The Hollow Places (6 page)

“I’m Firdy,”
he said. He had the voice of a very heavy smoker, pre-op, although
there was no accompanying odour of cigarettes. Just a drunk, old
man on a farmyard smell, made more nauseating by the additional
stench of stale food. He glanced at Simon, displaying his milky
eye, which appeared to be blind. The other was sly and gun-metal
grey.

He didn't
offer a hand. He only had one good one of these too. He was wearing
black, leather gloves. He winced every time he changed gear and the
fingers of his left hand only moved when he was stretching them.
Otherwise, it was a grabber; a claw. He worked the wheel with his
good hand, which was no small feat in a van this size, and he made
it seem easy. On a straight, he drummed his fingers.

He wore a long
mohair jacket, like the city boys wore, over a dark shirt and
baggy, faded jeans.

“Where is she
going?” Firdy said.

“She'll go
home,” said Simon.

Firdy changed
down a gear. Squeeze. Wince. Release.

He waited a
moment before speaking again. “And where will she go really?” He
turned to watch Simon's response.

“She'll go
home,” Simon repeated. “I'll tell you the way.”

“No need,”
Firdy said. He turned right at the end of the road. “Give me your
phone.”

“She won’t
answer,” Simon said.

“You're going
to do everything I say, when I say it. It takes too long to say
everything twice.” He took his good hand off the steering wheel for
a moment to slam his palm against the back of the cabin. He was
rewarded with a corresponding thump and scrapes, like hooks
dragging across floorboards. There was a muffled snuffling and then
another sequence of thumps. They were not random sounds. They were
steps. “Give me your phone,” Firdy said, “or you can travel the
rest of the way in the back.”

Simon placed
his mobile inside Firdy’s gloved hand.

Squeeze.

“Good,” Firdy
said. “Let’s keep this simple.”

He held the
phone against the wheel and used his thumb to unlock the keypad and
flick through the menus. Whatever had happened to his left hand, it
had been that way for some time, because the skill of his right was
remarkable. Eventually he said: “So Simon, is this supposed to be
funny?”

He found no
useful information of any kind. The phone had no stored numbers or
text messages, neither received nor sent, and there was no record
of any calls.

“You asked me
to do everything you say,” Simon reminded him.

Firdy bit his
lip. “Give me Sarah's number.”

Simon did as
he was told and Firdy punched the number into the phone. He then
slipped it into his inside pocket without hitting the call
button.

They drove in
silence. From time to time, Firdy glanced across at Simon who was
always staring dead ahead.

“I know what
you're doing,” Firdy said eventually. Simon did not respond. Not
even a twitch. “You're counting. It's a very good trick, but you
can't keep it up. Sooner or later, I'll see what I'm looking for.
There are always cracks. I'll wait.”

Simon didn't
move.

*

By the time they
reached home, Simon had learnt two new shortcuts. They might have
been useful in the last couple of months, but tonight he was going
to do everything the long way, slowly and methodically.

Firdy turned
into the drive and parked in the space where Simon's car should
have been. Light shone through the wooden blinds of the kitchen
window, but that didn't mean Sarah was home. Firdy watched Simon
for his reaction and frowned because yet again there wasn't one. He
was behaving like a robot, two plus two making four, unconcerned
about future equations.

He removed the
keys from the ignition and gave Simon a broken-toothed grin.
“Out.”

Simon did as
he was told, his movements deliberate, controlled, as if
underwater. They met up behind the van.

“What are you
going to do if she's home?” Firdy asked.

“Whatever you
say,” said Simon. It was true. Firdy sensed no deception.

Simon heard
thumping inside the van, like heavy footsteps again and something
being dragged.

“Wait there,”
Firdy said. “No closer.” He opened up one of the rear doors, stared
inside for a moment and then stepped back.

The thing that
jumped out was a rush of matted grey and brown fur. It landed
deftly on the tarmac, displaying great dexterity, despite its
unkempt, almost disfigured, appearance. The bedraggled thing was
about the size of an adult Akita and, like an enormous dog, it
shook itself. Its face, however, was too narrow and too long. It
looked more like a child’s drawing of a wolf than a dog.

