It was okay. There was a garage about a mile west. He’d fill up and be back in Norwich by nine. His dad would be at work but Brick knew which site he was on, the same one he’d been on for eighteen months – the massive housing development next to the old paper mill. He checked both ways, the coast clear, then he wobbled left, accelerating down the road and taking the first right towards the fertiliser factory.
It felt good to be moving, even though something in him baulked at the idea of leaving Lisa behind. The thought of running, of never coming back, ghosted at the back of his head but it vanished almost as soon as it had appeared. He kept at a steady forty, not wanting to draw attention to himself even though he felt as if he had a giant arrow over his head, labelled GIRLFRIEND KILLER.
But she isn’t dead, he kept telling himself. She’s going to be okay.
He turned off the main road onto the garage forecourt, pulling up at the nearest pump and cutting the engine. There was a fiver and shrapnel in his wallet and that would get him back to the city.
Through the window of the shop he could make out the cashier. He’d dealt with him dozens of times before on the way out to Hemmingway, a right miserable old git. But the way he was looking at Brick now was different. He felt his cheeks light up and lowered his head. What if he’d been on the news or something? Pictures of him in the local paper. No, surely not, Lisa had only been gone for a night. The man probably just thought he was going to skip as soon as he’d fuelled up.
He looked again and the cashier had gone. He glanced at the pump – £3.31, £3.37. Maybe he needed to find a hideout that was closer to home, he thought, before realising that he might never be able to go back to Fursville. Strangely, that thought filled him with more grief than anything else.
There was a squeal of tyres behind him and he turned in time to see a small red hatchback slam into the back of a battered taxi on the road by the garage. The cars rocked together, steaming, then lay still.
Least I’m not the only one having a bad day, he thought. The driver of the taxi was getting out. He looked mega pissed. The woman behind the wheel of the car was opening her door too, her hair a mess, her face white from where her airbag had deployed. From the look of it they were about to have an almighty slagging match.
£4.01, £4.09.
A bell rang from the other direction and the garage door opened. The cashier walked through it, probably to make sure everyone was alright. But there was still something wrong with the man’s face, it was twisted up into a kind of snarl, his eyes burning –
He looks like Lisa, exactly like her, Brick thought, and another bell began to ring, this one in the centre of his brain, some kind of instinctive alarm. The cashier was coming right at him, walking fast, grunting with each step.
‘I’m going to pay,’ said Brick, his voice broken into a thousand pieces.
The cashier didn’t seem to care, his pace quickening. There were noises from the other direction, too, a ragged shriek. Brick swung round to see the taxi driver coming across the street, breaking into a run, heading for the forecourt. The woman was right behind him, her face so bent by fury that it looked painted on. She was the one who was screaming.
Brick ripped out the nozzle, throwing it to the floor. He jumped back onto the bike, fear turning his bones to liquid. He slammed his foot on the starter, the bike wheezing then falling silent. The cashier had reached the pumps, his old face mottled, jowls swinging. He was a small man, too fat and too old to ever have scared Brick. But that expression . . . There was nothing in it but murder.
‘What?’ he said, almost shrieking himself now. He tried again, his foot slipping off the pedal, then again. It was too late. The cashier threw himself at Brick and unleashed a punch. Brick ducked, the bike almost toppling between his legs and bringing him down with it. Only adrenalin kept him upright. The man grabbed hold of his helmet, wrenching his head down.
Footsteps behind him, more howls from the woman. Brick lashed out, all the time feeling like his head was about to be ripped off. The cashier wasn’t budging.
‘No!’ the word forced up past the chokehold on his neck. ‘No!’
He let go of the bike, unclipping the helmet and freeing it. The cashier stumbled backwards, hitting the kerb around the pump and falling on his backside, the helmet still grasped in his hands. Brick didn’t look back, just leapt onto the starter pedal again, throwing all his weight down on it.
