Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  Six days, six hours, six minutes exactly, from the moment he marks you to the moment he ends you.

  And he thought back even further, to a million years ago when the devil had pushed him down onto the sofa and told him he was going to kill him. He didn’t have to think hard, those words had been carved into his memory with the same force as the mark that had been hacked into the door. All he had to do was lower his mental defences and they came flooding back.

  I am going to kill you. But not now. In six days, six hours and six minutes—six days, six hours and six minutes exactly from the moment this began—I am going to come back, and I am going to end your life. I am going to end you.

  From the moment this began.

  He finally caught it, and it punched the air from his lungs.

  “Oh shit,” Blake said, leaning against the door. “Oh fuck.”

  “What?” Julia said, holding Connor to her chest. “Blake, what is it?”

  “The mark,” was all he was capable of saying. He just couldn’t find the words to tell her that it had all began then, with the mark being carved onto the door. Not Friday, when the man had come to visit. But Thursday.

  He put his hand to his mouth and bit into his own finger.

  No, Thursday was when he had found the mark. For all he knew, the devil could have carved it any time the previous night. He might have smashed his rune into the door as early as Wednesday. He could have done it during the day because both he and Julia got home late on Wednesday, after dark. They might never have seen it. Fuck—he could have carved it on Wednesday morning just after they left for work.

  He counted through the days in his head. Wednesday morning, that meant Thursday could have been the first full twenty-four hours.

  “Blake?” Julia said, moving closer.

  Friday, day two, Saturday, three.

  “Please talk to me, Blake.”

  Sunday was day four, Monday day five.

  “Oh god,” said Blake again. Julia took his hand and pulled it out of his mouth. There were teeth marks embedded in his skin.

  Tuesday, today, might be day six.

  And if the man had marked their door on Wednesday morning after they had left for work, it meant the deadline could be as early as two o’clock.

  Six days, six hours, six minutes.

  He could be on his way right now.

  Fifty-Two

  “We have to go,” Blake said.

  He looked out of the front door, no sign of anyone who didn’t belong. It didn’t mean they weren’t there, though, didn’t mean they weren’t scrambling from their cars right now, teeming down the street.

  “What?” Julia said.

  “Now. We have to go now. I got it wrong, I got the timing wrong.”

  “Blake, what—”

  “Go!” he shouted, making her jump. “Get Connor in the car.”

  She saw the panic in his expression and moved fast, grabbing the keys and running from the door. Connor’s head bobbed over her shoulder, the kid giggling at the sudden burst of speed. Blake scanned the street again. Nothing.

  He walked as fast as he could up the stairs and into Connor’s room. The duffel bag was too heavy for him but he grabbed the carry-on, lugging it downstairs and feeling something warm and wet leak from his wounds. He carried it outside, reaching the car just as Julia finished strapping Connor in.

  “I can’t lift the other one,” he said. She nodded, sprinting back inside. Blake hefted the bag into the back seat of Julia’s car. Connor was screaming at being roughhoused into his seat and Blake put a gentle hand on the kid’s head. “It’s going to be okay, mate, we’re just going on a trip.”

  He looked back at the house—come on, come on—then out at the street. If somebody was watching them then they’d be making a call. How long before the devil and his army reached the house? Or maybe he’d got it wrong, maybe the mark had been left on Thursday morning—please god please—and nobody was there, nobody was watching.

  Julia flew out of the front door, almost tripping. She hurled the bag into the back then clambered into the driver’s seat. Blake hobbled around to the other side, only for Julia to lean out the door.

  “Doof!” she yelled.

  Doubling back, he walked into the house and opened the stairgate. Doof shot out, circling him twice, then he saw the open door and skittered across the tiles, vanishing through it. Blake started to give chase then stopped, leaning on the cooker. The wound in his side was so painful that it felt like he was leaning on one of the lit hobs, his skin sizzling.

  He looked down, something else stirring in his mind, beating against the back of his head like a moth against a window. He thought about the phone call he’d made that morning.

  I can smell gas.

  He turned on one of the hobs, listening to it hiss its poison into the air.

  But that was unthinkable, wasn’t it? This was his house. If they did make it through the next few days then they needed somewhere to come back to, they needed a home.

  It was a big if, though.

  He turned the dial to full, then opened up the others too, and the oven. The smell was almost immediately overpowering, clawing at the back of his throat, at his eyes. He checked to make sure the windows were closed before making his way out of the kitchen, peeling some photos from the door of the fridge. Then he opened up the cupboard under the stairs, fishing through the junk on the floor until he found their box of keepsakes—photos, baby blankets, cards. There were others, but Julia had most of it backed up on the Cloud.

  He carted the box into the living room and threw his laptop in there too. It was almost too heavy for him to carry, and he set it down by the front door. The kitchen was filling fast, making it difficult for him to breathe. But even if the devil did get into the house it wouldn’t detonate. He’d just open a window and flush it out.

  Blake walked back into the kitchen, opening a couple of drawers until he found what he was looking for. There was a Swan matchbox, yellow with age. Grabbing a stapler, he ducked down by the kitchen door and stapled half a dozen matches to the wood, their heads down. Then he ripped off the edge of the box and stapled it to the floor beneath them.

