Gloved fingers on the door handle, Firdy took a few seconds to compose himself. Perhaps quick and dirty wasn't the way to do it after all. He put his ear to the door and listened. He could hear her breathing, slow and regular, snoring lightly. All he had to do was creep in and this could really happen. There was no time for fuck-ups. When the Third returned, he wanted Sarah at his side.
He pushed the handle down and edged open the door inch by inch, listening, holding his breath. The bottom of the door hissed over the carpet.
Inside was dark, but he was used to darkness. Flimsy curtains at the far end of the room allowed in enough light for him to make out stacks of boxes. He stepped inside and craned his neck to see around them, noticing with confusion that the sound of snoring was no louder. If anything, it was quieter. He saw no bed, makeshift or otherwise. It was a small room and it didn't take him long to see that Sarah wasn't in it.
He looked for a wardrobe or closet. Nothing. There was nowhere to hide.
She had been here though. He was sure of that. That familiar smell was stronger than before. She'd been here moments ago.
He'd checked downstairs and had then ascended the stairs, so there was no way she could have got past him. The window was locked from the inside, so she hadn't escaped this way.
That left one more room.
He crept back to the landing.
Again, he could hear snoring.
Finding Sarah, take two.
He pushed open the door, ever so slowly, and this time the sound of breathing was louder. As he tiptoed in, he wrinkled his nose against the odour of sweat and deodorant. This room was significantly larger. In the middle was a double bed and in it lay a large man with his legs sprawled out and his hands behind his head, tribal tattoos visible on his muscular arms. This, he presumed, was the Ultimate Fighter; Sarah's protector.
Firdy got down on to all fours, knees clicking, and looked under the bed. Weights. A sit-up bench. A box of books. No young woman.
He saw himself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror that hung on one door of a built-in wardrobe; he was not a person anyone wanted to see upon waking. The knife was a creepy touch. The sight even made him feel uncomfortable.
He opened the first wardrobe door with a click and pulled aside dresses, skirts and trousers. The wooden hangers clacked against each other. These would belong to the woman he had seen in the wedding photos on the stairs. The wardrobe was as it should be; no screaming girl crouching in the corner. He checked the spaces behind the other three doors with the same result.
He crept across the room towards the bed, timing his steps to coincide with the man’s snores, thinking that this must be what it felt like to be a child. Once he was beside the bed, he found himself gazing at the man's chest, which was covered in wispy, light brown hair. A pectoral muscle twitched as he slept and a perfect arm swatted away a dream fly before the hand flopped down on the bed on top of the covers. His tribal tattoo ran from his shoulder to his forearm. It was called a sleeve, he knew; he had found some measure of acceptance in a bar where the clientele were primarily adorned with piercings and tattoos, Prince Alberts and sleeves.
He touched the blue-black ink with a gloved finger and traced a line from bicep to forearm. The man stirred but did not wake.
Firdy drew back the covers. The man was naked beneath. Beautiful, toned abs, strong thighs; his penis was small and uncircumcised; his pubic hair was shaved.
Given the opportunity, he would have swapped his body in half a heartbeat. A new body, new memories, a new life. He would have swapped with almost anyone.
The man grunted and slapped himself in the face.
It was time to act before he woke up. He pulled out Simon’s mobile phone and punched in another message to Sarah. He sat on the edge of the bed, like a gargoyle, waiting for a reply.
Apart from the smell, it was a pleasant room. It would be nice to sleep here. Comfortable. The floor-to-ceiling curtains glowed pink and orange with the rising sun. It was pretty. He had no desire to draw the curtains, because sunlight didn’t agree with him. Pale skin. No melatonin. He was thankful that it was autumn. Summer had been almost unbearable.
He paced the room and while he continued to wait for a reply to his text a large screen television showed him another reflection of himself. This time he saw himself grey and deformed. He stared at himself, horrified, desperate to be done with this place.
It occurred to him that he had neglected to search one place. On all fours, he looked under the bed. No girl clambering out the other side. Disappointed, he rolled the nearest of a pair of dumbbells toward him. It bore three metal weights on either end and was too heavy for him to lift. Of course it was. His fingers screamed as he unscrewed the clamp. With consistent pressure, the lever turned, giving up its grip on three of the weights, which he guided off the bar. He attempted to lift it again and this time he was able to raise it, arms shaking, above his head.
Without the Third, the gloves were off, so to speak; he had to get to the truth quickly and he felt no shame in enjoying the process. In about five minutes, he'd either have Sarah's new location or a means of finding her, as well as anything else he wanted to know.
He positioned himself beside the bed, ready to begin.