The Black Room

“OPEN THE BAG!” ROBERT SAID, CALLING TO TOM AS HE ran back across the parking lot. “There might be an address inside.”

Tom pulled the zipper open, but he wasn’t quick enough for Robert. Before he had a chance to look in the bag, it was wrenched away from him. Robert knelt down and dumped it on the ground, rummaging through it with both hands.

There wasn’t much to look at. But on the bottom—under a neatly folded raincoat and three glossy computer magazines—was an empty wallet, with a name and address card in the plastic pocket inside.

Robert pulled it out and sat back on his heels. “Warren Armstrong,” he said. Experimentally.

He said it as though it should have been obvious. Tom was irritated. “Why do they have different names?”

“Because they are different,” Robert said impatiently. “Because it’s not allowed to remember what happened before. Because—oh, what does it matter?” He frowned down at the card he was holding. “Where’s Charrington Close?”

“I’d better find a street map.” Robert scrambled up and slung the bag over his shoulder.

“He’s only a man. I’m not going to be afraid of him, am I? Not after facing a hedge-tiger.”

What’s a hedge-tiger? Tom thought. But he didn’t bother to ask. He’d only get another annoying non-answer.

“Men can be dangerous, too,” Tom said. “That man is—” But he couldn’t explain the feeling he had about him. He wasn’t dangerous like a wild animal, all teeth and claws. It was a different kind of danger. Weird and disturbing.

Robert wasn’t listening, anyway. He’d already set off back to the square. By the time Tom caught up, he was in the bookshop, poring over a street map of the city.

“It’s somewhere in this part of the map.” Robert pointed without looking up. “One of the little streets in this development up here.”

Tom found it first. It was right at the top of the page, on the edge of the city. Directly under the double blue line that showed where the highway ran. He reached over and put his finger on it. “Must be noisy up there.”

“Good for buses, though. There’s bound to be one that goes up there. It’s a really big development.” Robert put the book back on the shelf and headed for the door. He was almost through it before he looked back for Tom. “You coming, Tosh?”

No, Tom wanted to say. Not there. But he didn’t. He nodded and followed Robert down the hill to the bus station.

The bus took the main road going north out of the city. It plunged downhill and then up again, and on the right, the development ran all the way up to the highway embankment. Tom could see the cheap little houses laid out on the slope ahead. It was just starting to get dark, and the streetlamps came on as he watched, marking out a maze of twisting, interconnected roads.

Just before the highway, the bus swung across the road, turning right into the development. Robert put his face against the window, counting the left turns as they passed them. When they reached the third one, he stood up and rang the bell, grabbing Tom’s arm with one hand and the sports bag with the other.

They jumped off the bus as soon as it reached the next stop and headed back to the little dead-end street. It was very short, with half a dozen houses on each side and an odd one squeezed in at the end. The extra house had an awkward, uncomfortable look, as though it had been crammed into a leftover plot of land. It faced straight down the street, blocking off the end, and the highway embankment loomed close behind it, topped by high fences to close off the traffic.

Tall cypress hedges ran down each side of the little front garden, continuing past the house and on into the back, and the house sat in a dark gap between two streetlamps. All its curtains were drawn, and there was only one dim light showing, in the window over the front door.

He began to walk down the street, stopping at each house to check its number. But he needn’t have bothered. Tom was right. When they’d counted carefully, all down the road, number fourteen turned out to be the odd house at the end.

“I’ll knock on the door,” Robert said. “And pretend I found the bag, lying around somewhere. You’d better keep out of sight, in case he recognizes you.” He marched up the path and rang the doorbell.

Tom stepped back, so that the cypress hedge on the left of the garden shielded him. Now that it was almost dark, the hedge hid him completely, but he could peer through the branches and see the house, with Robert at the front door.

Behind the blank, curtained windows, everything was very still. Robert rang the bell again. Tom saw a sudden brightness as one of the upstairs curtains twitched. Then the front door opened.

Robert held out the sports bag. Tom couldn’t quite catch what Robert said, but he was obviously explaining how he’d found it. Whatever he said, it didn’t make any visible impression on Mr. Armstrong. He stood there, listening impassively, and then held out his hand for the bag. It looked as if he might take it and shut the door in Robert’s face without saying anything at all.

But Robert wasn’t going to be put off so easily. “There’s one other thing,” he said, raising his voice and keeping a tight hold on the bag. “Can you tell me—?”

The man in the doorway stiffened and drew back. It was only a slight movement. Robert probably hadn’t noticed it at all. But Tom saw it, watching from behind the hedge. Mr. Armstrong looked... offended.

“It’s not anything important,” Robert said in a false, cheerful voice. “It’s just that I couldn’t help noticing this plait, and I wondered how it was made. I’m really interested in crafts like that, but I can’t figure it out.”

Mr. Armstrong’s eyes narrowed, and he spoke for the first time, opening his mouth just wide enough to let out the words. “I don’t know anything about it.”

Robert tried again. “I know it’s not important. But I’d love to find out about it. Who made it? Was it your daughter?”

“I haven’t got a daughter,” Mr. Armstrong said. His voice and his face were completely expressionless. “But I have got work to do. Thank you for bringing this back.”

His hand shot toward the bag. He snatched it out of Robert’s hands and shut the door in his face. For a second, Robert was obviously too startled to react at all. Then he reached up and rang the doorbell again.

He rang again, holding his thumb on the bell. After a few seconds, the door flew open again, and Mr. Armstrong reappeared.

“There’s no reward,” he said coldly. “Now go away. If I see you again, I shall have to call the police. Good night.”

The door shut again, and Robert trailed back down the path looking angry and frustrated. Tom came out from behind the hedge to meet him.

Robert nodded thoughtfully. “Why did he react like that? Was it because I asked him about his daughter?”

“Maybe he did have a daughter,” Tom said. “And she died. Maybe his marriage split up, and he doesn’t get to see her anymore. Or maybe he’s never had one, and he just didn’t want to talk to you—because he’s a horrible man. You’re not going to find out, Robbo. He’ll never tell you anything.”

“Then I’ll have to find out another way.” Robert looked back at the house, over his shoulder. Then he began to walk back down the road, toward the bus stop. “I’m sure there’s something weird going on in that house.”

“You can’t do anything about it,” Tom said. “He’s not exactly going to let you in, is he?”

“Yes, there is.” Robert sounded almost as scornful as Emma. “I’ll go in along the highway embankment.”