Chapter Two: Cat and Mouse
A small engine lay in a limp, winter-white hand. The paint glimmered blue in the dim sunlight, somehow looking brand new, though clearly old. The tank engine's face was chipped and cracked, the rosy cheeks and smile the only thing that gave way that it was supposed to be cheery. Its painted smile seemed false and sickly, the eyes staring out endlessly. It seemed to know, seemed to understand. And yet, settled in that hand icy hand, it continued to smile, as though it new the tale that hadn't been told.
Hamish had watched his Papa go, disappearing with his Father downstairs. He could faintly hear the shouting of the newcomer, but was unable to make out the words. He picked at his pancakes as he thought. His Dad's birthday was coming soon. He needed to get him something special. His Dad wasn't hard to please, because he was always happy with whatever Hamish ended up getting him. But it was still hard to get him something that he really, truly liked. His Papa, on the other hand, was easy to get something for. Really easy. A jumper, some tea, or maybe even a new Doctor Who season. But his Dad…well, he was harder.
As he ate, the small boy pondered over what to get him. By the time he had finished his meal, Hamish still hadn't thought of anything, sadly. He stood, going to put his plate in the sink, when he heard the window slam shut. But, how? No one's up here but me, his mind quickly thought. So how..?
Hamish quickly turned, curious as to what had made the sound. Oh, his mind whispered, though the voice was slightly panicked as he saw a man standing in their living room. The man was one Hamish knew he hadn't seen before-he would've remembered. He was good at remembering.
The man was tall, like his Daddy, but his body looked like Papa's. He had broad shoulders clad in a leather coat, his arms nearly bursting with muscles. He also had blonde hair like his Papa's, though it wasn't short at all. It had a whiter tint, and hung in his eyes, to which made Hamish notice the intruder's scar. It was pure white and jagged, as though it were a claw that had done the permanent damage. The icy blue eyes turned, catching Hamish's gaze. "Uh-oh," the three-year old whispered, quickly ducking back into the kitchen.
In his head, Hamish prayed that the man hadn't really seen him, and that he could run down to his parents, to tell them of the intruder. His Daddy was smart; he would know what to do.
But in reality, he hid, trembling in a small cupboard, clutching his plate so tightly that his knuckles had turned an icy white. He shut the door nearly all the way, only leaving a small crack open so he could peek out.
Each step the man took sounded like thunder to Hamish's ears. He could hear him searching, peering under the table, under chairs, calling to him. "Come out, come out wherever you are…don't you want to play? Come play with Tiger."
Hamish kept himself hidden in the cupboard, running out to duck behind the couch when 'Tiger' had neared. And whenever he came close to his hiding place, Hamish would find a new one whenever his back was turned.
As the man moved, Hamish could see why he called himself Tiger. His movements were smooth and efficient, slow and easy. His muscles rippled under his coat like water with each and every move.
His back was turned for the numerous time when Hamish had made him move, trying to make a sprint for the door. Soon, he found how mistaken he had been the whole time. As soon as Hamish emerged, the man spun, grabbing him with strong arms. A hand came over his mouth, silencing his cries. His plate fell from his hand, shattering against the ground.
A game, his mind realized. It was just a game.
He could see the searching, and it quickly turned into prowling. Hunting. Every time Tiger had neared, Hamish had moved. And every time Hamish had moved, the man had drawn nearer, herding Hamish towards the window. And now he had him.
Sunlight slid in the window, bathing the boy in bright, pure sunlight. He seemed to have gained a sort of halo, his pale skin suddenly looking flushed, as though the colour had returned. His body seemed to glow and in the detective's racing mind, he saw how alive he looked. As though at any moment he would rise from his position and begin to play. To run around the saddened people, and hide as he used to. Though, in his heart, he knew that the boy would never rise again.