The Game

THIRTY-ONE

Darkness: all around her, impenetrable black that made her think her eyes were still closed when she knew they were open.

Movement: a swaying and rocking underlined by endless vibration that made her entire body tremble.

Sound: incessant rumbling that filled her ears.

Pain: a throbbing ache that originated in the back of her skull and seeped throughout her head.

None of it made sense. Why had her alarm not gone off to wake her up before Peter surfaced, always hungry for breakfast, decreasingly hungry for morning cuddles? Was it the middle of night? Why was the bed shaking? Where was her duvet? What was going on in the street outside that caused the noise and vibration? Why did her head hurt so much?

Lucille Defraine thought about the bottle of prosecco in the fridge, not remembering but imagining she had drunk it before bed and now was paying the price of a killer hangover. But that didn’t make sense of all that she was experiencing. That didn’t explain the lack of light or a scent in the air that she realised was exhaust fumes.

She sat upright, squinting because the movement sent a wave of pain from the back of her head and straight down her body. She touched the source of the pain and found hair matted with crusted blood and a scabbed wound. The sensation made her feel nauseous. An image flashed through her mind.

She put fingertips to her cheek, picturing a slap. A man had slapped her. Who? When? Then she had slapped him, she remembered that clearly. A tall blond man. No, that wasn’t right. She’d slapped a young man. A soldier with acne. But she had slapped him first, not the other way around. But why? Then she’d fallen. She must have hit her head on the pavement. That was why the back of her head hurt. That was why she couldn’t remember getting into bed. Why was it so dark? Why could she smell exhaust fumes?

The memory strengthened — the Turkish chef trying and failing to rile her; walking the sitter to the bus stop; the three soldiers waiting there; waving the sitter goodbye; the young men harassing her.

The blond man, tall and strong.

He had helped her. He had slapped the man who’d slapped her.

Now there is parity, he’d said.

Lucille gasped, an avalanche of memories assailing her. He’d killed them. The blond man killed all three of the soldiers. She pictured a white face lying in the gutter, eyes open and staring after her as the blond man carried her away to…

Peter.

She cried out and stood, struggling to stay balanced against the swaying and the vibrations. She searched in the darkness, remembering the blond man taking her son and putting him in the back of a white panel van. Then she’d been put inside too. She realised she’d been lying on a mattress in the back of that van. The vibration and fumes were because the van was moving. The blond man had taken them.

Lucille blindly felt along every square inch. She ran her palms over the foam rubber that covered the walls and floor.

No Peter.

She screamed. She banged her fists on the sides and floor and roof, screaming for her son.

The blond man had taken him. The blond man had him.

She screamed and screamed.

Then the van stopped and she was thrown forward. She bounced off the spongy wall and fell onto the floor. She lay on her stomach, crying and screaming.

A noise. Metal. A bolt sliding. Light, as a door opened at the rear of the van. It blinded her. She couldn’t see. A shape emerged through her tears. The blond man. Another shape in his arms.

‘Peter…’

Her son was smiling. ‘I’ve been up in the cab like a big boy.’

She sobbed, relief and fear overwhelming her equally. She pulled herself to her knees.

‘I didn’t want him to get bored,’ the blond man said. ‘And you needed to rest. He’s been having a good time, haven’t you, Peter?’

He ruffled her son’s hair and he grinned. ‘The best time. We’ve been playing red car.’

‘And you’re winning, aren’t you?’ the blond man said.

‘I’ve got nine,’ Peter said, proudly. ‘He’s only got five.’

‘Your son is very observant. You should be proud of him.’

‘Give him back to me. Now.’

The smile fell from Peter’s face at her tone.

The blond man said, ‘There’s no need to be like that, Lucille. You don’t want to upset your son, do you?’

Lucille tried to control her emotions for Peter’s sake. He didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t want to scare him, but she couldn’t stop the tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘Come with me, Peter.’ She held out her hands.

‘Why don’t we ask Peter what he would like to do?’ the blond man said, then to Peter, ‘Would you prefer to sit with your mother in the dark or ride in the cab like a big boy?’

Peter thrust his hand in the air as if he was answering a question at school. ‘In the cab, please. Please.’

Lucille wiped her eyes with the back of a wrist and tried to smile. ‘Come to your mother, Peter. She misses you.’

Peter didn’t seem to notice. ‘Can we play red car again?’

The blond man nodded. ‘Of course. Go and get back up front.’ He put Peter down. ‘But I’m going to win this time.’

‘No you won’t. No you won’t.’

Peter ran out of Lucille’s sight and more tears wet her cheeks. The blond man smiled at her, but his eyes were dead.

‘Who are you?’ she gasped.

‘I am the devil who wears men’s skin.’

The door swung shut and darkness enveloped Lucille once more.