Thinking of the Third now made him feel queasy. He was going to be in big trouble for losing the Cat. Keeping her hungry no longer seemed like such a good idea.
He had starved the Dog too. Although he trusted him more than the Cat, there was a chance, he realised, that he'd be found lying beside Simon's half-eaten body.
He called after the Cat, mentally and vocally, hoping that if he got her back he could reconnect with her, and then through her reconnect to the Dog. After a quarter of an hour of trudging through leaves and branches and vegetation, however, he had to admit that he had no control over either animal. He barely had control over himself. His legs were shaking with fear. Everything was falling apart.
Chapter Fourteen
The dog kept creeping forward. The rope hissed against the ground. It was almost impossible for Simon to remain focused. For a while, he had meditated on the pain in his legs caused by sitting without moving for so long, but then the pain had given way to numbness and he turned his attention instead to other body parts; his rising heartbeat, the ache in his forehead, the dryness of his throat.
His head nodded and he blinked hard to stay awake, recalling for inspiration Firdy's warning that the rope around the dog's neck was intended to prevent it running away once it had killed him; it was not intended to protect him.
Its ears pricked up.
It stood.
Simon shook the thought from his head. Back to breathing. In. Out. In ... but the creature remained agitated. It whined, dropped its head and walked to the door.
Simon felt what had disturbed it. Clarity was returning. And then it was done, in the time it takes to fall to the ground.
He and the dog-thing were now free. Free to think. Free to act. Free to kill. He had little doubt that the dog would turn on him. It was in the doorway, still whining, its tail between its legs.
Simon rolled and managed to get to his feet though his legs felt leaden.
The dog's enormous head inclined. Staring into its black eyes, Simon was flooded with adrenaline. He no longer bit back his emotional response. His hands shook and his legs threatened to buckle as he backed away. He had never seen anything like this. He didn't know how to kill it. All he knew was that it intended to prevent him from leaving and it would die rather than let him go.
It advanced and he lumbered towards the window. Behind him, the thing barked and its paws skidded on the boards.
Snapping jaws.
Simon threw himself into the curtains, into the nets, into the glass and through, into the night.
It was dark for a long time. His legs kicked. He had time to wonder which way up he was before he hit the ground – feet, shoulder, ear - and tumbled over and over, skidding along the drive. He may as well have landed on his head. The only reason he didn’t cry out with pain was because the collision knocked the wind out of him. He lay on the stone amid broken glass and his bedroom curtains, wearing them like a shroud.
When he unwrapped himself, he saw the dog hanging by the rope that Firdy had attached to its neck. The other side was still attached to Simon's desk. The dog whimpered noisily and it kicked its legs, which caused it to swing like a pendulum. Each time it bashed into the side of the house it scrabbled at the wall, but it didn't have that kind of dexterity. If the rope held out, it was going to die. Simon thought it unwise to trust the knot of a one-handed man any further and so once again he forced himself to his knees and then to his feet, swaying, feeling as though he’d been swatted by a giant hand, but no part of his body was screaming for attention more than any other and so soon he was hobbling into the house, arming himself and returning to his room.
Chapter Fifteen
Firdy trampled through the long grass, his joints feeling like broken glass. His mind felt shattered too. He had been calling for both the Cat and the Dog, but neither of them had responded. Now, the Cat, the Dog and Simon were all unknown quantities. The Dog would have guarded Simon for hours had he not lost his connection to the animal when the Third withdrew. His plan, to put it simply, was fucked.
The Third would be furious that he had lost the Cat, but that would not compare to how she felt about losing Simon. Things were going badly.
He was losing time. It wouldn't be long before it was light.
Stay on mission, Firdy told himself.
He stumbled down the bank again and returned to the van, relieved that it had not yet drawn out a recovery vehicle or motorway police.
Opening the door and climbing in made him cry out with pain; if he hadn't been alone, he would have bitten it back, but it was a relief to let go. He used his teeth to remove the glove from his good hand and examined the hairy, knobbly knuckles that agonised him. He threw painkillers into his mouth, spilling most of them, swallowing the rest dry, gagging on their bitterness.
His other hand was hurting as much as usual, bearable in comparison to the new aches all over his body. Again, he removed the glove with his teeth. The hand was swollen, sweaty, red. He tried to move the stumpy fingers and two of them twitched.
Useless and disgusting, he thought. In 24 hours it could all be different.
Eyes closed, he listened to the movement of other vehicles and tried to imagine that they took his pain with them. Each time anything larger than a car passed by the van shimmied and he wished that he could be a part of their world, wished he had a home to return to, memories to keep him warm, a friend.
The idea of suicide flowered in his mind. As usual, there was no note nor a lengthy drive to the edge of a cliff. There was the efficient use of whatever was to hand.
The perfect vehicle rocketed by with a rush of noise and a whirl of colour and then it was gone.
If he timed it well, his life could be over in a moment. No more pain. No more loneliness.
No more anything.
The same thing as ever stopped him opening the door. The Third needed him. He still had purpose; at least for one more day. He couldn't give in until he had exhausted the other option and that meant getting Sarah back as quickly as possible.