Its eyes were
deep, black and fierce. Panting, it stared at Simon and a bass
rumble rose from its throat, like a drum roll. Simon looked to
Firdy who, to his alarm, was busy reaching into the van. Nothing
was restraining the dog, except perhaps Firdy's proximity.

After a long
moment, the beast took a bold step forward and revealed not one but
two rows of teeth. Simon immediately thought of a shark. That was
what they were; two rows of mismatched shark teeth. Many were
missing, but it still had more than a dog should have, including an
entire extra row on the lower left-hand side of its jaw. Two rows
for grinding.

It drew its
lips back further in a terrible sneer.

It was
enjoying his discomfort.

He knew that
he shouldn't display his fear, but he was unarmed and ill-equipped
to fight such an animal. That was why Firdy had it. Looking into
its dismally dark eyes, it was impossible to remain calm. He forced
himself to hold his ground, but the dog had the psychic advantage;
it knew that he was afraid. It had known that he would be from the
moment he had climbed into the van.

It snarled
with apparent disgust.

“I see you’re
getting acquainted,” Firdy said. “That’s good.” He pulled a length
of rope from the back of the van, wrapping it so it hung in loops
over his left arm. It was about fifteen feet long. He stood there
like a happy executioner. “You're not so good at concentrating with
the Dog around,” he said. “Now I know that Sarah's not inside,
because when your new friend jumped out of the van, your first
thought was that you're glad she's not here.”

He stooped and
grimaced as he connected the rope to the dog's collar, which was a
leather strap around its neck. Then he put his hand on Simon's
shoulder. “Let's go.”

As Simon,
Firdy and the dog walked towards the house, further sounds of
movement came from inside the van. Firdy stared hard in its
direction and the scraping noise stopped as abruptly as it had
started. He continued to lead them to the front door, but Simon
took a lingering look back at the van where he knew at least one
other creature was waiting for its moment.

The dog walked
at Firdy's side, its back rising and falling at the level of
Firdy's waist. They were probably about equal in weight, around 60
kilograms, meaning that it would be physically impossible for Firdy
to control it if it wanted to do its own thing. Simon noticed,
however, that the dog was limping; perhaps in pain, but also
because its legs were different lengths. Its expression as it
moved, looking from side to side, was a constant snarl.

Firdy tried
the door. It was locked. As was becoming usual, he watched Simon
for his reaction, but Simon simply produced the key.

“After you,”
Firdy said and then, once they were all inside, took the key and
locked up behind them.

The dog's paws
twisted and turned on the dirty, off-white tiles. In this domestic
setting, among cupboards and cutlery, the swing top bin and the mop
and bucket, it looked more out of place than ever; bigger too. It
had moved with the darkness and even with its dirty white and brown
fur it could probably sneak and travel in shadows, but under the
harsh neon spotlights there was no getting away from what an
abomination it was. Drool slopped over its jaws. It had canines, as
well as the shark-like teeth. They jutted out from the front of its
mouth by an inch or so, like mini-tusks.

“Wait,” Firdy
told Simon and then turned to the dog, extending a finger. “You
too.” The dog grumbled as it lay down, cooling its belly on the
floor.

Firdy moved
silently through the kitchen/diner, taking in the half-eaten meal.
He removed a glove to dip a finger into the food and then slid it
back on again. He glanced at the television, which was murmuring to
itself, a simulation of a DNA strand spinning on screen. He
examined the chairs as he passed. All the while he drew ever deeper
breaths, as if sniffing for clues.

When Firdy
entered the adjacent room, Simon was able to fix his position by
the sound of air whistling through his nose. He was in the lounge
or sitting room or whatever those things were called. At present it
was a graveyard; a place for the things they had inherited that had
too high an emotional cost. He hadn't been in there for weeks and
now he winced as Firdy walked over the creaking boards, searching
in the darkness with his one eye, touching shadows with his gloved
fingers.

Simon
considered whether or not it would be wise to take this opportunity
to increase his distance from the dog, but before he even moved it
stood up, its claws clacking on the tiles.

“I wouldn’t do
that if I were you,” Firdy called from the next room.

It bared its
fangs.

