This was the first time someone had escaped from him. He massaged his temple as the pain spiked. The most likely thing, he managed to think through his headache, was that she was on her way home to pick up some things before clearing out. So that was where he would go too. He forced himself to start walking.
He could hardly believe she had stolen his car.
The pain again, like a needle in the forehead.
She’d be too afraid to go far, he told himself, and the Creature. Aside from the fact that she didn't know how to drive, she relied on him for everything. If he was quick enough, he expected to find her at home with the doors locked, as though that would be able to keep him out.
She’d have taken possession of the baseball bat. He’d act cool, tell her it was ok, and then take it from her fingers.
His pain eased gradually as he continued to visualise his plan of action. He was very careful to think of places and objects, keeping his emotions submerged. He thought of the way the house leaned back from the road. He visualised himself walking up the path. The dewy grass would silence his steps. He would enter through the back as usual. If the lights were on in the kitchen, Sarah would not see him approaching from inside. The baseball bat had come from a sports superstore. It was black, with the words 'big hitter’ written in white on one side. He thought of its weight in his hands.
Most of all, however, he focussed on the path directly ahead. He allowed himself to be part-mesmerised by the glistening tarmac; he counted leaves, steps, breaths, gaps between paving stones, their variation in colours. As practised, he did this to the exclusion of almost all other thoughts.
Fifteen minutes later he came across a bus stop and looked at the timetable to work out the quickest route home.
Going home, he told himself. Going home. Going home.
A mantra, going round and round, attaching itself to stray thoughts and flinging them back into the deep.
His focus was broken by the deep bass rumble of a transit van slowing to a stop in a side road. It was dirty, with a couple of dents in the side, noticeable even from a distance, but otherwise unremarkable.
The Creature squeezed, however, and so he knew it was bad news. He sensed that the Creature saw it as possible transportation home, but when it pulled out of the side road and growled in his direction, he knew it was worse than that. The headlights were on full beam, so he couldn't see into the cab.
Something’s coming.
This is the warning I never had.
The van pulled up beside him.
The man inside had already wound down the passenger window so he could be heard. He was wearing a smart, brimmed hat. He kept his head down and his face in shadow, but Simon saw that his skin was dark and creased like tan leather.
“Need a lift?” he said, revealing crooked teeth and leaning over the passenger seat. His breath billowed from his mouth.
“I’m fine,” Simon said. The corresponding bolt of pain almost crippled him. The Creature had Its own ideas.
“Get in, Simon”. The smile remained, but the veneer of humour was gone. His tone of voice was tired, as though he was fed up of doing things the hard way. In response to the look in his eyes, Simon opened the door and climbed in.
“You'll get used to the smell,” the man said. The cab was muddy and stank of piss and rotting meat. “Belt up.” Simon connected his seatbelt and the man got the van moving, adding: “Safety first.”
Simon took his first good look at the man's face and was reminded of a bust that Sarah had made in pottery class. She hadn't shown it to him; he had examined it while she was in another room looking for a hammer with which to destroy it. Dented and lopsided, scarred and thumbed, it possessed more than a passing resemblance to the man now sitting beside him.
“I’m Firdy,” he said. He had the voice of a very heavy smoker, pre-op, although there was no accompanying odour of cigarettes. Just a drunk, old man on a farmyard smell, made more nauseating by the additional stench of stale food. He glanced at Simon, displaying his milky eye, which appeared to be blind. The other was sly and gun-metal grey.
He didn't offer a hand. He only had one good one of these too. He was wearing black, leather gloves. He winced every time he changed gear and the fingers of his left hand only moved when he was stretching them. Otherwise, it was a grabber; a claw. He worked the wheel with his good hand, which was no small feat in a van this size, and he made it seem easy. On a straight, he drummed his fingers.
He wore a long mohair jacket, like the city boys wore, over a dark shirt and baggy, faded jeans.
“Where is she going?” Firdy said.
“She'll go home,” said Simon.
Firdy changed down a gear. Squeeze. Wince. Release.
He waited a moment before speaking again. “And where will she go really?” He turned to watch Simon's response.
“She'll go home,” Simon repeated. “I'll tell you the way.”
“No need,” Firdy said. He turned right at the end of the road. “Give me your phone.”
“She won’t answer,” Simon said.
“You're going to do everything I say, when I say it. It takes too long to say everything twice.” He took his good hand off the steering wheel for a moment to slam his palm against the back of the cabin. He was rewarded with a corresponding thump and scrapes, like hooks dragging across floorboards. There was a muffled snuffling and then another sequence of thumps. They were not random sounds. They were steps. “Give me your phone,” Firdy said, “or you can travel the rest of the way in the back.”
Simon placed his mobile inside Firdy’s gloved hand.
Squeeze.
