Simon dreamt that he was underwater. Everything was blue and cold. He didn't know what he was and nor did anything else. A host of sea creatures came to see. A shark. A swordfish. Dolphins. An entire shoal of minnows. A gargantuan octopus descended and somewhere beneath him he saw the shadowy back of a blue whale. Nothing came too close. They seemed to understand that the cold was emanating from him and that that was wrong.
The dolphin came nearest. It paused in front of him and asked: “What the fuck are you?”
He opened his mouth to speak and one word came out.
“De-ad.”
The dolphin's smile shattered and it sank, a cadaver. The fishes' eyes went black. The whale hit bottom, sending dust up and up and up, hiding everything, but not well enough.
DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD.
He woke with a scream in his throat. He was in the back of Clare's car. The engine was working hard.
DEAD DEAD DEAD.
Will was sitting on his right, with his head leaned up against the window. His eyes were open, but he only stared into the back of the seat ahead. He had the tartan blanket wrapped around him and Clare had dried his hair off.
DEAD DEAD.
Sarah was in the front passenger seat. Clare had given her her jumper and long, black coat, otherwise she was naked, but at least she was dry and warm air was humming through the vents. Simon leaned forward. Sarah looked terrible, washed out and set aside. She didn't turn to look at him, so he didn't see the glaze of her eyes. He was glad. He couldn't face that yet.
DEAD.
“Any progress from these two?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Clare said. “Just that one word over and over. It's been driving me mad. I'm glad you're awake.”
“Me too,” Simon said. According to the digital clock on the dashboard, it wasn't yet six. He hadn't been asleep long, but he had hoped that something would be different upon waking.
“Is it time to try what we discussed?” Clare asked.
Simon unclasped his seatbelt and got into a comfortable position.
“Do you want the Mag-Lite?” she asked.
“No,” Simon said and he pulled Will so he was upright. “Will,” he said. “Will.” The man's pupils remained fixed. Simon sighed and slapped him hard across the cheek. He waited for a reaction. He waited a long time.
“Anything?” Clare asked.
“Nothing.”
“Do you want me to try?”
Simon hit him again. The sound of the contact was greater this time. Will's head snapped around and his face hit the window with a thunk.
“I was too late,” he said and moaned. “I was too late! He died inside me. He's dead.”
Simon and Clare exchanged looks of surprise in the rear view mirror. “Who's dead?” he said.
“Firdy.”
“And why do you care about that?”
“Because he's my … he's my ...” Will rubbed his temple. “My head,” he said. He lowered his head and sat that way for a long time. If he could have put his head between his knees he would have done it. Simon lay his hand on Will's back, between the shoulder blades, but the physical contact felt strange. Gently, he drew his hand back.
“Zak,” Will said.
“I didn't find him,” Simon admitted. “But we can go back.” Clare glared at him.
“Nothing to go back for,” Will said. “He's dead. Died in my arms.”
Will slotted in some missing pieces for Simon and Clare. When Simon and Firdy had fought, the Third had pulled her probes from everyone. It had had the effect of pulling plugs from computers. Some of them had been fine: Will, the army guy, Sarah. Others – Zak, Naomi, the tall guy – had keeled over. They literally dropped dead.
“The light in his eyes ...” Will said. “He wasn't really conscious when it happened. The only good thing is that it was quick for him.”
“I'm sorry,” Simon said and Will shrugged. There was nothing anyone could say or do that would undo what had happened. They all understood this.
“Where are we going, Will?” Clare asked.
“And who the fuck are you?”
“I just carried your arse a quarter of a mile. Uphill. The word is thankyou.”
“You should have left me,” Will said. Clare glared at Simon again. “I've got nothing to live for,” he said.
Simon knew that it could easily have been Zak sitting in the front with Clare, with Sarah dead in the water. As they drove, he tried to imagine how that would feel. He couldn't do it. He was relieved that he didn't have to know how that felt.
“Will,” Clare said. “Where are we going?”
“Home,” he said. “Then prison. Then the nuthouse. Take a left here.” Clare drove past the turning and he protested.
“I know a better way,” she said and left it at that. She liked how it felt to have that hanging in the air between them.
Simon suggested that Will go somewhere where he wouldn't be alone, but Will was adamant that he wanted to go home, saying something about having a letter to finish. Clare didn't get involved and Simon gathered that as far as she was concerned, Will was a loose end that was about to tie itself up. It was neater than having to do it herself. She didn't say it; she didn't have to.
Her short cut took them off the main roads and cut out some early morning traffic that was building up. She let the car roll to a stop at the edge of a tidy park with a small children's playground and a perimeter fence made of wire. He was about ten minutes' walk from home. She wasn't prepared to stop outside his house and told him so. Simon agreed, but was relieved that he didn't have to say it.