The engine wheezed, popped, then sparked on. He revved, the bike moving impossibly slowly. Something grabbed the back of his T-shirt, pinching his flesh, and he shunted himself forward on the seat. He caught sight of his reflection in the shop window, an ecstasy of terror, white-eyed and open mouthed, the taxi driver and the woman bearing down on him.
He wrenched the accelerator so hard the rubber grip tore, the bike guttering, on the verge of stalling. He swept round between the pumps and the shop, his feet on the ground propelling the bike forward, skidding on the oil-slicked tarmac, the woman still clutching his T-shirt. There were more people on the street now, swarming from their cars, all of them glaring – Just like Lisa, they’re just like Lisa – all of them running towards him, a stampede. He recovered his balance, accelerating out of the garage, the woman’s hand ripping loose, taking some fabric with it. He ducked beneath the arms of a man on the pavement, thumping into another woman hard enough to send her sprawling. Someone in a car veered towards him, clipping his rear wheel. But he clung on for his life, weaving left, right, the swelling crowd surging after him like rats after the piper as he fled into the sun.
Daisy
Boxwood St Mary, 9.38 a.m.
Daisy was late, really late. School had started an hour ago and she was only just now scrambling out of her pyjamas, trying to find a clean polo and socks while staring in disbelief at the clock by her bed.
Why hadn’t her parents woken her up? They pulled her kicking and screaming out of bed every morning without fail, which is why she never bothered to set her alarm any more.
She took a ball of socks from her drawer, doing her best to put them on while walking, almost tripping herself up. She stopped, taking a deep breath. What was it her dad always said? Haste makes waste or something like that. By the time she’d decided that the phrase was meaningless she’d managed to wrestle both socks on, walking briskly down the landing towards the stairs.
She had clattered down the first four when she heard something moving in her parents’ bedroom. She stopped, cocking her head over her shoulder. In the silence she became aware that her head was aching, a pulse – not hers – swelling and ebbing in her ears, the same as it had been yesterday but worse now.
Thump-thump . . .
Thump-thump . . .
Thump-thump . . .
Frowning, Daisy made her way slowly back onto the landing.
‘Mum?’ she called out. ‘Dad?’
She walked to the door, only now noticing that it was closed. Her parents never closed their door, even at night. When she was much younger Daisy had demanded it was always left open, and it had stayed that way ever since, even though she was nearly thirteen now and knew things she hadn’t back then and would almost prefer it if they kept it shut. She reached out, her knuckles hovering next to the wood but not making contact.
What was she scared of?
She knew exactly what she was scared of. She was scared of walking in and seeing her mum puking into the washing-up bowl, her hair coming out in clumps, her skin the colour of dishwater. She was scared of having to go through it all again, even though they’d told her that the chances of it reappearing in her brain were extremely low. She was scared of other things, too, worse things, but she’d trained herself to stop thinking about them because just having those things in your head might make them come true.
She swallowed, even though her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. Then she knocked.
There was another thump from inside. Then a thin, reedy voice. Daisy couldn’t make out what it said, so she knocked again, her ea
r almost touching the wood. That voice again. Was it calling her name?
Her heart lodged in her throat, Daisy twisted the handle and pushed the door open. Darkness and a dusty, almost sour smell seeped out into the hallway. The curtains had been pulled shut – thick, double-lined velvet ones that her dad had hung so that her mum could sleep when she’d been really ill. It looked like 3 a.m. in there.
‘Hello?’ she said, the room swallowing her voice.
‘Daisy?’
She took a step inside, her eyes needing a moment to adjust. Her parents were two lumps beneath the duvet, their upper bodies black smudges on the cushioned headboard. For some reason the sight made her think of gravestones side by side in a cemetery, and she actually heard herself gasp.
She saw her dad move, leaning forward then throwing himself back, making the headboard crunch against the wall.
‘Dad, what’s wrong?’ she asked, walking towards the bed, trying not to breathe in. The air was thick with the stench of old people – not old like her mum and dad, but old old.
