Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  All the same he looked back once more, squinting through the rain, through the shade. It wasn’t even midday yet, but the sun seemed to have taken an early night, the sky a bruised face glaring through the distressed trees. The streetlights must have been timed rather than photosensitive because they remained stubbornly dark. The truck was maybe thirty feet away, a box-shaped mystery sitting silent by the side of the road. But it was square enough, he thought, to be a UPS truck.

  Like the one from that morning.

  But it couldn’t be. It was impossible.

  Blake put the car in gear, ready to head home, but he kept his foot off the accelerator and sat there chewing his lip. Then he switched off the engine and unclipped his belt, clambering out into the rain. He didn’t have a jacket, and cold fingers of rainwater instantly tickled his back like they were trying to steer him down the street. He let them, walking as confidently as he could towards the truck. The huge windscreen was a mirror that reflected the street and its dark canopy, nothing visible beyond, but if there was somebody in there he didn’t want them to think he was scared. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, keeping his eyes locked on the truck, half expecting it to roar to life and cut him down.

  It didn’t. It lay there like a long-dead beast, a metal corpse picked clean by vultures. It was a UPS truck, one of those squat-faced, American-style Mercedes that reminded Blake of a giant Doof. But there was no UPS logo anymore, and the brown paint was flaking like leprous skin, revealing rust and dirt beneath. The tires were bald, blatantly illegal. And there was no number plate on the front. Blake walked around it, ready to jump away at the slightest hint of a key being turned. There was no plate on the back, either, just that same faded, almost-gone UPS logo he’d seen that morning.

  “Fuck,” he muttered beneath his breath, that same roaring beast of anxiety clawing a fiery path up his throat. He walked back to the driver’s door, standing there for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, thinking come on then, come out and face me, open the window and say something. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t turn those thoughts into words.

  He climbed onto the running board, his heart dancing a madman’s jig in his throat. Using the handle to anchor himself, he cupped his free hand against the glass and peered inside. The cab was dark, but there was no doubt it was empty. He gave the handle a tug, then another one, harder, but the sliding door wouldn’t budge. He hopped down and cocked his head, trying to work out if he’d seen what he thought he’d seen. Mounting the running board again he looked back inside, making out an Arsenal cap on the passenger seat.

  “Fuck!” he said, louder this time. The anger had taken over, and it drove him to the rear doors. He grabbed the handles, pulling them, almost hanging off them. They were locked tight, and he smashed a hand against the metal hard enough to detonate a hollow boom inside. “You in there?” he shouted, the words suddenly unblocking all at once. “You in there, you motherfucker? Open the door, you hear me? Open the fucking door!”

  He kicked out but couldn’t get his leg high enough and almost caught his trainer on the step. He threw another flat-palmed punch, weaker this time. Then, with nothing else in his arsenal, he hawked up a ball of thick spit and launched it. It struck the door, holding itself there for an instant before giving in to gravity and rolling earthwards. It was pathetic, he knew it, and he walked away before anyone could see the colour rising in his face.

  His car seemed further away now, the stretch of road between him and it suddenly a gauntlet. The truck was a dark and menacing presence about to burst to life behind him, ready to swoop down like an owl in pursuit of a mouse. But he didn’t look back. He didn’t want to give anyone that satisfaction. All the same, by the time he reached his car he was jogging, and he entered it like a man pulling himself out of a piranha-infested river. He glanced into his rear-view mirror, the truck filling it, dead and yet somehow still watching him, never blinking.

  Could he leave Julia here—Connor too—with the truck parked outside? Could he leave them, knowing that the devil man was here? Him or one of his filthy henchmen.

  But he needed time to think, he needed space to work out what to do next, and he needed the devil man to know that he hadn’t said anything to anyone. He hadn’t broken the rules, and that meant they were safe for now, right?

  He answered that question without thinking, turning the key and flooring it, only breathing again when he’d turned a corner and the metal ghost in the mirror had gone.

