Sarah forced herself to stop watching and went for the knife that she had lost. It wasn't immediately evident, so she checked the skirting boards and looked under the stools. As she searched, she heard blows landing behind her. She hoped it was the sound of Simon laying into Firdy, but she couldn't be sure. Neither of them spoke. It would be a fight to the death. Her hands shook as the certainty came over her. Finding her knife would be instrumental in swaying the balance.
It was underneath the counter. She crawled on her hands and knees, her right hand burning from the gash in her palm. She was unable to use her left arm at all without pain radiating throughout her shoulder and neck before shooting down towards her fingers.
As her bloody hand grabbed the knife, she realised that it had all gone quiet behind her. Fearing the worst, she slid out from beneath the counter.
Firdy was on his back, legs and arms bent as though he was about to slide backwards across the floor as she had attempted to do minutes ago, but he was still except for his chest, which heaved with exertion. He had thrown his head back. His mouth made an 'O' of exhaustion.
Simon, to her relief, was standing, regarding his fallen opponent. Sarah hurried across the kitchen to hand him the knife. He looked at it for a while before he took it from her, then he held it at his side while he watched Firdy again.
Firdy's jaw remained slack and Sarah saw that what teeth he had left were yellow or black and as crooked as tombstones. He had a distant, scared look on his face, as if something momentous were rolling towards him, a terrible horizon. Drool spilled over his almost-non-existent bottom lip. He groaned.
Simon didn't move. Sarah was surprised by the words that came to her.
“Kill it,” she said. Simon glanced at her and then back at Firdy who was writhing on the floor, moving not in agony but with pleasure. Neither of them spoke as Firdy grunted and appeared to orgasm, his gloved hand reaching between his legs at the moment of ejaculation. He collapsed then, on his back, getting his breath.
Simon's expression conveyed nothing. He strolled through the kitchen, slid the knife on top of a cupboard and returned to Firdy. He offered his hand and Firdy hauled himself up, nodded and then staggered into the living area where he slumped in the armchair.
Sarah grabbed Simon's sleeve in her fist.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Calm down, Sally,” he said. His words stabbed her. Sally. Simon was gone again. They'd missed their opportunity to rid themselves of Firdy. “It's going to be alright,” he said and she knew that he was lying.
Chapter Thirty
Firdy sat with his head between his knees, muttering to what Sarah gathered were the voices in his head.
“I'm sorry … didn't mean to … last chance … what I've done ...”
While Firdy ranted, Simon sat beside Sarah on the sofa. Simon appeared to be calm. Only Sarah was fidgeting, looking at the men and the door and the broken window and wondering if she should take charge. In a way, listening to Simon had got them into this mess. Perhaps if she did things her way for a while, she could get them out of it. Simon was unable to kill Firdy now, but there was nothing stopping her and there probably wouldn't be a better time than this. He was hunched, rocking back and forth. She could stab him in the spine. He wouldn't see it coming. She glanced at the cupboard where Simon had (discarded) stashed the knife.
“Keep still,” Simon said.
“You're not even yourself,” Sarah said. “Why should I listen to you?”
“You shouldn't have run, Sally. We could be in a lot of trouble now. From now on, I need you to do as you're told.”
She didn't understand. Was that a message in disguise? Was she supposed to do the opposite of everything he said.
She began to stand and Simon yanked her back by the wrist.
“Sit,” he said. “Let me see your shoulder.”
The handle of the knife still protruded from her body. Considering the length of the blade, she assumed that it protruded from the back of her shoulder, but she couldn't turn her head to see without excruciating pain. She kept her breaths shallow, because her chest ached.
Simon said that removing the knife would cause her to start bleeding again. She was glad that he wasn't going to try to pull it out. And yet, the sight of it made her feel nauseous, because Firdy had done this to her. Although he had acted quickly and with ferocity, she thought that he had taken great pleasure in wounding her in this way, so that they were more alike. He had wanted her to feel what it was like to lose the use of an arm. If Simon hadn't interrupted him, her eye would have been next.
