The Hollow Places (5 page)

Sarah looked
at her plate, meal not even half-finished, and then back at
him.

“Dessert,” he
said. “I've had enough of that microwave. I want to buy something
before the shop closes.”

“That,” she
said, “is the most pathetic lie I've ever heard. You're still
avoiding talking to me. You'll do anything, won't you?”

“I'm not
avoiding you,” he said. “You're coming with me. Get your warm
coat.”

“We’re taking
your car, right?”

“Warm … coat
...” Simon said.

Her bare feet
thudded against the carpeted stairs, hitting the ones that squeaked
and the ones that didn't indiscriminately. The sound got smaller
and smaller and then he heard her open her wardrobe door, followed
by the clack and clang of hangers. Within moments, she was running
back down the stairs in trainers. Over one arm was the dark green
army jacket he had requested she wear.

“Okay,” she
said, hopping down the last step. “Let's get this over with.”

“... Put it on
then,” Simon said.

“I'll look
like a div,” she replied. She hadn’t worn the coat since Simon had
given it to her. It was all pockets and straps and scuffed, metal
poppers. It had a detachable hood and a worn tag that said it was
authentic, as used by the UK military. “I know you wear these, but
...” Although it was chilly out, it was still technically summer.
Technically, she’d look like a div. She pouted in defiance. “Can't
I just carry it? … Okay, okay, I'll wear it.”

In the car,
she made a point of fiddling with the windows and the fan before
even reaching for the seat belt. When she did, Simon said:

“I wouldn’t
bother with that if I was you, Rabbit,” and set about adjusting the
rear view mirror.

She let the
seatbelt go and it clunked back into its place behind her left
shoulder. She sat absolutely still.

She had been
stupid to grab her coat and come back downstairs. That had been her
opportunity to escape. 'Warm coat' was her signal to run and she
had missed it. 'Rabbit' confirmed that she was now in deep
shit.

Or was she?
Maybe she should call his bluff.

She felt weak
when she glanced at Simon’s face. She saw no emotion. No life. They
were not going out for cake.

Only the hope
that this might be a drill prevented her from babbling at him, as
she had no intention of being chased down by him, by her own
brother. She would rather die here and now.

Eyes shut
tight, she tried not to cry. She had behaved stupidly, not once,
but twice, so absorbed by her thoughts and her need for answers
that she hadn't seen the change come over him.

When she
opened her eyes, the car was eating up white lines. Simon looked
dead ahead, focusing outwards.

If this is a
test, she thought, what does Simon expect of me? They were driving
too quickly for her to grab the wheel without killing them. Maybe
that was what he wanted. She glanced at him again for some kind of
hint, but he communicated nothing. He had become the automaton.

As if she
needed more evidence that something was wrong, they drove past the
local shop, which was still open, without slowing. Simon took a
corner in fourth gear and Sarah's stomach turned.

The road
descended steeply, flanked by trees on either side whose branches
locked fingers overhead. They rocketed down the hill.

If she was
going to stop this, she had to do it now. At the current speed, her
options seemed to be injury or death and, considering that Simon
had contingency plans for every eventuality, she ascertained that
this must be the plan.

Now’s my
chance, she thought. Grab the wheel. Roll the car …

It was one
thing to think it and another to reach across, take the cold
leather of the steering wheel and pull.

“Gum,” Simon
demanded, breaking her mental loop. His eyes remained on the
road.

“What?
Where?”

“In your
pocket,” Simon said, as though talking to a child.

In the inside
pocket of the div jacket, she found a pack of spearmint chewing
gum, along with an index card. She dropped two tablets of gum into
Simon’s outstretched hand, afraid to touch him, and then she shrank
back to read the card, which she was able to do quickly, because it
had only one word written on it, in thick, black, marker pen
letters.

GO.

“We’re nearly
there,” Simon said.