“Good,” Firdy said. “Let’s keep this simple.”
He held the phone against the wheel and used his thumb to unlock the keypad and flick through the menus. Whatever had happened to his left hand, it had been that way for some time, because the skill of his right was remarkable. Eventually he said: “So Simon, is this supposed to be funny?”
He found no useful information of any kind. The phone had no stored numbers or text messages, neither received nor sent, and there was no record of any calls.
“You asked me to do everything you say,” Simon reminded him.
Firdy bit his lip. “Give me Sarah's number.”
Simon did as he was told and Firdy punched the number into the phone. He then slipped it into his inside pocket without hitting the call button.
They drove in silence. From time to time, Firdy glanced across at Simon who was always staring dead ahead.
“I know what you're doing,” Firdy said eventually. Simon did not respond. Not even a twitch. “You're counting. It's a very good trick, but you can't keep it up. Sooner or later, I'll see what I'm looking for. There are always cracks. I'll wait.”
Simon didn't move.
*
By the time they reached home, Simon had learnt two new shortcuts. They might have been useful in the last couple of months, but tonight he was going to do everything the long way, slowly and methodically.
Firdy turned into the drive and parked in the space where Simon's car should have been. Light shone through the wooden blinds of the kitchen window, but that didn't mean Sarah was home. Firdy watched Simon for his reaction and frowned because yet again there wasn't one. He was behaving like a robot, two plus two making four, unconcerned about future equations.
He removed the keys from the ignition and gave Simon a broken-toothed grin. “Out.”
Simon did as he was told, his movements deliberate, controlled, as if underwater. They met up behind the van.
“What are you going to do if she's home?” Firdy asked.
“Whatever you say,” said Simon. It was true. Firdy sensed no deception.
Simon heard thumping inside the van, like heavy footsteps again and something being dragged.
“Wait there,” Firdy said. “No closer.” He opened up one of the rear doors, stared inside for a moment and then stepped back.
The thing that jumped out was a rush of matted grey and brown fur. It landed deftly on the tarmac, displaying great dexterity, despite its unkempt, almost disfigured, appearance. The bedraggled thing was about the size of an adult Akita and, like an enormous dog, it shook itself. Its face, however, was too narrow and too long. It looked more like a child’s drawing of a wolf than a dog.
Its eyes were deep, black and fierce. Panting, it stared at Simon and a bass rumble rose from its throat, like a drum roll. Simon looked to Firdy who, to his alarm, was busy reaching into the van. Nothing was restraining the dog, except perhaps Firdy's proximity.
After a long moment, the beast took a bold step forward and revealed not one but two rows of teeth. Simon immediately thought of a shark. That was what they were; two rows of mismatched shark teeth. Many were missing, but it still had more than a dog should have, including an entire extra row on the lower left-hand side of its jaw. Two rows for grinding.
It drew its lips back further in a terrible sneer.
It was enjoying his discomfort.
He knew that he shouldn't display his fear, but he was unarmed and ill-equipped to fight such an animal. That was why Firdy had it. Looking into its dismally dark eyes, it was impossible to remain calm. He forced himself to hold his ground, but the dog had the psychic advantage; it knew that he was afraid. It had known that he would be from the moment he had climbed into the van.
It snarled with apparent disgust.
“I see you’re getting acquainted,” Firdy said. “That’s good.” He pulled a length of rope from the back of the van, wrapping it so it hung in loops over his left arm. It was about fifteen feet long. He stood there like a happy executioner. “You're not so good at concentrating with the Dog around,” he said. “Now I know that Sarah's not inside, because when your new friend jumped out of the van, your first thought was that you're glad she's not here.”
He stooped and grimaced as he connected the rope to the dog's collar, which was a leather strap around its neck. Then he put his hand on Simon's shoulder. “Let's go.”
As Simon, Firdy and the dog walked towards the house, further sounds of movement came from inside the van. Firdy stared hard in its direction and the scraping noise stopped as abruptly as it had started. He continued to lead them to the front door, but Simon took a lingering look back at the van where he knew at least one other creature was waiting for its moment.
The dog walked at Firdy's side, its back rising and falling at the level of Firdy's waist. They were probably about equal in weight, around 60 kilograms, meaning that it would be physically impossible for Firdy to control it if it wanted to do its own thing. Simon noticed, however, that the dog was limping; perhaps in pain, but also because its legs were different lengths. Its expression as it moved, looking from side to side, was a constant snarl.
Firdy tried the door. It was locked. As was becoming usual, he watched Simon for his reaction, but Simon simply produced the key.
“After you,” Firdy said and then, once they were all inside, took the key and locked up behind them.
