by Alex Smith
“No.” She put a hand on his knee, leaning in. “Should I have?”
“Nothing happened,” he said, trying to smile. It must have been a grimace because her face was suddenly etched with real concern.
“Something happened,” she said, and Blake had to check behind him again, ready to shout I’m not saying anything, I haven’t told her anything.
“Blake, what happened? Why are you bleeding?”
“It was an accident,” he said, running a hand over his face. His fingers came away greasy with sweat. “It was all my fault.”
“What was?” she said.
“Connor got hold of a knife.”
“A knife? Fucking hell, Blake.”
She said this loud enough to make half a dozen people turn and look at her. None of them seemed impressed. If Julia saw them she didn’t acknowledge it, making a show of examining Connor, checking his arms and legs.
“He’s fine, Jules,” Blake said. “He got me, but he’s fine.”
“He got you?”
“When I picked him up, I didn’t even see it. It was an accident.”
“No,” she said, and her expression was now the seriously-fucking-furious-why-am-I-even-married-to-you one. He hated that face because she didn’t even look like Julia anymore, she became a stranger. He reached out and placed a hand on hers, squeezing until she pulled away. “An accident is when something happens by mistake,” she said. “This is you being an idiot. How the hell could you let your son get hold of a knife?”
I didn’t. Somebody snatched him from his trolley. Somebody handed him a blade. Somebody wanted our son to slice himself into ribbons.
“He was just crawling around,” he said, eyes firmly on the table, counting crumbs. “Somebody had left the box on the floor. It’s not my fault, he just grabbed it.”
“And why does he stink like that?” Julia said, sniffing Connor. “It’s gross.”
“The floor, I guess,” Blake said, trying not to breathe in the stench that wafted off his son, the devil’s stench. “In the store, it wasn’t very clean.”
Julia hugged Connor tight, satisfied that he wasn’t bleeding to death. Both his wife and son had calmed now, the quiet immense. Blake sat back in his chair, running both his hands through his hair. Already his brain was in recovery mode. The events in Homebase felt like a distant memory, dissolving like salt in water, leaving him with that bad dream sickness once again.
“Are you okay?” Julia asked him, and her face was almost back to normal, aside from the colour in her cheeks.
“Yeah,” he said. “Well, actually no. My son just tried to kill me.”
As soon as he said it, he felt his stomach lurch, but he did his best to smile. This time, Julia smiled back. She took a steadying breath.
“I don’t blame him,” she said, sipping her drink. “Getting dragged around the shops on his day off. I wanted to kill you too.”
She sat Connor in his highchair, giving him some sugar sachets to keep him busy. Then she pulled back the collar of Blake’s shirt and peered inside.
“Lift your arm a moment.” She prodded the wound and he flinched. “Oh, stop squirming. It’s a three-millimetre cut, give or take, and it’s already stopped bleeding.”
“I think we should still go to the hospital,” he said, pouting. “It might have gone through my heart.”
“It definitely has,” she said, sitting back. “Heart, lung, spine, brain, spleen, kidneys, and two of your toes. All ruined.”
He nodded, trying to keep smiling. Because if you believe it, then everything will be fine.
“So you’d better rest up, don’t do anything strenuous, let me look after you in every way possible.” She pulled a look of mock shock. “Wait, that’s what you do anyway!”
“Shut up,” he mumbled. He wanted to look over his shoulder again, but he forced himself not to, clenching his teeth with the effort of it. But it was too much, the idea that the devil man might be right there, standing on the other side of the café, that axe clutched in his dirty hands. He turned, looking for him, seeing a clutch of black hair.
Fuck, that’s him.
He jolted in his seat so hard his knees cracked against the underside of the table, everything clattering. But the hair belonged to a woman, an old woman, and it wasn’t even black it was dirty blonde.
“Blake?” Julia said, and he twisted back to face her. “I wish you’d tell me what the hell is going on with you.”
