Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  No wonder everybody was looking at him.

  He reached up and plucked it free, smoothing down his hair as best he could. Then the queue opened up and he found himself face to face with the young barista. She gave him a look that might have broken his heart, a smile of pure sympathy. And it was then that he remembered he didn’t have his wallet.

  “Um…” he said, patting his pockets. “I’m sorry, forget it.”

  He turned to go but she called out to him.

  “Wait, hang on, we’ve got… Let me just check something.”

  She danced down the counter and spoke to another woman, who glanced at Blake and then nodded. The girl returned, her grin even bigger.

  “We’ve got some PIF coffees, I’ll get you one. What’s your poison?”

  “Piff?” Blake asked.

  “Pay it forward,” she said. “We get folks in all the time now, they buy one coffee for them and one for someone else, someone…” She chewed her lip. “Y’know, someone who might want a coffee.”

  “I’m not…” Blake started. What? Desperate? A dying man?

  Fuck it.

  “That’s very kind of you,” he said. “Thank you. Just a cappuccino, with chocolate, if that’s okay?”

  “Sure!” she beamed. “Name?”

  “Blake,” he said, thanking her again and walking to the collection point. One kid nearly tripped over his friend to get out of the way and Blake had to force himself not to smile. Maybe he should go out like this more often, there were definite perks.

  He turned his attention to the store again, his gaze wandering over the people there, the families, the couples, the parents and grandparents. They all looked so happy.

  Bastards.

  Beyond, a constant river of faces flowed past the open door. The noise was loud but strangely muted, laughter and shouts and an endless susurration of voices spilling into itself, surprisingly comforting. They would all still be here in a week’s time, shopping for groceries, for toys, for home improvements. Their lives would in no way be impacted by what was about to happen to him. And wasn’t there something reassuring about that fact? That the world would keep spinning without him, that the universe wouldn’t end?

  He spluttered out a sigh. Then it was like somebody had punched him in the gut, a physical force that made him wheeze. And he realised that his body had responded to something before he was even consciously aware of it.

  There, standing across from the door, right where the escalators dropped to the ground floor. A face. His face.

  Not the devil—and for that Blake almost released a sob of relief. No, it was the face of the younger guy, the blond man who’d been inside his office.

  Blake screwed his eyes shut, feeling the cafe spin around him. He had to grip the counter to steady himself, thought that he might open his eyes to see the entire room cracking up inside a vortex, everybody screaming, pieces of the mall churning and spiralling into the dark.

  It isn’t him. It can’t be him.

  He wasn’t going to make that mistake again, not after the incident in the car park. How many times now had he felt like his mind was playing tricks on him? It was just his imagination, just fear making him see things that couldn’t be there. And as if to prove a point it began to project something against the fleshy murk of his eyelids, the devil striding across Pret, an axe in his hands, people screaming, falling off their chairs as he cleaved his way towards Blake. It was so real that the urge to open his eyes was overwhelming, and even though he tried to keep them shut they opened under some deeper, more instinctive command.

  There was no devil, there was no axe.

  But the young man still stood there, the one still thing in an ocean of movement, as though he too had somehow fallen out of time. He just stood there and stared, his face a mask of misery that seemed to mirror Blake’s own. It was definitely him, the same guy who had sat inside his office, who had told him the devil was coming. He had the same sickly pallor, the same haunted—haunting—expression, a mouse trapped in the open beneath a swirling cloud of hawks. He was even wearing the same clothes, the exact same clothes.

  Blake didn’t know what to do. He worried that if he so much as moved the man would bolt, scuttle away into some corner where he would never be seen again. Or worse still, that if he took action then the guy would respond in another way, pull out a knife and attack. What the hell was he doing here? Was he just watching Blake for his master, making sure he wasn’t doing anything he shouldn’t be?

  Fuckfuckfuck.

  Because that meant they had followed him here, it meant they must have somehow known he was at the woods, that he’d met Adam.

