Chapter Ten

 

 

 

But Ciara didn’t turn up Tuesday—or Wednesday, either. While I waited for her to show, I spent long hours working on the debate. By which I mean that I spent long hours staring at the piece of paper Mr. Singh had given me while thinking about Ciara and wondering where she was. At one point, about two a.m. on Wednesday morning in a fit of furious motivation, I wrote the words Ladies and Gentlemen. Then I visualized Ciara’s face in the audience, looking up at me. I stood and started pacing the room. At four a.m., I collapsed on the bed and by five I had fallen into a fitful sleep. Two hours later, my alarm went off. I fell out of bed, clawed my way across the carpet to the bathroom, showered then sat for an hour staring at the piece of paper that had Ladies and Gentlemen written on it while wondering where the hell Ciara was and if she would show up for school that day. If she didn’t, I had a real problem.

But I knew she wouldn’t—and I was right.

At eleven I had a tutorial with Mr. Singh to discuss the progress on the debate. The idea was that I would deliver what I had written so far as a piece of oratory, and he would give me advice on content, style and my delivery. When I told him all I had managed to write was Ladies and Gentlemen, he sighed, got up from his desk and went to look out of the window. That is never a good sign. When people do that, they are usually about to tell you something you really don’t want to hear.

After a moment, he said to the view outside, “Jake, you haven’t been here long, but you’re a likeable chap and people seem to care about you. Nobody is keen for you to leave under a cloud.” He turned and stared at me, giving the words time to sink in. “And I am quite certain you want to make your father proud.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But, I don’t know if you are aware of this. Mr. Muller’s father carries a certain amount of weight in this school. He has made a number of generous endowments…”

“I see, yes.”

He walked back to his chair and sat. He was trying hard to help me. I could tell that. He went on. “Strictly off the record, Jake, after the recent incident, we need a good reason to keep you on. We need you not only to keep your nose clean, but we also need a good academic performance. We need you to be a positive asset for the school. Debating is the way forward for you. What I am trying to say is that the headmaster is offering you a lifeline with this.”

“I know, sir…”

“I would really, very strongly, advise you, Jake, to make the most of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, please. Go now and prepare your debate. Bring me something we can use.”

I went straight to the library and dug out every book, article and essay I could find on the subject of fossil fuels and how their exploitation is devastating vulnerable animals, habitats and humanity itself. I piled them on my desk and stared at them unseeingly for three-quarters of an hour, thinking about how badly I was about to let my dad down.

At lunchtime, I put them all back again, unread, and went in search of Ciara and Sebastian. I found Sebastian waiting for me outside the dining hall.

“Before you ask, no, I haven’t seen her and neither has anybody else. She has vanished without so much as a puff of smoke. What’s happening with your debate?”

I glanced at him. “What debate?”

We collected our food and found a quiet spot in the far corner of the hall. We sat and I said, “There’s only one thing to do, Sebastian.”

He prodded his mashed potatoes resignedly and said, “Oh, God.”

“I have no choice. I have to contact her. I have to find out where she is. Her life could be in danger.”

He put a slice of roast beef in his mouth and ruminated for a while. Finally, he said, “I know. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll have to go to her house.”

“They’ll never let you in, and you’ll alert them to the fact that you’re after her.”

I sighed and rubbed my face. “Okay, so this is the age of communication. She has to be on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram…”

“With her father? You’re joking! They won’t even be in the phonebook.”

“What about friends? Girlfriends? Did you ever see her hanging out with anyone?”

He was shaking his head before I’d even finished. “Forget it, Jake. Michael Fionn has decided to isolate his daughter, and there’s no way you are going to get to her through any of the normal channels.” He realized what he had said too late. He looked at me and I looked at him. He said, “Oh, God, Jake, what are you going to do?”

I pushed my food around my plate for a bit while he watched me. Finally, I said, “If I can’t reach her through a normal channel, I’ll have to use an abnormal one. I’ll have to go there tonight.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll have to break in.”

“Are you insane?”

“I don’t think so. What are my options? You said yourself that there’s no way I’m going to get to her through any of the normal channels. I haven’t got time to mess around, Sebastian.”

“Have you any idea what will happen to you if you get caught? That is burglary in British law! You could go to prison!”

“Okay, fine! So you tell me. What are my other options?”

He flopped back in his chair and shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, Jake, but as your friend, I have to warn you against this. I have to. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

I nodded. “I know…” I spread my hands. “But…”

He sighed and dropped his fork on his plate. “When do you plan to do it?”

I thought for a moment. “I need to prepare a bit. Tomorrow night.”

“You want me to help?”

I smiled at him. “Thanks, Sebastian. I appreciate it, but it’s best if I go alone.”