‘Come here,’ said her mum, her voice like a breeze kicking leaves down the street. Daisy waited for the ‘we need to talk’ but it never came, the only sound the click of her dad’s throat as he breathed. She walked round her mum’s side of the bed, her hand on the footboard to steady herself. She wanted to rip the curtains open, the window too, but she didn’t dare. She didn’t want to find out who was lying in that bed.
My parents, obviously, she told herself. Who else could it be?
The wolf, something in her brain said. It’s the wolf, and it’s dressed like your mum and dad. Look closely and you’ll see it, Daisy. And you’d better, because if you don’t then the wolf will get you.
Shut up, she shouted to her brain. It always played tricks on her when she was scared. As if to prove to it that she was brave, Daisy sat on the edge of the mattress, her hand smoothing the duvet until it found her mum’s. She clasped it, holding it tight.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. Her mother’s fingers were damp stalks. They made no effort to tighten around Daisy’s. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ said her mum. A little light was trickling in from the hall, tentatively exploring her parents’ faces. It hung in their eyes as a bright spark, but it wasn’t strong enough to illuminate their expressions. She was pretty sure she could make out her dad’s teeth, though, clenched together between pulled-back lips. He sat slowly forward then lurched back again, the thump making the whole bed tremble. For the first time it occurred to her that she might be dreaming. Her mum turned her head until those sparks found Daisy. ‘Come, lie with us.’
Don’t, said her brain. But once again she shushed it. She climbed onto the bed, trying to avoid trampling her mum as she wedged herself into the middle. It was the safest place she could ever imagine being, sandwiched between her mum and dad in their room. It was the place she’d weathered a thousand nightmares. And yet she didn’t tuck her legs beneath the duvet.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said, looking from her mum to her dad and back. ‘Are you ill again?’
Her mum’s head slid round, her body completely motionless. In the gloom the smile she gave Daisy belonged to a china doll.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I’m as right as rain.’
‘Right as rain,’ said her dad, making Daisy jump. She looked at him and he stared back. He smiled too, but it slid off his face like water from a raincoat. There was a clack as he snapped his teeth closed.
‘We just wanted a cuddle,’ said her mum.
‘A hug,’ added her dad.
They moved together, their bodies shifting, their arms rising – too long, too spindly in the dark. Her mum looped both hands over her shoulders, pulling her close, nuzzling her lips against Daisy’s hair. Her dad’s followed, wrapping around them both, his chest against her back. They were breathing perfectly in time, and when they inhaled Daisy felt her bones creak as the space between them shrank. She tried to shift her arms to return the hug but there was no room.
‘We love you, Daisy,’ said her mum. ‘Whatever happens, never forget that.’
Daisy couldn’t twist her head round to see her mum, the kisses on her forehead were too fierce. They were battering her, like hail, making her headache sing.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘What’s going to happen?’
No answer, her parents tightening their grip, ratcheting her in like a snake with its prey. The smell seemed worse here and a tickle of fear crept into Daisy’s stomach. Once again she could hear that voice in her head: They’re not who you think they are, it’s the wolf and it’s wearing your parents for pyjamas. It was such a ridiculous, terrifying image that she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream.
‘What’s going to happen?’ she asked again. ‘I don’t want anything to happen.’
‘Everything will be okay,’ said her mum, her words muffled by Daisy’s hair. ‘We love you so much. Nothing will hurt you. We won’t hurt you.’
Hurt her? What was that supposed to mean? She began to squirm, the tickle fast blossoming into full-blown panic. But they weren’t letting her go, their grip so tight now that it was twisting her neck.
‘Mum, it hurts.’
She could see her legs kicking on the bed, pushing the duvet down in rumpled folds. The old people smell was like something solid over her mouth.
‘Mum!’
