The Hollow Places (8 page)

He continued
to keep his thoughts benign, but it was difficult, because he was
exhausted and wanted to sleep too, even if only for a few minutes.
It was tempting. Blinking became a dangerous operation as opening
his eyes again now required significant effort.

Counting was
soporific. He searched for something else to focus his attention
on. From Sarah's room, he heard the start-up bleep of her computer,
followed a minute or so later by the jingle of the operating
system. In the space between the beep and the music, he had taken
two breaths, very slow and even, like a diver conserving his oxygen
supply.

The dog’s body
shivered as it panted. The sound, like a steam train gathering
speed, filled the room and filled his head. The odour of its body
and its foetid breath did the same, swamping his senses, nauseating
him.

He dug deeper.
And deeper still.

In this state,
it could have been three minutes or thirty three before he heard
Firdy’s voice in the next room. He couldn’t make out the individual
words, but he recognised the rhythm as one side of a telephone
conversation. It was repeated several times, amid the clattering of
drawers, the scattering of papers, the smashing of glass.

He's the
hangman, he thought, drawing the noose tight.

The dog’s ears
pricked up. Simon knew better than to attempt to rein his thought
in. That would only cause more ripples. He let it go, the one that
got away, disappearing in the murky waters of this lake, still,
serene and submerged, leaving barely a trace, but a trace
nonetheless.

The dog
squinted at him and sighed.

Sarah heard a knock and opened one eye.

“Yeah,” she
said. Her throat was dry; painful. “Come in.”

The knock came
again and she realised that it wasn't the door, but the wall.

She sat
upright and pulled her jacket on, getting her arm caught in the
sleeve. She had to get ready to run, but she was dizzy and could
hardly stand.

Bang!

Bang!

Of the two
possibilities for the violence - Simon or someone he had hoped to
protect her from - she knew which she dreaded most; the thought of
opening the door and seeing Simon rushing toward her made her feel
sick.

At the window,
she saw that an extension had been built at the back of the house.
Its roof was beneath the window, so she ought to be able to climb
across and lower herself down to the ground without much
difficulty. A rickety fence, about six feet tall, separated the
overgrown garden from the back street. She was fit. She could
probably climb the fence, give or take a few splinters, but much
rather that than the uncertain fate that waited if she stayed put.
Working out her route, wondering if she could get to her car from
there, she attempted to open the window, but it was locked.

Bang! Thud.
And another thump, followed by the slap of flesh hitting the
wall.

Fuck.

Maybe she
should run for the stairs and head straight to the car. At the
spare room door now, she listened, feeling for her keys. Where were
they?

There was no
sound from the hallway. Again, something struck the wall from the
other side. She heard Geraldine yelp.

Fuck.

And again.

And again.

Rhythmic
...

…

Sarah slipped
to her knees, weary now that she was no longer afraid, and she
worked hard to stifle a fit of laughter.

Geraldine
wailed again, the pillow or fist or ball-gag, whatever it was,
slipping out her mouth, she supposed. Listening carefully, she
could hear her husband grunting too, roughly in time to the sound
of the headboard striking the wall.

Her chest
ached and she noticed the beginnings of tears in her eyes,
conveying relief and regret at once. She swatted them away and
slapped her cheeks to get a hold of herself. She was surprised that
she had fallen asleep, but any good it had done had been undone by
her shock upon waking.

In the next
room, they weren’t making love. They were fucking. Geraldine was
the fuckee. The bed was slamming against the wall. Every now and
then, there was the sharp snap of a heavy palm across buttocks. She
heard Geraldine gasping for breath, never quite catching it.

It went on
like this for a long time; long enough for Sarah to wish it would
stop.

Hands over her
ears, she couldn't help thinking of the time – the first and last –
that she had heard her parents having sex. It was a school night
and they had thought she was asleep, but she had been staring at
the ceiling, fingers in her ears, in the room that was now Simon's,
the walls too close on all sides. It wasn't sounds of pleasure she
had blocked out, but desperation. Release.

She had heard
her mother say 'no', but the noise continued, like a fist pounding
on a door; the door finally giving way.

She couldn't
recall them ever hugging each other again, no matter how bad things
got. In fact, she couldn't remember them touching. They glared at
each other, they passed the salt, they left each other curt
messages on their remaining headed notepaper, they said
goodnight.

She counted
slowly to two hundred and tentatively removed her hands from her
ears, just in time to hear Geraldine's husband come, long and loud,
the sound of a beast, not a man; an ape that has just taken new
territory perhaps. An ape that will be insufferable for days on the
back of it.

There were no
words, unless they were whispering. Except for the drone of
electricity, the house was as silent as death. The air was
still.

Her phone
vibrated and she pounced on it. It was Simon again. A text this
time.

Are you ok? I'm ok now.
Where are you?

She was
thinking about what this meant when she heard heavy footsteps
heading across the landing. She held her breath and prayed that the
man would not come in here for any reason. The footsteps went past
her door and then there was the sound of the light pull being
activated in the bathroom, followed by the clank of the toilet
seat. He peed thunderously, like a racehorse Simon called it,
directly into the water.

When he was
done, she heard Geraldine crying. Her sobs dyed when the toilet
flushed. The man returned to the bedroom. His voice. A rumble.

She began
tapping out her reply to her brother, but paused with her finger
over the send button. She didn't want to consider it, but perhaps
Simon wasn't himself yet after all. It was possible that he was
going through the motions to lure her home. There was something
about a code or pattern that she was meant to follow. She hadn't
memorised it; at the time, she had hoped that if she didn't
entertain the notion of something like this happening, everything
would be okay. She should have known that that wouldn't work. Dad
had still left. And mum had still died.

She read the
message again.

