The dog jumped as if it had been kicked and moments later Firdy stomped into the room.
“I’ve found her,” he said. At last, he was rewarded with more than a flicker of interest from his captive.
He had trawled her emails until his eyes were sore from staring at the screen and he had scrutinised her private letters before phoning more than a dozen of the numbers he collated. Of those that answered, half of them had given him abuse. It was unfair to dislike Sarah because of the friends she kept, but it was easy and he did dislike her.
He rubbed his temple.
Oh, but it couldn't be helped.
Of those that answered his questions, most of them thought she would be at home. They made random suggestions as to her whereabouts, though nothing rang true. In the end, she had broken cover all by herself.
“Don’t move,” he said and threw him half a loaf of bread and the remains of the chicken they had been eating for dinner. “That’s for you. Don’t feed the Dog; he’ll bite your hand off. Don’t run,” he said earnestly. “He’ll kill you if you try. I’ll be back with your sister as soon as I can.” Then he patted the dog on the head as though it was a puppy. “Good boy,” he said. “No killing.” He didn't check the rope. He pulled the door shut and thudded down the stairs, careless now in his enthusiasm to get to Sarah.
The Dog sat on its haunches watching Simon who sat motionless in the corner. Beneath them, the front door opened and closed, then the van door. The engine coughed to life and rumbled for a while before Firdy backed out onto the main road. He revved the engine hard and it grew quieter moment by moment until Simon and the dog were alone, or at least as alone as they could be with an uninvited presence in their minds. Simon could almost feel it catching his thoughts like fish in a stream, holding them up to the light, throwing them back.
He imagined a deep, deep river, the very depths of which were brown, blue, then black, unable to be penetrated by any kind of light. He imagined the dusty river bed and the weird, plant-like creatures clinging to it. Beneath them were caves and tunnels where even more freakish creatures kept safe from the predators above. This was where he put his mind. He took great handfuls of dirt and covered it up. When he was done, he washed his hands and looked the other way.
As his headache began to intensify, he conjured up a mental screen and filled it with a great many objects, so he wouldn't be tempted to think of Sarah again, of her reaction when she saw Firdy or what Firdy intended to do to her. He made the objects as real as possible and counted them off one by one. He linked them together and made ridiculous stories.
The dog was perplexed. Simon's mind was strange, but that was no reason to kill him. It would wait. It was the calm one, not like the cat, which was still locked inside the back of the van. No. Its patience had been rewarded in the past; it had no doubt that it would be again.