Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  His mind was a slow, analogue machine, processing things in single file, and it was only when he reached the bottom step that it turned to the question of how the man had got into his house in the first place. Blake walked into the living room, Doof following quietly behind. He replaced the poker, even though part of him wanted to hang onto it just in case the man was still here. Then he checked the windows, everything sealed tight against the cold, no sign of forced entry.

  The front door was locked, the Yale securing it automatically as soon as it was closed. Blake wiggled it anyway, then opened it a crack, aware that he was standing there in his pants. The outside was flawless, aside from that engraving in the wood, no scuff marks where a crowbar had been forced in, no scratches on the lock. He glanced at the garden, deserted other than a couple of birds foraging on the lawn, and closed the door behind him.

  The kitchen windows were secure, the garage door was locked and bolted. And that was it, there was no other way into the house. He crashed against the kitchen wall, looking into the hallway. What if there was something hidden, just out of sight? A room boarded up and forgotten about. He pictured it now, a section of wallpaper peeling back, dirty fingers appearing first, then those long arms contorting their way out like a spider’s limbs, the man unfolding into the hallway all shadow and bone and flashing teeth. He closed his eyes, pictured the outside of the house. No, no hidden rooms, no secret annexes, there just wasn’t space. None of the houses here even had basements.

  He wracked his brain, but there was nothing. Unless the man really was the devil then there was no way he could get inside without smashing his way through the doors.

  No, wait. There was a way.

  He had a key.

  It wasn’t possible, but it was undeniable too. It would explain how he’d entered the house this afternoon, how he’d slid inside without a noise. Yesterday, too, when they’d found mud in the bed. If he was watching them—no, he was watching them, there was no doubt about it—then all he had to do was wait for the house to be empty and let himself in. They would never know unless he left muddy footprints everywhere. But he was a sneaky one, Blake realised, because he didn’t always leave footprints, only when he wanted to.

  How many times had he been inside? Twice? Five times? A hundred? He might have made himself at home every day while they were at work, watching their telly, lying in their bed, shitting in their toilet. He might have snuck in at night to sit on the end of their bed as they slept. Blake rubbed his skin, suddenly cold, suddenly crawling with insects. The whole fucking house would have to burn.

  But if he had a key then why had he rung the doorbell yesterday? Why had he waited for Blake to let him in?

  He pulled out his phone again, opening Chrome. He’d been given rules to follow, sure, but this wasn’t one of them. He Googled locksmiths and called the number for an emergency one. The phone hesitated like it was afraid of stepping out of line. Then it discovered its courage, ringing.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, hi, I’ve got a bit of a problem, I need some help.”

  “Locked out?” the voice on the other end said in a Liverpudlian accent.

  “No, no, it’s a security thing. I need my locks changed.”

  “You the homeowner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How soon?”

  “Now, if possible. Or as soon as.”

  Blake heard a chair creaking, imagined the guy weighing thirty stone.

  “You in Norwich?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can get out to you in an hour.”

  An hour. That would mean being late to pick up Julia, and she was pissed at him already. But he couldn’t exactly explain to her why somebody was changing the locks. It needed to happen while she was out. It needed to happen now.

  He could tell her traffic was bad—it wouldn’t be a lie, not in this city. Or that he had to take a detour, roadworks. No—and he was almost grinning when the idea hit him—he would tell her he swung by Costa to look for her phone. Nobody has seen it. Said there’s been a rash of thefts out of handbags, somebody must have lifted it while you were drinking your latte. Don’t worry, though, it’s insured, we’ll sort it out.

  “Fella?”

  “Sorry,” Blake said. “Just checking the time. Sure, an hour is good, sooner if you can, this is really important.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Blake gave out his address when prompted, and his phone number, then he hung up. It felt good to have done something positive, something proactive. If they changed the locks then at least the man couldn’t wander in freely, he couldn’t butcher them in their sleep. Maybe he should have ordered a burglar alarm too, something to monitor the downstairs overnight, one of those infrared things. He’d ask the guy when he arrived and see if he could afford it.

