Counting was soporific. He searched for something else to focus his attention on. From Sarah's room, he heard the start-up bleep of her computer, followed a minute or so later by the jingle of the operating system. In the space between the beep and the music, he had taken two breaths, very slow and even, like a diver conserving his oxygen supply.
The dog’s body shivered as it panted. The sound, like a steam train gathering speed, filled the room and filled his head. The odour of its body and its foetid breath did the same, swamping his senses, nauseating him.
He dug deeper. And deeper still.
In this state, it could have been three minutes or thirty three before he heard Firdy’s voice in the next room. He couldn’t make out the individual words, but he recognised the rhythm as one side of a telephone conversation. It was repeated several times, amid the clattering of drawers, the scattering of papers, the smashing of glass.
He's the hangman, he thought, drawing the noose tight.
The dog’s ears pricked up. Simon knew better than to attempt to rein his thought in. That would only cause more ripples. He let it go, the one that got away, disappearing in the murky waters of this lake, still, serene and submerged, leaving barely a trace, but a trace nonetheless.
The dog squinted at him and sighed.
Chapter Eleven
Sarah heard a knock and opened one eye.
“Yeah,” she said. Her throat was dry; painful. “Come in.”
The knock came again and she realised that it wasn't the door, but the wall.
She sat upright and pulled her jacket on, getting her arm caught in the sleeve. She had to get ready to run, but she was dizzy and could hardly stand.
Bang!
Bang!
Of the two possibilities for the violence - Simon or someone he had hoped to protect her from - she knew which she dreaded most; the thought of opening the door and seeing Simon rushing toward her made her feel sick.
At the window, she saw that an extension had been built at the back of the house. Its roof was beneath the window, so she ought to be able to climb across and lower herself down to the ground without much difficulty. A rickety fence, about six feet tall, separated the overgrown garden from the back street. She was fit. She could probably climb the fence, give or take a few splinters, but much rather that than the uncertain fate that waited if she stayed put. Working out her route, wondering if she could get to her car from there, she attempted to open the window, but it was locked.
Bang! Thud. And another thump, followed by the slap of flesh hitting the wall.
Fuck.
Maybe she should run for the stairs and head straight to the car. At the spare room door now, she listened, feeling for her keys. Where were they?
There was no sound from the hallway. Again, something struck the wall from the other side. She heard Geraldine yelp.
Fuck.
And again.
And again.
Rhythmic ...
…
Sarah slipped to her knees, weary now that she was no longer afraid, and she worked hard to stifle a fit of laughter.
Geraldine wailed again, the pillow or fist or ball-gag, whatever it was, slipping out her mouth, she supposed. Listening carefully, she could hear her husband grunting too, roughly in time to the sound of the headboard striking the wall.
Her chest ached and she noticed the beginnings of tears in her eyes, conveying relief and regret at once. She swatted them away and slapped her cheeks to get a hold of herself. She was surprised that she had fallen asleep, but any good it had done had been undone by her shock upon waking.
In the next room, they weren’t making love. They were fucking. Geraldine was the fuckee. The bed was slamming against the wall. Every now and then, there was the sharp snap of a heavy palm across buttocks. She heard Geraldine gasping for breath, never quite catching it.
It went on like this for a long time; long enough for Sarah to wish it would stop.
Hands over her ears, she couldn't help thinking of the time – the first and last – that she had heard her parents having sex. It was a school night and they had thought she was asleep, but she had been staring at the ceiling, fingers in her ears, in the room that was now Simon's, the walls too close on all sides. It wasn't sounds of pleasure she had blocked out, but desperation. Release.
She had heard her mother say 'no', but the noise continued, like a fist pounding on a door; the door finally giving way.
She couldn't recall them ever hugging each other again, no matter how bad things got. In fact, she couldn't remember them touching. They glared at each other, they passed the salt, they left each other curt messages on their remaining headed notepaper, they said goodnight.
She counted slowly to two hundred and tentatively removed her hands from her ears, just in time to hear Geraldine's husband come, long and loud, the sound of a beast, not a man; an ape that has just taken new territory perhaps. An ape that will be insufferable for days on the back of it.
There were no words, unless they were whispering. Except for the drone of electricity, the house was as silent as death. The air was still.
Her phone vibrated and she pounced on it. It was Simon again. A text this time.
Are you ok? I'm ok now. Where are you?
She was thinking about what this meant when she heard heavy footsteps heading across the landing. She held her breath and prayed that the man would not come in here for any reason. The footsteps went past her door and then there was the sound of the light pull being activated in the bathroom, followed by the clank of the toilet seat. He peed thunderously, like a racehorse Simon called it, directly into the water.
When he was done, she heard Geraldine crying. Her sobs dyed when the toilet flushed. The man returned to the bedroom. His voice. A rumble.
She began tapping out her reply to her brother, but paused with her finger over the send button. She didn't want to consider it, but perhaps Simon wasn't himself yet after all. It was possible that he was going through the motions to lure her home. There was something about a code or pattern that she was meant to follow. She hadn't memorised it; at the time, she had hoped that if she didn't entertain the notion of something like this happening, everything would be okay. She should have known that that wouldn't work. Dad had still left. And mum had still died.