She had never
seriously considered that she would have to protect herself from
him, but here it was, and faced with this reality, she couldn't do
what it took to escape. Knowing her luck, she'd kill them both, and
while that might have been part of Simon's plan it certainly wasn't
something she could accept. She couldn't risk hurting him.

Simon glanced
at her.

“It’s okay,”
Sarah said.

Simon allowed
a vehicle to overtake and get some distance ahead, before he cut
the lights and turned the car onto a path that was partially
concealed from the road, almost like driving through curtains and
ending up backstage. Panic leapt within her and she knew why Simon
had been keen for her to escape before this turning. She could not
see ahead and within a few seconds could no longer see behind
either. Through the passenger window, she made out the outline of
trees, tall, old men with their arms around each other for
support.

The tyres
chewed the dirt, the engine growled to get up an incline, and then
everything was still.

“Alright,
rabbit,” he said and cut the engine with a flick of his wrist.

There was the
word 'rabbit' again, her invitation to run, but she could not see
more than a few feet in any direction. She had more chance of
getting a branch in the face than losing Simon. This was probably
his territory. She'd fall and scream, be lost and found, she'd run
in a circle. Getting out of the car would only prolong the end. She
wouldn’t do it.

“Let’s get it
over with,” Simon said, taking the words out of her mouth. When she
didn’t move, he said: “If you don't get out of the car, I'll drag
you out.”

She looked
deep into his dark, brown eyes and saw nothing except that he meant
what he had said. He stared into hers and saw that she understood,
and yet she still didn't move.

She thought he
might slap her then, but instead he got out of the car. He became a
shape, like the trees; a man in an army and navy surplus store
jacket, unbuttoned, walking fast, with grim purpose. When he
reached her door, she flicked the lock down, leaned over the
driver’s seat, slammed the driver’s door shut and locked it
too.

He looked
surprised.

“Open the
door, Sarah.”

On the other
side of the glass, his voice was raised, but calm and very far
away. She clambered over the gear stick, into the driver’s seat and
started the engine. As she crunched into reverse gear, Simon took a
step back and delivered a swift side kick to the glass. The car
rocked, the glass cracked but didn’t break.

She hit the
accelerator and the car revved uselessly. She raised the clutch,
too quickly, and stalled the engine. Silence.

Simon was a
blur at the window. This time the glass smashed into chunks and he
reached in, leaning over the passenger seat and grabbing a handful
of her jacket.

“Don’t do it,”
he growled. “Get out.”

With one hand,
she attempted to fight him off without much effect. With the other,
she twisted the key and the car jumped backwards, forcing Simon to
release her, spilling him to the ground.

Treat it like
a driving lesson, she thought.

Check the
mirrors. Signal. No. Fuck that. Raise the clutch. Slowly.
Slowly.

As the car
moved backwards, revving wildly, Simon reached through the broken
glass a second time. This time he unlocked the door and had it
open. Sarah allowed the car to pick up speed, racing back towards
the main road, bumping up the steep incline and throwing Simon to
the floor a second time. He rolled as though it was nothing, gained
his feet and ran after her.

She jerked the
wheel left and then right, engine screaming as the car crawled
backwards up the incline, kicking up dirt. The back of the car hit
a tree, but she kept moving, with the sound of metal on bark now.
And then it was free and the car slammed down on the main road. She
lost her grip on the wheel; caught it again. Still rolling
backwards, she put the car into first gear.

Unable to
watch what Simon was doing and concentrate on her driving, she
looked down at her feet. Clutch. Gently. Gentle acceleration. The
car lurched.

Heart
hammering, she looked up and saw Simon running in her path, arms
outstretched, waving her down. In the headlights she saw that his
chin was bloody. She might have stopped had she not seen his eyes.
Empty, as though he did not feel pain or anger or fear. There was
only her and his need to take her into the forest.

Don’t stall,
she told herself.

When she was
sure that the engine had bitten, she floored the accelerator and
was rewarded with a momentary squeal of tyres. She tried to swerve
around her brother, but heard a sickening thud as he glanced off
the wing.