  It was only when he stood again that he realised his error. He had to close the door behind him.

  Swearing, he walked into the hall and took hold of the kitchen door, easing it closed a fraction of an inch at a time. He felt the moment the match heads met the touch paper, heard them grate slowly along it.

  Please don’t go.

  The gas hadn’t been on for long, but there was probably enough for a decent explosion. He tried not to think about how awful that would be, about how the devil would probably smile when he found out, how that shit-eating delivery guy would laugh his head off.

  The door clicked shut.

  Blake spluttered out a breath and picked up the keepsake box. He hesitated before walking out of the door, turning to look at his house, their house. It had been their first proper place, the property they chose together and bought together after they had been married. It was the place where they had made Connor—one night after a friend’s party—and then sat and marvelled at him on the overcast Wednesday afternoon they’d brought him home from the hospital. It was their home.

  Then he thought of the devil walking through the door, thought of the way the man had pushed him down onto their sofa and prowled through their rooms and laid in their bed.

  It could never be their home again, not even if they made it out alive.

  “You’re welcome to it, you bastard,” he said.

  He carried the box to the front door, closing it behind him. The street was still deserted, no sign of any of the men. Maybe he’d got it wrong, then. It didn’t matter. It was better that they were moving, better that they had a head start. The devil would find them wherever they were, Blake was pretty sure of that, but at least they’d have time to prepare.

  And maybe the devil would walk into their house later today, open the kitchen door, an
d find himself on a fast train straight to hell.

  Blake was smiling as he walked back to the car and eased himself into the passenger seat. Doof scrabbled on the back seat, tormenting Connor. Julia looked at the box of treasures, then at him.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because we’re not coming back.”

  She sniffed, smelling the gas on his clothes, in his hair.

  “Anything else you need?” he asked.

  “No, just you, just him.”

  Doof barked, and Blake smiled.

  “Oh yeah, you too, buddy.”

  Julia offered her hand and he took it, squeezing tight. Then she let go and slung the car in reverse, backing onto the street. She stopped there, both of them staring up at the house.

  “It’s just bricks,” she said. “We’ll find another one.”

  Blake nodded. And it was only when she began driving up the street that he realised there was actually something positive about the situation, a silver lining that made him smile.

  He’d never have to hear that fucking doorbell again.

  Fifty-Three

  Julia headed out of town, taking a route she never normally would and exploring streets Blake had never seen before. Her eyes kept flicking to the rear-view mirror and twice he tried to look over his shoulder. Both times he cried out, clutching at the knife wound in his side.

  “You want to go in the back with Doof?” she asked at one point. “Get a better view? There’s nothing there, we’re not being followed.”

  He couldn’t help but be impressed by the ease with which she had adjusted. Only that morning she’d thought everything was normal—or as normal as it ever got in their family. And now she was fleeing her home and evading a killer like it was what she did every day after lunch. Why the hell hadn’t he just told her everything the moment it had happened? He studied her expression of steely concentration, the way her tongue flicked over her lips every time she glanced back, and his love for her was almost overpowering.

  “You sure know how to put a girl off when she’s trying to focus,” she said, smiling at him. He looked away.

  “Sorry.”

  Connor grumbled in the back, drifting off the way he always did when they were in the car for longer than ten minutes. Even Doof’s high-pitched, oh god we’re going on a walk! whines didn’t disturb him. Blake stared out of the window, seeing the city roll past, the cars, the families, the shoppers. The skies were heavy and dark, sick with cloud, and every now and again the automatic wipers would clear away the smudge of drizzle on the windscreen.

  “Where are we going, Blake?” Julia asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, leaning his forehead against the window, his words steaming up the glass.

  “I’ve got a friend, she has a place out in the middle of nowhere, up by the coast. She might let us stay.”

  “No,” said Blake. “We can’t involve anyone else. Not after…”

  And he saw Adam again, the delivery guy hanging on his body like he was a tyre swing, that gunshot pop inside his throat.

  “We have to find a place that’s empty, a place where nobody else will get hurt.”

  “Except him,” she said.

  Blake nodded. He wondered what the devil man would be thinking, wondered if he knew that they’d left the house yet. He’d assume they were trying to get away. But he’d be wrong. He’d assume they were going somewhere safe, somewhere they could hide from him. But that was wrong, too. No, they needed a place where they could prepare. They needed a place that he knew how to find.

  “Keep driving,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  It was fifteen minutes after they’d left that the first text message came through.

  Blake heard his old phone bleep inside the duffel bag. He’d forgotten that it was in there in their rush to get away. That had been pretty stupid, they should have turned it off. He craned back, everything burning as he struggled for the bag.

  “Hang on,” Julia said, gripping the wheel tight with one hand and reaching for the phone with the other. The car wobbled as she pulled it free, handing it over. “Is it him?”

  Blake studied the screen, the familiar number.

  “Yeah,” he said. He unlocked it and loaded the message.

  Are you running, Blake?

  He told Julia and she shook her head.

