Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Julia’s voice almost made him hit the ceiling and he whipped his head around so hard he thought the tendons in his neck would snap. She held up her hands in surrender, looking at him like he was crazy.

  “Blake, seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?”

  “You crept up on me, that’s what,” he said. “You’re like a ninja.”

  “Mate, I was just in the kitchen, I was yelling to see if you wanted some wine.”

  “Oh,” Blake said, frowning. He scooted over so she could sit next to him. She opened her arms and he slid into them, resting his head on her breast. She hugged him tight and kissed the top of his head. He breathed in the smell of her, the coconut shower gel, the moisturiser she used, the lingering scent of Connor, and beneath all of that just her, that smell he’d fallen asleep to for over ten years now.

  Then him. The man. That stench of rot and mould and sweat. It still hung in the air, on the sofa, making him itch. And suddenly he was back there, the huge hand on his head pushing him hard enough to snap his neck, the reek pouring off the man’s clothes like smoke. The panic clawed at him and he separated, dragging in a breath that didn’t want to come and wiping his nose to try to conceal it.

  “Wherever you are,” she said, studying him, “come back.”

  And couldn’t he come back to her, tell her everything? It wasn’t like the devil man was watching them. What harm could it do?

  A lot of harm, he thought, imagining her answering the door, imagining the man’s hand clamping down on her head, snapping her neck.

  “It’s just this bug,” he said. Do what you always do, Blake, keep it to yourself, better that way than to make it real. “It’s nothing, honest.”

  “Okay, well let me know if it gets any worse. We may have to call in an ambulance, maybe a helicopter to airlift you to the hospital. Man flu is nothing to joke about, Blake. It can kill. Well, it can kind of make you lounge around in bed all day moaning like a bitch, which is almost the same thing.”

  “Shut up,” he said, smiling before he even knew he was doing it. She smiled too, beating back the night, then picked up the remote and switched on the TV.

  “Still can’t believe that little shitbag pissed on the sofa,” she said, flicking through Netflix. Blake bit his lip, waiting for Doof to vault the stairgate and run through, yelling, It wasn’t me! It was him! “I don’t get why he puked. He hasn’t done that for years, not since those Staffies used to terrorise him.”

  “Must have been something he ate,” Blake said, inexplicably guilty for landing the dog in it. “Probably that nappy, the one he was running around with. He probably ate half a Connor shit.”

  “Gross,” she said, shuddering. “That would make anyone chuck their guts. Maybe we should book him an appointment?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Blake said. “Let him settle. If he’s still sick in a day or two, we’ll take him in.”

  Julia nodded, selecting a show. She sat back, resting her legs over his, and for a while they sat in the same silence they always did. Except Blake’s head wasn’t quiet, it was a hurricane of noise. There was no rest from it, just a whirling vortex of images and noises and smells. Even when he managed to forget for an instant—a desperate, blissful moment—it came crashing back. In fact, it was worse when he forgot because the feeling of horror that stabbed him in the gut when those memories returned was ten times more sickening than it had been to start with.

  More than once he felt like he couldn’t inhale, like between one simple, thoughtless breath and the next his lungs had turned to solid rock in his chest. A flare of panic would explode in his vision, his body fighting to claw in a breath. He’d choke on it, unable to swallow, until he sat forward and opened his mouth and the relief flooded in on a wave of oxygen. Each time it happened he’d try to hide it by coughing or switching his position on the sofa, but each time Julia would watch him, her bright eyes prying inside his head, trying to work out what he wasn’t saying.

  He watched but didn’t see the TV, counting down the evening minute by minute until he couldn’t bear it any longer. He checked the time—almost nine-thirty—and announced that he was going to bed.

  “Yeah?” Julia said, looking at her phone. “You must be ill.”

  “Headache,” he said, and it was only half a lie. “Just need a good sleep and I’m sure I’ll be better in the morning.”

  “Okay, now you really must be ill,” she said. “Because you usually tell me it will be ten times worse in the morning and ask me to call Harold the night before.”

  She reached out and placed a cool palm on his forehead.

