Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  “And what did they do to the dog?” Adam asked. Blake looked down, barely able to see Doof in the darkness. But the little dog was there, scooting around eating bird shit. Seeing him, knowing that he might never have left the house again, that he might never have seen the sun or felt the wind on his face or scampered through the woods, seemed to tear a hole in the fabric of Blake’s heart.

  “Yesterday, they broke in while I was asleep, strung him up. They hanged him. I was lucky I woke, Adam, or he never would have made it.”

  “Christ, Blake,” Adam sucked his teeth, deep in thought. “You must know who this is?”

  “No,” he said. “That’s why it’s all so fucked up, I don’t understand why he’s coming after me, after us. I’ve thought of everything, Adam: exes, work stuff, old patients, somebody I might have pissed off. Sure, there are people who don’t like me much, but this, this is something else. This is something you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.”

  “So it’s random,” Adam said. “They just picked a house and went with it.”

  “But that’s not it either,” Blake said, the hopelessness like a wave of cold water. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling like he was sinking. “They know everything about me. They know where I work, they had photos of me, of Julia, photos that I didn’t even know existed. They had Julia’s phone yesterday. They had keys to the fucking house. I’m lost, Adam, I don’t know what to do. And I think he’ll do it, I think he will kill me.”

  “No way, mate,” Adam said. “No way, people don’t just—”

  “You haven’t seen him,” Blake said, pacing now, as if the woods were a cell. “You don’t know what he’s like. He’s a…” He’s a devil. “He’s a psychopath, Adam. I don’t know what to do.”

  He wiped away tears that he hadn’t even noticed, then broke into sudden sobs. Adam’s eyes widened, the man out of his depth. He laid a big hand on Blake’s shoulder, patting him like he was a dog. Then something seemed to break in him too and he drew Blake closer, holding him there, smelling of cheap aftershave and cigarette smoke. Blake pushed his face into that smell, his hands hanging by his sides, Doof clawing at his leg like he wanted in on the huddle, just sobbing into his friend. It seemed like a thousand years later that he grew quiet, wrung dry. He peeled himself loose, his cheek stuck to the sodden fabric of Adam’s jacket, and stood there shaking.

  “You have to tell the police,” Adam said eventually. “I know you’re worried, but they’ll protect you. I know some detectives, from work. There’s a guy called Pete Porter. You can trust him. They’ll arrest this piece of shit and—”

  “And what if they don’t?” Blake snapped. “What if they can’t? They’ve got nothing to hold him on, no evidence. At most they’ll keep him for a night then let him go. And he’ll come for us. He’ll come for Julia and my boy.”

  Adam’s face creased and Blake could see that moment of resentment, that flash of annoyance. Why have you dragged me into this? that look said. But it was gone in a heartbeat, and Adam nodded.

  “You wanna come stay with us? Not much room in the flat but the kid’ll be out by Monday morning, back with his mum, and you three could share his room. Least until the end of the week.”

  Blake shook his head.

  “He’ll know. I dropped Jules off at her mum’s place yesterday and that’s when he attacked the dog. As punishment. He knows. He’s watching us.”

  And again he looked up, scanning the woods. Was the devil watching right now? Was he on the phone to his disciples, telling them to move in on the house, to beat Julia to death, to string Connor up by his neck from the light fitting? Oh god, why did I leave them alone? Why did I drive so far away? He felt sick, itchy all over, an addict’s need to return home and be with them again.

  “Abroad?” Adam said with a shrug. Blake shook his head again, harder. These were all things he’d thought of. Why had he asked Adam for help in the first place? What was he hoping for?

  “Have you got a gun?” he blurted out. Adam started to laugh, but it died on his lips.

  “A gun?”

  “Yeah, I need something to defend myself with. You used to have them, I remember. Shotguns.”

  “That was a long time ago,” he said. “And they weren’t mine, they were dad’s. Long gone, like him.”

