The Hollow Places (7 page)

Shaking, he
put it in his pocket for the Cat. Her sense of smell, should he
require it, was much more profound than his and, perversely, better
too than the Dog's. She was faster, smarter and more independent.
She didn't go on the lead. She was constantly honing her skills and
kept her claws sharp. Should he need her before the night was out,
she would make a perfect hunter and retriever.

Sarah's walls
were adorned with scribblings and sketches, postcards, notes in
varied handwriting, things to do, things to buy, places to go,
magazine clippings, supposedly humorous articles about animals or
unlikely things that had happened to 'real' people – and
photographs.

Firdy squeezed
his throbbing temple.

On the back of
her door, underneath several jackets and an array of scarves, was
an enormous poster of the play Chicago, perhaps the result of an
opportunistic grab from a bus shelter.

Every surface
– dressing table, desk, chest of drawers – was covered in papers,
or items that held talismanic and ornamental value: matchbooks and
pens, stuffed animals, an electric glow ball, a fish bowl full of
marbles, a crystal figurine of a unicorn with a snapped horn.

The floor was
littered with clothes, clean tops and dirty underwear forming a new
layer on top of the carpet.

“How can
people live like this?” he said and lay back on the bed until his
vision steadied.

On the ceiling
were stickers, cinema ticket stubs and glow in the dark stars.

He closed his
eyes. He'd have to look at all this to gather clues, but not yet.
Not yet.

When the
nausea passed – the headache was constant – he switched on Sarah’s
computer, a green and white Mac, hoping to access her email. He
knew that there were things called cookies and that he might be
able to find some useful information on her whereabouts. While he
waited for the machine to boot up, he plucked a photo from the edge
of the monitor. Photos would be the way forward. Sarah had plenty
for him to look at.

Simon had more
personality in the photo he held than he did in the flesh. Perhaps,
Firdy considered, it was taken three or more years ago, before his
life had changed. He was standing behind Sarah with his arms
wrapped around her waist, his chin resting on her head and his eyes
sparkling. Amazing what life can do to someone, Firdy thought. It
had scooped out Simon's insides, blown the light out of his eyes,
but kept the body running. He was an efficient machine now. An
emotional void.

Sarah,
beautiful, was grinning so much it looked like her face could split
in two. Her slender hand gripped Simon’s forearm, keeping his
protecting arm in place. Her hair was long and shining in the
sun.

The photo had
definitely been taken before the change; before Simon had received
his first orders. Firdy tossed it onto the table amid Sarah's
scruffy college notes and then turned to the photo gallery on the
wall beside her bed. She was clearly popular, though she was not
the centre of any group photo. Perhaps she was more reserved and
more like Simon than she looked. He searched for recurring faces,
pried a few from the wall, but the photos were not annotated. No
names. No numbers. He suspected that he was going to have to be
methodical in order to track her down, but method bored him. The
Cat would speed up the search, but of course, there were risks.

He allowed his
eyes to wander again over the perfect faces. Sarah on piggyback.
Sarah dressed as a witch. Sarah, Simon and their father, Aubrey,
standing outside the entrance to a cave. Pluck.

In this photo,
Simon was standing a little to one side, smiling for the camera,
not so good at pretending then. This, Firdy thought, had been taken
after the change. At this point, Simon would have known that his
life was about to change forever. Aubrey had his arm around Sarah's
waist, squeezing her and laughing.

Wow, thought
Firdy; now, that’s thought-control.

“Geraldine. It’s Sarah.”

A long pause
reeled out, but she had been expecting that.

“I don't
believe it,” Geraldine said eventually. “I took your number off my
phone; otherwise I wouldn't have answered.”

“How are you
doing?”

“I just said I
took your number off my phone. Why are you asking me how I'm
doing?”

“Making
conversation, I guess ... Hello? … Hello?”

Sarah dialled
back. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Geraldine,”
she was able to say eventually. “I’m in trouble. I'm sorry I've not
been in touch, but I'm in big trouble.” Another silence. “You
remember your promise?”

