The Hollow Places (12 page)

“Th-theatre,”
the man said.

“I
understand,” Firdy replied, gazing down at him. “I smashed you up
pretty good.” He wiped his bloody gloves on the bedsheets and put
the flyer in his jacket pocket. “Thank you for this.”

As he walked
towards the door, the man struggled to speak again.

“Don't
...”

“I don't have
time,” Firdy said.

“Don't … hurt
… Geri.”

“I told you.
It's Sarah I want. As soon as I have her, I'll leave you both
alone. You'll never see me again. I mean that.”

Nervous and
excited, he skipped down the gloomy stairs and out into the street.
It was no longer dark enough to hide what he was going to do, but
he had to finish this anyway. It didn't have to be clean. It only
had to be quick. In twenty-four hours, there would be no way to
trace anything back to him.

*

George attempted to
roll onto his side, gurgled and spat blood. As he inched across the
bed, his chest burned. He couldn't move his neck enough to see the
damage the man had done to him, but he suspected that that was for
the best. If he saw the state of himself, he'd probably pass out.
He'd already pissed himself and he was far from proud of that.

In the second
drawer of the bedside table, he turned over a mass of envelopes and
reached under a magazine until his fingers felt the leather of his
mobile phone case. Aware that every second left Geri in danger, he
stretched, cried out and hooked the phone with two fingers,
dragging it towards him.

Eventually he
was clutching the phone and he concentrated on not passing out. Not
only did he have to warn Geri, but if he succumbed to sleep, no-one
would find him until it was too late; he might not wake up, not in
hospital, not ever. Geri was the believer in God. He believed in
nothing and he wasn't ready to go yet. He hadn't given it enough
thought.

He scrolled
through the recent numbers and dialled Geri.

Waited.

The sun was
streaming through a gap in the curtains. It was easy to mistake the
shaft of light for something spiritual, but he tried to stay
focussed; he was in bed and he was dying, this was what dying felt
like, but he wasn't gone yet. The sunlight was warming his skin.
This was a good sign.

Geri's
voicemail message kicked in.

Okay. So maybe
he would die after all.

Maybe Geri
too.

“Jesus,” he
said and sobbed.

He was
surprised and ashamed of himself for giving the man Geri's
whereabouts. He could have lied. But the pain had been terrible,
the fear of a further attack had been worse and he knew that. He
hadn't been able to think; he had only wanted it to end.

End.

He ended the
call to Geri, realising that he had been recording his breathing,
and dialled 999.

Sarah stirred three sugars into her coffee and took a
sip, holding cup in both hands so it warmed her fingers as well as
her belly. She'd never been much of a coffee drinker, but then she
wasn't much of a smoker either and she had been doing that too.

The cafe had
six tables inside, but Sarah was disappointed to find that she and
Clare were the only people inside apart from the proprietors. It
didn't seem like the kind of place that would attract an influx of
builders seeking a fry-up, but, and she wouldn't have said this
twenty-four hours ago, she hoped to be proved wrong. The more
people around her the better. The more men there were to put off
her unknown pursuant the better.

The menu said
that the business was family-run. What she assumed were husband and
wife stood behind the counter. The woman, Greek and plump, grinned
hopefully at her whenever she looked over. It didn't look like they
were expecting it to get much busier than this after all. At least
she had three friendly people in close proximity.

Clare sat
opposite. Her big white coat was on the back of her chair, so now
Sarah could see her fuzzy pink jumper in all its glory. It looked
as if it had been bought in a charity shop or was an unwanted gift
from someone’s grandma, but somehow it looked cool on her, perhaps
because she appeared unaware of how awful it should have been.

Her features
lacked the balance of a model, nor were they unusual enough to be
striking, and yet she possessed the quality of being utterly at
ease, which made her very attractive. Sarah was envious. She
watched her stir a single sugar into her coffee, holding the spoon
lightly between two long, pale fingers.

“I feel so
much better,” Sarah said when she was caught gazing. “I’ve had an
utterly shit twenty-four hours.”