  He walked back into the lounge and perched on the edge of the sofa. What next? Julia’s phone. How had the devil man got it? He might have taken it from inside the house, but Julia was religious about keeping it on her, especially if she was on call. She would have taken it to Costa. So he had lifted it when she was in the cafe—him or somebody else.

  Blake used his phone for another Google search, finding the O2 website. He rang the number for lost phones and gave Julia’s details, telling them that the phone had been stolen and that it needed to be cancelled.

  “No problem, sir,” the woman said. “That’s done. No calls can be made. You’ll need to log a theft complaint with the police before you can file your insurance form.”

  Dammit, he should have said they’d lost it.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Second job done. He felt like he was gaining some control over the situation, fighting back. Maybe this is all it would take, just showing he had a bit of backbone, a set of balls—or half a set, at least. Maybe the guy would turn up again, try his key in the door, try using Julia’s phone, and would realise that he was dealing with somebody who wouldn’t just roll over. Maybe he’d think, fuck it, and go find somebody else to intimidate.

  He heard snuffling and saw Doof sitting in the middle of the room, staring up at him plaintively.

  “Yeah?” he asked the dog. “You think this arsehole will just leave us alone?”

  Doof whined and licked his lips, swallowing painfully. His tail was back between his legs and Blake was pretty sure that if he understood the question he’d be shaking his head.

  “Yeah, me neither,” Blake said, shaking his own, knowing full well that it wasn’t going to be that simple.

  Twenty

  In the end, it was almost two hours before the doorbell went. Blake was quietly fuming, checking his phone every thirty seconds, his core temperature rising. After an hour he texted Aldous, saying that he was stopping to look for Julia’s phone. When an hour and a half had passed, he tried calling the locksmith again, but the number was engaged every time. He kept opening the front door, staring out into the darkening day and trying to visualise a van pulling onto the kerb, trying to make it happen with the power of his mind.

  It was coming up for half four when he gave up and crashed on the sofa, only for the doorbell to go immediately, like somebody had been waiting for him to sit down before pressing it.

  “Oh Americans dance on the dancefloor, and the—”

  That doorbell was dead meat, he thought as he ran to the hall. As soon as all this was over, he was going to rip it out of the wall. He opened the door to see a short, fat, balding guy on the stoop. He was dressed in greasy overalls and a cap—a plain one, thankfully, no Arsenal badge in sight. He scratched a hand through a week’s worth of stubble and stared past Blake with a look of utter disinterest. For a reason Blake couldn’t fathom, they both waited for the doorbell to finish its thing before speaking.

  “Burton?” the locksmith muttered.

  “Barton,” said Blake, shrugging. “Not that it matters.” He stood to one side. “Thanks for coming.”

  The man didn’t come in straight away, he
turned his attention to the door, putting his leather bag down on the step. He was wearing a pair of old spectacles and he took them off, wiping them on those filthy overalls and replacing them. They looked dirtier than they had before. Blake chewed his lip, looking at the state of the man, wondering…

  No, it can’t be. It’s just a locksmith.

  And as dirty as the man looked, he didn’t have that smell wafting off him. He twisted the doorknob, studying the lock.

  “This door?” he asked. “Mortice or Yale?”

  “Just the Yale,” Blake said. “We hardly ever use the main lock. But I’d like the back door replaced too, if that’s okay?”

  “Your money,” the man said. This guy didn’t have a Liverpool accent like the man on the phone, he was more Suffolk, but then there were probably a few of them working at the firm. The guy he’d spoken to was probably just the one who made the bookings.

  “You know how long it will take?” Blake asked.

  “Hour,” the man replied. “Give or take.”

  Give, probably, after how long it took you to get here. But Blake swallowed the words into his stomach and backed into the hall, asking, “You want a tea or anything?”

