‘Stay here.’
‘But I need the loo.’ I cross my legs as though I’m busting.
‘There must be one downstairs.’
I reach for my phone, but she takes it from me.
‘What if he calls?’ I ask.
‘I’ll answer it.’
The loo is off the laundry. I lock the door and glance at the window. It’s too small for me to crawl out. Maybe I can stay here until Cyrus arrives.
‘I can’t hear anything happening,’ she says from the far side of the door.
‘You’re making me nervous.’
‘Piss or get off the pot.’
My phone is ringing. She answers, asking, ‘Where’s Aiden?’
I don’t hear the reply, but it must be Cyrus.
After another pause, she knocks.
‘He wants to talk to you. You have to tell him you’re OK.’
I unlock the door and step out. Cyrus is on speakerphone.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Has she threatened you?’ asks Cyrus.
Mrs Whitaker interrupts. ‘She’s fine. Where’s Aiden?’
‘You can come out and see him.’
‘No!’
‘He didn’t hurt Jodie. You don’t have to protect him. He’s giving the police a statement, that’s all.’
She curses under her breath. ‘No statements!’
‘You can’t make demands.’
‘I WANT MY SON!’ she screams, grabbing a knife from the wooden block beside the stove.
‘Please, stay calm,’ says Cyrus.
‘DON’T TELL ME TO BE CALM!’
‘She has a knife!’ I yell, ducking under her arm and bolting for the door. She grabs my hair and hauls me back. I cry out in pain.
Cyrus has heard it all.
‘Don’t hurt her,’ he pleads. ‘Evie? Evie? Can you hear me?’
Mrs Whitaker holds the knife to my neck. ‘Answer him.’
‘I’m here.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’
He exhales with relief, but doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s like he’s lost for words. Finally, he says, ‘Let me come inside, Felicity.’
‘Not without Aiden.’
‘How about we do a swap? Take me instead of Evie.’
‘No.’
‘She’s just a kid.’
‘So is Aiden.’
‘The police aren’t going to let him walk into a house where you’ve threatened someone – not when you’re holding a knife. Talk to me.’
‘Get me Aiden. Then we’ll talk.’
64
Police cars have been parked diagonally across the road to create a staggered series of checkpoints, each one closer than the next. The outer ring is a hundred yards from the house where uniformed officers are keeping spectators behind barricades. Most of them are neighbours, who are no doubt filling the vacuum of uncertainty with breathless rumours of terrorism or a domestic siege.
‘The hostage negotiator is still forty minutes away,’ says Lenny.
‘I’m trained,’ I say.
‘You’re personally involved.’
‘I know the layout of the house. I know Felicity Whitaker.’
‘I’m not giving her a second hostage.’
‘What if she agrees to release Evie?’
‘She just refused.’
More police are arriving. Men dressed in black wearing body armour and helmets, carrying rifles, battering rams and shields. The head of the tactical response team is straight out of Hollywood casting, with chiselled features and a Clooneyesque haircut.
‘We’ll be ready in fifteen,’ he tells Lenny, who remains in overall command until negotiations are deemed to have failed.
‘Do we have eyes?’ she asks.
‘We had a sighting in the kitchen, before the blinds were lowered,’ says Edgar.
‘What about ears?’
‘The directional microphones aren’t picking up much.’
Lenny looks at me. ‘Phone her again.’
I dial Evie’s mobile. It goes to her voicemail. I try again. Nothing.
‘Can we get Aiden here?’ I ask.
‘He’s on his way.’
Lenny motions towards the tactical response officers who are taking up positions behind hedges and parked cars and in neighbouring properties with windows that overlook the house.
‘What would you do?’ she asks.
‘Give her more time. She’s a middle-aged mother of two, not a wanted terrorist.’
Lenny gazes at the house as though contemplating tomorrow’s headlines. ‘OK, but first I want confirmation that Evie Cormac is unharmed.’
Grabbing a loudhailer from the front seat of her car, she signals for me to follow.
The birds have gone quiet and traffic noise drops away, leaving a soundtrack of our shoes crushing seedpods on the footpath. We reach the front gate. Lenny raises the megaphone.
‘Mrs Whitaker? I know you can hear me. I’m DCI Parvel. We met a few weeks ago.’
We wait. Watching. Nothing moves behind the curtains.
‘Your son is on his way, but I can’t help you unless you help me. I need proof that Evie Cormac is safe and unharmed.’
The front door opens a crack. Felicity yells, ‘She’s safe.’
‘I’ll need more than your word for it.’
The door opens wider and this time Evie emerges, dressed in her red flannelette pyjamas, printed with penguins. She’s barefoot and looks younger than eighteen. Younger than fourteen. Too young.
Felicity Whitaker has her arm wrapped around Evie’s neck, crooked at the elbow, using her has a human shield. She’s holding a bottle of clear liquid in her right hand. She holds it aloft and begins emptying it over Evie. Fluid splashes across her head and shoulders . . . into her eyes. Evie screams, trying to cover her face. What is it? Paint thinners? Gasoline? Turpentine?
Evie tries to drop and roll, but Felicity holds her upright and tosses the empty bottle away. It bounces down the steps and rolls onto the grass. She pulls a cigarette lighter from her pocket and holds it against Evie’s cheek.
‘You know what I want.’
The door closes.
65
Angel Face
My eyes are burning. My mouth, my nostrils, my ears, every hair follicle is on fire. It’s like red-hot wires have been driven through my pupils straight into my brain. I use my pyjama sleeves to wipe at my eyes, but the liquid is all over me, soaking the fabric, clinging to my skin.
Dragged backwards along the hallway, I’m dumped in the library, where I curl up on the floor. More liquid is splashed across the desk and book shelves, the fumes scalding my throat, making me gag.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I scream.
‘They aren’t listening.’
‘That’s not my fault.’
She grabs my hair again.
‘How many entrances?’
‘Two. Front and back.’
She pulls me from room to room where she closes the blinds and curtains, checking the windows are locked.