“What’s been
so bad about it?”

She thought
for a moment and then, relieved that she wouldn't have to lie,
said: “I came to visit my friend, you know, Geraldine, on the spur
of the moment, thinking it would be like old times, but things have
changed.”

“How long’s it
been?”

“... A couple
of years. I didn’t realise people could change so much so quickly.
But I changed, so I should have known. It wasn't the kind of night
for thinking things through though.”

“You can't
rely on other people. They're malleable.”

“Malleable?”

“They bend,
according to pressure. They change their minds. Everyone does.
Either that, or they break.”

Sarah thought
of Simon, who must have bent so much that he was coming full
circle.

“I suppose if
good people can become bad,” Sarah said, “then bad people can
become good.”

“You're young
...”

Sarah
bristled.

“... Life
isn't that black and white. But you have a point. Good people do
bad things all the time, but it doesn't make them evil. Speaking of
which, I'm going out for another cigarette. Want one?”

Sarah raised a
hand to say no and watched Clare leave the table. In her mind she
was back in the car with Simon. He was trying to tell her that she
needed to run and she was paralysed, unable to believe what was
happening. Once again, she considered what would have happened if
she hadn't run.

She had asked
him if he had killed people and he hadn't answered. Last night, she
had almost seen for herself.

Ultimately,
she didn't believe that he would hurt her. She believed that he
would sacrifice himself if he felt it necessary, but where would
that leave her? She may as well be dead without him. As much as he
lived for her, she lived for him.

When Clare
returned, Sarah picked up the conversation from where they had left
off.

“Some things
never change.”

“Like what?”
Clare asked, removing her coat again.

“Love,” Sarah
said.

Clare
sniggered. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to laugh. But
everything changes; especially love. I know you don't want to hear
this, but love is the most unreliable emotion of all. Don't rely on
emotions. That's how you get hurt.”

“Don't you
ever get hurt?”

“Been there.
Done that.”

“Don't you
care?”

“I don't
expect anything from anyone, including me. Nobody knows what's
around the corner.”

Sarah frowned
as she thought about what Clare was suggesting. She was right, she
didn't want to hear it, but in the end she agreed, to a point.

“I suppose you
don’t know how you’d react until a situation actually happens. You
behave in ways you wouldn't have expected.”

“There you go.
And you’ve changed your opinion in the space of thirty seconds.
Malleable. Don’t look so sad. Being able to adapt is a good thing.
It’s survival.”

“’It’s a
jungle out there’,” Sarah said, looking into the street.

“’Lions and
tigers and bears’,” Clare said.

In her best
not-in-Kansas-anymore voice, Sarah said: “Oh my.”

“Speaking of
survival: could you eat?”

“I’ll get
this,” Sarah said and reached inside her jacket. Clare made as if
to stand up, but Sarah held out her hand, insistent on paying,
thinking that if she did that then Clare might be inclined to spend
more time with her. She needed company for as long as she could get
it. If that meant paying for it, then so be it. She retrieved a
twenty pound note and picked up the menu. “I've been having a
fantasy about going –“

“- straight to
dessert,” Clare finished, sitting back now. “I recommend the
chocolate fudge brownie.”

“Two
then.”

While waiting
for one of the owners to come out of the kitchen, Sarah touched her
jeans pocket to make sure she had her phone. She was trying to look
cool and together, but she couldn't resist pulling it out and
checked for messages. Nothing.

She glanced
over at Clare, who wasn't paying attention, because she was
occupied with her own mobile phone. She was glad that Clare hadn't
seen her, because she didn't want another lecture on expectations
and letting go, no matter how coolly delivered.

The woman's
words were working on her though. Who knew what was going to
happen? She only had to experience each moment and live through it,
as best as she could.

It would have
been a relief to tell Clare her full story, but she was not the
right person to hear it; Clare was sympathetic, but she didn't want
to get involved and Sarah didn't blame her.

