The Black Room

THERE WAS A HOLE IN THE FLOOR OF THE CONSERVATORY, right in the very center. A great, black hole, completely square, going down into the earth.

The woman he and Robert had seen earlier was kneeling on the very edge of the hole, gripping the rim with both hands. She was bending forward to look down into it, and Tom could see that she was talking softly. The television masked the sound of what she was saying, but he could see her lips moving and her head tilting first one way and then another.

Mr. Armstrong came into view, standing opposite her on the other side of the hole. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring. The woman shuffled back apologetically and scrambled onto her feet, wiping her hands on her skirt. As soon as she was out of the way, Mr. Armstrong looked down into the hole and said something short and sharp. Then he and the woman walked out of view for a moment. When they came back, they were carrying a big, square board with dozens of little perforations drilled through it. Together, they bent down and maneuvered it into position, fitting it over the hole like a lid. It dropped down into the opening, so that it lay level with the floor.

Moving automatically, without speaking, the woman fetched the red rug and unrolled it over the board, hiding it completely. She pulled the rug straight, very carefully, so that the white tulips marched down each side in neat, even rows. There was not even a wrinkle to hint at anything strange underneath.

Just in time, Tom realized that the television would be moved next. He dived down below the level of the windows and crouched very still, listening to the noise change as the television went back to its original position. It was a long time before he felt safe enough to raise his head again.

When he did, everything looked just as it had when he first gazed down into the conservatory. The television was in the middle, on the red tulip rug, throwing its pale, thin light onto the blinds at the end. Tom couldn’t see anyone, and for a second, he thought the whole place was empty.

Then something moved, low down on the ground. He shifted slightly, changing his angle of vision, and saw a neat, small head, with brown hair pulled back tightly into a knot. It was the woman. She was on her knees, with her back to him, polishing the conservatory floor. Tom couldn’t see any marks on it, but she kept moving briskly, rubbing hard at the wooden boards with the cloth she was holding.

Then she began on the legs of the table and the seat of the rough, old kitchen chair, rubbing and rubbing at stains too small for Tom to make out. Gradually she turned around, and he saw her face, tense with concentration. Her lips were moving, and she kept muttering and frowning and ducking her head, just as she had when she was looking down into the hole.

Then she stood up to start work on the tabletop, and her head disappeared out of Tom’s field of vision. Cautiously, he stood up so that he could go on watching her. As he did, he saw that the tray she’d brought in was still there, lying on top of the table.

When she’d first brought it in, it hadn’t seemed important. Tom had seen it through the roof of the conservatory, but he’d hardly glanced at it. Now everything on it seemed like a possible clue. There was a red plastic plate, like a dog’s bowl, with a dirty spoon lying in it. In one corner was a dishcloth, and lying next to it was a pair of big, heavy scissors.

But—hadn’t the bowl been full of food when she brought it in? It was empty now, but there were smears of green and brown all over the bottom and the sides. Hadn’t the dishcloth been folded neatly? Now it was screwed up into a dirty ball. The rest of the tray was smeared too, as though someone had spread the contents of the bowl all over it, with both hands.

And there was at least one thing missing. Tom tried to remember what it was, but the image was elusive. His mind teased him with vague impressions of a tall, brightly colored shape that he couldn’t identify. What was it?

He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t hear the kitchen door open. So he was completely unprepared for the sudden glare of the security light and the pale, pudgy face that peered around the outside corner of the conservatory.

He obviously wasn’t expecting to see Tom. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to yell. But as Tom looked up, their eyes met—and Warren recognized him. For one crucial second, he was too startled to make a sound.

Tom reacted instinctively, jumping up to face him. Darting his face forward, he hissed the first thing that came into his head. “Don’t you mess with me! I know where you live, Warren Armstrong!”

The effect was out of all proportion. Warren’s face went white and he shrank away, as if he was used to being bullied. Tom felt slightly sick, but he didn’t waste his chance. Before Warren could recover, he raced for the cover of the cypress hedge.

There was no time to work his way along it and go back the way he’d come. He simply scrambled up the nearest tree and threw himself over the fence, into the garden next door. As he hit the ground, he heard Warren start to shout.

Tom didn’t wait to hear any more. He flung himself down the garden where he had landed, heading for the far corner. There, at the farthest tip, the garden just touched the highway embankment. If he could get out onto the embankment, he would be safe. No one would be able to track him down in those tangled bushes. Not without a helicopter.

The fence at the corner of the garden was low and dilapidated, with a compost heap built up against it. It was easy to scramble over and crawl into the undergrowth. He managed it just in time. A few seconds later, he glimpsed a light coming down toward him, flicking first into one garden and then into the other. And as it came, a cold voice was calling. It wasn’t loud, but it was the most frightening voice he’d ever heard.

Tom had no intention of talking to Mr. Armstrong. He lay as still as he could in the brambles at the bottom of the embankment, huddled close against the fence. Trying not to shiver as he listened to that cold, controlled voice. It had no expression in it at all. Not even a threat. But the more he listened to it, the more he wished Mr. Armstrong would call the police.

But he won’t do it. Whatever he says. That was the threat he’d used to get rid of Robert before. If I see you again, I shall have to call the police. But he hadn’t done it. Even though he’d found Robert in the garden, heading for his house. It would have been perfectly reasonable to call the police then. But all he’d done was take a stupid picture.

The voice called again, from farther along the hedge. “It’s no use trying to hide. If you do, we’ll get the police to find you.”

Tom lay still and watched the flashlight going up and down the fence for almost a quarter of an hour, with the cold voice calling softly to him, alternately threatening and wheedling. Even when it stopped, he didn’t come out of hiding. He lay where he was, while the security light went out and the garden settled into a dark, rustling silence.

When it had been empty and quiet for a long time, he began to crawl slowly through the bushes, heading back along the embankment. The brambles still tore at his clothes and scratched his face, but this time he barely felt them. His mind was going over and over the things he’d seen, trying to make sense of them. But he couldn’t.