn’t understand why. He made me promise to come with him the next time.” Ibrahim chewed his bottom lip. “He made me promise.”
Khayla squeezed his knee. “And where did he go with the birds? Where did they take him?”
Ibrahim frowned. “He... He didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. He couldn’t tell me where they took him.”
****
Chapter Nine
...Professor Jeggert came to a magnificent oak tree and began to climb, scaling its trunk and lower branches with ease. He had no fear of falling, even when occasionally glancing down to see the ground a great distance away. He did not know why he was climbing but just felt it was the right thing to do.
After a while he stopped and took in the magnificent view. He felt safe, sure of his position in the world.
He plucked a big green leaf, a little confused when it immediately began to shrivel and turn brown. The leaf crumbled on his palm before its brittle remnants were snatched away by the wind.
Then the tree shuddered violently.
He grabbed a sturdy branch, wondering what was happening and more than a little worried as another tremendous vibration shook it. He stuck his head out of the foliage to see what was going on.
Ferninckle and Hooligan were methodically swinging axes at the base of the tree.
Thump. The blade of one axe bit into the trunk. Thump. Woodchips leapt into the air.
“Stop!” he shouted. “What’re you doing...? I’m up here.” He waved both arms above his head. “Can’t you see me? Stop!”
Thump. Thump.
He began descending but after a couple of minutes didn’t seem to be any closer to the ground. That made no sense, forcing him to pause and try to get his breath back. Now some invisible force was pushing him along the branch he was standing on. He tried to cling to the trunk but the entity was too strong and he continued to slide toward the edge.
The branch grew thinner and started to bend under his weight. He could hear it groaning. He was going to fall and the knowledge filled him with terror.
“No!” he yelled. “No...”
And then his feet found air and he was plunging toward the earth. He desperately flapped his arms, somehow managing to slow his descent. He looked at his feet again only to find they had changed into black claws and there was something golden clutched between them.
He kept falling, his attempts to fly jerky and unconvincing. He flapped furiously but still he fell. And then...
Thump.
His chest hit the ground and he bounced back into the air. He flapped even harder and managed to fly for a little while until the process repeated itself. The ground came closer.
Thump.
He rebounded.
Thump.
Professor Jeggert groaned.
Thump. Thump.
He opened his eyes to see his bedroom ceiling. Pain flooded in. Jesus Christ, how much had he drunk last night?
He put a forearm over his face. His throbbing head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice while his stomach was full to the brim with toxic sludge. The slightest movement and he’d be sick. He swallowed, feeling every millimetre of his Adam’s apple chafing against his parched throat. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he sucked in air noisily through his mouth.
Water. He desperately needed to drink but there was no way he could get to the bathroom without vomiting. He risked moving his head sideways to locate the bin, groaning after spotting it on the other side of the room.
He flexed his hands and tried to sit up in tiny increments but his stomach reached tipping point and a moment later he was being violently sick. Great ropey torrents spattered over his bedside table, the wall and the carpet. The sour acid stench was appalling. He fell back on the bed and curled into a ball with a horrible pulse beating like a drum in his head. He lay as still as possible, moaning every time a stomach spasm threatened to make him puke again.
Despite the acute distress, he felt better now that most of the poison was out.
He tried to sleep.
His hand hurt. He stiffly raised it, mystified to see a large, blood-stained plaster crudely wrapped around its edge.
What the hell...?
By the feel of it, it was obviously a puncture of some sort, but he didn’t want to peel it off to find out. Had he tripped? Put his hand out on something sharp while breaking his fall? He closed his eyes, trying to recall.
No pictures formed.
He tried to move his fingers, succeeding with all but the little one. He stared again at the plaster and gingerly sniffed it, unable to detect any putrefaction.
He let out a long miserable groan.
