Theresa Talbot [Talbot - The Quiet Ones

The Lost Children

Keep Her Silent

AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

www.ariafiction.com

First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright Theresa Talbot, 2019

The moral right of Theresa Talbot to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788545341

Aria

c/o Head of Zeus

First Floor East

58 Hardwick Street

London EC1R 4RG

www.ariafiction.com

For Jeremy

You dont know who I am, do you?

There wasnt a hint of recognition. It seemed to take him a moment or two to realise where he was. His heels kicked against the floor, but he was too weak to stand up, and the more he struggled, the tighter the ties dug into his flesh. Red welts forming around his wrists and ankles started to weep slightly. Those plastic ties were a godsend. He twisted his head, trying to break free from the gag around his mouth.

Im nothing to you, yet youve ruined my entire life.

He was still drowsy, the sedatives taking their time to wear off.

But I will mean something to you. Because Ill be the last face you ever see on this planet.

The gag had slipped down, settling on his chin, but it didnt matter. He was too weak to scream.

Is it money? His voice was thick, slurred, barely a whisper. Take whatever you want. He forced his head up; tears spilled onto his cheeks. At least now he was scared. That was something.

The sheer effort of talking seemed to be too much for him. His head dropped to one side; it sounded as though he was saying please, but it was hard to be sure without getting right up close. It would have been better had he been more alert, fully aware of everything that was going on, but that was too risky. The house was fairly secluded, but screams could carry.

A Tiffany style lamp in the corner bounced a spectrum of colour off the blade. It was beautiful.

Please, I have a family.

You see, phrases like that really upset me. And they did. As though this were some random attack. As though the fact he had a family were news and could be used as a bargaining tool to curry some favour and get off. Shite like that might work in the courtrooms, but not here. Not in the real world.

I know you have a family. I know everything about you.

He closed his eyes. He at least had the decency to look ashamed as the penny dropped.

Im sorry. His voice little more than a whisper.

No, youre not sorry.

The hand round his throat stole his breath and his eyes didnt leave the blade as it stabbed into the banister behind him. Youre sorry that you got caught. Theres a difference. A big fucking difference.

He began to sob.

Snot ran down his nose. He instinctively flicked his tongue out to lick his lips. It was sickening. His crying was starting to grate now.

Ill tell you what I want from you, and it sure as hell isnt an apology.

Anything. His eyes flickered, a desperate man being given a crumb.

I want you to tell me what its like to die.

Confusion at first. Then fear. It was strange how you could actually see terror in a mans eyes. He began to whimper, a wounded animal. What?

You heard. Tell me what its like to die.

His sobs increasing as his throat tightened, every breath laboured, laced with panic. Youre mental.

Mental? You may well be right.

Youre fucking crazy. The insult fell on deaf ears.

Humour me here. Please. Just talk me through it. Just tell me exactly what it feels like.

The fear made its way down to his groin and the damp patch spread across the front of his trousers. His whole body trembled, violently shaking now. He dry-retched until the bile rose in his throat and dribbled down his chin.

I want to know everything. What it feels like, how scared you are. Is it painful?

Kill me now. Just get it over with, but Im telling you fuck all. The words hiccupped in his throat; it was hard to make them out.

Listen very carefully to me.

He tipped his head up, thinking at least there was still some negotiating to be done.

Im going to cut out your tongue

His screams sliced through the room, his whole body seemed to convulse, the dry retch in his throat made way for vomit and he struggled to stretch his head clear from his clothes. As though that mattered at this stage.

Shh, shh. Calm down. You didnt let me finish. Im going to cut out your tongue. If you play ball and tell me what Id like to know then Ill do that after youre dead.

This seemed to be the best deal he was getting tonight and there was an almost eager nodding in between the uncontrollable shaking.

If you dont share everything with me, if you dont tell me exactly whats going on as youre breathing your last, then Ill cut out your tongue and Ill cut off your balls too and feed them to you.

He seemed to get the message. His sobs were pathetic, hed soiled himself too. The place was starting to stink. He was surprisingly compliant as the noose was put round his neck. It would have been preferable had he done that part himself, but a desperate man was capable of desperate things and there was no telling what hed have tried had his hands been cut loose.

The rope had been well secured to the banister behind him. Measured to precision to ensure maximum drop without the risk of him actually touching the floor. Once the rope was tight around his throat, only then was it safe to slice through the plastic ties binding his ankles. The ones around his wrists would need to remain until afterwards. He struggled to get to his feet.

OK, up you go.

Harry Nugent did as he was told and climbed the stairs of his Houston home for the very last time.

Oonagh ONeil stared at the clock on the newsroom wall; a slow news day was always a drag and today was no different. She looked at the running order of this evenings late bulletin and her heart sank further. A royal pregnancy topped the agenda, followed by some nonsense about council spending, gender neutral toilets in private schools, rounded off with the death of some Scottish football coach shed barely heard of. Thank Christ she didnt have to read this guff later. That was her only comfort at being sidelined, replaced twice a week by Colin. She couldnt be arsed to remember his second name, but he was young and slick and she guessed he was still paying off the Italian mohair suit that was so obviously made to measure.

Youre not being sidelined, Alan, her senior editor, had insisted. Its just that its good for the demographics if we have a hed faltered, trying to find another word for younger , no doubt, ease in another presenter that our new viewers can identify with It left Oonagh free to do research and production, hed said, which in fairness was what she had preferred recently. She had nothing against Colin and his lovely suit, but it was the way things seemed to be happening. And the speed of it too. It seemed like yesterday she was the bright young thing in journalism. When she took her youth and enthusiasm for granted and had no idea of the integral role theyd played in her success. Shed worked hard, no one could ever take that away from her, but there were lots of bright young things whod worked equally hard.