“Feels ok,” she said when she saw that Simon had finished examining her. And then: “In case I don't get a chance later, I want to say -”
“Shh.”
She wanted to say that she loved him, that she always would, no matter what he had to do to her. She hoped that he would know that to be true. Somehow. Somewhere. Before the end.
Firdy was tearing at the skin on top of his head. He appeared to be in agony, and still in dialogue with the voices. Sarah had no doubt that he was insane. She stared at Simon and wondered to what extent he was all there too.
She was stuck between two lunatics. She could make it to the window and get help, even with one arm.
“Sorry,” Firdy said. His face was sweaty and his eye was red. To Simon, he said: “Looks like we're back to business.”
“On the lead again,” Simon said.
Firdy raised his eye to the ceiling, but neither of them mentioned the dead dog out loud. Instead, Simon massaged his temple and Firdy said: “Get me a drink.” Simon filled a glass with tap water. “Good boy,” Firdy said, and then to Sarah: “How's your shoulder? I'm sorry about that. Really, I am, but, in my defence, if your brother hadn't left, it would never have happened.” He drained most of his water in one gulp and then offered the remaining inch or so to Simon, who declined. Firdy insisted, however, and Simon drank what was left with a grimace. “We have to learn to share,” Firdy said. “What's mine is yours …” He sat back in the armchair, enjoying the tension. “Sit back down, Simon. Sit.”
Firdy doesn't fit, Sarah thought, he's trying so hard, but he doesn't fit.
Their leftovers from the night before were still in the table. The television was on stand-by. She recalled the movie that they had been watching; the arachnids, taking over a small town.
“What happens now?” Simon asked.
“You know. The Third – who you call 'the Creature' – wants me to wait. And so we wait.”
“For the cover of darkness,” Simon said.
“Under a full moon? I don't think so.”
“So what are we waiting for? Tell me, Firdy; what's going to happen tonight?”
“It'll only scare you,” Firdy said. “But when it's over, you’ll see through new eyes. You too, Sarah. You’ll see the world in ways you can’t imagine and this will all have been worth it.”
“And what do we do in the meantime?”
“You stay put. Since you can't be trusted, I get to watch you.”
After a few minutes of silence, waiting for the dark, Simon told Sarah that she may as well try to sleep.
“You're kidding?” Sarah said and Simon only gazed at her in response.She took one last look at Firdy – he was grinning – and she forced herself to close her eyes. She was afraid and would have been surprised to know that she fell into a fitful sleep within a couple of minutes.
“It's with us,” Simon said,” but distracted.” He could feel its presence in his mind, scrabbling, alert but benign compared to its usual intrusion. Firdy didn't reply. “It's not distracted,” Simon realised. “It's saving its strength for later. And there's something else happening... We're connected again, me and you, but it's working both ways. I can feel you this time.”
Firdy assessed the tone of Simon's voice and the rigid expression on his face. Everything about the man was careful and controlled.
“I can feel you,” Simon went on, “but you're hiding things from me.”
“Now you know how it feels.”
“For one thing, you're hiding what's going to happen tonight.”
“Of course, I am,” Firdy said. He watched Sarah's breathing to make sure she was asleep. “To be honest, I’m not sure what's going to happen, but everything is going to be better. For all of us. This life – your missions, the chaos – that will end. You'll be normal again. I know you want to be normal, Simon.”
“What about your life?” Simon said. “How does that improve? That’s the real reason you’re doing this. That’s why you’re so dedicated. I don't imagine that you'll go on living like this. Hiding your face. Wearing sunglasses at night. Running you errands. There must be something in it for you, because if I had your life, I think I would have killed myself. If I was trapped in your life, in your body ...” Simon heard the leather of Firdy’s gloves creak and knew he was hitting the mark. “The pain,” Simon said. “The constant pain. The loneliness.”