  “You are a little hot, B. Come on, there’s nothing on anyway.”

  Blake pushed himself up and offered her a hand, and together they walked to the bedroom—although not before he’d excused himself in order to check the doors and windows again. Doof whined when he turned out the kitchen light and he wondered if maybe he should bring him up, if leaving him down here by himself after the day they’d shared was unbearably cruel. But Julia would never allow it, she’d march him back down in a heartbeat, and that would be worse for the little guy. No hope is always better than crushed hope.

  He waited for Julia to finish in the bathroom then used the toilet and brushed his teeth. He did look ill, his reflection in the mirror worn and haggard, dark rings around his eyes. He looked ill and he looked weak. He glanced at the bin, at the underwear he knew was inside, waiting for it to burn a hole in the metal and give him away like a black cat or a ticking clock—whichever one was in that Poe story.

  But it was just a bin, just a pair of piss-stained pants wrapped in a bag.

  Julia was undressing by the time he’d walked through to the bedroom, swapping her tracksuit trousers for a pair of cream cotton pyjama bottoms. He caught a glimpse of the curve of her breast as she pulled on a white vest, and despite everything he still felt a tremble in his stomach. She saw him looking and raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, not so sick now, then?”

  “It’s good to snuggle when you’re ill,” he said, stripping out of everything but his pants. The heating had been on but there was still a chill in the air, the house wearing a damp coat of the afternoon’s rain. He walked to the bed. “Keeps the pulse racing, keeps… I don’t know, but it’s definitely good for you. Only if you don’t do much, though. Your partner has to do all the work. You should know this, you’re a doctor.”

  Julia made a stern mmm-hmm noise as she switched on Connor’s baby monitor, placing it back on her bedside cabinet. Blake laughed, clambering beneath the duvet, ready to burrow himself into hibernation.

  There was something in the bed, something wet and sticky and cold.

  “Fuck!” he yelled, pulling his feet out like he’d dipped them into the ocean and seen a shark’s fin. He staggered out of the bed, the duvet tangled around his legs like it didn’t want him to go, like it was trying to reel him back in. He hopped back, only stopping when he hit the wall. He looked at his feet, brushing something brown and solid from his toes, then he looked at Julia with an expression of horror.

  “Blake?” she said, and he could see her try to smile, like this might all be some joke. She pulled the rest of the duvet away and gasped.

  The bed was filthy, like somebody had smeared shit all over it. But Blake couldn’t smell shit, only a wave of mould and damp that rolled off the disturbed bed. No, it wasn’t shit there, smeared over the place where he slept with his wife.

  It was mud.

  “Blake, why the fuck wouldn’t you clean this up?” Julia said.

  “What?” he croaked, trying to make sense of it.

  “This,” she said, sweeping a hand over the bed as if somehow he couldn’t see it. “I don’t even know why you let him up here.”

  “Connor?” he said, remembering he’d left the kid here to roll around for a few minutes. It couldn’t have been him, though, because he hadn’t gone under the quilt.

  “D
oof, Blake, why the fuck did you let Doof up here?”

  But she must have known it wasn’t the dog, because there was so much mud here a team of horses might have passed.

  I didn’t, he wanted to say. But then how would he explain it? How could he possibly tell her that a strange man, a man who had threatened to kill him—threatened to kill all of them—had climbed the stairs, had traipsed across the room, had crawled into their bed with his muddy boots still on his feet, had…

  What else had that motherfucker done?

  Blake charged forward and grabbed the sheet, tugging it until it came off the bed. Then he rolled it up into as small a ball as he could, trying not to inhale that same unbreathable stench.

  “I must have let him out of the kitchen,” he said. “He must have sneaked up here this morning. Sorry Jules, I honestly didn’t know.”

  He carried the sheet and the duvet into the hall and threw them onto the floor. Then he had visions of Connor playing with them when he woke and he scooped the bundle up again and threw it into the bath, closing the bathroom door when he left. Julia was already replacing the sheet and he had to stop himself from dragging the mattress away too, or at least flipping it. He helped her, tucking down the corners, trying not to think about what had happened in here, what else the man might have touched.