From what she had said, she wasn't far away. She didn't know it, but she had given him hope. Capturing her would change everything for him. Everything.
Chapter Sixteen
Simon was relieved to find that Firdy hadn't forced the door to his mother's room. Sarah’s room, however, had been devastated. Firdy had turned over her table and trampled everything that had been on it. He had smashed her photo frames and ripped up individual photos. He had pulled out every drawer in her chest of drawers and dumped the contents, before overturning the chest itself and kicking in the back. Her bed sheets lay coiled on the floor in a soggy, stinking pile. These were not the actions of a man who was simply looking for something. Firdy's rage was such that he had done this even while the creature had been watching. Knuckles turning white on the doorframe, Simon was immobilised by thoughts of what Firdy might do now that he was off the lead.
Eventually, he continued to his own room where the rope securing the dog was taut and still. He leaned out of the window and saw the animal hanging below. Its body was limp. Hand over hand, he hauled it towards him, pausing twice to catch his breath. When it was within reach, half-resting on the window sill, he stabbed it three times in the back of the neck, twisting and pulling the knife out, before dragging the dog completely into the room.
It looked as though it should never have been alive. As he suspected, it wasn’t all dog. There were other things in there. It was part rodent perhaps. And those teeth …
He cut its throat for good measure, which produced little blood, and wiped the knife on a dry patch of fur before sliding it into his trouser pocket.
One dead.
Two to go.
Chapter Seventeen
A small service station came into view and Firdy was tempted to stop for a few minutes. Perhaps a caffeine injection would do him good. He could justify that. Its lights called to him. He could see the signs offering fuel, fast food, fres
h-filtered coffee. He liked such places; large railways and airports were particularly good too, especially in and around London. They granted him company while allowing him to maintain his anonymity. He was able to sit among people. Sometimes they glanced at his face and moved away, but usually they ignored him and he'd be able to sit close enough to smell their deodorants and perfumes, to hear their gloriously dull conversations, to feel the warmth from their bodies.
Although it was very late, he saw someone gazing at the menu above the counter in the coffee shop. He could stop for ten minutes.
But ten minutes was the difference between finding Sarah and having her move on, the difference between night and dawn.
Wincing as he drove by, he took solace from the fact that he was on his way to bigger things. Finding Sarah would be better than all the fast food eateries in London.
Motivated again, he tried to push the accelerator, but he already had it down to the floor. He felt stronger. He could do this. He was doing it.
He hadn't been driving long before he glimpsed the Cat on the bank. He swerved across two lanes onto the hard shoulder and hit the brakes.
The Cat had withdrawn, but after a minute it came into view alongside the van.
It had something in its mouth.
This time, Firdy didn't wind down the window to call to it. He called it with his mind, without desperation, without need.
Die alone, he thought, or live with me.
The Cat took a step forward and then another. It paused for a few seconds, almost sitting down, but then, unable to resist, it ran across the grass towards the van.
Satisfied, Firdy stepped out of the cab and opened up the rear doors. The Cat padded up to him, its head low and it dropped what it had been carrying at his feet.
It was a baby’s forearm. A finger and thumb were missing.
Get in.
The Cat hopped into the merciful darkness.
Firdy picked up the little arm and tossed it into the back. He slammed the door.
Shaking, he got back behind the wheel.
This was what happened when you lost control: people got hurt, people got killed and he would get caught.
He vowed never to lose control again, neither of himself nor the animals. He could do this. It was only for a day or two more.
He pulled away and brought the van up to speed.
Chapter Eighteen
On television, the expert criminals got into cars like this in seconds. He’d had a lot of practice, but it still took an agonising amount of time to pop the door.
It was a blue, late-1980s Honda, not unlike his own car. He still couldn't get over the fact that Sarah had stolen it. One second he had been walking around the front of the car, the next she was in the driving seat.
Finally, he managed to force the crowbar into the correct position, pushed and the door flew open. Inside, the Magic Tree air freshener was losing its battle against cigarette smoke, which had permeated the upholstery. Printed papers were strewn about on the back seat and floor, along with a couple of empty food containers, drinks cartons and a banana skin. Fortunately, the car was not so much of a mess on the outside, sporting a single dent that gave it a lived in look.
He set to work getting the car started, this time pulling a small, cordless drill from his rucksack. He had the engine running in seven minutes.
It spluttered twice, but overall it was the uncaged animal he had hoped it would be. It had a much bigger engine than his and he backed out of the car park and put it to the test.
Soon, he skidded to a stop alongside a phonebox and left the engine rumbling while he dialled Sarah's number. He hoped that he wasn't already too late.
Chapter Nineteen
While it was still dark enough to go unnoticed, Firdy jammed the crowbar between the front door and the frame and worked it, tearing wood from both. He worked hard, sweating, and then leaned his shoulder into it.
It didn't give.
Why wouldn't Sarah just answer her phone?
He'd even rung the bell and knocked on the door in a bid to gain access legally.He'd done everything he could, but there wasn't time for patience.
