by Alex Smith
“The good thing is by the time we have another one I’ll be stone cold deaf,” he said. “So it will be much less annoying.”
He backed carefully onto the road, the heater on full blast to clear the condensation from the windshield. The streets were quiet, only those with jobs or missions braving the chill and the damp. He reached the end of the road and turned left, heading for the A47. Connor had calmed down by the time they hit the dual carriageway, the kid staring out the window with such a fierce look of concentration he could have been a wise, snot-stained little Buddha. Julia was staring too, her head resting on the glass, her finger doodling pictures in the last of the window fog. Her neck was exposed and Blake wanted to lean over and kiss it, but the traffic was thick and fast here, and he didn’t think one kiss was worth dying for.
They drove in silence, and that was fine with him. He liked these quiet moments, these islands of peace in the relative chaos of his life. He’d always been frightened of silence, especially when he was with Julia. Even back when he’d been ill, even on those days when she’d sat on the edge of his bed and he’d been so sick he couldn’t open his eyes, he’d felt intimidated by the vast abyss between words. He’d forced himself to talk, even when he didn’t have anything to talk about—the food, the view from the window, the peeling paint on the ceiling. And when he ran out of things to say he’d heard a countdown in his head, the seconds ticking by. He’d had the absurd notion he was on some kind of treadmill that started the moment the words dried up, pushing him towards the edge of a cliff. The only way to reset it was to open his mouth and start yattering again.
Julia, though, had always been comfortable in those wordless moments. She’d never spoken for the sake of it. She would let him talk, then answer him with a smile, or with a squeeze of the hand, until he understood that this was her way of communicating. Gradually, the pauses between his inane pockets of noise grew longer, the edge of the cliff receded, until he found that they could share these moments just as well without a single word. He still talked a lot of shit, there was no doubt about that, but he never felt the need to fill the void anymore.
The irony hadn’t escaped him: for somebody who spoke so much, he never found the courage to talk about the stuff that mattered. Like cancer. Like a man coming to your home and threatening to kill you. He glanced at Julia again, wondering if he should just say something now, if he should just tell her the truth. But he knew what would come of it, he could already feel the shame of it: you let him do what? With Connor in the house? Jesus, Blake, I can’t believe you.
Besides, it was nothing. The whole thing would blow over.
It would.
Twenty minutes later, Blake cut back into the city, steering them around the inner ringroad before turning into the Homebase car park. He parked in a child and parent zone close to the doors—having kids at least came with some perks. Julia climbed out, stretching like a cat, then started walking away.
“Hey,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not traipsing around looking for paint all day,” she shouted over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the Costa over the road, by Asda. Come get me when you’ve finished doing man things.”
“Man things,” he muttered as he wrestled Connor from the seat. “Your mum is a sexist pig and don’t ever let her tell you otherwise.”
He left the buggy in the boot and carried Connor through the door. A wave of warm, artificial air welcomed him and he shuddered into it, pulling a trolley out of the rack and sticking his son in the child seat.
“Don’t you dare,” he said when the boy started to whine. “I’m taking you around the most wonderful magical kingdom that has ever existed, so be grateful.”
Connor frowned at him like he was trying to work out if he was being lied to. Then a woman in uniform came over with a huge balloon and an even bigger grin and the kid was laughing.
“Thanks,” Blake said to her as she tied the string around Connor’s wrist.
He pushed the trolley towards the decorating aisles. One of the front wheels was stuck and it was a nightmare to manoeuvre. In order to turn a corner, he had to lift the back wheels and turn the whole thing in the direction he wanted to go. He half-thought about going to get another one, but he couldn’t be bothered, and he didn’t want to risk triggering another shit fit. Still, by the time the paints came into view his patience was paper-thin, the anger boiling in his belly.
“Right,” he said, pushing the trolley to the side so it wouldn’t get in anybody’s way. “Blue paint, can you see it?”
Connor was still giggling at the balloon.
“Fat lot of good you are,” Blake muttered, walking down the aisle. They were all interior paints and he doubled back, wondering why in the hell there were so many colours. Who in their right mind would want to paint anything Liquorice Green? He grabbed the trolley and wheeled it to the end of the next aisle, giving the balloon a quick flick to make it dance.
Exterior paints, cool.
But he still had to bypass a million and one masonry paints and wood paints and metal paints before he found what he needed. He couldn’t even remember what shade of blue their front door was. Royal Blue? Navy Blue? He glanced back to make sure Connor was okay, then hefted a can of Moonlit Blue, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. It looked kind of similar, and it wasn’t like it had to be perfect.
He ducked around to the next aisle, grabbing a pack of sandpaper and a tub of filler. He needed a scraper too, and he couldn’t remember if he had one already, tucked in the shed somewhere.
Better safe than sorry.
There were some further down and he browsed them, grabbing the cheapest one from near the bottom. When he stood again something caught his eye, a flash of orange floating up towards the dark and distant ceiling.