“I don't
believe this.”

“Choose a
friend,” Simon had said. “Someone reliable. One of your best
friends. Make them promise to put you up if anything happens to me.
You're going to need people you can trust around you. All the time.
But I can't know who they are. Find someone reliable, make them
promise and then keep a low profile. Don't tell me their name,
where they live, what sex they are. They're not to phone the house
or your mobile. No email. No Facebook. Cut them off. No contact
unless you need their help.”

To her shame,
she had done it. They hadn't been best friends, but they had been
getting close. It felt unusual and good. Asking her to promise to
look after her in an emergency had cemented the relationship.
Geraldine had almost cried. And then, as Simon had demanded, she
had broken contact.

“I've been a
bitch,” she said.

“Maybe,”
Geraldine said. “I don't know what I'd do if I saw you again.”

“Let's find
out,” Sarah said. “Look out of your window.”

*

Geraldine opened the
front door wearing a fluffy pink dressing gown and pink slippers
with pig faces. As she stepped outside, however, her expression was
serious. Sarah was used to seeing her with and without make-up. The
morning after a night out her beautiful molasses sugar skin would
be sucked dry of moisture, ashy, her lips cracked. She'd be
standing over a pot of coffee in a similarly fluffy dressing gown,
inhaling the caffeine fumes for an early hit and trying not to be
sick. Although she appeared to be healthier now than she had been
on those occasions, there was something unwholesome about her now.
It was difficult to say why on a first impression. She had put on a
stone or two, but that wasn't it. Her hair was combed out and
unglamorous, secured on top of her head by a purple scarf, in
preparation for future styling, but that wasn't it either.

It was late
and her eyes were red. Sarah would have expected that of anyone
else, but Geraldine had always been full of life, full of energy.
Her eyes told a new, sombre story. They used to sparkle and
everyone believed that she would become an actress as she wished,
because she had an intangible quality that made people want to
listen to her. Even when she was murderously angry, she had a light
of sorts.

That all
appeared to be in the past.

“I can't
believe you're here,” Geraldine said. “I can't believe you're doing
this.” Her voice could be politely described as husky. To Sarah it
was something rubbed dry and raw.

“I'm
desperate,” Sarah said. “I've got to get off the road for a while.
I could sleep on the floor.”

Geraldine
hesitated. “I'm married now, Sarah,” she said. “Things have
changed.”

“Married?
When? Who?”

“I didn't
think you were that bothered. You never answered my calls.”

Sarah held her
head in her hands. Keep it together.

“Congratulations,” she said.

“What will he
think if he wakes up and finds you on the floor.”

Sarah couldn't
believe what she was hearing. Geraldine giving a fuck what someone
else thought? When did that happen? Like oil in water, it changed
everything.

“Can you talk
to him?” Sarah asked and Geraldine sniggered then sighed.

“He's asleep.
It's best if he doesn't ever find out you're here.”

“I'll be
silent,” Sarah said.

“You're good
at that.”

“Look … I am
sorry.”

“You look. I'm
going to keep my promise, but in the morning you have to find
somewhere else to stay. I don't ever want to see you again.”

It stung even
more than Sarah had imagined. She followed Geraldine into the dark
hallway and Geraldine shut the door behind her. Sarah could smell
perfume on her dressing gown – Calvin Klein, one of her own
favourites – intermingled with a fragrance for a man, something
equally expensive, layered with stale cigarette smoke.

As they
ascended the stairs, Sarah following Geraldine's swinging hips, she
could smell oil and eggs and sausages and was suddenly starving.
She hoped that Geraldine would offer her a snack, but instead she
pushed open a door off the landing and said in a low voice:

“Stay in here.
Don’t come out. Don’t come out for anything. Don’t make a sound. Do
you understand?”

She sounded
like Simon.

“Yeah, yeah, I
get it,” she said.

“Do you need
to pee?”

“No.”