She read the message again.
Are you ok? I'm ok now. Where are you?
It was short and to the point, the way she had imagined his messages would be. There was nothing special about it, but she was sure there should be. He hadn't used her name, neither Sarah nor Sally. Wouldn't he have used one or the other to signal his state of mind?
She imagined him walking home in the dark, stabbing out the message, an assassin with the advantage of knowing his target inside out.
Her hopes of a reunion receded, because she knew it was true. Simon wasn’t back yet. This message wasn't from him.
She cancelled her reply, feeling dejected, vulnerable and alone, missing Simon more than she could have known.
It was only then that she noticed she had missed four calls. All from him. A few minutes apart. Wasn't this the code? He would call a number of times in a row and ring off before she answered; then he would call her a final time, giving her enough time to pick up. Only she had slept through the whole thing, because she was exhausted and had set her phone to vibrate.
She was almost sure that this was the case and the thought of letting him down if he needed to talk to her was unbearable. She had done so many things wrong, she had to try to make up for it. She could at least let him know that she was safe. If there was a problem, she would move on. It was better than staying here, in limbo, with nothing but her thoughts for company, not knowing what was going to happen to her and not knowing if Simon was okay.
Fingers shaking with adrenaline, cold and relief, she set about typing her reply. When it was done she re-read it and hit send. The phone thought about it for a few secon
ds, during which she changed her mind several times, and then the handset buzzed.
Message sent.
That was that.
A reply came back within seconds. She realised that she had been holding her breath and sighed with relief when she opened up the message.
She knew it. Everything was going to be okay.
Chapter Twelve
The dog jumped as if it had been kicked and moments later Firdy stomped into the room.
“I’ve found her,” he said. At last, he was rewarded with more than a flicker of interest from his captive.
He had trawled her emails until his eyes were sore from staring at the screen and he had scrutinised her private letters before phoning more than a dozen of the numbers he collated. Of those that answered, half of them had given him abuse. It was unfair to dislike Sarah because of the friends she kept, but it was easy and he did dislike her.
He rubbed his temple.
Oh, but it couldn't be helped.
Of those that answered his questions, most of them thought she would be at home. They made random suggestions as to her whereabouts, though nothing rang true. In the end, she had broken cover all by herself.
“Don’t move,” he said and threw him half a loaf of bread and the remains of the chicken they had been eating for dinner. “That’s for you. Don’t feed the Dog; he’ll bite your hand off. Don’t run,” he said earnestly. “He’ll kill you if you try. I’ll be back with your sister as soon as I can.” Then he patted the dog on the head as though it was a puppy. “Good boy,” he said. “No killing.” He didn't check the rope. He pulled the door shut and thudded down the stairs, careless now in his enthusiasm to get to Sarah.
The Dog sat on its haunches watching Simon who sat motionless in the corner. Beneath them, the front door opened and closed, then the van door. The engine coughed to life and rumbled for a while before Firdy backed out onto the main road. He revved the engine hard and it grew quieter moment by moment until Simon and the dog were alone, or at least as alone as they could be with an uninvited presence in their minds. Simon could almost feel it catching his thoughts like fish in a stream, holding them up to the light, throwing them back.
He imagined a deep, deep river, the very depths of which were brown, blue, then black, unable to be penetrated by any kind of light. He imagined the dusty river bed and the weird, plant-like creatures clinging to it. Beneath them were caves and tunnels where even more freakish creatures kept safe from the predators above. This was where he put his mind. He took great handfuls of dirt and covered it up. When he was done, he washed his hands and looked the other way.
As his headache began to intensify, he conjured up a mental screen and filled it with a great many objects, so he wouldn't be tempted to think of Sarah again, of her reaction when she saw Firdy or what Firdy intended to do to her. He made the objects as real as possible and counted them off one by one. He linked them together and made ridiculous stories.
The dog was perplexed. Simon's mind was strange, but that was no reason to kill him. It would wait. It was the calm one, not like the cat, which was still locked inside the back of the van. No. Its patience had been rewarded in the past; it had no doubt that it would be again.
Chapter Thirteen
With the accelerator pressed to the floor, the transit van did just over 70mph. The motorway stretched on and on. The glowing studs zipped by, but not quickly enough for Firdy's liking. He was unaware of the confines of the van and of distance; only time. At this speed, he’d be in East London in about an hour. In an hour and a half, he could have Sarah. So in three hours he could be back at the house and things could really get started.
Three hours, he had to admit, was a painfully long time. It would be getting light by then. That was no good at all. It could delay proceedings another day and time was running out.
The headlights of vehicles coming the other way caused spots of light to hover in front of his eyes and his skull was pounding. The Third did not agree that he was doing the right thing by abandoning Simon, but It trusted him enough not to incapacitate him. He had his reasons. He would be quicker without him. He wouldn't have to worry that Simon was going to grab the wheel at some point and try to run them off the road. He trusted the Dog to keep an eye on him and prevent escape. Again, the Third disagreed.