“I can’t,” he said, then bit his tongue. “I mean I can’t be bothered. It’s nothing, there’s nothing wrong. I’m fine, Jules. Let’s just go.”
“You get the stuff you needed?” she asked, looking around for a bag.
“They didn’t have any,” he replied, looking back again, his head turning before he could stop it.
“They didn’t have any paint?”
“No,” he said, only half-listening. What the hell was he supposed to do if the man actually showed up? Throw a saltshaker at him? A chair? Grab a plastic butter knife and try to prod him to death? How was he supposed to defend himself? He saw it now, his wife on the floor in bloody chunks, him trying to fight back with a paperback book. And he clutched the arms of his chair so hard he thought his fingers might snap. Why the hell hadn’t he bought an axe of his own when he was in Homebase?
“I don’t like it, Blake,” Julia said, pushing back her chair and throwing him another cold look. “Let’s go.”
Sixteen
The drive home felt dangerous, somehow, like they were dragging themselves out to sea. Rain hammered at the windscreen, the wipers swinging back and forth so fast they looked demented, their thumping heartbeat the loudest thing in the car. The world outside was as dark as an ocean, their car a diving bell sinking relentlessly into the depths. Blake could almost feel the pressure growing, and he had to grip the wheel with both white-knuckled hands as he imagined the Volvo compressing, the windows shattering under the strain, the metal buckling, all of them crushed to the size of a beer can.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Julia asked as they hit the traffic going back into the city. Her voice was distant, and Blake had to swallow to clear his ears, like he really had been underwater. He realised he’d been grating his teeth, and he ran his tongue over them to make sure they weren’t just bloody nubs in his gums. He flicked a glance her way but used the road as an excuse to break eye contact.
Tell anyone, and your wife and child will die.
“What do you mean?” he asked, flexing his aching jaw. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this far from fine. Why won’t you talk to me?”
Because he’ll sever your spine with a yellow-handled axe, skin our son with a paring knife.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, easing forwards. He could feel Julia looking at him, her eyes like matches held to the side of his face. He scratched his cheek and looked out through the rain-streaked window. Everything was a blur.
“You would tell me?” she said, putting her hand on his arm. The contact almost made him jump out of his skin, but he didn’t look around. “If you were ill again. Yeah? We beat it once, we can do it again, if we need to.”
Ill? In a way, he guessed he was. Some cancers were terminal, you went to the doctor and they handed you the rest of your life in increments of months, or weeks. Was this any different? He’d been diagnosed with something that would kill him in a little over six days. Not cancer, something worse. Something that stank of rubbish, that wore a shark’s grin. Maybe that was a good way of looking at it. When you got your papers from the hospital you accepted it, you made your peace with it, you said your goodbyes and made arrangements for your funeral and you found a nice, quiet place to watch the last few grains drain out. In a way it was better, wasn’t it? Better than being hit by a truck, than clutching your chest during your kid’s football match and collapsing on the sidelines. At least this way he had a chance to tie up any loose ends.
Somebody honked their horn behind him and he looked up to see the traffic moving. He eased his foot on the pedal, nudging forwards, still not looking at his wife.
“Blake? Seriously, is it back?”
“No,” he said, a croak. He cleared his throat and looked at her again for a fraction of a second. “No, everything’s fine, I promise. I’m not ill.”
“So you’re just acting like a dick for no reason?”
“I’m not acting like…” And the anger suddenly bubbled up from his guts, a surge that he had to clamp his teeth down against, that made everything burn phosphorous bright. He swallowed it back down, as hot and as painful as good scotch. “I’m just tired. Tired and… I don’t know. Just tired, babe. Sorry.”
She took her hand away, but he could still feel her fingers there, warm against his skin. A ghost’s touch. And that thought made it feel like the car had sunk even deeper, into the coldest part of the ocean; that the seawater had leaked into his bones. He shuddered, his arms breaking into goosebumps. The traffic had ground to a halt up ahead, a wall of red lights, and once again the anger rushed him, taking him by surprise. He smacked a hand on the wheel, hard enough to sting his palm.