  “Fuck,” Blake said, putting his head in his hands and treading up and down the path. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

  “Got the hammer, if you want it?” Adam said, and Blake couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. He turned to his friend, almost snarling, like some kind of feral beast.

  “A hammer isn’t going to stop him, he’s just going to kill us. Don’t you fucking get that?”

  Adam straightened, pushing out his chest, going into security guard mode.

  “Hey, you need to calm down, mate. I came out here to help you and I’ll do what I can. Not my fault you got yourself into some shit, okay?”

  Blake had his mouth open to shout back but he clenched his teeth, catching the side of his tongue between them. The pain was good, dousing the fire and turning him to smoke and embers. He thought if Adam so much as breathed on him right now he might drift away. He ducked into a squat, anchoring his fingers into the dirt and forcing himself to take a long, deep breath. Adam turned to the side of the path, looking east to where ghostly fingers of sunlight probed the trees. Blake wasn’t sure if he was thinking of a plan or working out his escape route.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  “Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Adam said, wiping a hand over his mouth. “You said he was coming back in six days, right? Thursday?”

  Blake nodded. Doof appeared before him, paws on Blake’s legs, his tongue licking his chin. He pushed him gently away.

  “I’ll be there,” Adam went on. “I’ll come to the house and stay with you. I’ll see if I can find somebody else to watch the street, too, give us some warning and call the police if this shit really does happen. If this douchebag shows up, then I’ll make sure he thinks twice about threatening you. Okay?”

  Blake nodded, looking up at Adam from where he was crouched on the ground. He was five years old again, a kid whose dad has promised to sleep in his bed to stop the monster from crawling out of his wardrobe. Adam shook his head, holding out a big, calloused hand.

  “Only you, Blake Barton. Only you could get yourself into this mess.”

  Blake grabbed the hand with both of his, feeling like a man being pulled out of a freezing lake. He was still shivering, his teeth knocking together. Even when he was on his feet he kept hold of his friend, tight. Adam let him, obviously uncomfortable but managing to push through it, to maintain contact. Then, when it got too much, he wormed his hand free and clapped it down once again onto Blake’s shoulder.

  “I’ve got you, mate,” he said. He steered Blake around one-eighty, marching him back towards the car park. Doof shot ahead, his feet drumming the dirt.

  “Adam,” said Blake. “You’ll bring the hammer, right?”

  Adam laughed.

  “Yeah, I’ll bring the fucking hammer.”

  Twenty-Four

  They shared another awkward embrace in the car park, in between his Volvo and Adam’s truck. Blake barely had the strength to hold onto his friend anymore, his arms dropping like two hanged men by his sides. Adam clapped him on the back, hard, then let him go.

  “You wanna lift?” he asked. “Can drop you off, Jules can drive you over here later?”

  He honestly didn’t know if he could drive, his body gripped by aftershocks that rattled his teeth and bones. But he couldn’t risk the devil seeing Adam drop him back home. He’d guess something was up and this time he might not limit his revenge to the dog. Besides, what the hell was he supposed to tell Julia? That he’d driven out to Mousehold Heath and walked home? He shook his head, leaning against the door of his car. He felt like he’d run a marathon. Adam popped the door of the truck and clambered inside.

  “I’ll be there, Thursday morning,
first thing,” he said. “You need me before then, you just have to call.”

  Blake nodded as Adam started the engine.

  “And if this shit really looks like it’s getting out of hand, like it isn’t already, then you call the police, okay? Promise me.”

  “I promise,” Blake croaked. But the lie must have registered on his face because Adam frowned.

  “You do, or I do,” he said.

  “Don’t,” Blake said. “Please.”

  Adam shook his head, then pulled his door closed. He had reversed the truck and pulled out of the car park before Blake realised he hadn’t even said thank you. He sent the thought after him—thank you, Adam—hoping he might pick it up anyway. Then, shuddering against the chill, he lifted a squirming Doof into his cage and ducked into the car.