He gave the panel his heftiest kick. A bigger man might have sent the door flying open, might not have needed a crowbar at all, but his best kick only had the effect of advancing the door another half-inch from the doorframe. Furious now, he retrieved the crowbar, like pulling a knife from a wound, and gave the door the final half a dozen shoves it needed to swing open.
Inside, he shut the door behind him and listened. A baby was crying in the house next door and a cat mewled in the street. He didn't hear any people, but after all the noise he had made he suspected it wouldn't be long before he was disturbed.
He crept through the hallway, checking each room. They were pristine, plain and perhaps somewhat old-fashioned, but aside from that it was almost like a house he might have seen in a magazine. The signs of inhabitance seemed deliberate, like the ultimate fighting magazine on the coffee table. They were show rooms. Fake.
The kitchen was the same. Although he could smell fried food, no-one appeared to have ever cooked or eaten in here. There were no used frying pans, no dirty dishes. The draining board was empty. Dry. No crumbs on the sideboard.
There was, however, a comprehensive selection of Sabatier kitchen knives. One by one, he slid them from the wooden block, until he found one intended for slicing meat, large but light, and sharp. Big knives always created the right impression.
On the stairs he kept to the wall where the boards were less likely to creak and he was careful to avoid brushing against the wedding photos hanging on the wall.
The bathroom was vacant.
He tried another door and found the water heater. Neat piles of fluffy blankets.
That left only two more doors.
Although breaking into the house and the possibility of being caught were good reasons for his elevated heart rate, he knew that the root of his excitement was his proximity to the Sarah. Behind the door to his right, all was silent, but he could smell a mixture of her and her room, a sweet, musty odour. It dizzied him, a pleasurable sensation, except that it came with anxiety, because he could smell Simon too. He looked over his shoulder, but there was no-one on the landing but him. Alive or dead, Simon was in his bedroom in Essex.
He took a final deep breath, knowing that he had to move quickly now. As soon as Sarah realised it wasn't Simon walking in, she would scream and attempt to escape. He adjusted the knife so it would be visible. He would rush in, put his hand over her mouth and tell her to be quiet. That was all. Assertive and in control.
Above all, in control.
Chapter Twenty
Simon followed signs for East London, knowing that Firdy was well ahead of him. He floored the accelerator, not slowing for speed cameras, which were foreshadowed by waves of brake lights ahead. Instead, he weaved between vehicles and blared the horn. If he was too careful, Firdy would catch up with Sarah and he would never see her again.
He struck the wheel, half-imagining hitting himself and half-imagining knocking Sarah’s head against a wall. He had performed the code and she had answered, only to tell him that she had already made Firdy’s job easy by texting him her location. Tears of frustration and rage welled in his eyes. She was naïve, but after the disappearance of their parents, the weapons positioned strategically around the house, the vetting of her friends, being abandoned for days at a time and blood in the bathroom, perhaps he should be grateful that she still managed to show some sign of innocence.
As long as it didn’t get her killed.
The engine idled at yet another set of traffic lights, this time an enormous roundabout with half a dozen exits. He scanned the rows of vehicles, noting the white Transit vans, discounting each one from the possibility of belonging to Firdy.
He felt as though he should get out and run to keep moving, but when the lights changed to green, he felt sick, advancing towards a
series of confrontations that could only end badly.
He had to kill Firdy or he’d always be a threat to Sarah. He had to do it before the Creature returned. Physically, he didn’t imagine that killing him would be too much of a problem, as Firdy appeared to be sick and in a lot of pain. He thought that Firdy would be less sure of himself without the Creature, but he was likely to be less predictable too.
The two main problems lay elsewhere. The first was the remaining animal in the van. If it was anything like the dog, he was in trouble.
Another set of lights.
The second problem would come later. He projected himself into the future, a world in which Firdy’s body was on one side of the room and his head on the other; what then? When the Creature returned, it would discover what had happened. The thing would read his mind. He could stash ideas, bury memories, tie thoughts down, but he wouldn’t be able to suppress the memory of having killed Firdy. He wasn't that good.
Even if he could somehow get away with killing him, the Creature would expect him to pick up where he left off. Once again, he’d be a threat to Sarah. She would always be in danger, until either he or the creature was dead.
How do you kill something that's invisible, intangible, but can see every thought you have?
You don’t.
There was no cold sweat as he considered suicide. It was a familiar destination, as all paths seemed to lead this way.
He changed down a gear, swung the car around a corner and powered to the end of the street, cutting out a jam. Protecting Sarah was his reason to live. If living placed her in more danger than dying, then suicide was the logical option.
In some ways it would be a relief. His death would save a lot of lives. He had been selfish the last three years. Many people had met uncertain ends so that he could have the pleasure of watching Sarah live.
The danger was too close now. He didn’t know how much time he had before the Creature returned; it could be the next corner, it could be next month. Once he had made life as safe as possible for Sarah, he'd have to kill himself.
She’d want to know, but that was out of the question. It would be cruel. She wouldn’t understand.
I don't understand, thought Simon. It could have anyone. Why does it want her?
Chapter Twenty-One
The Hollow Places - A Paranormal Suspense Thriller Page 7