Before Will got out of the car, he turned to Simon and said:
“Firdy told me what was coming and I didn't do anything. If anyone could have stopped this it was me.”
“There was nothing you could do.”
“Remember you said that.”
He shrugged off the blanket and shoved his wet clothes into a recyclable carrier bag. In his damp shoes, trousers and shirt, he exited the car, slammed his door shut and paused at Clare's window. “I've got to ask,” he said, “otherwise, it'll dig away at me. Where were you when it was all kicking off down there? The Third was going to live instead of us. Firdy wanted a clean slate. That fucking cat wanted to eat what was left. What was in this for you?”
Clare's face was as calm as it had been when she descended the rocks with a plastic bag in one hand. She began the weary process of staring him down.
“It's not her fault either,” Simon said.
“Bull,” said Will.
“She had her orders. We all did.”
“Oh yeah?” Will said. “I suppose you're right. We can't have one rule for us and another rule for her. That wouldn't be right.”
“There are no rules anymore,” Simon said.
Will nodded. “Remember you said that too.” He looked past Clare then to look at Sarah, who was staring blankly through the windscreen. “Good luck with her,” he said, and Simon felt that he was being deliberately ambiguous. “See you in another life.” He slapped the roof.
As Clare drove away, Will held up a hand, as though they were dropping him off after a night on the town. He slung the carrier bag over his shoulder and started walking.
“What do you reckon?” Simon asked.
“Dead by morning,” Clare said. “You?”
“I'd like to disagree, but I know what I'd do if I was him.”
“I know,” she said. “So, what about Sarah? Do you want to hit her now?”
“No,” he said. He closed his eyes. “I'll give her more time.”
*
“Simon.”
“What?”
“We're here.”
He didn't know how long they had been sitting in the drive.
“Let's get her in,” said Clare.
Simon wanted to carry her, but acquiesced to Clare's demands that she be allowed to walk for herself. It would be less conspicuous should anyone see and perhaps stimulating her body would encourage her mind to follow.
The kitchen window and the window above were smashed, reminding him of the things he had done that hadn't been enough. The door was unlocked and Simon entered first with Sarah alongside. Clare shut the door behind her and took in the chaos.
The smell that they had suffered in the van lingered in the kitchen/diner. Firdy's smell; dust, dirt and dirty laundry. He had an urge to burn the chair that Firdy had slept on. The cat had been in here too, but he couldn't smell it now and there was no physical sign of its presence. It was Firdy who had left his mark and needed to be eradicated.
It would be easier to deal with Firdy's physical presence than the memories he evoked. Allowing himself to consider the last 48 hours, Simon's mind was flooded with images – from the appearance of Firdy to the revelation of his dream diary, the eyes of the Cat and their journey into the Third. It was difficult to believe that it had taken place so quickly, but it was harder to believe that it was all over.
The Third was dead. He and Will and Clare had each felt it to some degree. He and Clare had seen it too. And yet, as Simon walked Sarah barefoot through the kitchen, he couldn't help wondering if the Third was inside her, watching, learning, clinging to life.
He repeated her name a few times and clicked. She struggled to focus on his fingers. Progress of a sort. Her eyelids flickered.
“Let's get you to bed,” he said and helped her up the stairs.
He thought that seeing her bedroom might give her the jolt she needed to come to the surface, but he had forgotten that Firdy had trashed the room twice. Her photos, ripped from the walls, lay in pieces on the floor, mixed in with her bedsheets and books and papers. Her table was overturned. Her computer was smashed in the corner. From somewhere came the stench of shit.
He shut the door.
“You're going to sleep in my room,” he said. She said nothing.
He pushed open his door.
In the corner of the room was the dog. He stumbled, thinking that it was going to attack him, but then he saw the rope and the blood and was reassured that it was never going to get up again.
“Dead,” Sarah said.
“Yeah,” said Simon. “Dead.”
He kicked aside broken glass and threw a blanket over the dog, glancing back at Sarah to see her reaction. There was none. For once, he was thankful.
He patched up the broken window using a cork board and then sat Sarah down on his camp bed.Within minutes, she was curled up in the foetal position, asleep and dreaming. She was wearing Clare's sweater and long, black coat and he didn't try to remove them as he didn't have a blanket for her. He crept out of the room, leaving the door ajar, trying not to feel as though he was abandoning her. Failing.
Downstairs, Clare had made them a pot of coffee.
“I haven't had time to get milk,” Simon said.
“That's okay,” she said. “I don't take it either.” Simon stopped short of her. “It's sort of a game,” she explained, crossing the distance between them to hand him his coffee in his preferred mug. The Third had controlled him by threatening the people he cared about and so he had made a conscious effort not to care too much about anyone or anything. He was good at it, but one of the few things he'd retained an affection for was this mug. It was large with a couple of hairline cracks from top to bottom, glazed with a looping pattern of blue on white. Sarah had made it in class years ago. “When I didn't want to think too much,” Clare continued, “I learnt to be observant. I projected my thoughts outwards. I started making stuff up about people, but it would turn out to be dead right. Ask me about myself, however, and I draw a blank. I don't even have a favourite colour anymore. How is she doing?”
