Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  “Hands where I can see them!” yelled the man, marching into a pool of light.

  “It’s not me,” Blake wheezed, lifting his arms. “It’s him, the other guy.”

  The guard ignored him, pushing Blake against the shelf and patting him down. The scent of coffee and too much Old Spice poured off him, but Blake breathed it in like it might clear his nose of the rotten stench that still sat there.

  “The hell you doing back here?” the guard said, obviously satisfied that Blake wasn’t a threat. He spun him around, with less force this time.

  “I…” Blake muttered, wondering how the hell he was going to explain himself.

  “Huh?” the guard said, leaning in.

  “That man,” Blake started again, but wasn’t this breaking the rules? Didn’t this count as talking to the police? He patted his pockets. “I think he stole my wallet.”

  The security guard’s brow furrowed and he looked behind him. The stockroom was quiet, a cluster of employees hovering by the door, speaking in hushed voices. Was the guy still in here, cowering beneath a shelf somewhere? Or was there another way out.

  “He stole your wallet,” the guard repeated, chewing on the accusation. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yeah,” said Blake. But what would happen if the guy was still here and the security guard gave him to the police? What if he talked? What if the devil man assumed Blake had ratted him out? “I mean, I think so. It’s gone, and I thought… I mean it’s not here, and he was there, and I just thought maybe he’d taken it.”

  The security guard shook his head, then lifted a walkie talkie.

  “Possible pickpocket, I’ll check here and take a statement. Keep an eye out, we’ve got a white male…”

  He looked at Blake expectantly.

  “Yeah, white,” said Blake, and the security guard shrugged like he was waiting for something else. “Clothes, um, a shirt. A T-shirt. I think it was purple.” And he looked away so the guard wouldn’t see the lie. “Wearing a hat, too. I didn’t really see.”

  “Go wait over there,” the security guard said, nodding at the door. “And do not move.”

  Blake nodded like a kid being scolded by a teacher, walking away with his head tucked into his chest. The sales assistants parted as he approached them, and he walked back out into the light and warmth of the corridor, collapsing against the scuffed wall. He heard the security guard shouting in the stockroom, demanding that the other guy show himself, and before he even knew what he was doing he’d pushed through the doors into the shop. Nobody called out after him, nobody tried to stop him, he just walked as slowly as he could, each step demanding every single iota of his concentration, out of the mall and back to his car.

  Twenty-Seven

  “Wow, Blake, you look like shit.”

  Julia opened the door for him—he’d forgotten his house keys—and looked at him like a parent whose kid comes home after a day playing football in the mud. She stood in the doorway, barring it. It didn’t stop Doof from shooting past her, skidding over the tiles as he bolted for the kitchen.

  “You look like a shit that’s had a shit, that’s the shit you look like, a shit’s shit.”

  The smile had crept onto Blake’s face without him noticing, feeling strange and alien, like he thought he’d never feel one there again. He stepped into the house and Julia made way for him, putting her hand on his arm. Her nose wrinkled.

  “And you smell even worse,” she said. “Jesus Christ, Blake, what have you been doing?”

  “Blame him,” Blake said as the dog scampered back out again, bouncing off Julia’s leg and running in tight circles. “He must have rolled in some fox crap, you know what he’s like.”

  “Well it’s a bath for him and a shower for you,” she said. “Stat. Go on, get washed, I’ll sort the dog. Did you bring breakfast?”

  Blake shook his head.

  “I was going to, forgot my wallet. Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Got some bacon in the fridge.”

  The swell of love he felt for her was frightening, so warm it made his skin tingle and his scalp knot. Standing there in the hallway, golden light spilling out from the kitchen, his son’s chirrups like birdsong, he felt utterly overwhelmed. He hoped Julia wouldn’t notice, but she was his wife, his soulmate, and she had her arms around his shoulders in an instant, pulling him close.

  “Come here,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  He pressed his face into the soft fabric of her dressing gown, breathing her in, gripping her so tight he felt something inside her pop. She gave him one more squeeze then leaned back so that she could look him in the eye. He couldn’t bring himself to meet it, just wiped a hand over his face and stared at the floor.

  “It will be okay,” she said, quietly but firmly. “You kicked its butt before, you can do it again. I’ll speak to some friends; we’ll get you whatever you need. I won’t let it take you.”

  He nodded, unconvinced.

  “But please, Blake, before we do anything, go take a shower.”

  He stood beneath a flow that was as hot as he could bear it, hot enough that it felt as though it was burning away layers of skin. The bathroom was a solid mass of steam that cushioned him like packing foam. He felt safe here, and in the thunderous white noise of the water as it drummed against his head and back he found a strange kind of peace.

  What had happened today?

  The young guy, one of the devil man’s henchmen, had followed him to the mall, had tailed him to Pret. They were watching him, sure, but this hadn’t felt like he was being monitored. It felt like something else. And when he’d tried to confront him the man hadn’t stood his ground or made threats or pulled a knife. He’d run.

  The morning was a mess inside his head, as hard to piece back together as a clutch of broken eggs. He examined it anyway, the chase, the stockroom, the young man on his back pinning him down. He could still feel that bony arm in his throat and he coughed as if to clear it, snatching in a hot, steamy breath.

