by Mark Edwards
He ran around the corner. I heard him bump into someone and apologise. Then he was gone.
By the time I got back to my street the sky was dark and starless and the snow had given way to icy rain. Cold drops ran down the back of my neck as I entered my building and ran a hand through my hair. There was a new poster on the wall, the words printed by a trembling hand. TO WHOEVER PUT THEIR FOOD WASTE IN THE GREEN BIN—THIS BIN IS FOR RECYCLING ONLY!!! This was followed by a threat to REPORT this IRRESPONSIBLE PERSON to THE RESIDENTS’ ASSOCIATION. I rolled my eyes. I was surprised there was no mention of the pizza-munching fox.
I trotted up the stairs and put my key in the lock, keen to get into the sanctuary of my flat, despite the recent intrusions. I felt jittery and uneasy in my skin and had already decided that I didn’t have the mental energy to meet up with Jake after his meeting and tell him the rest of the story. Another day.
I flicked on the light. Nothing happened.
The light in the communal hallway behind me was working so it couldn’t be a power cut. I left the heavy door propped open with my bag, which was just sturdy enough to hold it, and went into the kitchen to test the light there, flicking the switch. Again, nothing happened. The flat was in darkness.
The fuse box was in a cupboard beneath the kitchen worktop. On the rare occasions when the power had gone out before—in fact, I could only remember it happening once—I had simply needed to push the fuse switch back down. Kneeling on the floor, trying to see the fuse box in the nearly non-existent light, I heard the front door shut, plunging me into complete darkness. Fuck—the bag must have been too light to hold the door for long. But I was able to feel the fuse switches now, running my finger along to find out which one had tripped.
None of them had. I took my phone out of my pocket and used it as a torch to double-check. No, the fuse switches were all in position. Without removing the fuse cartridges I couldn’t see if the fuse wires were intact, and I couldn’t remember whether the switch would trip if the fuse blew. In normal circumstances none of this would have made me feel nervous, but recent events made me wonder . . .
Had somebody been in here again? Had they disabled the lights?
Were they still here, hiding?
I went back to the front door, feeling my way along the wall, stumbling over the vacuum cleaner and almost falling. I looked up at the CCTV camera above the door, wondering if it had captured anyone. Maybe someone had spotted it and turned the lights out so they could move about without being filmed.
I fumbled for my phone so I could check the app that was connected to the camera, and promptly dropped it. It bounced and skidded under the furniture. I hesitated. My fear that someone was in the flat now overrode my desire to find the phone so I went back out into the communal hallway. The light, which switched itself off after a short while, had gone out now. I turned it back on and stood in the hallway, trying to decide what to do. I could knock on one of my neighbours’ doors, ask them if they had a torch.
I looked at my nearest neighbour’s door. I never spoke to the woman who lived here, suspected that she was responsible for the crazy signs that were always appearing. I didn’t want to get her involved, especially as the likelihood was that this was a failed fuse.
I made a decision: I would go back in, recover my phone and check the app to see if someone had been in the flat.
I went back inside and, this time, used the vacuum cleaner to prop the door open. I got down on all fours and felt under the sofa and the coffee table, feeling for my phone. Where the hell was it? I swore out loud and thumped the floor with my fist.
A scrabbling sound came from the bedroom.
I jerked upright.
There was someone in my bedroom. Oh Jesus, I needed my phone. I needed to call the police. But then came another bang, then another. I jumped to my feet, headed to the front door, then thought no. This was my chance to find out who had burgled my flat, to catch them and get some answers out of them myself. The police would probably take forever to get here. And I was pissed off. Sick of my world being violated.
I crept into the kitchen and took a large knife from the block on the worktop. Then, trembling with fear and fury, I tiptoed to the bedroom door and, holding the knife aloft with my right hand, used the left to quickly push the door open.