Firdy appeared
again, but started up the stairs.

“Er,” said
Simon.

“Don't move
and it won't kill you,” Firdy said as he ascended, one foot facing
inwards, one arm hanging limply at his side. He moved quickly,
despite his disabilities. Silently too. In a few seconds he was
gone and once more Simon was at the mercy of the dog. It had taken
up a crouching position from which it could either lie down or
charge at him.

He took a
deep, shaking breath, aiming to clear his thoughts. The dog, Firdy
and the Creature in his head were all focussed on him; the psychic
traffic was strictly one way. He had to hold it together. For
Sarah's sake.

The dog stood
and took a step forward.

Peaceful
thoughts. Cracks in the ceiling. One. Two. Three.

The Fibonacci
sequence; one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen …

Bottles of
beer; ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles
of beer, if one of those bottles should happen to fall there'd be
ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-eight bottles of
beer on the wall, ninety-eight bottles of beer …

Firdy returned
to the kitchen/diner.

“Empty,” he
said.

“What?”

“It's all
clear. But then we knew that, didn't we? I don't trust you, that's
all.” He winced with what looked like a headache rocketing through
his skull and then he bent down to gather up the rope, working
through the pain.

“Let’s go,”
Firdy said and nodded towards the stairs.

Simon did as
he was told. The dog walked at his heels, barring the exit
route.

There were
five doors off the landing. They led to the bathroom, his room,
Sarah's room, an airing cupboard and the master bedroom. Firdy
gestured towards the master bedroom.

“This one's
locked,” he said. “Why?” Simon didn't answer. “This is where it
happened, isn't it?”

“I don't know
what you're talking about.” Pain. The fingernails again, raking
across his brain.

Firdy
persisted. “This is where your mother killed herself. That's why
you keep it locked.”

“Are you
asking me, or telling me?”

They stared
into each other's eyes; probing; hiding.

Firdy let it
go and nodded at the door to Simon's room.

“In.”

It was a small
space, so it was only ever going to be in one of two states. Tidy
or an utter mess. The room exhibited almost military neatness.
Firdy might not have believed that Simon slept in here had the dog
not been so keen to enter the room, sniffing the bare floorboards
and the grey camp bed against one wall. Its tail curled as it did
so. Simon thought that it was strangely playful for a beast that
was able to rip his face off with one bite.

It peed on the
floor. When it was finished, Firdy checked the rope and collar,
which were attached by a single, metal clip and then tied the other
end of the rope to Simon's desk, which was to one side of the door.
He saw no ink stains on the desk, but found scratches and burn
marks, probably from where Simon was making weapons, he thought. He
had to remember that there were weapons stashed all over the house
and that Simon was dangerous. He was glad he had brought the
Dog.

“The numbers,”
Firdy said when the rope was securely fastened. “The counting. The
footsteps. The breaths. Are you a Buddhist or something? Let's see
how long you can keep it up.” Firdy's eyes narrowed, searching. He
thought he almost had something, but it eluded him again. He gave
up for now. “Don’t move or he'll rip your head off. The rope won't
protect you; it’s to stop him leaving the house if he decides to
kill you. Stay still and you'll be fine. I’ll free you when I find
your sister.” He stroked the dog’s head. “Do you want to give me
that information now?” he asked Simon.

“I can't,”
said Simon. “I don't know where she is.” Once more, he was telling
the truth.

The dog
watched Firdy limp out of the room, then it lowered its head and
sat like a Sphinx, its bulky hindquarters thudding against the
floorboards.

Simon turned
away before panic took him and made him do something stupid. He
thought of nothing. The dog sensed deceit and readied itself to
spring.

After the neatness of Simon’s room, Sarah’s bedroom
made Firdy’s head spin. He sat on the psychedelic, flowery sheets
of the bed, still unmade, and attempted to take everything in. It
was the room of someone much more childlike than he had expected,
though he could smell a sophisticated perfume and cut flowers,
dying lavender in a vase made of an old, white wine bottle. Beneath
the various scents he could smell her skin. Like fresh air, he
thought. He gathered up a t-shirt that she had slept in and put it
to his face. His eye rolled back in its socket.