  “Nope,” the man replied, opening his bag and rummaging inside. Blake stood there for a moment more, wondering if he should stay and watch. Then the man shot him a look of apparent disgust—just a flick of the eyes, less than a second—and Blake muttered an excuse and walked into the living room. Doof was lying in the corner of the room and he licked his lips, his wide eyes flicking back and forth between Blake and the door.

  “It’s cool,” Blake said quietly. “He’s here to make sure nobody bad ever gets inside again. Okay?”

  The dog put his head down on his paws and sighed loudly. Blake crashed onto the sofa, staring at the TV even though it was off. From the hall came the sound of a screwdriver, then a saw, then a hammer, then the man cursing about something, then the smell of cigarette smoke, which was pretty out of order, Blake thought, but he was too tired to say anything about it. He rested his head back, exhaustion like a wave that rose overhead, plunging him into darkness, and he had to sit forward again or risk dropping right back into the comfort of sleep. He grabbed the remote, finding a news channel and turning it up loud.

  Floods. Fires. An update on those newspaper delivery girls that had gone missing in the summer—the DCI on screen seemed like a decent man, and Blake half entertained the thought of finding out who it was and asking for his help before instantly dismissing it—another murder up by the coast. Life was short, that’s for sure. Life was short and violent and you never knew when it was your turn to go.

  Not you though, Blake, you know exactly when it’s going to happen.

  He wondered whether the devil man would kill him in front of Julia and Connor. Surely not. Surely if he played by the rules, if he just stuck to the plan, then at least the man would wait until he was alone. At least his son wouldn’t grow up haunted by the image of his dad’s skull being cleaved in two.

  “Front’s done,” said a voice from the living room door, one that chipped away at his already shattered nerves. He shot off the sofa and saw the man standing there with a lit roll-up in his dirty fingers. From his other hand dangled a pair of keys and he jingled them. “Two keys, we can do more if you need ’em. Wanna show me the back?”

  “Sure,” Blake said, walking into the hallway and wafting away a haze of smoke. The guy had butchered the door but there was a brand-new Yale in place. Blake twisted the bolt and flicked the snib, feeling safer already. He closed the door, walking through the kitchen and into the short rear hallway. The garage door had two panes of marbled glass, but it was always dark in here and he flicked on the light. “This one doesn’t have a Yale, just a lock. But it would be great to get a new one.”

  “Gonna unlock it?” was the man’s answer. Blake nodded, patting his pockets even though he knew the key was in a kitchen drawer. He backtracked and grabbed it, handing it to the locksmith. When the man reached out for it, something tickled Blake’s nose, a waft of BO.

  Blake recoiled like it had been a physical force, gasping with the strength of it. The man squinted at him, licking his fat lips, and there was almost something in the air between them, an edge, like they were stumbling too close to a precipice, as if another word might push them over into some horrible darkness. Blake’s entire body tensed and he sniffed again, tasting copper on his tongue, and past that a definite smell, one that turned his stomach into tight, painful knots.

  The locksmith was staring at him, his eyes the brightest thing in the half-light. He almost looked scared, and Blake realised it was because of the way he must have looked—a man on the verge of breaking down completely, a man capable of murder. They were both holding the key, an awkward standoff, one that Blake didn’t dare break in case he lost it completely. His head was a kettle coming to boil, ready to erupt in heat and steam and noise. He breathed in again, through his nose, searching for it like it was a living thing, like it was a cockroach that had scuttled into his house. It was definitely body odour, but it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t dirty. It was just human.

  He unclenched fingers that might have been made of stone and the man pulled the key against his fat chest like it was a keepsake, swallowing noisily. He didn’t take his eyes off Blake, didn’t even blink, as if he sensed that a storm had passed overhead, that he’d missed a lightning strike by inches and that another might be close by.

