The Hollow Places (10 page)

Although it
was very late, he saw someone gazing at the menu above the counter
in the coffee shop. He could stop for ten minutes.

But ten
minutes was the difference between finding Sarah and having her
move on, the difference between night and dawn.

Wincing as he
drove by, he took solace from the fact that he was on his way to
bigger things. Finding Sarah would be better than all the fast food
eateries in London.

Motivated
again, he tried to push the accelerator, but he already had it down
to the floor. He felt stronger. He could do this. He was doing
it.

He hadn't been
driving long before he glimpsed the Cat on the bank. He swerved
across two lanes onto the hard shoulder and hit the brakes.

The Cat had
withdrawn, but after a minute it came into view alongside the
van.

It had
something in its mouth.

This time,
Firdy didn't wind down the window to call to it. He called it with
his mind, without desperation, without need.

Die alone, he
thought, or live with me.

The Cat took a
step forward and then another. It paused for a few seconds, almost
sitting down, but then, unable to resist, it ran across the grass
towards the van.

Satisfied,
Firdy stepped out of the cab and opened up the rear doors. The Cat
padded up to him, its head low and it dropped what it had been
carrying at his feet.

It was a
baby’s forearm. A finger and thumb were missing.

Get in.

The Cat hopped
into the merciful darkness.

Firdy picked
up the little arm and tossed it into the back. He slammed the
door.

Shaking, he
got back behind the wheel.

This was what
happened when you lost control: people got hurt, people got killed
and he would get caught.

He vowed never
to lose control again, neither of himself nor the animals. He could
do this. It was only for a day or two more.

He pulled away
and brought the van up to speed.

On television, the expert criminals got into cars
like this in seconds. He’d had a lot of practice, but it still took
an agonising amount of time to pop the door.

It was a blue,
late-1980s Honda, not unlike his own car. He still couldn't get
over the fact that Sarah had stolen it. One second he had been
walking around the front of the car, the next she was in the
driving seat.

Finally, he
managed to force the crowbar into the correct position, pushed and
the door flew open. Inside, the Magic Tree air freshener was losing
its battle against cigarette smoke, which had permeated the
upholstery. Printed papers were strewn about on the back seat and
floor, along with a couple of empty food containers, drinks cartons
and a banana skin. Fortunately, the car was not so much of a mess
on the outside, sporting a single dent that gave it a lived in
look.

He set to work
getting the car started, this time pulling a small, cordless drill
from his rucksack. He had the engine running in seven minutes.

It spluttered
twice, but overall it was the uncaged animal he had hoped it would
be. It had a much bigger engine than his and he backed out of the
car park and put it to the test.

Soon, he
skidded to a stop alongside a phonebox and left the engine rumbling
while he dialled Sarah's number. He hoped that he wasn't already
too late.

While it was still dark enough to go unnoticed, Firdy
jammed the crowbar between the front door and the frame and worked
it, tearing wood from both. He worked hard, sweating, and then
leaned his shoulder into it.

It didn't
give.

Why wouldn't
Sarah just answer her phone?

He'd even rung
the bell and knocked on the door in a bid to gain access legally.
He'd done everything he could, but there wasn't time for
patience.

He gave the
panel his heftiest kick. A bigger man might have sent the door
flying open, might not have needed a crowbar at all, but his best
kick only had the effect of advancing the door another half-inch
from the doorframe. Furious now, he retrieved the crowbar, like
pulling a knife from a wound, and gave the door the final half a
dozen shoves it needed to swing open.

Inside, he
shut the door behind him and listened. A baby was crying in the
house next door and a cat mewled in the street. He didn't hear any
people, but after all the noise he had made he suspected it
wouldn't be long before he was disturbed.

He crept
through the hallway, checking each room. They were pristine, plain
and perhaps somewhat old-fashioned, but aside from that it was
almost like a house he might have seen in a magazine. The signs of
inhabitance seemed deliberate, like the ultimate fighting magazine
on the coffee table. They were show rooms. Fake.

The kitchen
was the same. Although he could smell fried food, no-one appeared
to have ever cooked or eaten in here. There were no used frying
pans, no dirty dishes. The draining board was empty. Dry. No crumbs
on the sideboard.