“Why is it always this fucking busy?” he growled, smudging his hand on his leg to try to get rid of the ache. “Fuck!”
Connor had been sleeping in the back, but not anymore. The kid erupted like a radio being switched on, instant screams. Blake let his head drop, screwing his eyes shut, get it under control.
“Blake,” Julia started, and he cut her off.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, kiddo,” Julia said, craning between the seats. “Your dad’s just being a dick, ignore him.”
Her words didn’t do much to quell the storm, and after a minute or two Julia crashed back into her seat.
“Look, tell you what, drop us off at my mum’s, yeah?”
“Julia it’s fine, honest.”
“Just take us there, you obviously need some time to do whatever it is you’re doing, and I haven’t seen her for ages. It’s on the way. She can drop me off later.”
“Julia—”
“Or not,” Julia said. “Whatever works best for you, Blake. Just let me know.”
He opened his mouth to reply, then didn’t, flicking on the indicator and easing into the right-hand lane. It was clearer heading north, and as they picked up speed some of the frustration and rage leaked away, leaving him feeling exactly the way Julia had described him. A dick. He wiped his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes until flashes of light began pulsing against the darkness. Then he stared at the road ahead, at the speedboat wakes of grey water that arced from the road beneath each car.
Maybe it was a good idea. They’d be safer there, away from the house. At least until all this was over. Until you’re dead, until that sack of shit opens up your head and pulls out everything inside. No, that’s not what he meant. Until he’d worked out a way of getting the police involved without putting Julia and Connor in harm’s way. Until that arsehole was behind bars. It was cool. Maybe all he had to do was piss Julia off so much she didn’t come home for a week, it would give him time to sort out a plan.
And what if he couldn’t? What if this was the last week he ever had with his wife and child? What if he wasted it?
He sighed, grinding his teeth again. They drove the rest of the way without speaking, only Connor’s simmering cries breaking the silence. Julia’s folks lived in Forest Gate, just outside the city, which was about as fancy and expensive as it sounded. It wasn’t quite a gated community, but it was as close as you got to one in Norwich. The houses were all fake-Tudor, four or five bedrooms and triple garages with an extra Merc parked on the driveway just for show. The gardens were perfectly manicured—they had to be, because if your lawn was so much as half an inch above regulation then you got a note through your letterbox.
Blake entered the estate, the streets here even darker because of the elm trees that lined them, that curled their gnarled fingers overhead. He’d been here a million times and counting but he still struggled with the upchuck of streets and cul-de-sacs that twisted and joined each other at random intervals. He almost missed the turning, then he heard Julia snatch in a breath and he jammed on the brakes before she could correct him. The car shuddered, Connor squealing again in the back.
“Hang on,” he said, turning hard, the tires rumbling in protest, almost skidding on the wet tarmac. Aldous and Hermione Burnham—could there be any names more middle class?—lived halfway down a street called Middleton Terrace. Not the grandest of roads, and not the biggest of the houses that Forest Gate had to offer, either. It was a redbrick faux mansion, wider than it was deep, designed to give maximum frontage at the minimum price. Aldous had worked for years as an insurance broker at Norwich Union, before it became Aviva, gradually rising up to become the finance director of his firm. He’d retired a couple of years ago, early and with a hell of a pot to sit on. Hermione had never really worked, but she’d come from good stock and they weren’t short of money. The truth was, they’d never fully taken to Blake. He had the idea that they’d seen him as a project—something for Julia to take care of, to make better, then to set on its way like a bird. They’d been pretty surprised when she’d given them the news that they were engaged.