Besides,
whenever she worked at putting the story into words, she imagined
the look of dismay on Simon’s face and couldn’t go through with it.
Her imaginary Simon was right: she needed to keep her mouth shut,
but it was easier to think something than to do it; her fear and
loneliness over the last 24 hours made her want to run back to the
table and give Clare a hug, to cry again and tell her
everything.

Instead, once
she had ordered, she sat back down, with one hand pressed firmly
against her mobile phone pocket.

“Business or
pleasure?” she asked Clare.

“Business,”
Clare said and pulled a face.

“I’m starting
to hate mine too,” Sarah told her. “Although, waiting for it to
ring is worse than when it's going constantly.”

“I'll take
your word for that.”

When their
desserts arrived, Clare asked what they should eat to. Lots of
things came into Sarah's head. She bit her lip. She didn’t want to
say them out loud. In the end, she settled for: “What will be will
be?”

“What will be
will be,” Clare agreed.

Their forks
slid through the cream and the chocolate and the fudge. They each
put an opening forkful into their mouths.

“Isn’t that
gorgeous?” Clare said.

Sarah felt
slightly light-headed. She closed her eyes.

“Oh my God,”
she said.

As she ate,
she began to relax. It was going to be okay. Simon would call her,
they’d meet and they’d work out a plan from there. All she had to
do was stick to the plan. Stay in public. Don’t go anywhere alone.
Look out for a skinny, sick guy in a hat who wouldn’t be able to do
anything as long as she was in the cafe with witnesses.

The woman
behind the counter, all curly, dark hair and dimples and apron,
smiled at her. Not like mum, but like a mum, Sarah thought, and
although she felt sad, she felt safe.

“Chocolate’s
cheered you up,” Clare observed.

“I think I was
hungry. Sugar-deprived.”

“Can’t have
that.”

Clare ordered
another coffee each, confessing that if she had any more after this
she would be bouncing off the walls, then she put her coat on
again.

Sarah envied
Clare’s addiction; it was something so easily satisfied. Create a
problem and solve it, ten times a day, or forty if you were Clare.
At least something in life could be simple.

“Can I have
another one?” Sarah said. “I'll come with you.”

“I smoke
because I’m sick anyway,” Clare said. “It doesn't matter if I get
lung cancer. You’re healthy. If you want to destroy something
beautiful, you’ll have to do that all by yourself.”

Suddenly,
Sarah felt stupid, as if the adult had gone out to do grown-up
things, while she was left behind. Sit still. Be a good girl.

Aside from
being somewhat pale, Clare didn't look sick to her. She could have
done with some sun, but that was all. Her hair was dry, but full;
it wasn't falling out. If Clare was lying about this, Sarah
wondered, what else would she lie about.

When the
coffee arrived, she smiled weakly. Feeling conspicuous, she pulled
her phone from her pocket. No missed calls. No text messages. No
nothing.

She dialled
Geraldine’s number, telling herself that she ought to apologise for
arriving suddenly the way she did, but really she wanted to be
reassured that the rest of the world was turning, even though her
world was holding its breath. She was surprised when the phone was
answered after a single ring.

“Geraldine,”
she said. “It's Sarah.”

“I know. What
did you do? What kind of trouble are you in?”

“I don't
understand.”

“There's an
ambulance on its way to my flat. George’s been beaten up by a guy
looking for you.”

Out of the
window, Sarah saw Clare's back and car's inching along in
traffic.

“If I'd known
it was going to be like this,” Geraldine continued, “I would have
called the police as soon as I saw you. What have you done, Sarah?
Why does he want you?”

“I don't
know,” she said. “I didn't do anything.”

“Well, he's
still looking for you and when he finds you, he'll probably do the
same to you as he did to George, so you'd better stop running and
call the police right now. Where are you?”

“I’m in a
cafe,” Sarah said. “The Olive Tree. With Clare. The woman who wrote
the play.”

“Clare's
here,” Geraldine said. “I just told her what happened and she said
that she'll drive me to the hospital.”

Sarah looked
up again and saw Clare flicking a spent cigarette into the
road.