  “Prick,” she muttered.

  It buzzed and bleeped again in Blake’s hand, like it was a living thing calling out for its master.

  You know I’ll find you.

  “You think he’s at the house?” Julia asked. Blake had wondered that too. Had they been inside yet? Was the man texting from their hallway? Just open the kitchen door, he thought. We left you a warm welcome. Or maybe the man was following them, stalking them from two cars back and waiting for them to pull over.

  “Can we stop a minute?” Blake asked, his breath steaming up the window as he looked out. They’d been following the inner ringroad that circled Norwich, heading clockwise. Blake didn’t know this part of the city well, but he knew there was an industrial estate up ahead. “Take a left up there, head for B&Q.”

  “Sure,” Julia said.

  Blake studied the phone, the camera, wondering if the man was watching him through it right now. His fingers hovered over the on-screen letters and he started to type.

  We’re at home, you fuck, why don’t you come say hello?

  He read the message through, not sure whether to send it or not. Then he jabbed his thumb on the button and watched it go. The phone whooshed.

  “Did you reply?” Julia said, glancing over. “What did you say?”

  “I told him to pop in and say hi,” Blake said.

  Julia slowed, the tyres rumbling as she pulled into the car park. She picked a spot close to the doors and cut the engine. Almost immediately, Connor started to whine.

  “You need anything special?” she asked.

  “Just some supplies,” he said. “And a coffee. There’s a McDonald’s right there, a petrol station too. I’ll meet you there in fifteen.”

  “Okay,” Julia said. “Be careful.”

  Blake limped into B&Q like a wounded soldier—not just his injuries but his expression, too, a thousand-yard stare that made the welcoming girl look everywhere except at him. He took a trolley and helped himself to a balloon from the stand beside her.

  “For my kid,” he said, although she still didn’t make eye contact.

  Blake pushed the trolley around the edge of the store into the hardware section. The aisle here was like a display of gladiatorial weapons, chainsaws racked up on either side. He ignored them, walking a little further until he saw some nail guns. He chose a cordless one, grabbing some ammo and a spare battery pack and dumping it all in the trolley. It wasn’t quite a Beretta, but it would put a hole in somebody.

  His phone bleeped again as he turned the corner.

  You’ve ended them, Blake. How does it feel to know you’ve murdered your wife and child?

  He typed a reply without hesitation.

  They’re right here. They say hi.

  He almost sent it, then added a :-) for good measure. Being here, so far from home, was making Blake feel braver than he had in a long time. He pressed send, trying to picture the devil’s face when the message came through. Then, riding on a wave of adrenaline that was almost euphoric, he typed another one.

  I hear shower gel is going three for two down at Boots. Why don’t you get some?

  He pocketed the phone so that he could grab a machete from the rack, testing its heft and throwing it in the trolley. He imagined sinking it into the man’s skull, seeing his eyes roll up. The thought made his stomach churn, and he wasn’t sure if it was with nausea or excitement. He glanced briefly at the axes but he didn’t think he’d be strong enough to hold one.

  He grabbed a chunky Maglite torch from the next aisle and rolled towards the checkout. The assistant eyed him suspiciously as he scanned the flashlight, the machete and the nail gu
n, his eyes rolling over Blake’s bruised face, the pockets of blood that had leaked onto his shirt. The guy licked his lips, looking for a moment like he was going to call his supervisor.

  “Clearing the garden,” Blake said with what he hoped was a normal smile, patting his shoulder and wincing. “Taking down a bramble patch and putting up a fence. Wife told me I needed the right tools, and she was right. Not that she’ll ever get me to admit it.”

  The guy laughed politely and nodded, handing him the receipt.

  “You need help getting them to the car?” he asked.

  “Nah,” Blake said, taking the bag. He regretted not accepting the offer as soon as he’d left the shop, so weak that he had to pause halfway to McDonald’s to catch his breath. He heard Connor bleating before he entered and turned to see them both walking towards him down the street from the direction of the petrol station. Julia had a plastic bag in her free hand, bulging with food. She looked at his bag, at the handle of the machete poking out, and the panic flashed across her face, her expression perfectly legible: Oh god, this is really happening.

  “You get everything?” she asked, biting her lip.

  “I think so,” he said. “You?”

  “Just some stuff,” she said, jiggling the bag. “I don’t know how long we’ll be there, wherever we’re going. Coffee?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “To go.”

  They walked into McDonald’s and Blake sat his bag down at the nearest table, almost collapsing into a chair. The place was pretty empty, a handful of people giving him a wary glance while whispering to each other. He ignored them, pulling out his phone. There were no new messages. He almost pocketed it again when he thought twice, logging on to the free Wi-Fi and searching for the home security app. He waited for it to download, then had to try a couple of times before he remembered the right login details, but after a minute or two the footage from the cameras in his house loaded.

  Or at least a screenful of white noise where the images should have been.

  Frowning, he tried to rewind the footage, only to be presented with the message Hard Drive Offline. Julia sat next to him, bouncing Connor on her lap. She pushed a paper cup across the table, the air full of the smell of fresh coffee.