“I’m not alone,” Firdy said.
“You have your crazy pets, I suppose.”
“They're not pets!”
Sarah stirred. In her sleep, she shuffled so that her head rested on Simon's shoulder.
“She needs a hospital,” Simon said.
“I lost my temper with her,” Firdy said, “but she'll be fine. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you; hurting you is like hurting myself. We're connected, right? And I'm not alone, actually. I have you. And I have her. And I always will.”
“I didn't say you were alone. I said you were lonely. I know that it's awful for you.”
“So this is how it feels to be invaded,” Firdy said. “I don't suppose it would do any good to ask you to stop.”
“I want to know what's going to happen tonight,” Simon said, “and I'm going to keep digging until I find out.”
Firdy stood up. “You might not like what you find along the way.” He paced for a while, stopping at a kitchen cupboard. After pulling open a door, he looked surprised.
“The glasses,” he remarked.
“In the bottom cupboard,” Simon said.
Firdy stooped, frowned again, and then removed a plain, half-pint glass. He took a little time to examine the sparse contents of the refrigerator before settling for tap water again, downing the contents in one. He refilled the glass, paced some more, checked his pockets, fiddled with the scummy contents.
The presence of the Third, as Firdy had called it, negated any possibility of physical violence between them, but it allowed their psychic battle to continue, Simon probing and Firdy twisting away from him. No observer, even if Sarah were to wake, would have known that such a struggle was taking place; Simon seemed to be approaching sleep and Firdy appeared to be preoccupied by trivial things; the buttons of his jacket, the plain decoration of the kitchen, cobwebs in the corners. Aside from the occasional ripple in the form of a frown or wince their faces appeared relaxed and unperturbed.
As he strolled around the room, Firdy came across a cracked floor tile, which had no doubt been broken by Simon slamming his head against it. The throbbing of his cheek testified to that. The Third knew about the fight. She had retrieved that information and had scalded him accordingly, but that was over now, as she agreed that their future conduct was more important. Firdy stepped over the tile and kept pacing, managing to put it out of his mind until he encountered the white enamel of Simon's tooth. He wanted to pocket it, to keep it as a bloody souvenir, as ridiculous as that was, but deep down inside him he could feel the Third turning his way. Her investigation was best avoided, so he took a psychic step away from her and a took physical path towards Simon, settling down in the armchair opposite him.
“You must be exhausted,” Simon observed.
“You too,” Firdy said, but Simon had beaten him to it and his words caused a wave of tiredness to swamp his body. He hadn't slept for … days … surviving on adrenaline and fear and excitement, but now, suddenly, he craved a hard floor to sleep on. He was yet to lie on a mattress that didn't leave him in pain on waking. He was happiest down with the dust and the bugs.
He thought of his flat, which he had been squatting for the past three months. It looked as if it hadn't been decorated in twenty years. Where there was wallpaper, it was peeling away from the walls like shorn skin. In places, printed flowers peered out from beneath, grey and brown and damp.
The room he took as his bedroom was much like Simon's, but because it was larger the emptiness was more profound. He too had a camp bed on the floor, but his was in the middle of the room, away from the things that scuttled in and out of the skirting boards. There was a rickety table and a broken chair, an empty wardrobe with one door, a grainy window with the curtains drawn, heavy with dust and dank.
The room smelled of piss. His. He'd peed in the corners and in the bed. At first, peeing in his clothes had been a shameful accident, but he'd eventually got used to his body's deficiencies, as long as he considered them temporary.
He glanced at Simon, wondering how much of that daydream he'd picked up. It was hard to tell, because Simon was as difficult to read as ever. It perplexed him, as did the idea that his home of the last three months might be destroyed without anyone ever knowing he had been there. Certainly, he'd had some terrible nights there, but it had also been a place of refuge. It had been home and it occurred to him that perhaps he should have left something behind for somebody to find. A note. Something.