The hug began to loosen, her dad’s arms relaxing as he rolled onto his back. Her mum unlocked her wrists, letting Daisy push herself up. She massaged her neck, looking at her parents, only just managing to keep the tears from flowing. Her mum smiled at her, using cool fingers to brush a strand of hair from Daisy’s face. Her eyes were dark, but that firefly of light buzzed freely in them. It made her look happy, but far away. She stroked her hand down Daisy’s cheek, gently holding her head.
‘Whatever happens, whatever happens, always always remember that we do love you. Always remember. We love you so much, Daisy.’
‘I love you too,’ Daisy said. Then she threw herself at her mum, hugging her with the same force that she had been held by, pressing her forehead against her mum’s cheek so hard she could see spots of colour bloom in her vision. ‘I love you more than anything.’
Her mum breathed in, the noise almost a snort, and Daisy could feel her body tense up. She let go, worried that she was hurting her.
‘You’re late for school,’ her mum said, the warmth stripped from her words. She was facing forward again, her arms by her side. ‘You should go.’
‘But Mum, I don’t want to le—’
‘Go!’ The word shot from her mum’s mouth like a bullet.
Daisy crawled off the duvet, feeling like something was about to explode from her chest. She stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, looking at the dark lumps of shadow there, then she retreated through the bedroom door.
Her mum called out after her, her voice as flat as a recording.
‘We’ll see you soon.’
But somehow, Daisy knew that was a lie. Somehow, so deep down that she wasn’t even aware of it, she understood that they would never see her again.
Brick
Fursville, 11.55 a.m.
Brick sat on the wooden steps that led up to the log flume in Fursville, shaking so much that his elbows kept slipping off his knees. He’d ridden straight back to the park after the incident at the garage – they tried to kill me, they all wanted to kill me – almost taking himself clean out by turning off the main road at sixty-three miles per hour, coming within a hair’s width of decorating the smiley-faced ‘Welcome to Hemmingway, Please Drive Carefully!’ sign with his brains.
The crowd had followed him down the road, their faces twisted and contorted in his single rear-view mirror, their eyes angry white blisters. They’d actually trampled each other trying to get to him. The car that had almost knocked him off his bike had tried to come after him too, but it had veered off the road into a garden after a dozen yards or so, the driver
kicking his way out of the broken windscreen and pursuing on foot.
By the time they faded out of sight there had been twenty people there, men, women, kids, grandparents. Brick had seen all this with absolute clarity – every bared tooth, every clenched jaw, every snatching, greedy finger – the kind of eagle-eyed, slow-motion action replay focus you only got when your life was hanging by a thread.
He was paying the price for it now, though. His body felt like it had used up every last resource. Used up or wasted – he’d chucked his guts the moment he came through the hedge, last night’s popcorn nothing but a milky foam. Now he felt the same way he did when he was really ill, the light too bright, his whole body trembling like it had once upon a time on the wacky walkway that was almost visible from where he was sitting.
The worst of it was that somewhere en route he’d lost his phone and his wallet. They had probably slipped from his pocket when he’d almost come off the bike, or maybe it had happened during the attack in the garage. The phone he didn’t mind so much, but dropping his wallet could be bad – it meant the police would know he’d been in Hemmingway. From there it didn’t take a genius to think of searching the old theme park. With any luck it had fallen into a bush, or down a rabbit hole. But luck wasn’t the sort of thing that came willingly to Brick Thomas.
His elbow slipped off his leg again, jolting his head. He replaced it, shivering, his chattering teeth like hail on a tin roof, the loudest thing in the park. He was shaking so much he felt like a pneumatic drill, like he was about to hammer himself into the ground, and he pushed himself to his feet, pacing.
What the hell was going on?
There was an explanation banging on the door of his head, yelling at him, but he was refusing to pay it any attention. He was refusing because it was stupid, even though he’d seen stuff like this in a million movies – people turning feral, ripping into their loved ones. Usually it happened when the dead came back to life, but not always. Sometimes it was a virus or something, like in that film Lisa loved, 28 Days Later.
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