Somebody’s lost their balloon, he thought, waiting for the cries, for the screams, then suddenly realising it might be Connor’s balloon and waiting for his cries and screams. He’d probably pulled the knot loose, or maybe the girl hadn’t tied it tight enough. He jogged back down the aisle, hugging everything tight so he wouldn’t drop it. Overhead, the balloon finally hit the steel rafters, bobbing gently like a fish nudging at the surface of a pool.
Blake rounded the corner, and it took a split second for him to notice it.
His trolley was there, but Connor wasn’t.
It felt as though he’d been tossed into a pool of ice water. His lungs were useless, shocked into empty sacks. Every inch of skin seemed to tighten, his scalp shrinking so much it hurt. The putty slipped from his grip, hitting the floor and splitting. He staggered forwards a step, then another, reeling like he’d suffered a physical blow.
Connor was gone.
The balloon, still battering at the ceiling like it was trying to flee, was the only evidence his son had ever been here.
No.
He put down the paint, almost tripping over it as he ran to the next aisle. Empty. An elderly couple were looking at something in the aisle opposite, no sign of his son.
Fuck.
He’d been gone for less than a minute, less than thirty seconds.
“Connor?” he said, startling a family in the next row. He was sprinting now, his head wheeling left and right, his trainers squeaking on the floor. “Connor!”
Wasn’t there a procedure for stuff like this? Didn’t he need to tell them to close the doors, stop anyone from leaving? And the horror of it exploded in his head, someone has taken my son, someone has kidnapped my son.
“Connor!”
People were stepping out into the centre aisle now, kids wide-eyed and pointing, parents grabbing them and pulling them back. The embarrassment of it was almost worse than the fact that Connor was missing. A guy in an orange and green apron stepped into view, rubbing his beard, looking behind him like he might be able to turn tail and let somebody else deal with it.
“Please,” Blake said, grabbing the man. “My son, he—”
A childish peal of laught
er, unmistakable. Blake let go of the man’s shirt, cocking his head, trying to work out where the noise had come from. It rose again and his heart almost burst with the sudden force of relief. He ran past another couple of aisles, ignoring the stares and the muttered comments, just following that birdsong call—pleasegodpleasegodpleasegod—bursting around a corner to see his son sitting on the floor, alone.
He almost lost it, the tears burning up so fast he had to clamp his teeth together to stop the sobs. He jogged, almost fell, skidding onto his knees beside Connor and scooping him into his arms.
“Thank you thank you thank you,” he said, choking on the cries that had built up in his throat, which sat there like lumps of coal, almost painful. He breathed in the smell of his son and recoiled when that same sickening stench of unwashed flesh clawed up his nostrils.
What the fuck?
He hugged him tight and something pierced his side, pain lancing all the way up to his neck. He swore, pulling Conn away to see that the boy was holding a knife. It was small but scalpel-sharp, a craft knife maybe. Blake prised it from the boy’s sweaty fingers, putting the kid on the floor and ignoring his protests. When he touched his side he saw blood on his fingertips, a stain spreading slowly over his shirt. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it had definitely nicked him.
Connor was crawling towards the end of the aisle. Blake struggled to his feet, running to him and picking him up before he could escape again.
He didn’t escape. He was strapped in.
Only now did he see where they were, the shelves here filled with saws and tools. Connor’s blade had come from a pack on the floor, a blister pack from a higher shelf.
Somebody had given it to him.
Somebody had opened it for him.
“Hey, you okay?” the bearded employee was at the end of the aisle, a girl with him, popping gum. Both of them hung back like they didn’t want to get too close.
“No,” Blake said, his voice a husk. “I think somebody tried to take him, they pulled him out of his trolley.”
Connor squirmed in his arms, trying to climb onto his shoulder. He pinned him tight, an air raid siren going off in his ear. People were still watching him, most with frowns and tight lips, like he was the one who’d tried to steal a child. His cheeks were so hot he felt like he was about to set off the fire alarm.
“You want us to call the police?” asked the girl, one hand on her walkie-talkie.
“Yeah,” he said. He stared past the crowds, down to the front of the store. Whoever had done this—not whoever, you know who it was—had gone too far. His son might have grabbed that knife and sliced open his own throat. Saying he’d kill Blake was one thing, making threats against his family was one thing, but this had crossed the line. That fucker was still here somewhere, he had to be. They must have cameras, security footage. This would be enough to put him away, it had to be enough. “Yeah, call the…”
And then the devil stepped into view. The same man, locks of dark, oily hair held in check by that cap, his face dirty with stubble, his long, filthy coat almost reaching the floor. He stood behind the crowd, still somehow taller than everyone, towering over them. He smiled at Blake, grinned at him, those small teeth almost glinting. His eyes burned with lunatic glee and Blake could read his thoughts like he was speaking them aloud.
I dare you, Blake, I dare you to say something. Let’s just see what happens.
He was holding an axe, Blake realised. A big, yellow two-handed axe with a stainless-steel, log-splitting head. He held it across his chest like a rifle. Blake’s stomach wanted to turn itself inside out, his skin suddenly cold and damp again.
He’s going to use it on me, he’s going to use it on all of us. He’s going to split Connor’s head open like a coconut.
The man shook his head, lazily, never blinking, never taking his eyes off Blake.