He didn’t want to move but it was essential to get some paracetamol and water. He slowly sat up, halting whenever he thought he was going to vomit again. He dragged himself to the bathroom and opened the mirrored cabinet with his eyes shut, afraid of what he might look like. The light hurt his eyes anyway. He blindly poured a glass of water and sipped it. Once he was sure he could keep it down, he swallowed three tablets. His stomach churned and gurgled as he drank glass after glass.
What time was it? He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock in the morning. He carried the glass back to bed, realising he was still in his work clothes.
The room reeked of vomit. It was splashed over everything. He couldn’t sleep there. He retreated into a spare bedroom, pulled off his trousers and shoes and crawled onto the bed.
Sleep. Just sleep it off. Everything would be fine in a few hours.
****
Professor Jeggert woke again. The hangover’s sheer intensity had faded but it was almost 10am and it was obvious he wasn’t going to make class. Every part of his body felt like it was under siege. He called in sick, saying he had a stomach bug.
He drank more water, took another couple of paracetamol and crawled back onto the bed again. Now he was sweating and shivering at the same time.
A few hours later he woke again with a dull, persistent headache. His acidic stomach kept churning. Downstairs in one of the kitchen cupboards there were some packets of powdered hangover cure. They weren’t the best, and were probably past their expiry date, but he needed every bit of help. He just wanted the awful discomfort to go away.
There was dried sick on his arm. The sight was offensive but he wasn’t sure if he had the strength or balance to stand under a shower. He might pass out and crack his head. Instead he slipped on a dressing gown and slippers, shuffled to the landing and began the arduous journey down the stairs. It was as if he’d aged twenty-five years. Halfway down he became aware of a football lying near the front door that was little more than a flattened slice of plastic.
Was that blood on it? He got to the bottom of the stairs only to see more dried blood spots staining the floor and wall.
What had happened? And why was the hat stand in the wrong place?
He glanced at the plaster on his hand again. For a while he sat on the bottom stair and slumped against the railings, willing his memory to return.
He backtracked through the day. Work, letting the kids go early, wandering through town, the Prayer Bump guy, the Siamese cat, the DVD shop, watching Day of the Dead, opening a bottle of wine and...
“No more drink... Not for a month.” He attempted to shake his head. “This is insane.”
As he stood and turned toward the kitchen he saw another baffling item: a white skull cap in the middle of the hallway. He stared at it without a shred of comprehension. He stiffly stooped and picked it up. It was obviously a child’s but that didn’t help him understand what it was doing in his house.
A guest...? Had someone come round last night? At least there wasn’t any blood on it.
He made his way into the kitchen to see pieces of a broken plate on the floor. He couldn’t be bothered to pick them up, instead heading straight for the row of cupboards. Now which one contained the sachets? He opened the first two cupboard doors only to freeze at the sound of a nearby thump thump.
What the...?
He slowly turned and stared at the cellar door. He waited for it to come again, certain the weak noise had emanated from within. Had an animal got in? But how could that be? There were no windows down there, no storm entrances or connections that led anywhere. There was only one point of entry.
What the hell had happened last night?
He looked around the kitchen for any kind of clue.
And then the thump thump came again.
The noise was steady and methodical. Undoubtedly, there was someone in the cellar. He licked his lips and swallowed. Maybe there’d been an intruder last night. He’d fought with someone in the hallway, cut his hand and...
Should he call the police and let them deal with it?
He slowly approached the cellar door. He studied the key sticking out of the lock. His hand reached toward the handle.
Thump thump.
He jumped away, having seen the bottom of the door actually vibrate back and forth. At least there was no strength in the blows, giving a sense of something exhausted on the other side.
Again he thought of calling the police. There must have been a prowler and he’d managed to... No, that couldn’t be. Surely he would have remembered a burglar who’d attacked him?
He needed a weapon. He looked around, doubled back to the sink drawer and fished out a steak knife. He approached the door again, holding it with the serrated blade pointing at the floor.
Should he call out? He put his ear to the door and listened intently.
Nothing.