For a moment, I could see nothing. And then something hit me, knocking the breath from my body as I fell to the floor, forcing the knife from my grasp. It spun away across the carpet.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I was pinned to the floor on my back, foul, meaty breath in my face. A growl came from deep inside my attacker’s body and I pushed as hard as I could, but my attacker was on top of me, a blur in the darkness. Teeth and saliva and wet lips grazed my throat and, as adrenalin surged into my system, I found strength I didn’t know I had, shoving and twisting on to my side. A second later and the dog—the black dog that had leaped out of the darkness—would have torn out my throat.
As soon as I twisted on to my side I saw the knife, just within reach. I grabbed it and swung it at the dog, which wriggled away as I tried to slash it. Instead, the blade nicked the side of its nose, and it let out a whimper of pain. As quickly as it had leaped onto me, it bounded away. I was free.
It shot out through the front door, growling and barking, as I pushed myself up, coughing and feeling my neck. Just stinking saliva, no blood. If I hadn’t been able to twist away, if I hadn’t been carrying the knife . . . I didn’t want to think about it. The dog had had a Rottweiler’s face but was completely black and the size of a pit bull. A dog bred to guard, to fight. To kill.
I staggered to my feet and went out into the hallway. The dog had run down the stairs and was dashing to and fro in the lower hallway, frantic, thumping into the door, bouncing off the walls. I stood at the top of the stairs, looking over the handrail so I had a full view of the hallway, coiled and ready to rush back into my flat if the animal showed any sign of coming back up the stairs.
At that moment, the door of my downstairs neighbour opened and she appeared in the doorway. She was in her thirties, frizzy hair, glasses, wearing a thick pink jumper. She pointed a finger at me. ‘Hey, you’re not allowed dogs in this building.’
The dog leaped towards her. She screamed and slammed the door shut with surprising reaction speed; the animal hit the wood mid-jump, crashed and fell to the floor, stunned for a moment before getting back on its feet. It turned to look up at me, baring two rows of teeth like knives.
I dashed back into my flat, shutting the door, plunged into darkness again. Once more, I crawled across the living room floor, and my hand made contact almost immediately with my phone. I said a silent prayer and hit 999, listening as the dog rushed around downstairs, emitting a series of harsh, low barks.
The police came and summoned a dog warden, who captured the animal using a loop on a stick and dragged it into the back of his van. After he’d taken it away, the young police officer helped me examine the fuse box, finding that two of the fuse wires needed replacing. Fortunately, one of the neighbours, most of whom had come out to see what was going on, had some spares, so my lights were soon working again.
‘Bad luck for two to blow at once,’ the officer said. His name was Sadler. ‘So, sir, what happened?’
I hesitated. On impulse, perhaps because I didn’t want him to start looking at me in the way PC Sargent had, I said, ‘I don’t know. It must have followed me in when I got home, snuck in through the door behind me. When I found the lights weren’t working I left my flat door open and it came in and attacked me.’
He tutted. ‘Lots of strays around here. Most of them come from the estate.’ He shook his head at the state of the city he policed. ‘Do you need a doctor?’
‘No, I’m fine. It didn’t bite me. I’m just a bit . . . shocked.’
‘Understandable, sir.’ He smiled. ‘You don’t have any sausages in your
bag, do you?’
I had temporarily lost my sense of humour.
He said goodbye and went off to take a statement from the woman downstairs.
After taking a moment to gather myself, I stood up, my legs unsteady, and went into the bedroom. It looked like a tornado had ripped through it. The bedside lamp lay broken on the floor, along with books, papers and framed photographs of Laura and me; the bedding was trampled and one pillow had been chewed, pieces of foam scattered around. I wondered why I hadn’t heard it as soon as I came in and guessed it must have fallen asleep after destroying my room and been awakened by the sound of my punching the floor.
There was a terrible stench in the air, the source of which I found quickly: a huge turd curled on the little rug in front of the chest of drawers. I rolled the rug up and stuffed it into a black bin liner, taking it and dumping it in the bin outside. I sensed a presence nearby and looked up to see the scavenging fox standing nearby. It turned and slunk away, tail dragging on the pavement.
