Chapter 18

That Saturday, Amy took Tom to visit his mother. Having explained who they were, they were directed along a corridor to a ward. They spoke to the nurse in charge, a young man.

"She's de-toxed, now and off any medication. I'll warn you that her memory is very poor; I'm afraid she may well not know you. She's quite compliant ... if you wish, there's a small café as part of the unit and you can take her there; it's just a little further along the corridor you came in from, on the right. It's one of the ways we try to normalise the lives of our clients. Come with me, I'll show you where she is."

They followed him past several open bays, each containing four beds, each with a small wardrobe and bed-side locker, each bed clearly able to be curtained for a degree of privacy. One or two of the beds contained a sleeping person. It was not a comfortable experience.

Finally they reached a larger room, furnished as a lounge. A few residents were sitting staring into space.

"Most of our clients are out of the ward in therapy groups or occupational therapy," the charge-nurse commented. "Margaret is over there..." he indicated one of the sitting residents and walked over to her.

"Margaret? You've got visitors..."

A spark of life – a very small spark – showed in her eyes and expression. She looked at them.

"Do I know you, young man?" She was looking straight at Tom.

"Mother?"

"Oh, I think you've made a mistake, young man. I'm not even married yet."

"Mother ... I'm Tom ... your son?"

A confused expression flitted across her face. "No, no, can't be ... Have you brought me a drink?"

"No, I'm sorry ... got to go..." He turned and walked rapidly out of the room; Amy followed. They passed the Charge-nurse in the corridor. He radiated sympathy and understanding, but Tom didn't look at him. Amy shrugged and smiled slightly in apology.

Tom didn't stop until he reached the car. As Amy moved to unlock the vehicle, she saw tears streaming down his face; she reached out and gathered him in her arms. He stood stiffly, rigid, for several seconds before relaxing into her embrace, shaking as he wept. They neither of them noticed the small white van a few yards away, or the man sitting in it with an unhappy looking girl, watching them and seething with anger.

"That bastard, " the words were forced between Tom's teeth. "How many lives has he ruined? Well, he's not going to ruin mine! But I do wonder where he's got to..."

Neither of them noticed the van pull out behind them and follow them to the A14. It wasn't something that would have occurred to them, that they might be followed.

He followed them, stopping on Ullswater Avenue; making sure he knew which house they went in and watched them disappear inside. How best to manage this?

He thought it best to move; perhaps return in the evening? In any event, he shouldn't hang about here in case someone got suspicious and called the fuzz. Starting the van, he drove a couple of miles to a little used car-park by some woodland. The girl, who had learned not to make a sound when he hurt her, endured his attentions to all three holes in turn and wondered if there was any way out for her. Clearly Ronnie didn't care or he'd have found someone else for this sadist...

Came the evening, he stopped the van outside the house he'd observed earlier and walked confidently up to the front door, which was answered by Amy.

"Evenin' ma'am. Sorry to trouble you. I'm from National Grid. Could I possibly examine your meters – gas and electric? Shouldn't take but a minute."

"Would you happen to have any identification?"

"Oh, yes, of course!" He reached in his jacket. Suddenly his free hand flashed out and grabbed the collar of her blouse while the other produced a knife and held the point to her throat. "Not a sound, bitch, unless you want your throat slit! Now ... back up, slowly, and let me in. I've come for my son ... though I might just take you along as a bonus ... Now where is he, bitch?" He followed he up as she backed away slowly and kicked the door shut behind him.

"He's ... he's upstairs in his room, I think," she didn't need to pretend the quaver in her voice. She continued to back up until they'd both passed the lounge door.

"So call him, bitch!

"Tom!" The sound barely escaped her throat. "Tom!" That was louder, but still would hardly reach upstairs, especially if he had his door closed. "TOM!"

"Yeah, Amy!"

"YOU'RE WANTED DOWNSTAIRS!"

"Coming!"

The thumping of his feet on the stairs obscured the slight sound of John emerging from the lounge behind him. Amy managed to keep her expression the same, not giving any indication of John's presence. As Tom appeared at the foot of the stairs, his father's attention moved to him. Amy pulled back, tearing her blouse, turning slightly to move her neck away from the knife, pushing the man's arms apart, and kicked him, hard, between his legs as John grabbed the wrist holding the knife. John's last 'control and restraint' class had been a couple of years previous, so he was rusty, but being a little slow and clumsy delayed the result by only seconds as the pain from Amy's kick was joined by pain in the wrist; he first doubled over, then crashed to the floor on his face. John applied pressure to the hand and wrist - the knife fell to the floor and he kicked it away. Tom went to pick it up.

"Don't touch it, Tom! I don't want any doubt about the finger-prints on it. Got any of that old rope you had for practising knots and splices?"

"Oh, sure, John. I'll get some!" He turned and ran back upstairs two at a time.

"You alright, sweetheart?" John's attention turned to Amy as he maintained pressure on the wrist and put a foot on the man's back.

"Ye ... es. Or I will be. No physical damage, at least."

"Would you have a look through the window and see if he's got anyone waiting for him?"

John experienced a most unsettling impulse – to keep twisting the arm until something broke or dislocated – and fought it down. But it was oh, so tempting...

Amy edged round and went into the lounge; her voice was audible, telling the children to stay in the room.

John addressed the man on the floor.

"I'm guessing you'd be William Carmichael, Tom's father."

That resulted in a stream of invective, cut off when John increased pressure on the wrist.

"A simple yes or no will be sufficient."

"Yes..." through gritted teeth.

"He's no father to me," said Tom, returning with several lengths of half-inch hemp rope.

"Can you pull that other arm out from under him? Carefully, though," John brought the wrist he was holding down to meet the one Tom was pulling at. Tom quickly made a clove-hitch round 'his' wrist and then wound the bight of the rope tightly round the one John was holding, finishing off with a reef-knot.

"Ankles, Tom?"

"I'm on it." As an afterthought, Tom added a length of rope to pull the ankles up to the wrist in a hog-tie.

John took a deep breath. "Well done, Tom. Could you fetch a large freezer bag from the kitchen?"

He used the bag to pick up the knife without actually touching it with his fingers.

"Great! Now ... best dial 999, Tom."

Amy emerged from the lounge. "There looks to be a girl sitting in the passenger seat of the van in our drive."

Tom's voice carried from the kitchen. "Police, please ... Felixstowe 272519. Thank you." There was a longish pause. Bearing in mind it was an emergency call, it was a very long pause. "We've got one of your escaped prisoners, William Carmichael ... he attempted to kidnap me and my foster-mother at knife-point... 2, Coniston Close ... tied up, at the moment ... that's all very well, but we'd like him out of the house..." Emerging from the kitchen, he said to John, "they're very busy, but they'll be here as soon as they can."