He nodded. “For God’s sake, don’t get caught.”

 

* * * *

 

It was a September moon. The sky was a deep, translucent blue, but a few clouds, like the silhouettes of tall ships backlit by moonlight, sailed quietly on the night. I looked at the clock on my cell. It was five minutes to midnight and the house was dark and silent. I had my rucksack packed and ready by the window. I slipped up the sash and the night air brushed my face, rich with the rich smells of damp grass, the sweet and the musty tang of the fallen leaves of autumn.

I slung the rucksack on my back, slipped out of the window and by using the drainpipe and the ivy that swarmed up the side of the house, I was able to make it more or less silently down to the lawn. A quick sprint got me past the arbor and down to the back fence. Then it was a steady trot cross-country, through fields and hedgerows for half an hour until I came to the woods that abutted Ciara’s house on the banks of the Isis.

I lay on my belly, on a bed of damp, pungent leaves and moss under a giant chestnut tree, trying to pierce the darkness with my eyes and see into the haze of shadows around the house. There was nothing but sleepy stillness. Around me, small things rustled and snuffled through the dead leaves and the undergrowth. Then a spotlight snapped on at the back of the house. By its light, I saw a cat, its shadow stretched and dancing grotesquely across the lawn. It trotted to the back of the house and disappeared. After a minute, the light winked off and silent shadows engulfed the garden again. I waited. No lights came on in the house. Nothing happened.

I got up and vaulted silently over the wooden fence. I stayed crouching on the grass for twenty seconds. Still, nothing happened. So I sprinted across the lawn to the rose bushes that flanked the patio. The spotlight snapped on and I ducked behind the bushes and crawled up to the back wall of the house then along to the kitchen door. There was no cat-flap, but there was no cat, either. I waited, motionless, until the light winked off again.

There was no doubt this guy was going to have an alarm system. The question was what kind? I wondered if the cat belonged to the house and came and went as it pleased. If it did, I could be fairly sure the system did not have a motion sensor. But I could be equally sure that if I tried to force a window or a door, I would trip some kind of an alarm and the cops would be all over me in a matter of minutes. I really hadn’t thought this through. Always think your plans through. Make the long movie.

I was telling myself this, rather pointlessly, when I heard a gentle meow above my head. I looked up and saw the same cat I’d seen before, sitting on a ledge on the first floor, peering at me in the way cats have that makes you feel somehow stupid. And thinking that gave me a stupid idea. If I could read people’s minds, could I read an animal’s mind? I focused on the cat, on whether it could get in and out of the house and if so, how?

Nothing happened except that I got a kind of mental white noise and the cat watched me, seeming vaguely amused. Then it stood with its tail straight up and trotted along the ledge toward a window, where it hunkered down then disappeared. It was impossible to see in the dark, especially with the ledge in the way, but two got you twenty that the sash window was a couple of inches open to let Fluffums squeeze in and out. It was also about ten feet up a sheer wall with no drainpipe and no ivy.

I backed up a few paces. The spotlight snapped on. I sprinted and, as I reached the wall, I leaped. It was just about the right height for me to grab the ledge with my fingertips. I heaved with all my might, scrabbled with my toes and managed to haul myself up until I had my elbows on the ledge. I was right. The window was open three inches—enough to be invisible from below but allow the cat access. I reached out and hooked my left hand inside. With the other, I eased up the sash another couple of feet, enough to allow me through. Then I pulled and I was inside.

It was a bedroom. The only light was the moonlight from outside. I hunkered down on the carpet, very still, thinking and listening to the sounds of the house. Apart from the odd creak of old timber expanding or contracting in the changing temperatures, it was perfectly silent. Something felt very wrong. I kept asking myself why a man who was so paranoid about his daughter’s safety would have such lax security in his house. I stood cautiously and moved around the room. My eyes were adjusting to the penumbra and I could just make out a queen-sized bed, a bedside table with a lamp and a wardrobe. It was hard to see colors, but it all looked a bit pink and frilly—not over the top, but pretty girly. It felt like it could be Ciara’s room, especially with the window being open for the cat, but there were no photos, no fluffy bears, no personal objects of any type—and above all, there was no Ciara.

I stepped over to the door. It was ajar. I pulled it gently open. It squeaked loudly. I froze. Listened. Nothing. I stepped out onto the landing. The house was as silent as a tomb. In front of me there was a balustrade above a stairwell. To my right, there were two doors and a third in the wall facing me. To my left, there was another door where the wall made a right angle. I crept over to it and took about thirty seconds turning the handle. Then I gave it a quick push so it wouldn’t squeak. The room was dark, but I could just recognize the bulk of a large, king-size bed. I listened for breathing or snoring. Nothing. I stepped two steps closer to the bed till I could see it in the faint moonglow from the window. It was empty, and like the other room, the bedside tables had no photos, no books, no glasses—no personal objects of any type, except I noticed a crucifix over the bed. It crossed my mind absently that he was Irish and probably a Catholic.