  Fuckfuckfuck.

  It was arctic in Pret, the entire room freezing over like the mall had suddenly plunged into a frozen lake, sinking fast. Blake felt for his phone, needing to call Julia again. Why the hell hadn’t he told her to run, to just get out of the house and find a safe place? He dialled the home phone again, listening to it ring, and ring, before the answer machine cut in—him and Julia laughing as they tried to say, “We’re doing something amazing, leave a message!” at the exact same time. The idea that this might be the last time he heard her voice, that after today this might be the only way he could listen to her speak, made him feel like he was about to throw up.

  And still the man was there, perfectly stationary. But there was something in his eyes—even though they were motionless, watching Blake intently, something seemed to thrash and churn in them, something wild.

  Blake pocketed the phone, utterly numb, as if every nerve had been plucked from his body. What if they were inside his house right now? What if they were dragging Julia across the kitchen by her hair while Connor screamed in his highchair?

  Call the police. Call the fucking police, Blake.

  But what if this was just a coincidence? Or a message? Or a test? Don’t do anything stupid because we’re watching you. What if he called the police and gave the man an excuse to carry out his promise? It was impossible, there were too many variables, too many things he could get wrong. All he wanted to do was open his mouth and scream it all away, to howl until there was nothing left.

  No.

  He couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t fair. He took a faltering step towards the door, never taking his eyes off the young man in the window. When the guy didn’t move Blake took another step, speeding up. He didn’t know what he was going to do, only that he needed to reach him. He broke into a trot.

  “Blake!”

  His name was a noose, choking him back. He spun around—who is that? Who knows me here?—expecting to see the devil lurch up from behind the counter. His head jerked left and right as he searched for a familiar face, for the person who had called his name. Everybody was staring at him like he was the victim of some reality TV sketch show, and once again he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, an ape cornered by leopards.

  “Blake?” said the barista behind the counter, taking a second look at the paper cup she held and squinting at the name written there. She looked nervously at Blake. “This is yours, right?”

  Blake almost growled at her, the room shrinking, closing over his head like a plastic bag. He snatched in a breath, whirled around again to the door.

  The guy had gone.

  Twenty-Six

  Blake bolted for the door, every eye in Pret on him. A young couple were halfway into the shop and he barged past them, the woman actually crashing against the wall and then slipping onto her arse with a grunt. He ignored their shouts, ignored the cries of surprise and distress from the cafe, and just skidded out into the mall.

  It was mobbed, Sunday shoppers out in force. A sea of people filled the space, their gently undulating movements weirdly hypnotic, mesmerising. Those closest to him swerved out of his way like he was a foundering ship in the flow, like he might drag them down with him. But that was fine, because it made it easier to see up ahead.

  Where are you?

  He looked towards the main d
oors that led to the plaza outside. There were fewer people leaving and the young guy wasn’t one of them. Blake turned the other way, scanning the crowds in desperation. If he lost him now he might never get another chance.

  Another chance to do what?

  There was no sign of him, and Blake broke into a jog, pushing past people as he ran deeper into the mall. They were on the second floor, gaps looking down onto the floor below. Blake kept up his speed, his head twisting like a lighthouse beam, his eyes wide, wild. Somebody walked out of a shop right in front of him and he collided with them, shopping bags flying. He almost lost his footing too, his arms cartwheeling as he ran to the railing.

  Panting, he clutched it with white-knuckled fingers, staring at the people below. Some of them were pointing his way, some had their phones out. And still there was no guy, like he’d vanished into thin air. But he couldn’t have, because there had only been ten seconds between him bolting and Blake leaving Pret. How far could he have got?

  Come on, come on.

  Nothing. Just people, so many people, swarming in and out of the shops. He tried to remember what the man had been wearing. A green shirt. Green, look for green. And he did, filtering out everything else, seeing a couple of Norwich City shirts, a guy in a Hawaiian monstrosity, two women in green blouses.