  How the hell had he even got in?

  “Gimme a sec,” Blake said, running down the stairs and checking the front door and the back door, testing each and every window, even stopping to look at the fireplace, imagining the man peeling himself out of the chimney, unfolding in some impossible geometry like a dirty paper crane. He rubbed the goosebumps off his arms and went back to his wife, climbing in beside her, that lingering stink making him want to cry.

  “I’m gonna read for a while,” Julia said as he lay down. “That okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s cool. I’m pretty tired.”

  Pretty wide-a-fucking-wake.

  “It’s so weird, though,” she said, picking up her book.

  “What is?”

  “Doof, why he’d start burrowing under the duvet again. He hasn’t done it for ages.”

  “Regression,” Blake said, making it up on the spot. “He’s not been well today. Maybe it triggered a childhood—puppyhood—memory. You know how they are, simple minds.”

  “I know,” she said. “Really annoying, though. That sheet is ruined. Stupid fucking dog.”

  Yeah, stupid home-invading, boot-wearing, garbage-stinking dog.

  SATURDAY

  Twelve

  “Jesus Christ, Blake, you must be dying.”

  “What? Adam, no!” Blake coughed out the words, checking over his shoulder to make sure nobody was listening. The street was empty except for a delivery truck idling a few doors back, its lights blazing in the early-morning gloom. Blake chided himself for being paranoid, turning back to his car. Doof was tugging on the lead, surprisingly strong for a little dog, and he kept pulling the phone away from Blake’s ear. He was using his other hand to root around in the footwell for a spare poop bag.

  “No, seriously man,” said Adam on the other end of the line. “You can tell me. The cancer’s back, isn’t it? It’s your other bollock. Fuck me, man, that’s bad.”

  “Adam,” said Blake, finding a couple of old bags under the seat. He used his backside to nudge the door shut, stuffing the bags in his pocket and letting Doof lead the way. The dog was running even though the leash held him back at a walking pace, his feet slipping on the wet pavement. He looked ridiculous. “I’m not dying.”

  “Oh god,” said his friend. “Oh god, it’s Julia. Mate, she’s leaving you.”

  “She’s not—”

  “Who is it? Some doctor, right? I’ve seen them at the hospital. Man, you would not believe these guys—they look like they’ve stepped right out a Hollistafitchawotsit catalogue. Chiselled jaws, six-packs, a Mercedes in the car park. They save lives, too. They do that shit for a living. I’ve heard the women talk. Mate, I’ve heard the men talk. I always knew she’d go off with one of them guys. Who was it? Murdoch? That jammy cu—”

  “Adam,” Blake said, shaking his head. “Julia’s fine, she’s in the house. We’re talking about having another baby.”

  “The first one died, didn’t it? That’s what’s wrong.”

  Blake laughed and felt instantly guilty.

  “Adam, everything is fine, I promise.”

  “So why the fuck are you calling me at six-thirty in the fucking morning?” Adam said. “In fact, why are you calling me at all? This is the first time I haven’t called you in… Shit, when did they invent phones?”

  “I know, I know, I’m a crap friend,” Blake said. He watched Doof scoot around in circles near his favourite tree. “Hold on.”

  The dog squatted, peering up at Blake with the look of comical, wide-eyed alarm he always wore, like he was shitting an atomic bomb. What came out was the size of a twenty pence piece, and barely worth bagging, but he dutifully scooped it up anyway. He didn’t have enough hands to tie it so he let it hang, wondering how something so small could smell so bad. When he put the phone to his ear Adam was midway through a sentence.

  “… not like I need my rest, given that I was working till two and didn’t get home for another hour, not like I mind just lying here waiting for you to finish doing whatever it is you’re doing, not like I could—”

  “Yeah, yeah I get it, sorry man, I…”

  Tell anyone, and your wife and child will die. The devil man’s words reverberated in his skull like a ringing bell.

  “I was just wondering what you were up to this weekend, could do with catching up.”

  “You do realise this is the first time ever that you’ve rung me to ask for a catch up.”

