Taken Away by Celine Kiernan Page A

Eurovision.’
    The door whispered shut, and Ma crept away down the stairs.

    I DON’T THINK I SLEPT ; I never quite lost the sense that I was right there, in my bed. But the world seemed to drift away for a while, leaving just the sound of my breathing and Dom’s breathing and the lovely heat of the hot-water bottle at my feet.
    After a while, I rose to the surface just enough to know that I needed to move. I rolled onto my back, instantly comfortable again, eyes closing. The blustery wind of earlier had escalated and there was a proper storm blowing outside. Something rattled its way from one end of the garden to the other, and the windows knocked rhythmically in their frames. The TV aerial on the roof creaked and groaned, and to my drowsing mind it felt like I was deep in the belly of some wooden ship. I listened contentedly, smiling. I was just beginning to wonder why things were so quiet in the kitchen when a voice in the bunk above mine whispered, ‘The bad man is here.’
    I opened my eyes and stayed very still.
    That wasn’t Dom. That wasn’t his voice!
    The wind groaned through the eaves, a low monotone. A spattering of rain peppered the window. It was so quiet downstairs. No TV. No radio. I couldn’t hear Ma and Dad. I couldn’t hear Dee. It was just me, floating alone inside the noise of the storm – and someone who wasn’t Dom, whispering.
    â€˜If we’re not careful, the bad man will find us. He’ll take you away and we—’ The urgent flow of words halted, as though the speaker was listening for something. The gale rushed past the windows in a sudden irritated shhh .
    I tried to make no noise.
    I tried not to breathe.
    If I turned my head, I would be able to see the dressing-table mirror. I would be able to look. There was no night-time gloom now – the top bunk would be lit up, clear as the rainy grey twilight that filled the room. All I had to do was look.
    But I didn’t turn my head. I just couldn’t.
    And then it came again. That whisper: a sharp, fearful hiss. ‘Do you hear him?’
    The bunk above me creaked: the distinctive sound of Dom sitting up.
    My eyes got so big it felt as though they might roll out of their sockets. My hands cramped into fists in the blankets. I was staring, staring, staring at the bunk above me. Waiting.
    Then I heard my brother’s voice: quiet, inquisitive, uncertain.
    â€˜I don’t hear anything,’ he said.
    Dom! Oh God! Dom! Who are you talking to?
    I opened my mouth to say something when that stranger’s whisper came again. ‘But he’s here . He’s here all the time. He wants us. He’ll hurt us! We must be careful.’
    Dom answered, his voice low now, nothing but a whisper: ‘Is he here now?’
    â€˜Oh yes. I think so.’
    Right above my head, Dom shifted. I could imagine him drawing his knees up and hugging them to his chest: the classic pose for Dom when he was frightened. ‘You’re scaring me,’ he said softly.
    â€˜Don’t be frightened. I’ll take a look, shall I?’
    More creaking. But not above my head! No. Not where Dom was sitting. This creaking was at the foot of Dom’s bed. Something was sitting at the end of Dom’s bed!
    I shifted my terrified gaze in that direction. I could hear something up there, crawling towards the ladder. Something was going to look over the edge. It was going to look over the edge of Dom’s bunk.
    My fear was panting its way up my chest, into my throat – was building itself up into a scream.
    I was going to scream. I was going to scream right now .
    A small, pale hand grabbed the edge of Dom’s bunk. Little fingers curled around the mattress. I could see the indents in the fabric where they gripped tight. There was a pause, as though it was frightened to look, and then a small, pale, dark-eyed face cleared the edge.
    It was a boy. Maybe ten years old. White face. Dark, dark