“Asleep.”
“Good.”
“You think?”
“She's in shock. And exhausted. Keep an eye on her. I think she'll be fine.”
“And what about you?”
Clare took a sip from her coffee cup. “What about me?”
“Will you be fine?”
“I'll get back home,” she said, “keep up the pretence; show my face in the café.”
“Are there others? Like us.”
“As far as I'm aware, it's you, me and Will now.”
“Did anyone else make it? Ian? Naomi?”
“I don't know any more than you.”
“What were you going to do when The Third had finished with us?”
“Whatever she told me to do.”
Simon refilled his mug, prompting Clare to tell him that he should rest. She appeared relaxed on one of the kitchen stools with one leg crossed over the other, one foot swinging gently back and forth. She'd given Sarah her sweater, so she was down to a black t-shirt now, tucked into her dark, skin-tight jeans. He could see that she was strong, though small. He wondered if she was strong enough to withstand whatever was next for her.
“Are you warm enough?” he said when she caught him looking.
She nodded.
His eyes began closing despite himself. He could feel his tiredness creeping over him, seeping into his joints, weighing down his limbs. Its vengeance would be slow and devastating and sweet.
“We should find the van and move it,” he mused. “Slow down the investigations.”
“Taken care of,” said Clare.
He allowed his eyes to close, but his journey towards sleep was accompanied by a falling sensation and his body jerked.
“I should probably go,” Clare said.
Simon shook his head. “I have questions.” His words were slurred.
“You need to rest.”
“How long did the Third have you?”
“Half as long as you. Long enough.”
“What did you do?”
“We've been through this.”
“Tell me again.”
She told him that in the beginning she had delivered to the Third, as he had, but then her job had become to help Firdy. As the deliveries increased, he had deemed it necessary to carry out some of the Third's threats and she had delivered people's loved ones to him. She had done it more often than she wanted to remember. People had needed convincing that the Third meant business.
“Forgive me for saying it,” she said, “but I think you were right to do everything you did. What choice did you have? Firdy enjoyed his work. He always went too far.”
“Tell me. How many times did you take people to him?” Simon said.
“How many people did you throw into the water?”
He opened his mouth to reel off a figure, but he couldn't provide the estimate. It felt like more than a dozen. Could it have been as many as two dozen? More? Perhaps he could determine how many he had (killed) delivered in the last year if he worked out an average per month, and then multiplied that by three. His stomach turned.
She said: “You could see every one of their faces if you really tried and you probably will over the years. They'll come floating up when you don't want them. They're all in there. But for now, you've blocked them out. Don't blame me for doing the same. You don't keep count, you stay sane.”
Simon looked into her eyes and thought about what she had said. She seemed to have everything well thought out. Her manner was very casual and he thought that maybe it was a front, but he also wondered if she had been inside their house before, inside their kitchen, on that very stool, carrying out orders, checking on Sarah, phoning in her observations.
The rising sun lit the kitchen area through the double doors and smashed window. The battered blinds split the amber light into horizontal lines, which crept towards the seated couple. They had both noticed it and were watching it reach for them when they heard Sarah wake with a gasp.
By the time Simon was on the stairs, she was screaming, repeatedly and hysterically.
She was sitting on the camp bed, knees drawn up to her chest.
“He died inside her!” she said, wailing. She grabbed Simon. “He's dead! Dead!”
“You're safe,” Simon said. She looked at him, not through him, for the first time since he had been ejected from the Third and into the sea. “We're safe. We're at home.”
“So lonely,” she muttered and buried her face in his shoulder.
Although she was suffering the Third's grief, he felt relief rushing through every part of him. He had a chance to connect with her again. He had done significant damage, and it would take time to heal, but things would get better. He'd see to that. He could deal with this.
Her breath hitched.
“What's she doing here?”
Clare was standing in the doorway. She dropped her gaze and backed onto the landing.
“You'd better leave,” Simon said. Clare nodded and descended the stairs. “Look at me,” Simon told Sarah. “It's alright. It's over.”
“Thank God you're back,” Sarah said and held him again. Over his shoulder, her eyes flicked towards the empty doorway. “What is she doing here?” she said. “In our home.”
He didn't know how to answer her, but he knew that he needed a second chance, and if he couldn't give Clare a break, why should he be allowed one?
*
Clare reversed out of the drive and took off before she could change her mind. She had done enough damage. It was time to get back to London, show her face in the usual circles. Act natural.
