The Sleeping and the Dead

A small grey van came up the street behind her. It was moving very slowly as if the driver were looking at the house numbers. It had a wing mirror held on with black electrician’s tape and a loose bumper which rattled as the van went over the speed bumps in the road. When it pulled up at the kerb Rosie turned to face it, expecting the driver to ask for directions. But instead of winding down the window – it was a very old van and certainly wouldn’t have had electric windows – the driver got out. He was a young man, about the same age as Rosie. She didn’t recognize him and he didn’t look as if he belonged in this street of wealthy professionals, even as someone’s black sheep. He was thin with cropped hair and a tattoo running all the way down one arm. Still she paused, curious to see if it was someone who’d come to visit Joe. Joe had copied Mel’s habit of gathering up strangers and oddballs and it wouldn’t have surprised her.

But he went to the back of the van and opened the door. She decided he was making a delivery and lost interest. She turned and carried on walking down the street.

‘Hey!’ He didn’t shout but his voice was urgent. She stopped. ‘Are you Rosie?’

‘Rosie Morton. Yes.’

He stood looking for a moment, squinting against the low, evening sun.

‘Morton…’ he repeated. ‘Your mam must be librarian at Stavely nick.’ As if this was a surprise, a new piece of information which needed consideration.

She didn’t like being rude but she didn’t want to encourage him. She continued walking. He covered the distance between them quickly. She didn’t hear him running, but suddenly she could smell him, a strangely clean, chemical smell. He was behind her, so close that they almost touched, his bony chest against her shoulder blades. From a distance it would look as if he had his arms around her. She turned back to Joe’s house but the sunlight was reflected on the windows and she couldn’t tell if anyone was watching. Still she thought he might be some weird friend of Joe’s, and any moment Joe would come out and rescue her, save her from having to make a scene.

‘Get in.’

‘What?’

‘In the van. Now.’

Then he did have his arm around her. One hand stroked her neck, in the other, clenched as a fist, was a Stanley knife, only the blade showing.

‘Not a sound.’ The voice was almost caressing.

His head moved, turning quickly, his eyes darting up and down the street. In the distance an elderly woman in bowling whites stepped out into the road at the zebra crossing. He waited until she walked away in the opposite direction. Joe’s music changed tempo, became more melodic. As if they were dancing, the boy moved Rosie to the back of the van.

‘Get in,’ he said again. Inside there was an old quilt with a faded paisley design. It was shedding feathers. She climbed in. He shut the door. The back of the van was a sealed unit, separate from the front seats. Everything was black, except for a thin crack of brilliant light where the door didn’t quite fit. He started the engine and the rattle of the broken bumper vibrated through her legs and her back. She opened her mouth to yell, but it was like a nightmare, when you scream and scream and no sound comes out.

Later she spoke to Hannah. She sat on the floor of a flat which was empty except for a sleeping bag and a portable television. As far as she could tell. She’d only seen one room and the toilet. Her hands were tied behind her back, but the young man held her mobile so she could speak. The flat was on the second floor of a block on an estate she didn’t recognize. It hadn’t taken them long to get here. Twenty minutes perhaps. He’d parked at the bottom of the tower block by a couple of skips, pulling her out of the van as if he didn’t care if anyone saw. She’d had a few minutes to look around. There was a low building, some sort of school or community centre perhaps, and next to it a children’s playground, which seemed surprisingly new and in good repair, though no children were playing there. There were giant hardboard pandas and chickens on huge black springs, with black seats and handles, swings made from tyres, a wooden fort.

In contrast most of the flat windows were boarded up and beyond the tower blocks there was a building site, where a crane and a couple of diggers were marooned on the hard-packed earth. A woman came out of the school. She had a bunch of keys like the ones Rosie’s mum used at the prison, and she locked up the building, pulling at the doors to check they were secure. She looked smart and efficient and walked briskly round the corner out of sight. Her car must have been parked there because they heard the engine. She hadn’t seen them standing in the shadows. Even if she had, she’d have taken them for a couple of lovers, mucking about. They hadn’t passed anyone else on their way up the stairs to the flat.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not coming home tonight. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Where are you staying?’