  Here, in the quiet, he honestly wasn’t sure if he felt better or worse. Telling Adam had been a weight off his shoulders, sure. A huge weight. And Adam could handle that weight. He was a big guy, a packhorse, well used to looking after himself and others. The idea that he might be there on Thursday when the devil man came—if the devil man came—was undoubtedly reassuring. If it came to it, Adam would fight. He was a man used to the brutality of violence. He’d had his nose broken before, was used to the pop of torn sinews, to the thump of fist on flesh. It wouldn’t overwhelm him, he would keep a cool head. And maybe that’s all the situation needed, a cool head, somebody not to panic. Because Blake had an idea that’s what the bastard got off on, Blake’s terror, his pathetic inability to do anything about the situation. If Adam turned up, hammer in hand, then maybe the devil man would just retreat.

  And then what?

  Yeah, then what? Because Adam wouldn’t be able to stay there forever. He couldn’t exactly move in with them, spend every waking hour with them. What would happen when he finally left? The devil would know that Blake had broken his contract, and he would keep his word, he would go after Connor and Julia.

  They will know the full horror of hell before I end them.

  And that thought pulled the plug on what little hope had filled him, leaving him so empty, so cold, that he put his hands to his stomach to try to hold himself in. He switched on the engine just to get the heat circulating.

  What had he done?

  He’d broken the rules. He’d told Adam everything. He’d knowingly condemned his wife and child to death in an effort to save himself. He wiped snot from his nose, actually groaning with the horror of it.

  What the fuck had he done?

  He can’t know, there is no way he can know.

  So who was that pulling into the car park behind him? A car, maybe a truck—the lights were on full beam, blazing in the mirror, blinding him. He twisted around in his seat so fast he thought his vertebrae might pop, but the light just poured through the back window like molten lava, boiling in his eyes. The vehicle came to a halt a dozen feet behind his, the engine still running. Blake turned to the wheel again, whispering he can’t know, he can’t know like a mantra, like saying it might make it true.

  But if they were here for him then they would be going after Julia, too.

  He dug into his pocket with numb fingers and found his phone, desperate to make sure they were okay. In his haste he dropped it down the side of his chair, and he frantically felt for it in the junk and dirt down there. Outside, he heard the crump of a door being opened, then footsteps on gravel. He craned over his shoulder. The car—no, it was a truck, definitely a truck—still had its lights on, an interrogator’s lamp. But there was a figure beside it, just a silhouette.

  Tall. Stooped. And even though Blake couldn’t see his eyes he knew he was staring right at him.

  Oh god.

  It was him. It was the devil. He knew.

  He forgot about the phone, fumbling the car into reverse and slamming his foot on the accelerator. The engine growled, the car straining but not moving.

  The handbrake.

  He popped it and the car bucked, the engine screaming now. Blake twisted the wheel, turning so fast that his head actually cracked off the side window, his skull suddenly full of stars. Somebody outside was yelling at him, a voice full of fury. The car park entrance spun into his windscreen and he stamped on the brake so hard he might have put a foot through the bottom of the car, the tires skidding. He glanced at the truck, at the man who was charging towards him, something clenched to his chest.

  A bag, a bag to bury me in.

  And he punched the car into first, his foot gunning the accelerator.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He forced himself to look again, longer this time, a man in his thirties, clean-shaven and clean cut and just clean. He was wearing a Barbour jacket, his blonde hair blown into tufts by the breeze. The thing he held in his arms wasn’t a bag, it was a child—a little girl, maybe two or three, encased in a pink snowsuit and hat. She was screaming, and so was he.

  “You prick!” Blake could barely make out the man’s words past the drumming in his ears, the revving of the car,. “You could have hit her, you stupid prick!”