She checked
the mirror to see if he was (still coming) okay, but the road was
empty.

It was half a
mile before she realised she was holding her breath and another
half a mile before she considered that she needn't hurry as she
neither knew where she was nor where she was going.

She pulled
over, tyres scraping the kerb, and took a deep breath of the air
that swirled in through the broken window. The passenger seat was
covered in shattered glass.

She had to go
where Simon couldn't find her, something he had made her arrange,
but which she had never taken seriously, as if not thinking about
it could have prevented it from happening. It had almost
worked.

He had always
warned her not to go home. It was the first place anyone would
look. And it was where he would go too, which made it the most
dangerous place in the world.

This was the first time someone had escaped from him.
He massaged his temple as the pain spiked. The most likely thing,
he managed to think through his headache, was that she was on her
way home to pick up some things before clearing out. So that was
where he would go too. He forced himself to start walking.

He could
hardly believe she had stolen his car.

The pain
again, like a needle in the forehead.

She’d be too
afraid to go far, he told himself, and the Creature. Aside from the
fact that she didn't know how to drive, she relied on him for
everything. If he was quick enough, he expected to find her at home
with the doors locked, as though that would be able to keep him
out.

She’d have
taken possession of the baseball bat. He’d act cool, tell her it
was ok, and then take it from her fingers.

His pain eased
gradually as he continued to visualise his plan of action. He was
very careful to think of places and objects, keeping his emotions
submerged. He thought of the way the house leaned back from the
road. He visualised himself walking up the path. The dewy grass
would silence his steps. He would enter through the back as usual.
If the lights were on in the kitchen, Sarah would not see him
approaching from inside. The baseball bat had come from a sports
superstore. It was black, with the words 'big hitter’ written in
white on one side. He thought of its weight in his hands.

Most of all,
however, he focussed on the path directly ahead. He allowed himself
to be part-mesmerised by the glistening tarmac; he counted leaves,
steps, breaths, gaps between paving stones, their variation in
colours. As practised, he did this to the exclusion of almost all
other thoughts.

Fifteen
minutes later he came across a bus stop and looked at the timetable
to work out the quickest route home.

Going home, he
told himself. Going home. Going home.

A mantra,
going round and round, attaching itself to stray thoughts and
flinging them back into the deep.

His focus was
broken by the deep bass rumble of a transit van slowing to a stop
in a side road. It was dirty, with a couple of dents in the side,
noticeable even from a distance, but otherwise unremarkable.

The Creature
squeezed, however, and so he knew it was bad news. He sensed that
the Creature saw it as possible transportation home, but when it
pulled out of the side road and growled in his direction, he knew
it was worse than that. The headlights were on full beam, so he
couldn't see into the cab.

Something’s
coming.

This is the
warning I never had.

The van pulled
up beside him.

The man inside
had already wound down the passenger window so he could be heard.
He was wearing a smart, brimmed hat. He kept his head down and his
face in shadow, but Simon saw that his skin was dark and creased
like tan leather.

“Need a lift?”
he said, revealing crooked teeth and leaning over the passenger
seat. His breath billowed from his mouth.

“I’m fine,”
Simon said. The corresponding bolt of pain almost crippled him. The
Creature had Its own ideas.

“Get in,
Simon”. The smile remained, but the veneer of humour was gone. His
tone of voice was tired, as though he was fed up of doing things
the hard way. In response to the look in his eyes, Simon opened the
door and climbed in.

“You'll get
used to the smell,” the man said. The cab was muddy and stank of
piss and rotting meat. “Belt up.” Simon connected his seatbelt and
the man got the van moving, adding: “Safety first.”

Simon took his
first good look at the man's face and was reminded of a bust that
Sarah had made in pottery class. She hadn't shown it to him; he had
examined it while she was in another room looking for a hammer with
which to destroy it. Dented and lopsided, scarred and thumbed, it
possessed more than a passing resemblance to the man now sitting
beside him.