by Alex Smith
“I’m going to tell you what will happen next,” he said. “Would you like to hear?”
Blake didn’t reply, his voice locked inside his head, pleading over and over, God please let me be okay. Please let Connor be okay. Please let him leave. Oh god please let him go away. The man must have taken his silence as an affirmation because he carried on, that dirty fingernail still digging into the soft flesh of his chin.
“I am going to kill you, Blake.”
Oh god no no no no.
“But not now. Not now.”
Another noise rose above the screams, the bleep of the smoke alarm. Blake tried to look past the man but he was too wide, he was taking up too much space. What the fuck were they doing to Connor?
“Please, my son is—”
“His fate is in your hands,” the man said. “Julia’s too.”
Blake groaned, his chest heaving. The man leaned in, engulfing Blake in the graveyard stench of his coat. His voice was a whisper, and it was the loudest thing in the world.
“I am going to kill you. But not now. In six days, six hours and six minutes—six days, six hours and six minutes exactly from the moment this began—I am going to come back, and I am going to end your life. I am going to end you. And that is all I will do. If you die as I wish for you to die, nobody else will come to harm.”
The man’s lips tickled Blake’s ear, his breath hot and heavy.
“Tell anyone, and your wife and child will die. Call the police, and your wife and child will die. Try to run, hide, seek help, or deceive me in any way, and your wife and child will die. And they will not die quickly, Blake. Theirs will not be a nice death. It will be slow, and it will be bloody, and they will know the full horror of hell before I end them.”
He paused there a moment and Blake heard that tongue slide out again, moisten those fat, chapped lips. The man sniffed, breathing in like he meant to inhale everything in the room. Blake screwed his eyes shut, listened to the frantic beat of his heart—thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud—trying to hold his breath in his lungs so he wouldn’t have to smell him. Why wasn’t he doing anything? Why wasn’t anything happening? The man’s breath whispered against him like insects crawling into his ear, burrowing into his brain—thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud—and Blake curled into himself as hard as he could, trying to screw himself up so small he might just drop out of the world.
“I am the nameless one, I am the darkness inside us all, the night that swallows the day. You are mine, Blake Barton.”
The world suddenly brightened, so much light flooding into the room that Blake almost couldn’t open his eyes. He squinted against it, seeing the man walking away, those mud-caked boots thudding on the floor, his coat whipping out behind him. He stopped at the door and turned back, those small, grey, unblinking eyes making Blake cower even further into himself.
“In six days, six hours and six minutes I will come back and kill you,” the man said, scratching the tattoo on his wrist.
Then he was gone.
Nine
It was a while before Blake remembered how to move.
He sat there trembling, his teeth chattering so hard they might have shattered out of his gums and dropped to the floor. He waited for the man to reappear, to rush back into the room and finish the job. And even though his head screamed Get up! Get ready for him! For fuck’s sake defend yourself! his body wanted no part of it. It was locked tight, the key long lost. He could as easily have shot fireballs from his fingertips as moved a single, worthless muscle.
Then, past the drumming of his pulse in his ears, past the roar of the adrenaline, the sounds of the house faded back in—the dog, the fire alarm, and his son.
Connor.
He leaned forward and tried to push himself up, then vomited on the carpet. It came out like it had been shot from a fire hose, without warning, no solids there but a jet of wine and bile that made it halfway across the room. He groaned as he clambered off the sofa, his filleted legs just about carrying him into the hall. The front door had been closed, like nothing at all had happened. Only the trail of mud on the tiles gave it away—that and the fact that Blake didn’t dare take his hands off the wall as he crossed the hallway, like a man on a listing ship.
The kitchen was a storm of smoke and noise and he waded through it, expecting to see the intruder there—either of them, both of them maybe—expecting to see his son in pieces, or crackling in the oven. But Connor was in his seat, pushing at it with blanched, chubby fingers, his face contorted with horror and glistening with tears and snot. He ran for him, but Doof got between his feet, growling. He snapped at Blake’s toes, panic driving him wild, and Blake shooed him away.
“Give me a fucking minute,” he growled.
The smell was coming from the toaster, a blackened bagel poking out and pouring smoke towards the ceiling. Blake grabbed it, tossing it into the sink and turning on the tap. Then he doubled back and snatched his son from his highchair, hugging him so hard he had to force himself to loosen his grip for fear of crushing him.
“It’s okay, Conn,” he whispered. “It’s okay, daddy’s here, I’m here. It’s all okay, mate.”
Connor’s screams only grew louder, the kid trying to wrestle his way loose. Blake didn’t blame him. The man’s stench was everywhere, spores of filth that had landed on his bare skin. It made him itch just to think of it, to think of it spreading to his son, taking root in the house like a fungus.
He put Connor on the floor and sat cross-legged next to him. For a moment his son just screamed. Then the dog ran over and licked his face and he cut out mid-squeal, staring at Doof with wide-eyed outrage. The dog turned to Blake, his head low, eyes pleading, and Blake stretched out a hand. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, slowing steadily. Doof sniffed them like they might be dangerous, but perked up almost immediately, his tail twitching. He clambered onto Blake’s bare knee, trying to lick his face, and he let him. He closed his eyes and took a breath and just let him.