  He’ll kill me, the guy had said. Blake didn’t think he was talking about him—however panicked the guy had been, he’d shown no fear of Blake. No, he was talking about the other man. He’s a devil. So why were they working together? If the younger man was as frightened as he made out, then why would he ally himself with such a psychotic prick?

  Maybe he has no choice.

  There are worse things than death, he had said. He takes your name, he steals it, and then you’re his.

  That made sense. Maybe he was being coerced into it? The devil man—not a devil, but what else could Blake call him?—was terrifying, no doubt about it. It wasn’t just a physical intimidation either, he had something else, some kind of dark charisma, some kind of power that Blake couldn’t put his finger on.

  But why would somebody do something just because they were told to? Why wouldn’t they go to the police? What kind of coward surrendered to a man like that?

  The same kind of coward who convinces himself that he’s going to die, that he has no choice in the matter, that it’s okay for somebody to threaten him and his wife and child. The thought made Blake push his fists into his eyes, grit his teeth against it.

  But this was good, wasn’t it? If the young guy was being forced to act against his will then maybe Blake had an ally in all of this. There was a chance that the man could be convinced to tell the truth and report his master to the police. Because if what he’d said was true then Blake wasn’t the devil man’s only victim. There had been others.

  They all died.

  Who? And how many? Just what the hell had he been dragged into? There was something else, too, a faint echo of a memory in Blake’s head. Hadn’t the young guy said he’d been able to help them? Something like that?

  You could have helped them.

  Yeah, that was it. He’d been berating himself, hitting himself. Who could he have helped? The man’s other victims, his other targets? It meant he could have done something but chose not to, i
t meant he might be able to do something this time.

  All Blake had to do was find him.

  Yeah, and catch him, and restrain him long enough to listen to you, and somehow convince him to take your side, and stop the devil from finding out and wiping you off the face of the planet.

  Blake couldn’t take the heat any longer, twisting the stiff shower lever until the water shut off. He stood there in the steam for a moment, his skin tingling, droplets rolling off him and pattering onto the tiles. Yeah, he would have to do all those things too.

  But finding him was a start.

  All he had to do between now and then was keep his head down.

  Twenty-Eight

  It was almost three in the afternoon when the doorbell rang.

  Blake flinched, like the bell was wired up to his central nervous system. He tried to disguise his reaction with a cough, but Julia wasn’t having any of it, her expression half concern and half disapproval, like he was a nervous dog. Doof—their actual nervous dog—began howling behind the stairgate in the kitchen, gnawing at it like he’d suddenly grown metal teeth and could chew his way to freedom. Connor was propped up on the TV table, glued to Peppa Pig, oblivious.

  “… on the dancefloor, and the Spaniards they dance…”

  Julia started to push herself from the sofa but Blake grabbed her arm and pulled her back down, a little harder than he meant to.

  “Leave it, it’ll probably be somebody selling something.”

  “… Russians they dance on a sabre, but the…”

  “Blake,” said Julia, frowning. She tried to pull her arm free but he held it tight, then she wrenched it away hard enough to make his fingers hurt. She rubbed the red welts on her wrist. “The fuck?”

  She got up, eyeing him warily, and the mood of the afternoon crashed like a burning blimp. They’d been sitting here together since he climbed out of the shower, doing nothing but talking. For the first hour or so she’d interrogated him about his cancer—how did you find out? (“I’ve been feeling weird, out of sorts, like last time.”) Who gave you the diagnosis? (“I can’t remember their name, it was one of the specialists, you probably wouldn’t know them.”) What did they say exactly, Blake? Where is it? (“They’re not sure, I’m still waiting for the tests, please Julia, I’ll tell you as soon as I know something.”)

  Once the questions had ended, though, and Julia had been satisfied that he was telling her everything he knew, they’d both relaxed. He had lain on the sofa and she had curled herself into the space between him and the cushions, her hand on his chest, playing with the hairs through his robe. And they had just talked about life, about work, about Connor. He’d even managed to forget about the devil man, to forget about the events of the morning—not completely, it was always there, like a bad smell beneath an air freshener, but it had come as close as possible to being invisible.

  “… they squeeze from one cow or anutta, but…”

  And that damn doorbell had thrown him right back into it, into the fear and the panic. Just the sound of those words made him feel like he could puke, and he had to sit up to keep the churning contents of his stomach in place.

  Who was at the door?

  Just one of the neighbours, or one of those charities that came calling for cash, or a gardener looking for work, or Julia’s parents, or a Sunday delivery, or a friend, Adam maybe, come to check that he was okay, or one of Julia’s colleagues, they occasionally popped in. There were a million people it could be, a million normal, everyday, non-murdering people who might have rung their doorbell at almost three in the afternoon.

  Or it could be the devil, axe in hand.

  You talked, you stupid fuck, he would say. You’ve ended them. Now, who’s first, your wife or your child? And he would haul himself through that door like the last time, a hundred feet tall, a black, tumorous mass that would cleave through Julia and Connor as easily as a knife through cheese, turning them inside out and leaving him alone in a hot puddle of whatever was left.

