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. “Stop 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.
Firdy’s writing was irregular, ropey and childish, with no respect for lines. In places, he had torn the paper with his pens, perhaps deliberately, but more likely in the spur of the moment. On some pages, the text ran almost vertically, suggesting that he had been writing without looking. At first, Simon thought he was reading poetry, but after a few pages it seemed more likely that these were dreams, transcribed upon waking. In the night. In a cold sweat.
Most of the passages were written in capital letters. For the most part, these were the only ones Simon could decipher, but he could see that they had been written furiously nonetheless, as if the hand had been chasing the words across the page.
Here and there a word or phrase caught his eye.
LIKE PINPRICKS
I PRETENDED NOT TO NOTICE
DON’T FEEL THE COLD I DON’T FEEL ANYTHING
THERE IS NO ME NOT HERE AND NOWHERE
IT WAS ALWAYS GOING TO BE
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN
LOST COUNT
The same phrases recurred over and over across the pages.
IT DOESNT MATTER NOW
HELL
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN
NO POINT
PARASITE
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN
Some entries were dated, all within the past year and a half, but Firdy hadn't kept up the dating system. Although the entries would have been written in chronological order, the thoughts appeared jumbled; one horrendous passage stopped abruptly and then another began. New line. New pen. New thought.
Firdy was outside. Sarah continued to rest. Simon turned to a new page. The capitalised scrawl had been written on top of existing sentences, further evidence that much of this had been written in darkness. He struggled to punctuate the sentences. The more he read the easier it became.
DREAM:
ARM AROUND A ...
CARE ABOUT HER I’M ALSO ...
TIGHT SO SHE CAN’T ESCAPE ...
MY DAUGHTER ...
WIFE AND SHE’S ...
OUR PICTURE ...
SHE’S NOT STEPPING BACK, SHE’S JUST SLIDING AWAY FROM US ...
I HOLD THE GIRL, MY DAUGHTER, BECAUSE I KNOW THAT AS LONG AS I HAVE HER WE WON’T SLIDE AWAY TOO ...
I’M SQUEEZING AND SQUEEZING HER AND I CAN’T STOP. I HEAR HER BONES CRACK ...
SHE TRIES TO TELL ME TO STOP BUT I’VE CRUSHED HER ...
SHE CAN’T BREATHE ...
TAKES A PICTURE ...
THE CAMERA ...
AND EVERYONE DISAPPEARS ...
EXCEPT FOR ME ...
*
“I used to have that dream every week,” Firdy said. He was standing in the doorway looking over his shoulder to face Simon. “I'd wake up and reach out for them. I'd hear them screaming, even though I was awake, but they were never there. Of course not. They never were. I didn't even know who they were.
“I'd get up, wash, go for a walk, try to eat, but I could still hear them. Chatting, laughing, screaming. Nice. Try getting on with your day with that going on in your head.
“I thought it would get easier once I knew who they were. I was wrong.”
“Who -”
“Don't be dense, Simon. You know who they are. You were in the photograph. The question isn't 'who is the family'; it's 'why am I dreaming about them'? Why have I been having this dream for years, when we only met yesterday.”
He went back outside, shutting the door behind him.
Simon was floundering. He put the book aside and attempted to steady himself. In the distance, he could feel the Creature, the Third as Firdy had called it. Thinking of it by its new name caused it cast an inquisitive tendril in his direction. Its movements, if thoughts could be called such a thing, were slow and gentle, oily and threatening, but still very far away. He thought that he had been right when he suggested that it was conserving its energy, but he also sensed that it had plenty; perhaps more than ever, concentrated. He had no intention of testing the theory.
He calmed his breathing and tried to think of something neutral, but there was the book, full of questions and answers.
*
In a meandering, lower-case note that began in a margin and then took over the page:
“It’s difficult to keep a family together. A family isn’t a living thing, it’s lots of living things, all pulling and tugging. You need someone to keep them all going in the same direction. It’s not easy to be that person.”
“Here and there they go, obeying the voice and the vibration, leaving their offices, their workshops, their beds, their husbands and wives, to wander the streets of the city at night, sometimes returning home exhausted but relieved, and other times collecting a friendly face along the way and chucking them in the river, in the canal, in the sea.
“All pulling and tugging in different directions.
“A family needs a mother and a father. Thankless tasks both.”
*
Simon heard Firdy open the door and looked up. He wished that he hadn't. Firdy had the thing that he had been keeping in the van.
This thing was not like the dog. From a glance, he was able to ascertain that it had much more in the way of intelligence, because it had seemed to smile at him.