“You’re
sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

It was at that
moment that Sarah's phone rang. It began as a tentative rumble in
her pocket and then there was a woosh as the ringtone began to
sing. She pulled it from her pocket, intending to cut it off
immediately, but she found herself staring at Simon’s name on the
display, terrified, confused and elated all at once. Geraldine
attempted to snatch it from her grip, but she pulled away.

“Sarah!”
Geraldine hissed. In the darkness, Sarah couldn't see her
expression and she was glad. She sounded furious and she was right
to be, but she could not hang up. She felt connected to her brother
again. She wanted to answer the call so he could tell her
everything was alright again. Needing to make a quick decision, she
decided that it didn’t matter that it might not be safe. It was
worth the risk. It's better to regret something you have done, than
something you haven't. She'd heard that in a song. That was right,
wasn't it?

“Sarah!”

Her thumb
hovered above the answer button.

“Give me the
phone!”

It wailed for
a few seconds more and then Sarah closed her eyes and disconnected
the call.

“Oh my God,”
said Geraldine and shoved her into the spare room. Sarah wanted to
explain, but knew that she couldn’t. “Turn it off,” Geraldine
said.

Sarah switched
the phone to vibrate.

“Off!”
Geraldine said.

“It is
off.”

“No noise. Not
a sound. Go to sleep. Do not come out until I get you, or I swear
to God ...”

“Okay. I heard
you.”

Geraldine shut
the door gently although she wanted to slam it. Sarah pressed her
ear against the cool wood, listening to her fluffy slipper
footsteps crossing the landing, to the right, followed by the sound
of a door brushing against carpet as it opened. A pause and then
again, hushing, she closed the door behind her.

The room in
which she stood was about ten feet by ten feet, somewhat larger
than Simon's room, but with more items inside. Moonlight
illuminated the flimsy curtains and showed her disconcerting
silhouettes. She stared at the shadowy objects in an attempt to
make sense of them, but the more she examined them the more they
seemed like dead things, giant skeletons, animals waiting to
pounce. Almost whimpering, surprised at herself, she edged towards
the curtain. She let out a yelp when one of the things touched her
and she slapped her hand over her mouth.

I'm nearly
crying, she realised as she reached the curtain. Tentatively, she
drew it back so she could see the room more clearly.

A
cross-trainer, with tea towels and pillowcases draped over its
arms. A washing basket. A clothes horse. A TV set with an
old-fashioned aerial. Boxes and boxes, labelled with marker pen,
stacked up almost as high as the ceiling. A past life. Hidden.

She hoped to
cast her eyes on a fridge, but it didn’t materialise. This room was
strictly storage, where Geraldine – or her new husband - had put
things that she couldn’t let go of, but wanted to keep out of
sight.

She sank to
the floor and let the curtain go, returning the room to its eerie,
semi-gloom.

It had been
ten minutes now and Simon hadn't called back. If she hadn't come
here, she could have spoken to him, might have been able to turn
the car around and head back home. Now she was waiting again,
something she was no good at at all.

In one corner
was a pile of sheets, from which she made herself a makeshift
pillow. She put her head down and listened to the house as she
often did when she was at home. She could hear the buzz of
electricity in the wires, the breeze in the trees and somewhere a
very late or very early bird was chirping.

In the
hallway, a clock was ticking steadily.

She removed
her jacket, wrapped it around her like a blanket and considered
what she would do tomorrow. She shouldn't be alone. She could do
some shopping, she supposed. The shops counted as a public place
and Simon had left her a healthy amount of emergency money in one
of the jacket pockets. That probably hadn't been his intention
though. That money would be for transport, food, shelter. Simon
things.

She didn't
want to be alone tomorrow. An entire day of fear and loneliness
loomed. She clutched her phone to her chest so she would be certain
to feel it if Simon called again. She knew she wouldn't sleep until
she heard from him.

As slowly as he could manage, Simon adjusted his
kneeling position to prevent himself losing the feeling in his
legs. The dog raised its head. The beast was comfortable and its
eyes were closing, but every time Simon thought it might be asleep
it moved; his thought stirred it on each occasion.