  “That’s not true,” Blake said. “There was that one time. Back in 2006. Remember? I missed your birthday, and I rang up a week later to see if you wanted to go bowling.”

  “Oh, shit man, sorry, I’m gonna go cut my tongue out as punishment for slandering your reputation as the world’s greatest pal.” Blake heard the squeak of springs as Adam rolled over in bed. “Listen, if you let me go back to sleep, if you promise never to call back at this hour ever again, then you can have me all weekend.”

  “Cool, that’s a promise.”

  “Except today,” Adam said. “Got the gym, then the kid.”

  “Tomo—”

  “And tomorrow, there’s a match on.”

  “Right, so…”

  Blake rounded the corner of his street, the sycamore trees whispering overhead. Doof was investigating every single one of them with relish like he didn’t walk this route each and every morning. Up ahead, somebody was reversing out of their drive in a red Vauxhall, the only sound other than the breeze and the soft chatter of the rain.

  “Look, hit me up tomorrow, before the match,” Adam said. “Actually, I’ll head over, got those movies to bring—”

  “Not here,” Blake blurted out. He knew he was probably being ridiculous, but he didn’t want to risk being spotted if the man was watching the house. Until he knew exactly what was going on, he couldn’t risk doing anything that would put his wife and son in harm’s way. “Let’s go grab a coffee somewhere, yeah?”

  “Dude, you’re not going to… You’re not going to propose to me, are you?”

  “Shut up, Adam,” Blake said. “How about the Urban Jungle place. Eleven. Thanks, man.”

  “No thank you,” Adam said. “For ruining my morning.”

  “That’s what friends do,” he said, then ended the call. He pocketed the phone, taking in a deep breath of morning air. Yesterday felt like a million years ago, something that had happened to him in another life. It had the vague, unsettling, distant quality of a bad dream.

  That’s all it was, he told himself. Some horrific nightmare, but it’s over now.

  And it was so easy to believe. Blake was good at that, at pretending things were going to get better. He’d done it his whole life
. When his folks had separated, using their fourteen-year-old son as a rope in their game of tug-of-war, he’d told himself don’t worry, it will get better. When he’d been bullied at school, don’t fight them, don’t react, don’t tell anyone, don’t do anything and it will just get better. That godawful house and those godawful neighbours and their godawful dogs, how many times had he told Julia don’t worry, it’s going to be fine, we don’t have to do anything because it will all be okay.

  And the cancer, too. Even when it was bad, he hadn’t been able to confide in anyone, like the words were cemented inside him. It had taken a surprise visit from Adam a month or so before his surgery, who’d then called Blake’s mum, who’d then called Blake, for the truth to come out. He’d assumed that if he just didn’t think about it, didn’t tell anyone, then it would simply go away.

  It wasn’t optimism, he was pretty sure about that. It wasn’t that he was confident things would magically improve. No, it was more like denial. Blake was an ostrich of the purest kind. If he hid his head, buried it deep, then it was easy to pretend that everything was going to be absolutely fine.

  Everything will be absolutely fine.

  Doof squatted for another dump, straining so hard Blake thought his eyeballs might pop out. He waited for the little dog to finish, wondering why, if everything was going to be fine, he’d thought to call Adam. Just to run it past him, he told himself. Just to hear somebody else’s opinion. He wouldn’t break the rules, he wouldn’t tell him everything. Just enough to see what Adam thought he should do.

  “Christ, Doof, what the hell have you been eating?”

  He scooped it up in the same bag and double-knotted it, his knees popping as he stood back up. Adam was his oldest friend. His best friend. To be truthful, he was pretty much his only friend. Weirdly, he was the brother of his first-ever girlfriend, Sarah, who he’d dated in the last year of high school. He and Adam had despised each other to start with—he, because he thought Adam was an immature jerk who was doing everything he could to scupper their relationship; Adam, because that’s what big brothers did, they protected their sisters from everything with a penis. In the end, he and Sarah had broken up after three months. Well, she had dumped him after three months so she could start dating Darren Opel. But he and Adam had stayed in touch—grudgingly at first, because Blake kept ringing the house and crying, then less so.