  He abandoned that side of the mall, running to the next railing and peering into the maelstrom below. The same assortment of fuck-all, no sign of him.

  Blake smashed a fist on the railing, his teeth clenched as he spun in tight circles. He had to be here. He had to be here. He had—

  There. A man up ahead on this level, maybe fifty feet from where Blake was standing, walking briskly towards the enormous House of Fraser at the far end. Blake started after him, trying to identify him from the back of his head—scruffy green shirt, jeans, dirty blonde hair. Was it him? And it was only when he saw a woman walk past the guy and turn to her friend, pulling her face and holding her nose, that he knew for sure.

  Got you, you smelly fuck.

  “Hey!” Blake roared, the force in his voice surprising him. The man turned, flinching like a kid that’s heard the honk of a truck on the road behind him. And Blake was running before he even knew it, launching himself like a greyhound out of its stall. He shunted a woman out of his way, barging past another couple, watching the guy start to run too. Everybody up here was crying out now, a sea of screams and shouts. But they were moving out of the way, crashing to the sides of the walkway like the Red Sea, giving him a clear path.

  The guy was fast, but he was scared, and Blake was a man driven by fury. He didn’t think he’d ever moved this fast before, his body a machine that powered him past the shops, past the people. The guy tripped on his own feet, sprawling, clambering back up in the same movement. He looked back again and the expression on his face was so warped by fear that it didn’t look human. Blake was gaining, gaining fast. No time to think about what he was going to do, he just needed to catch him.

  The guy cut to his side, disappearing into a clothes shop. Blake was there a heartbeat later, seeing him weave through the shoppers and the stands, making for the back. He ignored the pain in his legs, in his lungs, just put his head down and chased, calling out “Hey!” again in a voice drained by exhaustion. Staff members screamed as the guy vaulted over the counter, sending paperwork flying. He burst through a set of doors into the back.

  Blake ignored the protests, ignored a hand that snatched at his jumper, he just crunched through the same doors into a small corridor.

  The guy had vanished again.

  “Hey!” Blake yelled for a third time.

  “You can’t be back here,” said a voice behind him, and Blake shot a look over his shoulder that must have been laced with madness because the girl skittered away like she’d seen a monster.

  He pushed through a scuffed double door into a large stockroom lined with wooden shelves and boxes. It looked empty of life, but where else could the man have gone? Besides, he could smell him, that stomach-shrinking stench of unwashed flesh tinged with the coppery tang of adrenaline. He was here.

  “I just want to talk,” Blake said, his pulse machine-gunning in his voice. “Nothing else, just talk, okay?”

  Was that even true? He had no idea what he was planning to do. The stockroom was perfectly still, the air quiet and undisturbed. And then, from the far end, a choked sob. Blake walked towards it, feeling his way using the shelves. The fuel that had driven him this far was fast sputtering out, leaving him heavy and slow. If the guy charged at him now with a blade in his hand, Blake wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do anything about it, he might just pop and shrivel like a balloon.

  Another noise, like papers rustling. Blake cut to the right, walking down the narrow aisle between shelving stacks. They towered over him, packed tight with boxes and sacks. Blake’s haggard breaths were the loudest thing in the room, each like a dragon’s roar. He clamped his mouth shut, his lungs protesting as he crept forward step by step. Someone was talking, whispering close by. He cocked his head, trying to snatch the words before they disappeared.

  “… kill me… he…”

  As he approached the end of the row he realised it was a mantra, repeated over and over again.

  “… kill me he’ll kill me he’ll kill me…”

  Blake opened his mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t come, too frightened to leave his mouth. He grabbed the last shelf, had to haul himself past it. He looked left, towards where the voice was coming from. There was nobody there, at least nobody he could see because the lights that hung from the ceiling didn’t reach this far, just a fog of milky shadow seeming to hang above the dark ground. Boxes and bags stuck up from it like bodies, like corpses in the street after a tragedy, impossible to identify.