He took a deep breath and put the thought aside. That was in the past. He put all thoughts aside.
Despite his best efforts, within ten minutes he was nodding.
Simon had his eyes closed too.
What the hell.
In fifteen minutes, he was asleep.
*
Firdy knew that he was dreaming, because Simon was a baby, perhaps two years old. He was leading the boy upstairs, but it was taking a long time, because Simon wanted to do it by himself.
“Come on. Hurry up.”
Simon crawled up the steps on all fours, grinning as he came.
“You can do it. Come on. Come on.”
Every time Firdy reached for the toddler he squealed and pulled away.
“Okay, you can do it, but hurry.”
He didn't know why it was so important for them to get to the top, but when they were almost there he felt simultaneous dread and satisfaction at what was to happen.
“Come on,” he said. The bath was running. It would overflow if they weren't quick.
At the top step, Simon squealed and Firdy picked him up, except he wasn't Firdy, because his hands were big and whole and comfortable. He carried the boy like a pack of sugar and pushed open the bathroom door, half-expecting something terrible in there, but there was no monster, only the bath, approaching half-full, water gushing out of the silver tap. Good, it wasn't too late.
He hurriedly pulled Simon's clothes off and then the big hands picked him up again.
He thought about apologising, but decided it was better if he didn't know what was going to happen. He placed him in the water, which was cool and clear and beautiful, yet he knew that it was deadly and that it wanted the boy. Before he could change his mind, he shoved the boy's head under the water.
To his surprise, the boy continued to play, kicking his legs, unperturbed by the drowning. Firdy/the man closed his eyes and held the boy down, his big finger and thumb securing him now by the throat.
Eventually, the baby stopped kicking.
He kept his hand underwater for another minute or so to be sure it was done, then he opened his eyes.
They were outdoors and the baby was lying in a puddle in the dirt. Looking down at the boy and what he had done, he felt as though a dark flower were opening up inside him. It tore his insides. Those big hands were shaking.
He prodded the boy's white flesh with a finger.
“Come on,” he heard himself say. “St
op pretending. Get up. Get up now.”
*
His eyelids, which had felt as though they were glued shut, snapped open. He yelled and sat upright, heart hammering. The pain in his chest was incredible. His trousers were wet again.
“What are you staring at!?” Firdy said.
Simon pointed.
Firdy looked down at himself, half-expecting to see his cock in his hand. It happened sometimes. Instead, he saw that he was holding his small, black, leather-bound notebook. He was so surprised to see it there that he dropped it.
This body, he thought. It has a mind of its own.
He removed the elastic band that was holding the book closed.
“Address book,” Simon suggested. “Got a hot date when you've finished with us?”
Firdy tapped the side of his head.
“Addresses are in here,” he said. “This book is something else entirely.”
He had a good memory for people, places and events. Dreams were elusive though. The more he had tried to remember them, the more they span away from him. And so he'd kept the journal, noting down fragments upon waking. That had been in the beginning. He'd slowly discovered rhythms and patterns, recurring themes. Eventually, he had focussed less on recording them and spent more time analysing the contents. Remembering the dreams became easy. They were horrible. The trouble now was separating them from reality.
He thought that someone might read the book one day. He had intended to leave it under the floorboard in his flat, but something had made him bring it along.
This body, he thought.
“Here,” he said and tossed the book to Simon. “Take it. It doesn't really belong to me.”
It was liberating to know that in hours none of this was going to matter, but he still felt a pang of anxiety when Simon turned to the first page. He felt naked.
“I'll be back in a minute,” Firdy said, and hurried to the door, retrieving the key from his pocket.
*
A RIVER AND YET A GREAT WAVE.
ALL THE PEOPLE I'VE KILLED ARE INSIDE.
THEY ARE DROWNING AGAIN.
AND AGAIN.
AND SO AM I AS I WATCH THEM.
REACHING FOR ME.
I'M ONE OF THEM.
WORSE.
MUCH WORSE.
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