He thinks of you as 'The Creature', Firdy thought angrily.
The Third's response was another spike of pain, like a needle going through the back of his head.
Okay, okay.
To the best of his ability, he kept his mind on his driving. Driving came naturally to him and it was something he enjoyed. Sometimes it even helped him to relax. He wished the van would give him another ten miles per hour, but it was probably for the best that he was stuck to the speed limit. He didn't want to get pulled over with the Cat in the back. That could be messy.
He could sense that the Cat was pleased to be away from the Dog, but was frustrated and confused by her continued confinement.
Your time will come, he thought and she settled somewhat, though he imagined that she was facing the exit, eyes wide in the dark, tapping her claws.
The Third hadn't been keen on his taking the Dog or Cat with him, but his confidence in their ability had convinced her to let him try. He had been looking forward to this night for weeks; he wasn't about to do anything to jeopardise its success. The Third knew that, though she kept a close and constant watch on his thoughts and (stabbed) tugged every now and then when something worried her.
It was all going to be okay though. Sarah had got away, but he and the Cat would soon retrieve her. It was a good thing he had decided to bring her as she'd be useful to him if anything else unexpected happened. He knew that sometimes she left home and hunted; she was a good tracker and based on appearance alone she'd be good for crowd control.
He had everything worked out.
You see, he thought. You see how I care for you.
He was changing lane to head for the centre of London when he felt a sudden sensation of falling.
It was as if he had been dropped.
He hit the brakes, too hard, and swerved across three lanes, the back fanning out. He wasn't wearing his seatbelt so the sudden drop in speed threw his body into the wheel. He freed his hand and turned the wheel hard to correct the skid, but his foot slipped from the brake and hit the accelerator. He swerved and braked again, tires screaming.
A truck moved over to the middle lane to avoid him and rushed by, its canvas-covered load flapping like a sail. It was all multi-coloured lights and a roar of disapproval.
On the hard shoulder, Firdy regained some semblance of control. He hit the bank and skidded to a stop. Something came off the van. A hub cap. It rolled on and on and then veered into the lanes of traffic.
Firdy rested his head against the steering wheel, hostage to a panic that was less to do with the fact that he had almost died, but more because the Third was gone and it had happened in a matter of seconds. She had never withdrawn so quickly before. It meant that something was wrong, something he didn't want to think about.
The Cat was mewing in the back, though it sounded more like a dog's whine or a child's groan. She was a big Cat. She was missing the Third too. For a while she would be lost without her.
“It’ll pass,” he said out loud. The sound of his voice, however, only served to punctuate the loneliness and make any attempts to defeat it seem futile.
He had to get out of the van. The nothingness, the silence, was crushing him. He fumbled the door open and half-fell out of the cab. His knees buckled and he had to haul himself up, stagger around the van. He stumbled up the bank and sat down in the wild grass, breathing hard.
Take a moment, he told himself. It's always the same. It always feels like this, but I'm still here.
He became aware of trucks thundering by. The world – their world – was enormous, sprawling, and it would destroy him, because he didn't fit.
The
vehicles' momentum, however, reminded him that although it may be impossible to complete the mission, he should take the opportunity to make up time. He had to hope that the Third would return as usual, refreshed and recharged, refocussed and ready. She could do so before the day was out.
It would get better.
Another positive was that his headache was gone. He was free to think broad and deep without questions and disapproval. He could get things done; his way.
Knees aching, he forced himself to his feet and staggered like a much older man back down to the van. He would have expected it to be rocking from side to side as the Cat threw herself at the walls, but all was utterly still, physically and mentally.
He sought his connection to the animal, which usually persisted even when the Third was gone, but there was nothing. He grasped at the familiar strings, but none of them were connected, neither to the Cat nor the Dog.
He put his ear to the door, but couldn't hear anything above the occasional sound of engines on the motorway. He didn't have time for this, so he lowered the lever, paused for a moment with his weight against the door to judge the Cat's reaction and then, when he thought it was safe, he pulled the door open. It was only open a crack when the Cat slammed against it, knocking him to the floor and leaping over him, landing with hardly a sound, only the clicking of claws on the tarmac beyond him. Firdy span on the ground so he was lying on his stomach, face to face with the animal.
Like the Dog, its mouth appeared to be a permanent smile.
“It's okay,” Firdy said. “Alright.” He got to his knees before the Cat began backing away.
He didn't have long before somebody saw it and called the police or the National Enquirer.
Get in the van, Firdy thought, but the Cat did not respond and so he said it out loud, enunciating clearly. “Get in the van.”
The Cat bolted up the incline and paused at the top, half-hidden against a background of trees.
“Don't do this,” Firdy said.
It darted over the summit and beyond the tree line. By the time Firdy had scrambled back to the top of the hill, she was gone. He couldn't even tell which direction she had run in. Not without the Third's help.