He wasn’t sure how much later it was that he breathed out and said, “Okay.”
With his eyes closed, tiredness was battering at the edges of his brain—big, powerful waves that could have pulled him into sleep in an instant. He knew it was just the adrenaline run-off, but the force of it was frightening. He wrenched his eyes open, the world spinning.
He needed to get a grip.
He might come back, commanded his head. He said he was coming back.
In six days, yeah, but Blake didn’t exactly trust him. He used Connor’s chair to haul himself up, staggering back out into the hall and locking the Yale on the front door. Then he cut through the kitchen, calling out to his son as calmly as he could. A narrow passage led past the utility room to the garage door at the back of the house and he double-checked it to make sure that it was locked tight.
Now what?
Now the police. He paced back into the kitchen, picking up Connor again before the kid could go into meltdown. He was calmer now, uttering birdlike whimpers that broke Blake’s heart. They had two phones, one in the hall and one in the bedroom. The one in the hall would be visible to anyone outside and Blake didn’t want to risk it—feeling happier with himself that he was at least thinking straight. Instead, he clambered up the stairs, the dog in his wake.
Their bedroom was at the front of the house and he gently pulled back the net curtain. The front garden was deserted, the street clear aside from a couple walking their dog in the rain. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the cordless handset out of its cradle, his thumb hovering over the 9.
The dial tone buzzed, calling to him, and he thumbed in the first digit.
Call the police, and your wife and child will die.
But that was crazy, right? Because if the police came they could post a guard, they could watch over them until the guy was caught.
He thumbed another 9—bleep—then paused. The phone clicked expectantly.
Call the police, and your wife and child will di
e.
The cops were the only option. This guy was just asking to be arrested, locked away for a hundred fucking years. But what if he got to Julia while she was at work? Shouldn’t he warn her first and give her a chance to get away? His finger landed on the 9 again, brushing it lightly. He could tell the police to pick her up and bring her back here. But what if they didn’t believe him? What was he supposed to say?
Yeah, some guy came into my house and told me he’d kill me.
So did he harm you? Did he steal anything?
Well, no, but he threatened me and my family. He said he’s coming back in six days. He left mud on the carpet for god’s sake. I need you to protect us.
Sure, we’ll dispatch the whole Norfolk Constabulary to keep a 24-hour vigil on your house, just in case. You want the army, too? They can bring a vacuum cleaner.
It wasn’t worth it. Not until he knew what was going on.
He slammed the phone back, jiggling the kid on his knee. Then he picked it up again and thumbed in Julia’s mobile number. It seemed to take an age to connect, ringing, ringing, ringing—oh shit he’s already got her—ringing, ringing—please Julia, pick up—ringing—
“Miss me already?”
And Blake was crying again, blinking hot, fat tears. He put a hand over his mouth so she wouldn’t notice the sobs.
“Blake? Hello? I can’t hear you very well.”
“It’s cool,” he blurted, breathless. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she said, and he could hear the sound of the engine as she drove to work. Christ, she’d only left fifteen minutes ago, it felt like forever. “I kind of am now, though. Connor okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s right here. Say hi, grotbag.”
He put the phone to Connor’s ear and the kid did what he did every time he got the phone—went utterly, perfectly quiet.
“Well, he’s waving, kind of,” Blake said.
“Thank you very much for the update. Look, traffic sucks, I’d better scoot. So should you. You sure you’re okay? You sound weird.”
Blake closed his eyes and took another deep breath. The world seemed to have recovered its pace, turning at the right speed again.
“I’m fine, babe. Just have a good day. And Jules.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Stay safe, okay? Just… just that. Stay safe.”
“Fucking hell, Blake, I was planning on jumping off the roof today, into a swimming pool full of sharks and dirty needles. Way to ruin my plans, you douche.”
“I’m not even—” he said, but she’d already hung up. He put the phone down, finishing with a mutter, “kidding.”
He let Connor fall onto the duvet, watching him roll awkwardly onto his front and waddle around in circles. The kid was giggling his head off now and Blake wished he had his son’s memory, able to forget things in the blink of an eye. He had a feeling he’d be thinking about this day for the rest of his life. He put his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. It was bloody cold up here, like he was sitting in a fridge. No wonder, though, he was pretty much naked, his boxer shorts soaked through.
The shame hit him like a punch to the gut and he put a hand over his mouth. He couldn’t quite believe it, couldn’t get his head around his actions—or lack of them. He’d heard it said that nobody really knew the kind of man they were until they faced something terrible. Well, now he knew. Somebody had walked into his house. A stranger. A monster. And what had he done? Pissed his pants and burst into tears. He shook his head, the sickness roiling in his stomach, his battered heart just about sliding into his feet.
He’d also heard it said that pissing yourself was worse than shitting yourself, that losing control of your bowels was a survival thing, it helped you run faster or fight harder or something. Losing control of your bladder, though. That was just something scared little children did. Yeah, he’d shown his true colours, alright. That man, whoever the fuck he was, had seen him for what he really was. A coward. A pathetic, whining, pants-wetting coward.