Needing to calm my jangling nerves, I poured a shot of vodka and walked over to look out at the dark, empty street. Icy rain streaked the glass. I wondered what had happened to the dog. Would it be put down or would they attempt to rehome it? I waited until the warm bloom of the alcohol had slowed my heartbeat, quelled the tremor in my hands, then took out my phone and opened the app that had come with the camera.
Immediately, I could see that a video file had been created and stored on the cloud. The camera had captured whoever had come into my flat. The room was silent, and I found myself holding my breath, aware of my pulse thrumming in my ears.
The video started to play.
Because the camera was triggered by motion, as soon as the video started I found myself looking at the top of someone’s head and shoulders. They stood a few feet in front of my front door. The image was grainy and slightly blurred, presumably because it wasn’t very well lit, but there was still natural light in the room. It got dark about 4.30 p.m. That meant they must have been in here late afternoon, probably while I was with Jake.
I willed the person to step further into the room so I could see them better. All I could make out at the moment was that they were wearing a black top and a hat. I assumed it was a man. He took a couple of steps forward into my living room, the room where I sat now, so that he was visible down to his waist and then turned around. I leaned forward eagerly.
At the exact moment that he turned, somebody else walked into shot, obscuring his face. There were two of them! And as they both walked further into the living room, I saw that the second person had the black dog who’d tried to kill me, on a short leash.
The second person was also wearing a hat. The two of them stood still, apparently looking around, though maddeningly I could only see the backs of their heads. I could see their bodies now, though. They were both dressed in black long-sleeved tops and black trousers. But as I squinted at the screen, at the shape of their bodies, I suddenly realised I had been wrong to assume their gender. One of them, the one holding the dog, was a woman. And as they turned to talk to each other I saw that they were wearing masks, those plastic masks that you attach to your head with a piece of elastic. But both masks were blank, plain white with two eye holes and a small circle to breathe through. Looking at the blank masks sent a shudder through me. It was like looking at two phantoms, faceless creatures who had invaded my home.
The woman yanked at the dog’s leash and her mask slipped a little. Frustratingly, she caught it and pushed it back into place. Then she walked out of shot towards my bedroom with the dog. While she did this, the man walked around the room, opening drawers and cupboards, carefully shutting them again.
After a while, the woman came back with the dog and shook her head. I wished I’d bought a camera with an audio recorder, as they had another conversation. The man gesticulated angrily, pointed at the dog and then towards my bedroom. The woman nodded.
Then the man went over to the kitchen, disappearing from sight. The woman was facing the camera so I had a perfect view of her. She was slim with small breasts and narrow hips. The dog pulled at the lead and she jerked it back, causing it to jump up onto its hind legs. Poor thing. Whoever she was, she was strong.
The man returned and they both walked out of shot, towards my bedroom. And that was it. The video captured another minute of still life and then ended.
They had come in, cut the fuse wire—presumably so when I arrived home in the dark it would be harder for me to avoid the dog attack—then shut the animal in my bedroom, leaving just before it got dark.
I shut the laptop and stared at the space where they had stood. I could feel their presence imprinted on the air.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was unusually quiet on the South Bank, the bad weather keeping the day-trippers away; there were just a few Londoners scurrying beneath the snow-pregnant sky, hurrying to their homes and offices. The London Eye seemed to be turning more slowly this afternoon; the boats that drifted by on the grey, churning Thames looked like they should be carrying the dead across the Styx.
I browsed around Foyles for a while, then grabbed a coffee from Starbucks and took it to a bench that overlooked the river and the grand buildings on the Embankment opposite. I checked my watch. She should be here soon.
