Will sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands. The Third had been present all evening, but, unusually, it hadn't seemed bothered with him. Until now.
He was drunk and it was not best pleased.
He didn’t usually drink. Not only did the Third want its subjects clean, but alcohol didn’t go well with his medication. After half a litre of Vodka he was well on his way to oblivion.
Fuck it, he had thought. If I'm going to die tonight, I may as well enjoy a drink. And another. And another.
It wasn't for certain that he was going to die, but if half of what Firdy had told him was true, it was a safe bet. Three days ago, Firdy had introduced himself and his dog and had talked for an hour without a pause.
“It's so frustrating having to live like this,” he had said. “Always in the shadows. You don't mind if I sit and talk with you for a while, do you?”
“No,” Will had said. “Of course not.”
He had listened as Firdy talked without pause, speaking of the future as a means to rewrite the past. He rubbed his gloved hands together and outlined Will's role in his plan.
“You're not the only one,” he had said. “There are six others. But only you and Simon have to make the extra sacrifice.”
“Why does it want my son?”
“Because you have one. He might be there to make up the numbers for all I know, I don't ask the Third questions, but you should prepare yourself. And him.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Will had asked. He had been chewing on the inside of his cheek and swallowed a mouthful of blood.
“Because there's nothing you can do about it,” Firdy had said, “and because I've wanted to tell somebody for a long time. I've been carrying it around all on my own; I want to get it out of my head, to see what it looks like.”
Who better to divulge a secret to than someone who wasn't going to live to repeat it.
*
Knowing that he was thinking in circles, he attempted to clear his mind, but he was too pissed. He ran over and over what was going to happen when his ex-wife realised that their son was missing. By quitting the drinking and taking the pills, he'd managed to assuage her concerns enough to create a false sense of security. Tonight he had destroyed any hope of redemption.
He imagined his ex's panic rising each time she phoned them and got their outgoing voicemail messages.
“This is the voicemail service for … William Gordon … Please leave a message after the tone.”
No doubt she would call him a crazy bastard and say that if anything happened to Zak she'd kill him.
“Zak here. I can't get to the phone right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you. Or not. See ya.”
He imagined police at the station listening to the stored messages, dutifully transcribing them, saving the documents.
Eventually his ex would turn up at the flat, probably with her sister. It wouldn't be the first time. They’d hammer on the door and the window, but by then it would be too late. He and Zak would already be gone. The neighbours would ignore the noise. They'd got used to the banging and the shouting and the crying. He was the crazy bastard next door after all. Everyone knew it.
It was as clear to him as if it had already happened. The only variable was whether or not he left a note.
He had managed to write ‘Vanessa’ at the top of the page. Now he scribbled that out and wrote ‘V’. Then he crossed that out too and rewrote ‘Vanessa’.
If he was in her position, he’d want to know not to look for the bodies, but how do you put something like that into words? To a mother? How could he leave a note on a scrap of paper that was more suited to a shopping list than this?
Maybe it was better to go without saying goodbye after all.
He picked up the bottle of vodka for a hearty swig and felt the Third squeeze, which caused him to drop it. It hit the floor.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Damn.”
The Third was tunnelling in and out of his mind, its comparative subtlety of recent years abandoned.
Unable to think, there was nothing more he could do but wait, so he let his forehead drop against the cool surface of the table. He imagined the laminate siphoning confusion from him along with his warmth.
Later, cheek against the surface, his ear pressed to the wood, he heard waves and, as ever, table or no table, he heard the whispers, almost-recognisable shapes and patterns that folded in on themselves, dividing, disintegrating, like him.
A growl rose steadily.
It was the sound of an engine.
Idling.
Stopping.
“Okay,” he told the Third, his palm pressed against his head. “I'm doing it, aren't I? I'm doing it.” He made his way to the rear of the flat, using the walls for support.
It was silent at the bedroom door. When Zak’s friends were quiet, it generally meant that they were up to something, but with Zak what you saw, or heard, was what you got. He was trusting and upfront. If he wanted something, he asked for it. On the one occasion that Zak had broken something in the flat – the CD changer - he had said: “Sorry, dad, but I did warn you.” Bold, courageous and honest, he was all the things his father was not.
Will unlocked the door.
His son was asleep in front of the playstation. He was still holding the control in one hand. The television screen was showing static, a strange lullaby.
If he could have taken his son’s place, he would have done it in a moment, but the Third wanted both of them.
It squeezed again.
“Okay, you fucking thing, okay.”
Will didn't waste time with a garbled goodbye. He'd taken care of that on the way here. As far as he was concerned, they had both ceased to exist the moment they entered his flat.
Someone knocked on the door using their knuckles.
“Wake up,” Will said and gently slapped Zak's face. “It's time we weren't here, mate.”