Are you ok? I'm ok now.
Where are you?

It was short
and to the point, the way she had imagined his messages would be.
There was nothing special about it, but she was sure there should
be. He hadn't used her name, neither Sarah nor Sally. Wouldn't he
have used one or the other to signal his state of mind?

She imagined
him walking home in the dark, stabbing out the message, an assassin
with the advantage of knowing his target inside out.

Her hopes of a
reunion receded, because she knew it was true. Simon wasn’t back
yet. This message wasn't from him.

She cancelled
her reply, feeling dejected, vulnerable and alone, missing Simon
more than she could have known.

It was only
then that she noticed she had missed four calls. All from him. A
few minutes apart. Wasn't this the code? He would call a number of
times in a row and ring off before she answered; then he would call
her a final time, giving her enough time to pick up. Only she had
slept through the whole thing, because she was exhausted and had
set her phone to vibrate.

She was almost
sure that this was the case and the thought of letting him down if
he needed to talk to her was unbearable. She had done so many
things wrong, she had to try to make up for it. She could at least
let him know that she was safe. If there was a problem, she would
move on. It was better than staying here, in limbo, with nothing
but her thoughts for company, not knowing what was going to happen
to her and not knowing if Simon was okay.

Fingers
shaking with adrenaline, cold and relief, she set about typing her
reply. When it was done she re-read it and hit send. The phone
thought about it for a few seconds, during which she changed her
mind several times, and then the handset buzzed.

Message
sent.

That was
that.

A reply came
back within seconds. She realised that she had been holding her
breath and sighed with relief when she opened up the message.

She knew it.
Everything was going to be okay.

The dog jumped as if it had been kicked and moments
later Firdy stomped into the room.

“I’ve found
her,” he said. At last, he was rewarded with more than a flicker of
interest from his captive.

He had trawled
her emails until his eyes were sore from staring at the screen and
he had scrutinised her private letters before phoning more than a
dozen of the numbers he collated. Of those that answered, half of
them had given him abuse. It was unfair to dislike Sarah because of
the friends she kept, but it was easy and he did dislike her.

He rubbed his
temple.

Oh, but it
couldn't be helped.

Of those that
answered his questions, most of them thought she would be at home.
They made random suggestions as to her whereabouts, though nothing
rang true. In the end, she had broken cover all by herself.

“Don’t move,”
he said and threw him half a loaf of bread and the remains of the
chicken they had been eating for dinner. “That’s for you. Don’t
feed the Dog; he’ll bite your hand off. Don’t run,” he said
earnestly. “He’ll kill you if you try. I’ll be back with your
sister as soon as I can.” Then he patted the dog on the head as
though it was a puppy. “Good boy,” he said. “No killing.” He didn't
check the rope. He pulled the door shut and thudded down the
stairs, careless now in his enthusiasm to get to Sarah.

The Dog sat on
its haunches watching Simon who sat motionless in the corner.
Beneath them, the front door opened and closed, then the van door.
The engine coughed to life and rumbled for a while before Firdy
backed out onto the main road. He revved the engine hard and it
grew quieter moment by moment until Simon and the dog were alone,
or at least as alone as they could be with an uninvited presence in
their minds. Simon could almost feel it catching his thoughts like
fish in a stream, holding them up to the light, throwing them
back.

He imagined a
deep, deep river, the very depths of which were brown, blue, then
black, unable to be penetrated by any kind of light. He imagined
the dusty river bed and the weird, plant-like creatures clinging to
it. Beneath them were caves and tunnels where even more freakish
creatures kept safe from the predators above. This was where he put
his mind. He took great handfuls of dirt and covered it up. When he
was done, he washed his hands and looked the other way.

As his
headache began to intensify, he conjured up a mental screen and
filled it with a great many objects, so he wouldn't be tempted to
think of Sarah again, of her reaction when she saw Firdy or what
Firdy intended to do to her. He made the objects as real as
possible and counted them off one by one. He linked them together
and made ridiculous stories.

The dog was
perplexed. Simon's mind was strange, but that was no reason to kill
him. It would wait. It was the calm one, not like the cat, which
was still locked inside the back of the van. No. Its patience had
been rewarded in the past; it had no doubt that it would be
again.

With the accelerator pressed to the floor, the
transit van did just over 70mph. The motorway stretched on and on.
The glowing studs zipped by, but not quickly enough for Firdy's
liking. He was unaware of the confines of the van and of distance;
only time. At this speed, he’d be in East London in about an hour.
In an hour and a half, he could have Sarah. So in three hours he
could be back at the house and things could really get started.

Three hours,
he had to admit, was a painfully long time. It would be getting
light by then. That was no good at all. It could delay proceedings
another day and time was running out.

The headlights
of vehicles coming the other way caused spots of light to hover in
front of his eyes and his skull was pounding. The Third did not
agree that he was doing the right thing by abandoning Simon, but It
trusted him enough not to incapacitate him. He had his reasons. He
would be quicker without him. He wouldn't have to worry that Simon
was going to grab the wheel at some point and try to run them off
the road. He trusted the Dog to keep an eye on him and prevent
escape. Again, the Third disagreed.

He thinks of
you as 'The Creature', Firdy thought angrily.

The Third's
response was another spike of pain, like a needle going through the
back of his head.

Okay,
okay.

To the best of
his ability, he kept his mind on his driving. Driving came
naturally to him and it was something he enjoyed. Sometimes it even
helped him to relax. He wished the van would give him another ten
miles per hour, but it was probably for the best that he was stuck
to the speed limit. He didn't want to get pulled over with the Cat
in the back. That could be messy.

He could sense
that the Cat was pleased to be away from the Dog, but was
frustrated and confused by her continued confinement.