Less so since Connor had arrived, Blake had to admit. It had probably been the whole grandkid thing. They’d nagged Julia about extending the family line (which is what it was all about, really, nothing to do with having a baby to play with, they were just concerned about their dynasty) since she was eighteen. It was one of the reasons, she said, that she’d left it so long, because the pressure from them had been so immense. If they’d told her, way back then, that they wanted her to focus on her career, to put her family on hold until she was successful, then she’d probably have fourteen children by now. Reverse psychology obviously hadn’t been part of the Burnham business plan. Neither had welcoming a man with dysfunctional testicles into their family. He could only imagine the conversations Julia’s parents had about him and his one remaining ball.
Do you think it’s up to the task? One child maybe, but surely no more. What if the other bugger falls off too? Jesus, Aldous, we have to do something!
He swung wide to pass a parked truck and decided against driving to the gate, pulling up short against the kerb. The wall around the house was almost six-foot-tall, as solid as it got. This place was infinitely more defendable than their own home. If he lived here he could secure the perimeter easily, could lock the gates and lay a line of broken glass along the top of the wall.
Blake cut the engine and drummed his fingers on the wheel like he was sending out a secret code, a distress signal. His mouth didn’t seem able to form words, the pressure in his chest—the aftershock of anger and self-loathing—keeping him from speaking. Connor obviously recognised where they were because his moans of distress had turned to chirrups. No wonder, really, Hermione would be stuffing the kid’s face with cake from the moment he was carried through the door. Julia didn’t say anything, she just stepped out into the rain, running around and starting the process of extracting Connor from his seat. Blake shivered against the cold air, fiddling with the heating so that he wouldn’t have to watch his wife leave. But after she’d slammed the rear door shut he realised he was sitting in her shadow, and after a moment or two he lowered his window and looked up. Julia shrugged at him—well, do you have anything else to say?
“I’m sorry,” he said, the default conversation ender.
“When you’ve grown up, give me a call,” she said, rain dripping off the end of her nose. Then she turned on her heels and splashed away. He watched her go, one hand holding Connor and the other held over the boy’s head like it might keep him dry. She reached the gate and stepped inside without looking back.
Blake pushed his head against the headrest and blew out a long, unsteady breath. In the sudden quiet he felt exhausted, his eyes sas
h weights. He could have let himself go right now and slept for a hundred years.
Only you don’t have a hundred years. You don’t even have a week.
“Shut up,” he said beneath his breath.
The quiet was also doing a fine job of escorting reality back into the nightmare of his day, giving everything that not-quite-real feel again. He turned up the heater, running a hand through his hair and trying to work out what he should do next. But his thoughts were on ice, sliding away from him every time he reached for them.
Maybe the whole thing in Homebase had been a coincidence? It wasn’t exactly a big city, maybe the devil man just happened to be in the shop at the same time. Maybe he was as shocked to see Blake as Blake had been to see him. Maybe he was buying some birdseed to give to the ducks, a new rose plant for his garden, and he was like Oh shit! Can’t let him see me like this! and he grabbed the nearest potentially deadly weapon and stood there with it.
No. The chances of it being a coincidence were impossibly low, given everything else that had happened. One in thousands. Tens of thousands. It had been planned. The guy knew where they were going, what their plan was for the day. And the thought of that expelled the relief from Blake’s head like he’d opened an airlock in space, leaving him reeling, airless, in the vacuum of the nightmare.
It meant he’d followed them.
Fuck.
Blake turned in his seat, the rain blurring the rear window into obscurity. The windscreen was the same, opaque and viewless. He twisted the key, the Volvo grumbling to life. The wipers reacted automatically, squeaking back and forth. The street ahead was empty apart from the shadows of the trees that danced in the wind, and the dead leaves that spiralled in time with them. He looked back, nothing there either except the truck he’d passed earlier.
The truck.
He turned forward again, staring at the wheel like there might be a solution written there. No, the truck was nothing to worry about, right? Because it had been there before they’d arrived. He tried to remember what it had looked like, but he hadn’t given it a second glance, his attention focussed on the other side of the road, and on not having to make eye contact with his wife. It was just a truck, the kind you always saw around this sort of estate—people getting Sky TV installed or extending their decking.