The dog's paws twisted and turned on the dirty, off-white tiles. In this domestic setting, among cupboards and cutlery, the swing top bin and the mop and bucket, it looked more out of place than ever; bigger too. It had moved with the darkness and even with its dirty white and brown fur it could probably sneak and travel in shadows, but under the harsh neon spotlights there was no getting away from what an abomination it was. Drool slopped over its jaws. It had canines, as well as the shark-like teeth. They jutted out from the front of its mouth by an inch or so, like mini-tusks.
“Wait,” Firdy told Simon and then turned to the dog, extending a finger. “You too.” The dog grumbled as it lay down, cooling its belly on the floor.
Firdy moved silently through the kitchen/diner, taking in the half-eaten meal. He removed a glove to dip a finger into the food and then slid it back on again. He glanced at the television, which was murmuring to itself, a simulation of a DNA strand spinning on screen. He examined the chairs as he passed. All the while he drew ever deeper breaths, as if sniffing for clues.
When Firdy entered the adjacent room, Simon was able to fix his position by the sound of air whistling through his nose. He was in the lounge or sitting room or whatever those things were called. At present it was a graveyard; a place for the things they had inherited that had too high an emotional cost. He hadn't been in there for weeks and now he winced as Firdy walked over the creaking boards, searching in the darkness with his one eye, touching shadows with his gloved fingers.
Simon considered whether or not it would be wise to take this opportunity to increase his distance from the dog, but before he even moved it stood up, its claws clacking on the tiles.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Firdy called from the next room.
It bared its fangs.
Firdy appeared again, but started up the stairs.
“Er,” said Simon.
“Don't move and it won't kill you,” Firdy said as he ascended, one foot facing inwards, one arm hanging limply at his side. He moved quickly, despite his disabilities. Silently too. In a few seconds he was gone and once more Simon was at the mercy of the dog. It had taken up a crouching position from which it could either lie down or charge at him.
He took a deep, shaking breath, aiming to clear his thoughts. The dog, Firdy and the Creature in his head were all focussed on him; the psychic traffic was strictly one way. He had to hold it together. For Sarah's sake.
The dog stood and took a step forward.
Peaceful thoughts. Cracks in the ceiling. One. Two. Three.
The Fibonacci sequence; one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen …
Bottles of beer; ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer, if one of those bottles should happen to fall there'd be ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-eight bottles of beer …
Firdy returned to the kitchen/diner.
“Empty,” he said.
“What?”
“It's all clear. But then we knew that, didn't we? I don't trust you, that's all.” He winced with what looked like a headache rocketing through his skull and then he bent down to gather up the rope, working through the pain.
“Let’s go,” Firdy said and nodded towards the stairs.
Simon did as he was told. The dog walked at his heels, barring the exit route.
There were five doors off the landing. They led to the bathroom, his room, Sarah's room, an airing cupboard and the master bedroom. Firdy gestured towards the master bedroom.
“This one's locked,” he said. “Why?” Simon didn't answer. “This is where it happened, isn't it?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” Pain. The fingernails again, raking across his brain.
Firdy persisted. “This is where your mother killed herself. That's why you keep it locked.”
“Are you asking me, or telling me?”
They stared into each other's eyes; probing; hiding.
Firdy let it go and nodded at the door to Simon's room.
“In.”
It was a small space, so it was only ever going to be in one of two states. Tidy or an utter mess. The room exhibited almost military neatness. Firdy might not have believed that Simon slept in here had the dog not been so keen to enter the room, sniffing the bare floorboards and the grey camp bed against one wall. Its tail curled as it did so. Simon thought that it was strangely playful for a beast that was able to rip his face off with one bite.
It peed on the floor. When it was finished, Firdy checked the rope and collar, which were attached by a single, metal clip and then tied the other end of the rope to Simon's desk, which was to one side of the door. He saw no ink stains on the desk, but found scratches and burn marks, probably from where Simon was making weapons, he thought. He had to remember that there were weapons stashed all over the house and that Simon was dangerous. He was glad he had brought the Dog.
“The numbers,” Firdy said when the rope was securely fastened. “The counting. The footsteps. The breaths. Are you a Buddhist or something? Let's see how long you can keep it up.” Firdy's eyes narrowed, searching. He thought he almost had something, but it eluded him again. He gave up for now. “Don’t move or he'll rip your head off. The rope won't protect you; it’s to stop him leaving the house if he decides to kill you. Stay still and you'll be fine. I’ll free you when I find your sister.” He stroked the dog’s head. “Do you want to give me that information now?” he asked Simon.
“I can't,” said Simon. “I don't know where she is.” Once more, he was telling the truth.
The dog watched Firdy limp out of the room, then it lowered its head and sat like a Sphinx, its bulky hindquarters thudding against the floorboards.
Simon turned away before panic took him and made him do something stupid. He thought of nothing. The dog sensed deceit and readied itself to spring.