He turned the key, pushed the creaking door open and stepped back.
And there in the gloom about halfway down the stairs sat a little black boy with a swollen right cheek.
This was not happening.
The professor gaped as the boy groggily stood in his filthy, blood-stained clothes, staring with huge frightened eyes at him like he was the devil incarnate. The sight so bewildered him that his knees sagged.
“Let me out,” the boy said, revealing two missing front lower teeth. He reached toward him. “Please...”
The professor stepped forward and pulled the door shut.
“No...!” he heard the boy cry before he found a renewed burst of energy and began flailing against the door. It rattled in its frame as the professor dropped the knife and paced the kitchen, trying to think.
He’d abducted a child? Locked him in his bloody cellar? Why? Why would he do something so batshit crazy? He wasn’t a pervert. He didn’t have those kinds of urges.
Then why...? Why was there an obviously terrified child in his basement?
He ran a hand through his hair while trying to get his breathing under control. He put a hand on his chest and felt his heart hammering.
“Jesus Christ, what have I...?”
He felt his gorge rise. He dashed to the sink but the feeling of sickness passed as the boy kept yanking on the door handle and yelling. He held on tightly to the sink’s aluminium corners because they were hard and real. The questions kept forming and whirling in his head, chasing themselves round and round in front of a massive neon sign blazing You have a young boy imprisoned in your cellar.
He could work this out. Rational thought was his one true strength. He just needed to think in a logical manner, arrive at the best conclusion and act upon it.
At the moment, though, he didn’t have all the facts. He might be unnecessarily panicking. After all, crucial pieces of the jigsaw had been obliterated by the mother of drinking sprees. Maybe it was just a huge misunderstanding.
What could possibly have happened? Perhaps the kid had come in and they’d played a game. Hide and seek or something. That was why he was in the cellar.
But what about the blood, the punctured ball, that grotesque look of fear on the kid’s face...?
One thing was for sure: he’d imprisoned a child overnight. Not only that, but the kid’s face was bruised and swollen. Had he hit him? Abduction and assault could only possibly result in prosecution, adverse publicity, the termination of his job, disgrace and maybe even imprisonment.
He could lose everything.
That was not going to happen.
A mental picture popped up of Ferninckle and Hooligan sadly shaking their heads, saying something like It’s no real surprise. We always suspected he was odd.
The professor walked to the front door, opened it a fraction and peeked out. There was no one around, no curtains twitching across the way, no one yammering on their mobiles, no squad cars screeching to a dramatic halt, no cops running up his driveway. He shut the door again and slumped with his back against it.
Obviously no one knew he had the boy. That was one factor in his favour.
Still, he needed more information before he made any kind of decision. He would have to talk to him. He went to the cellar door, trying to remember if or where he’d seen him before.
But why was he here?
Like pretty much everything else, the answer was lost in the fog.
He gently knocked on the door.
“Hey... I’m gonna open the door, all right? Don’t be scared. I’ve put the knife down. I’m not going to do anything to you. I won’t harm you. I promise. I just want you to step back from the door. Then we’ll talk about things. Find out what’s happened. OK?”
“Let me out!”
“I will, I will... Just step back from the door. OK?” He waited for a reply but was met with silence. “OK?”
“Yes.”
The professor took a breath, rubbed his aching head and was about to unlock it when he realised the front door wasn’t properly secured. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to bolt past him in his hung-over state and make it out the front. He traipsed back up the hallway and double locked it. There was no need with the kitchen door because of the high walls. He’d never be able to scale them.
He returned to the cellar and pushed it open to see the kid standing at the bottom of the stairs looking warily upwards. God, he was tiny.
The professor smiled. “Look, er... What’s your name?”
“Abdullah.”
“Abdullah, right.” It rang a bell. “My name’s...” No, best not tell him that. “Before I take you back to your mum and dad, I just wanna find out how you got in my cellar because I can’t... I can’t remember, you see. Can you tell me?”