It padded across the tiles, with lighter footsteps than the dog. It was feline; enormous and wrong because of its size. Its fur was dark grey with bald patches where pink skin showed through. It sat on the floor and took in its surroundings while Firdy locked the door. It licked its paws.
“The Third has forgiven you for what you did to the Dog,” Firdy said. “And I must follow suit. The Cat, however, has a mind of her own and has been known to hold a grudge. So you might want to keep your distance, regardless of where I am.”
He gestured for the cat to follow him into the living area and it walked in the opposite direction, inspecting Simon's stray tooth.
Firdy winced and lowered his head.
The smart ones are harder to train, Simon thought.
“Yes,” said Firdy, as though Simon had spoken, and he snapped his fingers. The cat scowled. “Come here,” he said. It walked straight past him, then curled up on the floor beside the armchair. “They'll be plenty for you to do soon,” Firdy said. “It'll be worth waiting for.” It seemed placated by this and continued licking its giant paws. Now that it was closer, Simon could see that one paw was much bigger than the other.
There was no escape from his anxiety. To his left sat the cat, Firdy's ragged guardian and defender; when he closed his eyes he was aware of the Third, twisting and coiling, bringing itself to the boil, and in his hands he held the tattered, black book.
“It took so much to write it,” Firdy said, “that the least you can do is read it.” He hadn't created it with an audience in mind, but, aside from the fact that Simon would be gone before the night was over, there was no better witness to his journal.
*
As was often the case, the subtitle 'Dream' had been crossed out and replaced with the word 'Memory' followed by a question mark:
SHE APPROACHES ME, MAKING IT EASY. SHE ASKS IF I WANT TO HAVE SOME FUN AND I ASK STUPID QUESTIONS. “WHAT KIND OF FUN?” SHE FROWNS A LOT BUT IN THE END SHE STILL GETS IN. BEING HONEST WITH HER IS A RELIEF. IT'S A RELIEF NOT TO HAVE TO PRETEND. I ASK HER HOW OLD SHE IS AND SHE SAYS 23. I THINK SHE’S LYING. SHE'S THE ONE PRETENDING.
I DRIVE. I FEEL NERVOUS AND SHE GIVES ME DIRECTIONS TO A PLAYGROUND WHERE SHE NORMALLY GOES WITH CLIENTS. I LOOK AT HER A COUPLE OF TIMES. SHE'S WEARING A TINY, WHITE SKIRT AND I LOOK AT HER THIGHS. I CAN’T WAIT TO BE INSIDE HER. I WANT TO BE CLOSE TO SOMEONE AGAIN AND YOU CAN'T GET CLOSER THAN THIS. I THINK ABOUT TELLING HER, BUT I DON'T THINK SHE WANTS TO HEAR IT. I PULL UP AND PAY UP AND SHE IMMEDIATELY GOES DOWN ON ME. I CLOSE MY EYES. MY HEART IS THUMPING, BUT I DON'T FEEL TURNED ON AT ALL. I DON'T FEEL LIKE I'M REALLY HERE.
IT'S A LONG TIME BEFORE I'M HARD. SHE ASKS ME WHAT'S WRONG. SHE CALLS ME DARLING, WHICH HELPS THINGS ALONG.
THEN, FROM VERY FAR AWAY, I FEEL SOMETHING COMING AND I'M THINKING “NO, NOT NOW,” BUT IT'S HERE. I PUSH THE GIRL AWAY AND SHE STARES AT ME. AT FIRST SHE'S SHOCKED AND THEN SHE'S ANGRY AND SHE'S ASKING ME WHAT'S GOING ON.
IN ONE INSTANT I'M GETTING MY COCK SUCKED AND IN THE NEXT I'M CRYING AND IT'S BACK TO BUSINESS AND I HAVE MY INSTRUCTIONS.
THE GIRL ASKS ME WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME AND THAT'S THE LAST THING SHE SAYS TO ANYBODY, BECAUSE I TAKE A LOOK AROUND AND PUT MY HANDS AROUND HER THROAT AND BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND TO DO IT HERE I'VE STRANGLED HER.
I DON’T QUITE KILL HER. SHE PASSES OUT AND SLUMPS OVER AND I DRIVE TO THE THROWING OFF POINT. I DRAG HER OUT OF THE CAR. SHE'S LIGHT. I PULL HER BODY THROUGH THE TREES. IT'S WORSE THAN WITH THE OTHERS, BECAUSE I GOT HER INTO THIS. I CALLED HER OVER TO ME TO SATISFY MY NEEDS, NOT THE THING'S. IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR ME, SHE'D STILL BE WORKING BESIDE TOWER HILL TUBE, SUCKING COCK, WALKING HOME, EATING CEREAL.