Why hadn’t he punched him? Thrown himself on him? Grabbed the poker from the living room fire and beaten him out of the house like a stray dog? Maybe if he’d just stood his ground a little more firmly, if he’d planted his feet a little wider on the doorstep, if he’d just said “No!” when the man tried to enter. Maybe none of this would have happened.
He felt like he was going to cry again and he stood, walking out the room before remembering Connor. He put the kid in the playpen in his bedroom before stripping. He placed the soiled underwear in the wash basket, then thought better of it, screwing them up and throwing them into the bin, then thinking better of that too and tying them tight in a dog poop bag and disposing of them in the bathroom bin. He never wanted to see those pants again.
He switched on the shower, as hot as it would go, and started to climb inside. He changed his mind, walking back to the bedroom and manoeuvring the foldable playpen out onto the landing so that he could keep an eye on his son through the door.
The water was scalding, so hot that his skin smarted. He scoured himself with his hands, emptying a whole bottle of shower gel. Then he did the same with Julia’s washcloth and a bottle of shampoo. Only when it seemed like the last of the man’s stench had gone did he relax. Closing his eyes, he let the water run over him.
In the sudden calm, he recovered his ability to think rationally. There had to be an explanation for what had just happened. These things were never random.
The young man from his office, and the man who called himself the devil. They were working together. It was the most likely explanation. Maybe the first guy had been picked up by security and given a hard time. Maybe they’d rolled him over, taken his wallet or something—not like he’d looked wealthy or anything. Maybe they’d just reported him to his parole officer. He was pissed, and he wanted some kind of revenge on the member of staff who’d ratted on him.
Blake reached down to his crotch, feeling his half-empty scrotum. Even now it loosed a flicker of adrenaline, the sudden, shocking knowledge that it had gone. He gave his remaining bollock a friendly squeeze so it wouldn’t feel lonely.
The devil man. He’d been a scary motherfucker. Even though Blake was doing his best to forget the man’s face it still loomed in his imagination, so fast and hard that he opened his eyes, blinking the water away to make sure the bathroom was empty. Connor was watching him through the door, giggling, and Blake waved.
The way that both men had smelled, like they hadn’t washed in months. Maybe they hung out in the same shelter, the same rehab clinic, under the same bridge. So Guy A had gone whining to Guy Scary-as-Fuck and they’d hatched a plan to make the douchebag therapist shit his pants. Or near enough.
Yeah, that seemed like something that could happen. And he’d already worked out how they got hold of his address, from a bill or a payslip in his office. The guy must have been lurking outside, must have been waiting for Julia to leave. Now they were walking back to whatever rat-infested crack shack they lived in, probably laughing their heads off.
Mother. Fuckers.
It was a horrible thought—that they’d be telling that tale around a dumpster fire for years to come—but he couldn’t deny that the relief was explosive. They’d had their fun, they’d played their trick. Chances were he’d never see either of them again. Which was just as well, because after this morning he might kill them as soon as he saw them.
Yeah, sure.
He shut off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel. He walked past Connor to the bedroom. Doof was on the bed, head on his paws, looking absolutely exhausted.
“You better not tell anyone that I had an accident,” he said to the dog. “I mean it, mate, or I’ll tell Julia that you’re the one who chewed up those baby photos, the ones I told her we’d lost.”
The dog cocked his head, whining.
“Don’t call my bluff, Doof.”
He slung on some fresh clothes and got Connor dressed
for nursery. As he carried the boy downstairs and back through the hallway he half-thought about calling the police anyway, reporting the two men for harassment. But it was better not to, right? If they were the kind of pathetic, drug-addled losers who would persecute somebody for calling security then he didn’t really fancy antagonising them anymore. Sometimes it was best to just let it go.
Besides, if the cops found out about him draining the cactus all over the sofa, he’d never live it down.
The clock in the kitchen told him it was nearly eight-thirty, which meant he’d be late. But he couldn’t leave yet. He secured Connor in the highchair once more and grabbed the vacuum, dragging it into the hall. It took near enough twenty minutes to suck up all the mud, and another five to wipe the tiles down with a damp cloth. The living room was worse, his puke setting into the pile. He rubbed at it with a towel as best he could, the stench of his vomit and the lingering undercurrents of the unwashed man making him gag.
It was by no means perfect, but by nine-fifteen his phone was ringing—Harold calling from the hospital. He ignored it, and ignored the remaining mess—why else would anybody have a dog, other than to blame it for things like this? He grabbed Connor, his jacket, and his keys and made for the front door in double time.
It was raining outside, but just a drizzle, and the smell of it was like a glass of water on a hot day. He sucked it in, feeling refreshed and relieved and alive, the fresh air beating the morning into the back of his head, making it feel more like a bad dream than ever—nasty, but harmless. He hefted Connor up, his adrenaline-sapped arms struggling with the boy’s weight, then he pulled the door closed behind him. He glanced at the mark carved into the wood, shaking his head and thinking that he’d have to stop by B&Q on the way home to grab some putty and paint.