I felt strangely nervous, as if we were meeting for a first date, which was ridiculous. We knew each other intimately, inside and out . . . At least, I’d thought I’d known everything about her. Recently, she had been a different person, an alien that had wrapped itself in Laura’s body, only occasionally showing me a glimpse of the person she used to be. But Jake said I was like that too. I hadn’t contacted him since the previous afternoon, when he’d had to rush off. I resolved to call him later. I needed to tell him the rest of the story.
‘Daniel.’
I turned around. ‘You came.’
‘Of course.’
Laura looked thinner and paler than ever, even more so than when I’d seen her in the hospital. She had her black coat wrapped around her, a coat which used to fit her perfectly, hugging the contours of her body, but which now seemed two sizes too big. She was wearing a woollen hat too, and make-up—a little mascara and a dash of pink lipstick. It was the first time I’d seen her wearing make-up in ages. She sat down beside me and clasped her gloved hands together. Her knees bounced up and down. She smiled but it slipped from her face almost immediately.
‘You look . . . better,’ I said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm.’
‘No, really. It was so horrible seeing you in that hospital bed.’
‘It wasn’t much fun being there.’ Her knees continued to bounce up and down. ‘I do feel better now, though. Much better. My skin’s grown back.’
‘Huh?’
‘But it’s . . . different. New skin.’
I stared at her. ‘Laura, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Did you get my message yesterday morning?’
She stared at me, her eyes wide and blank. Her voice dropped to a whisper, just audible above the wind that whipped across the Thames. ‘Message?’
Before I could say anything, she said, ‘I’ve got some news for you. I’ve quit my job.’
‘Oh, Laura, but you loved that job. You always said it was your calling.’
‘It was.’ She stared out at the river. ‘But not now. I just can’t . . . do it anymore. I could try but I’d be letting everyone down. Letting the children down, the ones I’m supposed to help.’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t let anyone down.’ I touched her arm lightly. ‘But maybe it is for the best. You need to get well, and then I’m sure you could go back to it. Although,’ I swallowed, ‘you won’t be here anymore, will you? You’ll be in Australia.’
She hugged her knees, which at least stopped them from bouncing. ‘I’m not going.’
I hardly dared speak, in
case I’d misheard. ‘Say that again.’
‘I’ve decided not to go. I’m going to stay in London.’
‘Oh! That’s amazing.’ I moved to hug her but she shrank away. I gathered myself. ‘What made you change your mind?’
She opened her mouth to reply, then stopped. I could see that she was trying to decide how much to tell me. ‘Like you said, it would be running away. I don’t want to run anymore. I don’t want to be a coward. I want to start again.’ She spoke slowly, a spaced-out expression on her face. Had the doctors put her on more medication?
‘But,’ she continued, ‘you said you have some stuff you need to tell me. When you texted me this morning.’
‘Laura, are you really all right?’
A smile, a little more like the old Laura. ‘Yes. Of course. I’m fine. Come on, tell me what it was you brought me here for.’
‘OK.’ I wasn’t convinced, but what could I do? ‘Can we walk and talk? I’m freezing.’
‘Sure.’
We stood up and she gave me another little smile, the kind of smile she used to bless me with, and I was gripped by an urge to tell her, again, that I still loved her, that I wanted her to come home. But I knew if I did it would scare her away. So I swallowed the words and we walked along by the railing in the direction of the Millennium Bridge.
As we walked, I told her about everything that had happened so far: the fraudulent use of my bank card, the return of my laptop after the burglary, my therapist’s death. Laura listened intently, nodding but not saying much. She flinched when I told her about the fire. Finally, as we drew parallel with the Tate Modern, I brought her up to date by telling her what had happened the previous day.
She stopped walking. Her smile had vanished. ‘A dog? What did it look like?’
I described it.
‘Like the dogs we saw at the station,’ she said, nodding to herself as if this confirmed something.
I didn’t think it would be possible for her to look any paler but all the remaining colour had drained from her face. The sky shifted and all the light was sucked from it, like the moment before a storm breaks.