BEFORE SHE WAKES I DUMP HER HALF-DRESSED BODY INTO THE THAMES. SHE MAKES A BIG SPLASH. THERE'S A HORRIBLE THUD. THE RIVER TAKES HER DOWNSTREAM. SHE BOBS UP A FEW TIMES, SPINNING. I WISH I COULD TAKE IT BACK, BUT IT'S DONE NOW. I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE.
I WATCH UNTIL SHE IS ALMOST OUT OF SIGHT. THEN SHE'S SUCKED UNDER THE SURFACE, HEAD FIRST. IT ISN’T THE CURRENT THAT'S DONE THIS. THERE ARE NO AIR BUBBLES. THERE'S NO STRUGGLE. SHE’S JUST PULLED UNDER. THE LAST BIT OF HOPE IN ME GOES WITH HER.
*
Firdy raided the kitchen for anything edible and settled for cheese and stale crackers. He furnished himself with a cup of coffee.
“I don't normally drink the stuff,” he said. He offered to make one for Simon, but he declined.
Sarah woke intermittently, but never for more than a few seconds. Her clothes were drenched with sweat.
“I know you're worried about her,” Firdy said, “but I need her as well as you, so I wouldn't let anything bad happen to her.”
“Anything else, you mean.”
“You'll do me the favour of remembering that I at least apologised.”
The cat had been eyeing up the remains of last night's chicken dinner and attempting to make eye contact with Firdy. It tilted its head in a manner that Simon felt was sarcastic. After some time, Firdy nodded and the cat knocked the chicken bones to the carpet, assembling them in a pile beside the armchair before ripping at the flesh and pulling cartilage with its teeth. Unlike the dog, the inside of the cat's mouth appeared to be normal, except for the size and apparent strength of it. Simon felt cold run through him as its teeth scraped at a drumstick and it tongued the marrow.
Firdy made messy business of the cheese and crackers. When he was done, he retrieved a small, square bottle from his jacket pocket and turned it over and over in his hand.
“Imagine waking up with these thoughts every morning,” he said. “Dragging them around. I see that girl's face everywhere. I remember the smell of her, even though we never met.” He removed the lid of the bottle and sprayed the fragrance into the air between them. “Cinema. Yves Saint Lauren. Cinema and cigarettes. She had no smell of her own.”
Simon knew that their symbiosis was deepening, because as the scent reached him he felt his heart rate spike. Not only that, but he sensed the answer to a question he'd dared not ask. It had lain there, unspoken between them, for almost 24 hours, but now it begged to be out in the open, as terrible as it was.
“I can’t help but respond to that smell,” Firdy was saying. “I'd say that it takes me back, but I wasn't there.”
“Memory by osmosis,” Simon said.
“Now you're getting it.”
“You haven't been around very long have you?” Simon said.
“Three years,” Firdy said.
This man, with his pale, wizened skin, his bald head and crooked teeth, claimed to be no older than a baby, but the answer didn't surprise Simon, because his father had disappeared three years ago and it was making a horrible kind of sense now.
“Ask the question,” Firdy said. “I'll answer it.”
“My dad walked out of this house three years ago and didn't come back,” Simon said. “Until yesterday.”
In the near-silence, Sarah's chest rose and sank.
Rose ...
“Yeah,” said Firdy.
… Sank.
Simon's pulse accelerated. His calm, his concentration, was shattered. While he felt that the Creature, the Third, was aware of the change in him, it did not intervene.
Simon looked Firdy up and down. His mind was doing handbrake turns, populated suddenly by incredible thoughts.
“Shall I explain?” Firdy said. When Simon failed to find his voice, Firdy continued. “I arrived, was born, three years ago, fully-formed.” He looked at his left hand. “So to speak. I had to work out how to walk, how to eat, how to sleep. But these things took hours, not months. I was remembering, not learning. I never had to learn a single word and yet I speak pretty well compared to most people I've met. I was born complete with memories, emotional scars, ticks and nightmares. I'm a hybrid. Four men in total. Physically and mentally.”
Simon searched his face for a trace of his father, but the head was too misshapen, he had no hair, the nose was broken and fixed and rebroken; the good eye was brown, whereas his father's had been very dark blue. His mouth, with its thin lips, was like a slash that let the air in and out. His chin, well, he didn't have one. Nothing was recognisable.
“He's inside,” said Firdy, tapping his head. Then he indicated the leather journal and said: “He's in there too. I feel