  Sorry! Blake tried to say, choking on his words. He planted both hands on the wheel like he was trying to steer a ship through a storm, placed a gentle foot on the pedal, still too hard, the car catapulting towards the car park gates. He didn’t stop, screeching onto the road, seeing the man and his daughter slip out of his rear-view mirror—oh Jesus, I could have crushed her, crushed them both. Pull it together, Blake, please pull it together. He drove, his eyes fixed on the road, feeling like he’d left his heart back there in the car park. He drove, losing himself in the endless roads, just losing himself.

  He wasn’t sure how much later it was that he came around, the heat in the car almost tropical now. He hadn’t been watching the road—not consciously anyway, driving on autopilot—and he had no idea where he was. He had to study the satnav to figure it out, and he was surprised when he saw that he’d been circling the city. Around him were industrial units and small, brick houses, a retail park off to the left. He saw the lights change to red and let the car stop before resuming his search for his phone. It was jammed between the seat brackets and he had to pinch it, almost dropping it again. He dialled Julia’s number, the disconnected tone amplified through the car’s speakers, almost unleashing another burst of panic before he remembered he’d reported it missing.

  The lights turned green as he was trying to find his house number, the car behind him honking. He shuddered forward, listening as the phone rang and rang and—

  “Yeah?”

  Julia, and behind her Connor’s screams.

  “Blake?”

  “Sorry,” he started, only to be cut off.

  “Where are you?”

  In hell.

  “Driving,” he said, scanning the satnav and cutting across the lanes. “I couldn’t sleep, I thought I’d take Doof out. Been a while since we hit the woods.”

  He heard her chewing her thoughts, could picture her trying to work out how to respond.

  “You’ve been hours, Blake.”

  “I haven’t,” he said, glancing at the clock on the dash and realising that she was right. It was coming up for ten. He frowned, unable to make sense of it, frightened by the way that time seemed to have broken.

  “Are you coming home?”

  “Yeah, on my way, won’t be long. I’ll stop at Pret and grab something. Bacon sandwich?”

  “Sounds good,” she replied without excitement. “Drive safe.”

  And she was gone.

  Twenty-Five

  He held onto the phone for a second, wondering if he should call her back. Then he tossed it onto the passenger seat and focussed on the road. He turned towards town, heading for the biggest of the two malls, needing something familiar, something safe. He parked in the small car park across from the library, cracked the window for Doof, then climbed out. It had started raining—nothing to write home about, just that same gauzy haze that seemed to instantly coat you in a straightjacket of moistur
e. He wiped it from his lips, from his eyes, as he made his way across the plaza and through the big main doors.

  He walked into Pret and joined the queue. The smell of coffee and fresh bread helped drag the day back into some kind of normality and he inhaled it like it was oxygen, holding it there, the churning in his gut stopping for the few seconds it took for him to splutter it back out. A woman sitting close by glanced warily his way and he wondered if they could sense his anxiety, the way animals sense an earthquake before it happens. He must have been kicking out a hell of a subsonic tremor, a seismic wave of emotion that acted as a warning signal—stay away from me, I’m contaminated, and if you get too close it will infect you too. It was no wonder that the man in front of him was almost hugging the back of the next man down, that the queue ended with Blake even though people were milling around behind him.

  He caught the eye of the woman at the table, watched her wrap up a half-eaten croissant and chuck it in the bin as she left the cafe. Was he really that intimidating? Was his mental state seriously crumbling so fast that he couldn’t even stop for a coffee at Pret anymore?

  Then the queue shuffled forward and he saw a ghost loom into sight in the glass of the counter—moon-eyed, all teeth. Every muscle in his body seemed to contract when he recognised himself.

  Fucking hell, Blake.

  He looked like shit, like a man who’d just come back from the front line. His face was unwashed and unshaven, his mouth twisted into a rictus grin that exposed his teeth. His clothes were old and tatty and mismatched—the jumper he’d thrown on drenched in ancient baby rusk, his trousers pockmarked by muddy pawprints from that morning. His hair stood in greasy tufts, and there was even a leaf—a leaf—trapped above his right ear, something he’d stolen from the forest.