Not if you don’t talk, he seemed to say.
“Sir?” the man said, and Blake looked at him. “You want us to call the police for you?”
Yeah, call them and tell them to hurry, there’s a crazy guy in the store and they need to arrest him, they need to keep him the fuck away from me and my family.
“No,” Blake said, swallowing the rest of the words into his churning gut. “No, it’s okay, I must have… I must not have clipped him in.”
He looked back at the devil man, whose Cheshire Cat grin had widened even further, surely too big for his face, like he was wearing a Halloween mask. Those eyes blazed, burning right through Blake. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring like he was snorting the air, savouring it. Then he turned around and walked away, the tails of his coat billowing behind him, a trail of mud in his wake.
“I…” Blake tried to speak but he didn’t have the strength, like everything had been sucked right out of him.
“You should be careful letting your kid run around in here,” the girl said. “There’s loads of stuff he shouldn’t get hold of.”
She popped her gum, gave Blake an unimpressed up and down, then vanished.
“Okay,” the other employee said, drawing the word out, rubbing his beard. “Be safe, dude.”
He stepped out of sight, then ducked back, nodding at Blake’s torso.
“And you’ve got red on you.”
Fifteen
Blake stood there, wanting to get the fuck out of Homebase but not wanting to risk running into the devil man. All he was capable of doing was pacing back and forth from shelf to shelf, clutching his son to his chest, too frightened to stay put, too frightened to move. It was pathetic, he knew it was pathetic, but it was like something had overridden the control centre in his brain, had disabled whatever it was that allowed him to make decisions.
He was shaking, his arms brittle and bird-boned, like they might snap under the weight of his son. He hefted Connor up to his shoulder, his biceps throbbing. His head growled and whined like there was an old engine in it, his pulse too big and too wet in his ears. Couldn’t fear cause a stroke? He was sure he’d read that somewhere, that intense stress could just rip up the arteries in your brain like they were tissue paper. He closed his eyes for a second, taking as deep a breath as he was able and holding it tight in his lungs. And when he breathed out again it could have been a sob.
“Right,” he said, because if he didn’t say anything then he might have broken down right there, howling in the middle of the aisle. “Right, right, right.”
He started walking, people still watching him cautiously, like they were waiting for his son to start screaming, “Stranger Danger! Stranger Danger!” He kept his eyes on the floor, following the scuff marks down the centre aisle, half expecting a shape to loom out in front of him, that yellow axe swinging, embedding itself into his chest. It would split his ribs as easily as matchwood. It would crush his lungs, cleave his heart in two.
How long would it take to die? A while, he thought, because he’d still be conscious. He would be able to feel his blood spilling out of him. He’d try to catch it in his hands, feel it drain between his fingers, hot and sticky. He’d try to claw in a breath but his lungs would be ruined, just pink, wet bladders flapping through his open chest for all the world to see.
Better to have an axe through the head, right? At least that way it would be instantaneous. He wouldn’t even be aware it had happened. He’d just be a twitching mess on the floor, an empty bag of flesh. Better that way, better not to know you were dead.
Yet somehow, he knew that this man would never be that kind. His death, when it came, would be a slow one.
And what if the axe passed through Connor first? The kid wouldn’t stand a chance, his limbs as soft as fudge—
“Fuck off,” he grunted, wanting to punch himself in the head, wanting to knock the thoughts away.
He cut down the electrical aisle, craning his neck to try to see the checkouts. There were so many people there, queuing to pay, but he couldn’t make out anyone with long hair, anyone wearing an Arsenal cap. Putting his head down he charged for the exit,
clutching his son like a drowning man clutches driftwood, just one step and another and another and please just let us get out of here please please and another and another and then they were out the door, back in the car park.
He kept the pace up, looking over his shoulder until he could no longer see inside Homebase, only facing front again when somebody yelled at him to watch where he was going. He muttered an apology and forced himself to slow down, to breathe normally, to stop eyeballing the world like he was an escaped prisoner. Connor was crying—not a proper meltdown but genuine, heart-breaking sobs.
“Come on,” Blake said, loosening his grip on the kid. “Come on, mate, everything’s cool.”
It’s all fine, it will all be fine.
“You want to go find mummy?”
The kid just cried harder, burrowing his head into Blake’s shoulder. He headed around the circumference of the car park and onto the main road. It took him five minutes to reach Asda, and as long again to find the café. Julia was sitting at a table near the door, lost in a novel. She looked up when she heard Connor’s cries, her smile crashing into a frown when she saw Blake.
“Whoa,” she said as he dragged a highchair across the café, throwing apologetic expressions at everybody who glared his way. Julia took Connor, settling him on her lap, then she lightly touched the bloody stain on his shirt. “You look like you’ve just run the gauntlet. Homebase is obviously more exciting than I remember it.”
He sat down, taking a sip of her coffee. It was way too sweet, but the sugar helped calm his nerves, helped steady the shakes. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was until now.
“Nothing,” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he repeated, wiping his dry lips. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the crowds, looking for anything suspicious.
“Nothing…?”
“You asked what had happened,” he said, returning his attention to her. “Didn’t you?”