  Seventeen

  The heating had kicked in while they were out, and stepping back into the house was like entering a warm bath, instantly soothing. Blake took off his jacket, heavy with the rain, and hung it up, kicking off his shoes. He locked the door behind him, ran a hand through his slick hair, and stood there for a moment listening to the panicked whimpers and scratchings of Doof in the kitchen. The dog might have been locked in there with a tiger for all the noise he was making.

  “Hang on,” he told him, the sound of his voice ratcheting Doof’s whimpers up another couple of octaves. The door was rattling in its frame now, and Blake half expected to see it explode into splinters, Doof erupting from the bottom panel with a goofy look of welcome on that flat face of his. “Hang on, stupid,” he said again, drumming his fingers on the wood to try to calm him down.

  He walked into the living room, scanning the windows—all closed—and searching the carpet for muddy footprints. Then he jogged upstairs, the house dark and quiet, the air full of that stillness that only comes from a place being empty. All the same, he checked the bedrooms, the bathroom, and the closets before returning downstairs and finally taking pity on the dog. He could barely push the door open, Doof was so desperate to escape. He tried to climb Blake’s leg, his eyeballs looking like they might pop clean out.

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s cool to see you too, mate,” Blake said, scooping him into his arms and carrying him into the kitchen, the dog’s tongue worming its way between his lips, fat and salty.

  “Gross,” he said, planting him down and chucking a handful of biscuits onto the lino. Doof set about vacuuming them up while Blake checked the windows, then the utility room and the garage. Everything was locked tight, and only when he’d walked back into the kitchen did he realise his lungs ached from holding his breath. He leaned on the counter, inhaling as deeply as he could, holding it there then breathing out through his nose.

  He went to switch on the coffee machine but thought better of it, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer. He had always been more of a wine drinker, but he’d learned the hard way that you don’t drink wine in front of a bunch of male friends—especially when those friends included Adam—and so he kept a box of Carling just in case anyone came over. He popped the can and took a long swallow, the beer cold and bitter on his tongue, making his cheeks tingle. He tipped the can, downing the rest, then cracked another one and carried it through to the living room.

  It was almost nice, having the place to himself. He hated to admit it, but there was a definite pleasure in not having Connor toddling back and forth, giggling like a drunk. Or screaming his lungs out at the drop of a nappy. He dug behind the sofa cushions, finding the remote and clicking on the TV. It was nice not to have Julia here too, because he could sit and watch whatever he wanted without her reproachful, passive-aggressive glances from the other side of the room.

  Maybe that’s the secret to a happy relationship, just ask some psycho to threaten your family and you get your weekends back!

  He shrugged off his wet trousers, kicking them across the room then collapsing. There was nothing on, just adverts and sport. It wasn’t like he was paying attention. His mind was on the van parked outside his in-laws’ house. Don’t think it. Don’t think it and it can’t be real. But how could he not? That van hadn’t followed them there, the way the man must have trailed them from home to Homebase this morning.

  No, it had been there when they pulled up. And that was worse. That was way worse.
>
  Because it meant they knew where Julia’s parents lived.

  How the hell could they, though? He and Julia visited them maybe once a month, Aldous and Hermione preferring to head here because Aldous’s golf club was a mile away from their daughter’s house. That and the fact that here they could make an excuse and leave any time. It was harder to kick your kid and your grandkid out of the house when you were in the mood to crack open the sherry and watch Downton Abbey. If they had been followed there on a previous trip it meant that somebody—he—had been watching them for weeks.

  Blake closed his eyes, thinking back, trying to remember the last time they’d visited. It was September, yeah early September, no special occasion, just a brief catch-up because Julia’s folks had been holidaying in France. They’d driven over on a Sunday, had a roast, shot the shit, then come right home. Three, nearly four weeks ago. No, there was no way, was there? How could he not have noticed that they were being watched all this time? Surely he’d have spotted some dirt-encrusted prick outside the house, a truck parked for a suspiciously long time at the other end of the street? Wouldn’t he?