  “Sorry,” Blake said, trying and failing to smile. “On edge. Been a rough day.”

  “Sure, no problem,” the man replied, suddenly polite. He took off his cap and scratched a balding head. His cigarette had gone out. “Don’t sweat it, I’m just gonna… I’m just gonna make a start here, okay?”

  Blake nodded, walking into the kitchen and around the corner, leaning against the counter and feeling his pulse drum in his fingertips. From the hallway he heard a mutter, a soft cough, the sound of the door being unlocked and the handle rattling. Then the man walked through the kitchen, apologizing for nothing much at all as he went to collect his bag. Blake avoided eye contact, exiling himself to the living room again—not sitting, just pacing, trying to hold himself together. It was only sweat. Just the smell of a guy who probably lived alone, who maybe didn’t wash as often as he should, who might have been at the end of a twelve-hour shift for all Blake knew.

  He sat, eventually, and counted down the minutes until the locksmith knocked on the living room door, bag in one hand, cap in the other.

  “You’re all set,” he said. “Key for the back’s on the counter, by the sink. You wanna try it?”

  “No,” said Blake, struggling off the sofa. “No, thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  “Three hundred,” the man said, and Blake felt his eyebrows shoot off the top of his head. The man must have seen it, some of his harshness returning. He sniffed, shrugged. “Emergency charge, company policy. Cash or cheque is fine.”

  Fuck me.

  Blake dug his wallet out of his trousers and fingered a couple of tens. He pocketed it again and walked into the kitchen, opening a drawer and fumbling through the junk inside until he found his chequebook and a pen. He felt the man hovering behind him.

  “Who do I make it out to?” he asked.

  Ripoff and Bastards Incorporated?

  But at least the house was secure again. At least he wouldn’t be able to get inside. Not without his axe, at least.

  “Um,” said the man. Blake looked over his shoulder and saw him frown, his small eyes darting back and forth like he was trying to read the answer from thin air. “What?”

  “The cheque,” Blake said. “Who do I make it out to? I can’t remember.”

  The locksmith almost looked panicked now, his stubbled chins wobbling. He reached up with the hand that held the cap, scratching his flaking scalp. Blake felt that little tremor again, a tiny depth charge loosed in his guts.

  “The company name?” he said.

&nbs
p; “It’s…” Was he sweating? He was patting his pockets, the tools in his bag rattling. “I got a card here somewhere. Haven’t been with ‘em long, used to be self-employed but you know what it’s like these days.”

  He gave Blake an uneasy look, sniffing.

  “Just make it out to cash, will you?”

  “Cash?”

  “Yeah, probably easiest,” he said, recovering. “I’ll cash it and book it when I leave.”

  Blake stared him out, the man’s eyes never resting in one place for more than a moment. There was a definite sheen of sweat on his greasy face. He’s just trying to save a few quid, Blake’s brain said. Trying to do it off the books, save tax, like every tradesman on the planet. Which made perfect sense, right? But why did he look so guilty? Because for all he knows you’re a fucking tax inspector.

  “Cash,” Blake said, turning back to the chequebook. “Sure, that’s not a problem.”

  He wrote it out, then tore it loose. The man reached for it but Blake held it back.

  “These are the only keys for the locks, right?” he asked. “You don’t keep copies or anything?”

  “No way,” the man said, eyes on the cheque. “Yales come with two keys, mortises come with one. We can do copies but I swear on what’s left of my hair that not nowhere on Earth are there any other keys that will open these doors.”

  “Cool,” Blake said, handing over the cheque. The man took it and turned, making for the front door like he thought Blake might have been at his back with a kitchen knife. He was almost running by the time he hit the path. Blake went to the door and looked out after him as he scrabbled into a car. Not a van, just a car, a little silver one. Only when he was inside did he glance back, his face a smudge of colour behind the wet glass. Was that a smile he wore? His lips turned into a fat clown’s grin by the rain-streaked window.