The Scribbler Iain Maitland (good books to read txt) 📖

and seek. And the one with chairs and music. Um, you stop and start the—”

“Musical chairs!” the man interrupted, “That is what it is called. Musical chairs. I played it once.” He laughed suddenly and Carrie joined in.

He stopped laughing. So did she. They fell silent for a second or two.

Carrie was not sure what way to go with this next.

The man then looked at her excitedly, struggling to find the words to say. And then he spoke, in something close to a whisper.

“Will there be a party bag to take home?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “There will be a piece of birthday cake in it and a drawing pad and some crayons and some stickers and a toot-toot whistle.”

He looked at her, plainly puzzled. “A toot …”

“Toot-toot whistle. That’s what my mum calls them anyway. It’s like a boiled fruit sweet shaped like a whistle so you can blow it … toot, toot … and suck it as a sweet, too.”

He stared at her in amazement. It was hard, even now, in such terrible circumstances, not to laugh. She pressed on.

“Let me go,” she said suddenly, trying not to show her feelings in her voice. She spoke firmly suddenly. Like a mother to a naughty child. “Now. Dennis. We’ll say no more about this silly nonsense and you can come to Noah’s party … as a special guest. I’ll do you a badge with Dennis on it. Dennis with two n’s.”

He said nothing, his head dipped down.

“You can sing happy birthday … with the other children.”

Still he did not speak.

“And join in all of the games … I bet you’ll win some of them and get prizes.”

He did not look at her.

“If you’re really good, Noah might let you blow the candles out on the cake.”

He was silent.

“You’re such a good boy, Dennis, such a sweetheart,” she said, and then wished she hadn’t. She’d pushed too far. Got it wrong. She knew that.

He roared, a sudden angry sound, as he clambered to his feet.

She looked at him in his inarticulate fury. Feared that he would lash out.

“Stupid,” he said furiously. “Stupid.”

“No, Dennis, it’s …”

“It is stupid. I cannot come.” He leaned towards her, his face twisted in sudden anger. “I do not have a present for him.”

And with that, he turned and stormed out of the building, slamming the rickety old door behind him.

* * *

Carrie tried with all her strength to loosen the material tied tight around her wrists behind her back.

She flexed her wrists back and forth to try and slip a hand out.

Then pulled her hands outwards as hard as she could. To rip the material. All to no avail.

She sat back, thinking about how to free her arms and legs and get away, and suddenly realised the lantern was still there, just in front of her. A light bulb. Some heat. A chance. If she could jiggle around on her bottom and take the lantern cover off with her hands, she could maybe press the material against the bulb. Burn it through.

Started jiggling.

Backed up to the lantern.

Felt for the cover.

Wondered suddenly whether a forty-watt bulb would give off sufficient heat to burn through cloth if she held her wrists there long enough. Probably not. But she had to try. She struggled to remove the cover. Had to unscrew it with one hand while stopping the base from moving with the other. Too hard to do. Thought she could maybe smash the lantern cover and bulb, and use a shard of glass to cut through the material.

Held the lantern.

Dropped it on the floor.

It didn’t break. Not a far-enough fall.

Carrie held the lantern behind her back. Struggling up onto her knees. Thought of sitting back suddenly as hard as she could on the lantern to shatter it. Debated. A second or two. No more. Then struggled up further, leaning against the wall, onto her feet. Still bound together, still so tight. Letting the wall take her weight, she stretched first one foot and then the other to try to loosen the binding round her feet. No luck. There was no give at all.

She dropped the lantern again.

Higher up this time.

The cover cracked open and the light bulb shattered.

She was in darkness now. Could see a little, though, shapes and shadows, from the moonlight streaming in through the roof. Looked at the door in front of her. Where the man had gone out and might come back at any moment, full of anger and rage. God knows what he might do. This child-like man having a furious tantrum. Or the other brother, The Scribbler, might appear. He would kill her in seconds. Knifed to death, most likely. She had to get away now.

Carrie lowered herself onto her knees, lost her balance, and fell forward onto her face. She shook her head, still so painful, and rolled over and back onto her bottom. She searched gingerly behind her with the tips of her fingers for a piece of glass from the cover. She found one, a large-ish chunk, touching the edges carefully and picking it up and holding it against the cloth between her wrists. Up into a crouch. Started cutting backwards and forwards.

Heard a noise outside the door of the building. Footsteps. A pushing at the door.

Stopped cutting. Was silent. Watching carefully. Breath held.

This was it, she thought, my final moments, as the door creaked slowly open.

She swallowed, subduing the sob in her throat. Thought suddenly again of Noah and her mum and dad. Then, defiant, started slashing as hard as she could with the shard of glass at the cloth between her wrists.

She sobbed now.

In anger and frustration.

And fear too.

If she could free her hands, at least she’d have a chance to cut her legs loose or to slash The Scribbler across the face in self-defence as he went for her with the knife. She looked back up to see the man now in the doorway, silhouetted against the moon.

Breathed out jagged breaths.

Close to tears.

And then she