The truth, though she tried to deny it, was that she was terrified.She felt as though everything was happening for the first time. She was checking the mirror, as a free woman. She was making a right turn, as a free woman. She was tidying loose strands of hair, tucking them underneath her hat, as a free woman.
She had lived most of her life in freedom, but it had never been so palpable. Every breath was delicious, but when she released them she was shuddering. She lit a cigarette while she drove and pulled on it hard in an attempt to calm down.
Working for the Third had afforded her an otherness that made her feel superior to everyone else. Part of her had enjoyed walking among them, guided and protected by the Third's distant gaze through her. She remembered that the Third had needed her in the beginning. It used to enter her mind and they'd go for walks together, shopping for souls.
Not so much after Firdy came knocking. Not so much then.
But even Firdy's presence had had some advantages. He provided everything she needed so that she no longer had to keep down a job. In all the time she had spent in her flat in London, she had seen her landlord twice: once to introduce Firdy to him and explain that the rent he had been receiving was going to stop, and again some months later, as he crossed to the other side of the street, pretending not to have seen her.
She paid a high price for these boons though, these boosts to her self-esteem. She had had to give up her life to the Third and then to Firdy. Now that she had it back she didn't know what to do with it. Her current plans would keep her occupied for a day or so, but then what?
She considered that maybe it was time for her to try to make friends who didn't kill people, but she didn't know who she was anymore. Every one of her names felt fake. She couldn't tell anybody about the things she had done for the Third, so any future relationship would be based on a lie. What was the point?
She stopped at the side of the road and lit up a second cigarette and then a third, hands shaking. Her mind turned to Will, wondering if he had written his letter or if he had gone straight to killing himself. She thought that Simon would check on him, despite the risk, because The Third was dead and Simon seemed to consider that everyone touched by her had a responsibility to each other now.
The Third had died.
“My God,” she thought. “I'm really alone again.”
She couldn't pretend to have arrived back at Simon's house by accident. She knew the area too well. Her journey had unfolded of its own accord, but she had gone along with it. Like her mental journey, it had been circuitous, but it had led firmly to his door.
There was danger here. There was a lot to be afraid of, not least of all rejection, but she had to try. If she was going to begin again, then here was a foundation of shared experience. Here was the only person she wouldn't have to lie to.
As she rolled the car to a stop, Simon opened the door. He was wearing a blue dressing gown, tied at the waist. He appeared unfazed by her return. She tried to gauge his expression more deeply, but felt ashamed and could not hold his gaze. Unsure of what to do, she rolled down her window. Cold air crept in and she waited.
“When I said that you should leave,” Simon said, “I meant leave the room.”
“I know you did,” Clare said. “How is Sarah?”
She saw him smile for the first time. He seemed unable to help himself. And there was no need. She reminded herself that there was no need to keep her guard up either. Maybe one day, she'd let it go, but not yet. She noted that Simon didn't seem to have suffered her loss of confidence since the Third had died, but then he had Sarah. He had someone to care for and someone to care for him. It made all the difference, she guessed.
“I came to apologise,” she said spontaneously.
Simon waited, his smile waning.
“To you and to Sarah,” she added.
“She can't hear you out there,” he said. “You'd better come in.”
*
Something was cooking in the microwave. The sweet smell made Clare want to cry. Wanting to cry made her want to run. Her mind flitted to the Olive Tree. They did a good mango ice cream. She could still get there before lunchtime.
Sarah was sitting at the breakfast counter in a mauve dressing gown. Her hair was wrapped in a white towel. When Clare had handed her over to Firdy, Sarah's eyes had been like melting chocolate. Now they were red-ringed and could have been carved out of wood. They penetrated her and made her want to lie, about everything, to slide back where she felt safest.
“Sarah,” she said and attempted to hold her gaze steady. “I'm sorry that I gave you to Firdy. I didn't think I had a choice.”
“You didn't,” Sarah said.
“There's something else.” She tried very hard to say what she was thinking. She tried to admit out loud that she had enjoyed handing Sarah over, because it demonstrated her loyalty and usefulness, ensuring her a role in the Third's future, except that there wasn't going to be one anymore, because she had felt her Gods die, one inside the other. Her lips moved, but she didn't make a sound.
“I understand,” Sarah said, though her eyes told another story. Clare supposed that she was saying this for Simon's sake.
“Thank you, Sarah,” said Clare.
“What are you going to do now?” Sarah said.
“I haven't thought about it much.”
“We can think about it together.” Sarah pushed out a stool with her bare foot. Her eyes hadn't become any more gentle and Clare could see that it had been an act of will to make that gesture.
Simon concurred by nodding towards the stool, so Clare sat down. She could feel them exchanging looks behind her back, but it was okay, she had decided not to stay.
Thirty minutes later, however, they were eating home-made cereal bars and laughing. She was trying not to cry at the same time, because she found that she didn't want to leave after all, but she knew that she probably should.