  There had to be a more plausible solution. They’d found the address somewhere. Or maybe it was a case of opening up the phone book and doing some detective work. How many Burnhams were there in the city?

  Maybe they were in on it? Blake sat up, a fist of adrenaline squeezing his heart. He rubbed his chest, wondering if maybe Aldous was finally tired of his son-in-law, if he wanted to get him out of the picture so his precious Julia could shack up with a proper doctor, a proper surgeon with two proper testicles, who would give her proper doctor children. Aldous was a weird one, no doubt, but Blake couldn’t see him hiring a hitman—or whatever the hell this guy was—to bump somebody off, especially somebody in the family.

  Hermione, though…

  Blake took a swig from his beer, shaking his head. Don’t be a dick. There had to be another solution, something he was too dense to see. And he could feel it there, scratching at the back of his skull, a reason that all this was happening. It needed a reason, because things like this didn’t happen in the real world, to normal people. Things like this just weren’t possible.

  He tried to focus on the TV, some show about buying a house abroad. Maybe when all this was over, he should take Julia and Connor away somewhere, a holiday. When was the last time they’d travelled? To Manchester, a year ago, to catch up with Julia’s sister. Did that count? They hadn’t been abroad for five years, back when babies were a fantasy and they had all the time in the world. They’d flown to Spain and spent a fortnight naked in the hotel room. Yeah, he’d treat them to a week away somewhere, France, Disneyland, or Spain again maybe, if Conn could handle the flight. And by take them away he meant ask Julia to pay for it, but he’d organise the whole thing.

  Just wait out the six days. You’ll see, there’s nothing to worry about. Thursday will roll around and the guy won’t show, and it will be the best damn day you’ve ever had.

  Wouldn’t it? It had to be, because this kind of thing Just. Wasn’t. Real.

  He slung back the last of his beer and put the bottle down. The chuffchuffchuff of a steam train rose from the hallway and Doof came snuffling through, licking his chops. He did a circuit of the living room, just in case there were any stray crumbs, then waddled to the sofa.

  “You’re okay,” Blake said, lifting his legs up so that he was lying like a Roman emperor. He patted the cushion beside him and Doof’s eyes widened like a kid at Christmas. He looked at Blake, then at the door, whining nervously. “It’s cool, she’s not here. Come on, hup!”

  The dog spun in a tight circle like he couldn’t believe his luck, then sprang onto the sofa, his cold nose probing Blake’s neck. He pushed him away and the dog walked clumsily down the cushions, sniffing at Blake’s crotch before lying down and tending to his own. Blake tickled the dog’s head, wondering if he should go grab another beer from the fridge. He would in a minute, but right now he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. The room was baking, the sofa was cloud-soft beneath him, the house was quiet, aside from the soft chatter of the TV.

  He’d had so little sleep last night—and what scraps he’d snatched had been full of dirt and fear—that the tiredness was an almost physical force, a blanket draped over his head. It pressed down on him, not uncomfortable but not particularly welcome, either, like he was sinking somewhere dark and airless. He suddenly felt as if his lungs were locked, had to sit up straight and fast, hard enough to chase Doof off the sofa. The dog looked up at him with those big, black eyes and Blake patted the cushion, inviting him back.

  Just sleep, he told himself. He could do with it, it would help him think about things logically, help him work out what to do. He lay back down, the beer lowering the shields of his consciousness, letting sleep creep back in. He didn’t fight it this time, just closed his eyes and waited for the ambush. His mind turned to Julia, wondering what she was doing right now—moaning to her parents, telling them how her husband had lost his marbles. He could picture Connor crawling across their huge rec room, rolling the pool balls around that Aldous always gave him to play with, the kid laughing, then sitting in his high chair eating cake, then sitting inside a rocket ship that was blasting up from their house, Julia alongside him, heading to somewhere far away, leaving him behind. Blake watched them go, watched the rocket trail rise up over the street, heading through the rain, through the clouds, and by the time it had vanished into the darkening night Blake was too far gone to even realise he was dreaming.