  “I’ll get it,” he croaked, getting to his feet but losing his balance and crashing back down onto the sofa. His robe spilled open and he remembered he was naked beneath. Just a stupid, naked child.

  “No, I’ll get it,” said Julia. “It might be Lily from across the street, you’ll give her a heart attack if you flash your junk like that.”

  And she was gone, out into the hall. Blake glanced at Connor. There was still time, he could get the kid and bolt out the back door. At least the two of them would be safe, at least they would get away.

  “… Oh Americans dance on the dancefloor…”

  The bell was starting its second round and Blake did nothing but stand there and listen to it, listen to the sound of the door being unlocked, listen to the creak of its hinges, the rattle of the letterbox, listen to his wife as she gasped for breath, listened for the sound of metal snapping through ribs, through flesh. He just stood there and did nothing at all.

  “Oh, hi,” said Julia, and he could hear the concern in her voice. He opened his eyes, his heart drumming painfully fast. “Is something wrong?”

  Fuck.

  He forced himself to march slowly out of the living room and into the hallway. Julia was in front of the door but there was something there, something that blocked the light, a giant silhouette against the day.

  No.

  But then a voice, somebody else’s voice.

  “Is Mr Barton at home?”

  Julia looked back at him, and in the gap between her frowning face and the door he saw two uniformed police constables, a man and a woman. The relief hit him hard, but it was momentary, and it was followed by a fist of panic right in his gut. He stood rooted to the spot, his mouth open.

  “Blake?” said Julia. She turned back to the police. “Yeah, he’s right here. What’s this about?”

  “Can we come in?” asked the woman. She took off her hat, revealing a black pixie cut underneath. She was young, but she studied him with an expression that looked much older. “I’m PC Kate Savage. This is PC Sarwat Faruqi. We need to ask you a couple of questions, Mr Barton, about an incident this morning.”

  What? How had they found him? He cleared his throat as he walked to Julia’s side.

  “Um, hi,” he said, coughing away another imaginary blockage. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  They couldn’t be here. The police could not turn up at his house. Blake looked past them, frantically studying the street beyond. There was no UPS truck but there were plenty of vehicles on either side of their patrol car—its lights still flashing, bright enough to be seen from space—and there were people there too, strolling past and looking in with rubber-necked curiosity. Was the devil man there? Was he watching this?

  PC Savage followed his line of sight, looking across the garden then back at Blake. She chewed her lip, suspicious.

  “Is there a reason we can’t come in?” she said, squaring up, making herself look taller. She glanced at the street again, scanning it, her free hand resting on the butt of a nasty-looking police baton.

  “Yeah, sure, of course you can come in,” said Julia, stepping to one side before Blake could protest. The male officer let the woman in first, taking off his hat too as he stepped through the door. Blake closed it behind them as fast as he could, so hard the floor trembled. Doof was still going crazy, his soft barks filling the hallway.

  “Cute,” said PC Faruqi. “Pug?”

  It took some of the tension out of the house and Julia smiled.

  “Some of him is, we have no idea about the rest. He’s pretty unique, unfortunately.”

  “I’ve got a Frenchie,” the man went on. “Stinks to high heaven.”

  At this, Julia laughed. Blake stood there, feeling like he was in a dream, like he could strip off his robe and run naked around the house and nobody would even see him. He tightened the cord with unsteady fingers, licking his dry lips. Julia shot him another questioning glance and then gestured to the living room.

  “You guys w
ant tea?”

  “No, thank you,” said PC Savage, stepping into the living room. For a second Blake thought she might smell that the man had been there, might sniff his piss-stained couch and work out exactly what had happened. She only smiled at Connor. “Hey there, little guy. What are you watching?”

  Connor snapped around at the strange voice, his face crumpling, the whines revving inside his throat. Julia moved fast, ducking between the cops and scooping him up. Blake thought she might carry him out, take him upstairs or into the kitchen—please, please, please—but to his dismay she perched on the edge of the armchair, studying the police intently.

  “Mr Barton?” said the man.

  “Can I just get changed?” he said, stammering.

  “This won’t take long,” said PC Savage. “We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  Blake hovered in the door for a moment longer then walked to the sofa. He started to sit, then thought he should close the curtains, just in case anyone was watching, but then realised that would be suspicious. He stood there, half up and half down, then realised everyone was watching him and finally sat. The look Julia was giving him seemed to peel open his skull and probe the very centre of his brain.

  “Please, what is this about?” she asked. “Is Blake in trouble?”

  “No,” said the woman. “At least, not that we know about. Are you in trouble, Blake?”

  “Um… No,” he said. “No, of course not. This morning…”

  He glanced at Julia, then back at the police.

  “You mean in Chapelfield, right? In town.”

  Both officers nodded, the man taking out a pad and reading from it.

  “Security guard says you lost your wallet, you claimed it was stolen, and you pursued the alleged thief.”

  “You what?” said Julia with a spluttered laugh.

  “And that…” the guy flipped to the next page, then back, shrugging. “And that you took off before he could question you.”