I stood staring and mentally scratching my head for a while. Then, a little less carefully I made my way to the other bedrooms. They were also empty. In the bathroom, there were the usual soaps and shampoos but no toothpaste and no toothbrushes.

They had moved out.

To where?

I went to the top of the stairs and listened. I knew what I was going to hear. Nothing. So, I trotted down and found an open-plan kitchen-breakfast room, a large oak-paneled dining room, a drawing room with a walk-in fireplace the size of a small house and a study that was locked.

It was locked at first, but after I applied some wire from my rucksack to it, it clicked open and I stepped in. The room was very dark. There were heavy curtains drawn across the windows and a strong smell of pipe tobacco. I felt my way to the desk and snapped on the lamp. It cast a pool of amber glow over dark wood and green leather. There was a black leather swivel chair behind the desk and in front of it a Chesterfield sofa and an armchair in a rich, washed green leather. I put my backside on the edge of the desk and stared around the room for a while, letting the things I saw sink in slowly, letting my mind look without me interfering for some clue to where they had gone. There didn’t seem to be anything of any particular interest, nothing unusual or out of the ordinary.

If they had left suddenly in the middle of school term, that was something he would have had to organize unexpectedly, and it occurred to me that that was something you would do from your desk—on the phone. I had a flash of an image of my dad making the arrangements to move from Boston to Oxford. I saw him at his desk, the phone in his left hand and jotting down details with a pen in his right hand—on a notepad.

I turned and surveyed the desk. The phone was there in its cradle. There was a notepad with a pen laid across it. There was nothing written on the pad, but I’d seen enough detective movies to know what to do next.

I dropped into the chair and pulled a pencil from his penholder. I rubbed it very gently over the pad, and sure enough, a couple of words began to appear—St. Mary’s and underneath it, underlined three times, Little Sodbury.

St. Mary’s. On an impulse, I pulled out my iPhone and googled St Mary’s, Little Sodbury. It said it was one of the few Catholic parish churches in England dating back to the Reformation. It was noted for its elaborate gilded carvings, statues and its crypt, which was currently closed to the public because of its state of disrepair. There was a telephone number listed. I leaned over and picked up the phone from the cradle and scrolled down to last number redial.

The last number Michael Fionn had called from that phone was St. Mary’s. They were there, absolutely no doubt in my mind. Thirty seconds on Google told me that Little Sodbury was just twenty miles away to the north. That was no distance at all, unless you were on foot. I had my license, but what I didn’t have was a car.

I could see in my mind’s eye the garage next to the house. It was a large garage. I could also see Ciara being picked up by her dad in a dark-blue, brand-new Jaguar. It was a car that you noticed—the kind of car you wouldn’t use if you wanted to keep a low profile and disappear for a while. The kind of car you’d leave in the garage while you rented something anonymous like a VW Polo.

And you would leave the keys where? Somewhere safe? I glanced around the study again, but even as I was looking, I knew that was wrong. His mind was on making his daughter safe, not his car. The key to the Jag would be in a fruit bowl on the kitchen countertop.

I got up and went next door.

It wasn’t in a fruit bowl. That’s where women leave their car keys. It was on a hook on the corkboard by the door. I stepped out into the night. The automatic door to the garage rumbled loudly in the darkness. My belly was burning and my heart was racing. What I was doing was totally crazy. If Dad had the faintest idea, he’d go insane. I was going to be in so much trouble. I would be expelled from the school. This was theft—theft of a motor vehicle. Grand theft auto. I could be arrested. I was seventeen. I’d be tried as an adult. I could even go to prison. I’d have a criminal record for the rest of my life. If I walked away now, I could pretend nothing had happened, go back home to bed, forget the whole thing and trust that Michael Fionn knew what he was doing and was the right man to protect his daughter. But the minute I climbed in that car and pressed the ignition, there would be no turning back.

The door came to a halt with a crash. I stepped forward and the lights came on automatically. And there it sat, looking at me with hungry eyes, like a big cat ready to pounce. The Jaguar F-Type, gleaming under the buzzing strip lights, three liter supercharged V6 engine, three hundred seventy-four break horsepower of pure grunt, zero to sixty in four point eight neck-breaking seconds, top speed of one hundred seventy miles per hour. All mine, all mine, all mine. I muttered, “Come to Papa, baby,” and climbed in.

My criminal career had begun. Victory was for the brave. There was no turning back.