  Eighteen

  It was something landing on the lid of his coffin that woke him, a fistful of dirt. Another followed, the dull thump of a shovelful of soil.

  I’m not dead! he tried to scream, but there was suddenly dirt in his mouth, too, bitter and choking. He scratched at the lid—no lining, just bare wood, like he was being buried inside a crate. It was pitch-black, the air already gone. His heart gave a mighty thump, like somebody had hit it with a fairground hammer, and he pushed up with all his strength, trying to shout, trying to tell them not to kill him. But it was too late—thump—because the soil was falling—thump—and he was going to die down here—thump—he was…

  The coffin dissolved into light and air and he sat up, almost forgetting how to breathe before managing to suck in a long, wet breath. Coughing phlegm from his lungs, he fought the last few scraps of nightmare, blinking hard until the room came back into focus. Something clamped his calf in a beartrap grip and he grimaced, reaching down and feeling the muscle bunched in cramp. He rubbed at it, his eyes watering with the pain, his whole body cold and damp. Only when the pain juddered away did the real world fully settle, and he sat forward on the sofa, his head in his hands, feeling like a man who’s just survived a plane crash.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, using shaking hands to wipe the sweat from his face. He looked around the room, no sign of Doof—no surprise, really, Blake must have been kicking like a donkey, one of the sofa cushions was dislodged and on the floor. It was just a dream, just one of those drink-a-beer-before-lunch-then-fall-asleep dreams.

  Thump.

  The noise came from upstairs, a soft, shuffling bump like somebody trying to move a piece of furniture. Blake’s head jerked up so fast the tendons in his neck pinged. He stared at the ceiling like he’d somehow developed x-ray vision in his sleep, like he could see exactly what was crawling around up there.

  Thump.

  Louder this time, a kid jumping from a bed, maybe. The house fell into silence again, that deep-water pressure building in Blake’s ears. He swallowed, realised he was gripping the sofa so hard his fingertips were throbbing. Why the hell was it so quiet? He glanced at the TV and saw that it was off. When had he done that?

  Thump thump, and in the lull that followed Blake thought he heard the sound of glass breaking. He stood, conscious that he wasn’t wearing any trousers but too afraid to reach for them in case the movement somehow set off another noise upstairs. If he stood here,
if he wished for it hard enough, go away, please don’t be him, then it would be okay.

  Thump.

  It was the sound of a boot on bare wood, somebody walking very, very slowly. The devil was back, Blake knew it. He’d found a way inside and he was up there right now. Doing what, though? Climbing under their sheets again? Maybe running his dirty fingers through Connor’s blankets. A flare of anger burned in Blake’s head, but it was quickly drowned by a wave of cold, dark terror. He swallowed painfully, glancing at the phone and wondering if he should just dial 999—call the police, and your wife and child will die—knowing that he couldn’t.

  Thump. Thumpthump.

  What the hell was going on?

  And why aren’t you doing something? his head screamed at him. What was he supposed to do, though? The man was huge, psychotic, he would grab a fistful of Blake’s throat and rip it out like the inside of a watermelon. So you’re going to let him wander around up there like he owns the fucking place?

  There was a set of tools by the fireplace, given as a gift one year but never used because the heating was always on. He was going to use them now, though. He was going to pick up the poker and smash the guy’s skull in. But his body wasn’t working, as though the relays that connected his brain and his muscles had been severed. He was in a car with no electrics, stalled on the side of the road.

  Thump. And a scrabbling like fingernails on wood. It made him think of his dream and he inhaled like it was his last breath, the room spinning. He grabbed the poker, testing its heft by swinging it limply from left to right. It almost slid free from his sweating fist and he gripped it tighter, walking to the door, not daring to stop in case he couldn’t get started again. One step at a time, each one through wet cement, each one a hundred years long, across the hall, onto the stairs, please don’t let it be him, please don’t let it be him.