There was,
however, a comprehensive selection of Sabatier kitchen knives. One
by one, he slid them from the wooden block, until he found one
intended for slicing meat, large but light, and sharp. Big knives
always created the right impression.

On the stairs
he kept to the wall where the boards were less likely to creak and
he was careful to avoid brushing against the wedding photos hanging
on the wall.

The bathroom
was vacant.

He tried
another door and found the water heater. Neat piles of fluffy
blankets.

That left only
two more doors.

Although
breaking into the house and the possibility of being caught were
good reasons for his elevated heart rate, he knew that the root of
his excitement was his proximity to the Sarah. Behind the door to
his right, all was silent, but he could smell a mixture of her and
her room, a sweet, musty odour. It dizzied him, a pleasurable
sensation, except that it came with anxiety, because he could smell
Simon too. He looked over his shoulder, but there was no-one on the
landing but him. Alive or dead, Simon was in his bedroom in
Essex.

He took a
final deep breath, knowing that he had to move quickly now. As soon
as Sarah realised it wasn't Simon walking in, she would scream and
attempt to escape. He adjusted the knife so it would be visible. He
would rush in, put his hand over her mouth and tell her to be
quiet. That was all. Assertive and in control.

Above all, in
control.

Simon followed signs for East London,
knowing that Firdy was well ahead of him. He floored the
accelerator, not slowing for speed cameras, which were foreshadowed
by waves of brake lights ahead. Instead, he weaved between vehicles
and blared the horn. If he was too careful, Firdy would catch up
with Sarah and he would never see her again.

He struck the
wheel, half-imagining hitting himself and half-imagining knocking
Sarah’s head against a wall. He had performed the code and she had
answered, only to tell him that she had already made Firdy’s job
easy by texting him her location. Tears of frustration and rage
welled in his eyes. She was naïve, but after the disappearance of
their parents, the weapons positioned strategically around the
house, the vetting of her friends, being abandoned for days at a
time and blood in the bathroom, perhaps he should be grateful that
she still managed to show some sign of innocence.

As long as it
didn’t get her killed.

The engine
idled at yet another set of traffic lights, this time an enormous
roundabout with half a dozen exits. He scanned the rows of
vehicles, noting the white Transit vans, discounting each one from
the possibility of belonging to Firdy.

He felt as
though he should get out and run to keep moving, but when the
lights changed to green, he felt sick, advancing towards a series
of confrontations that could only end badly.

He had to kill
Firdy or he’d always be a threat to Sarah. He had to do it before
the Creature returned. Physically, he didn’t imagine that killing
him would be too much of a problem, as Firdy appeared to be sick
and in a lot of pain. He thought that Firdy would be less sure of
himself without the Creature, but he was likely to be less
predictable too.

The two main
problems lay elsewhere. The first was the remaining animal in the
van. If it was anything like the dog, he was in trouble.

Another set of
lights.

The second
problem would come later. He projected himself into the future, a
world in which Firdy’s body was on one side of the room and his
head on the other; what then? When the Creature returned, it would
discover what had happened. The thing would read his mind. He could
stash ideas, bury memories, tie thoughts down, but he wouldn’t be
able to suppress the memory of having killed Firdy. He wasn't that
good.

Even if he
could somehow get away with killing him, the Creature would expect
him to pick up where he left off. Once again, he’d be a threat to
Sarah. She would always be in danger, until either he or the
creature was dead.

How do you
kill something that's invisible, intangible, but can see every
thought you have?

You don’t.

There was no
cold sweat as he considered suicide. It was a familiar destination,
as all paths seemed to lead this way.

He changed
down a gear, swung the car around a corner and powered to the end
of the street, cutting out a jam. Protecting Sarah was his reason
to live. If living placed her in more danger than dying, then
suicide was the logical option.

In some ways
it would be a relief. His death would save a lot of lives. He had
been selfish the last three years. Many people had met uncertain
ends so that he could have the pleasure of watching Sarah live.

The danger was
too close now. He didn’t know how much time he had before the
Creature returned; it could be the next corner, it could be next
month. Once he had made life as safe as possible for Sarah, he'd
have to kill himself.

She’d want to
know, but that was out of the question. It would be cruel. She
wouldn’t understand.

I don't
understand, thought Simon. It could have anyone. Why does it want
her?

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.