  Hello? Blake attempted, trying again: “Hello?”

  “… me he’ll kill me can’t let him kill me he’ll…”

  “I’m not going to kill you,” Blake said. “I just need to talk to you. I need to know what’s going on.”

  He took a step into the darkness, half-thinking his foot would sink into it, that it would swallow him up. He clung onto the shelves just in case. The mantra continued up ahead, hanging in the air along with that awful smell, like the words themselves were diseased. Blake coughed it out of his mouth, trying to hold his breath and speak at the same time.

  “Please, I just need to know what he’s going to do. I need to know how to stop him.”

  The young man’s mantra slowed to a halt. The silence that once again hung over the stockroom was deafening. Blake took another faltering step, and another. Where the hell was he? He felt like he was drowning in the dark, that it was flooding into his lungs like cold water. Maybe he should turn back before he lost his way.

  He felt the breath on his ear an instant before the man grabbed his jumper from behind, his filthy hands pinching the flesh beneath. Blake actually screamed, trying to pull loose, but the grip was iron-strong, relentless. He could feel the young man’s whole body against his now, one bony arm suddenly around his throat, locked against his windpipe. The smell was impossible, like a chemical weapon, sweat and piss and shit and something else, something somehow older.

  Blake tried to pull away but his foot struck something in the aisle and he crashed down onto all fours, the other guy on top, his arm still snake-tight around his neck. He tried to scream again but he couldn’t get any air past that ridge of bone. A knee detonated in the soft flesh of his kidneys. His face was on the floor, his bared teeth grating on the concrete, his tongue laced with grit and dust. He heard himself growl like a trapped dog, the most terrifying noise imaginable.

  Past the snarl in his throat, past the thrashing of his pulse—surely loud enough to demolish the entire mall—he heard the young man speak. The words were whispered right into his ear, those dirty lips pressed to his flesh, breathing their message against his skin.

  “He cannot know, he cannot know, he’ll kill me. He’s the devil, the nameless
one, you can’t trick him, no, no, he’ll kill me, he cannot know.”

  A crunch from the other end of the room, voices that seemed a million miles away—you sure they’re in here? Blake opened his mouth to call for help but the guy was putting all his weight on his head, pushing down so hard he thought his teeth might shatter right out of their gums.

  “Just die, just die, just die,” the man said. “You can’t fight him, you can’t. Nobody can. They all have to die because he always gets his way. He always gets what he wants. Nobody beats him. They all died.”

  “Whoever’s in here, you’ve got three seconds to show yourself,” somebody yelled.

  “You could have helped them,” the blond guy went on, his tone now high-pitched and whining. Blake heard the slap of fist on flesh, like the man was hitting himself with his free hand. He realised he was talking to himself. “You could have helped them. You could have helped them. You—”

  “I’m serious,” said the voice again. “Get out here, right now.”

  “Please help me,” Blake croaked.

  “Just die.” The man’s voice was back to normal, sliding into his ear like a cold needle. “It’s so much easier that way. Because the things he can do… There are worse things than death. Like this, like this. He takes your name, he steals it, and then you’re his. Just die.”

  The pressure on his head increased, fireworks bursting across his vision as his skull creaked. But the man must have been using it to push himself up because Blake was suddenly alone on the floor. He scrabbled away, snatching at the air in search of scraps of oxygen, clawing at his face in case the man’s voice was venomous, had somehow leeched poison into his ear. He had vanished into the gloom, burst into shadow and smoke.

  “Hey,” Blake said, his voice like sandpaper as it climbed his throat. “Hey, please.”

  A silhouette burst into view at the end of the aisle, pounding towards him. Blake flinched, then he made out the uniform of a security guard and the relief exploded inside his stomach. He used a shelf to pull himself to his feet, blinking the stars from his vision.