Count to Ten

by Mark Ayre

  “How much do you know about that Richard Unwin, after Nicholas took the demon and sacrificed himself? How much do you know about the fifteen-year-old boy who emerged from that experience?”

  Amira considered concealing her knowledge. Deductions made since her arrival might become leverage if hidden up her sleeve.

  “Not much,” she said. “Officially. After Nicholas died, Richard was seen only from a distance. Townsfolk who feared his return set up patrols and kept them going for ten years. There was talk of another attack—they didn’t know, of course, that Nicholas had cured him—but no one had the nerve. Memories of the dead were too fresh. Since the patrols stopped, Richard has been a ghost, seen only in the nightmares of the fearful.”

  “Okay,” said Richard. “What about unofficially?”

  Born with the show-off gene, Amira had always believed knowledge gained was pointless if you couldn’t use it to impress. Despite knowing it was inadvisable, she could not resist answering.

  “None of the bloodshed caused by the possessed Richard was his fault,” said Amira. “Still, for the lives lost at his hands, he would have suffered terrible guilt.”

  “Indeed, he did. What else?”

  “Eighty is a ripe old age for a boy condemned to die by eighteen. Time spent playing host to a demon must have changed his genetic makeup. Aside from the eradication of his illnesses, I’d imagine he was never sick again. Even more attractive, as a benefit, would be levels of strength and fitness beyond what most humans can achieve.”

  “Spot on. What else?”

  Knowing she had reached the point where she had to stop, she said, “He never fell in love.”

  Richard confirmed, “Sad, but true.”

  “Never had a woman here.”

  “Also true,” he sighed. “And we could have used a woman’s touch.”

  “At least you have the flower paintings.”

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “They are. He’d have been a life-long virgin.”

  Richard’s face went white. Realising, perhaps, he had been too free with his answers.

  “Stands to reason, doesn’t it?” Amira said, driving the point home. “He never had a woman here, and he never left. Ipso facto… virgin.”

  When he appeared unable to respond, she continued. “Of course, if he were a virgin, he’d have had no children. You must be a spiritual grandchild, right?”

  On a roll, poking the bear, Amira took advantage of Richard’s continued silence.

  “Another benefit of these genetic changes (and this is pure speculation) could be a prolonged lifespan. Say, for example, that fifteen-year-old Richard only seemed to age one year for every three that passed. Instead of looking his eighty years, he might look only 35. That might be a bit of a leap. What do you think, Ricky?”

  Knowing the risk she was taking, Amira had leaned a little to the side. The tips of her fingers were within the top of her bag. No matter what, if she escaped, she was leaving with that notebook. If he attacked, when at last he composed himself, she wanted to be ready.

  Composure came after ten seconds, at which point Richard burst not into violence, but laughter.

  “You are wonderful, you really are. I could fall in love tonight for the first time.”

  “There’s nothing like the unrequited kind.”

  Richard’s laughed intensified. Slapping the table, with one hand, clutching his side with the other, the book was unattended. Releasing the wine glass, she placed her palm flat on the table.

  After a second, Richard noted his mistake and replaced his hand on the book. Amira withdrew hers a centimetre.

  “Are you going to tell me why I’m doing my friend a disservice, exorcising her demon? Long life, eternal health, enhanced strength and fitness, plus no need to share your body. Doesn’t sound so awful to me.”

  “Having shown me how clever you are, will you now try to play dumb?”

  “Thought I’d give it a go.”

  “No,” he said. “You tell me why you do your friend a disservice.”

  “Why you believe I’m doing her a disservice.”

  “Fine. That.”

  “Well,” she mused, pausing as though she had not already formulated a theory. “When considering what you might mean, I can’t help but remember the busted streetlamp outside my bedroom when I was a small girl, living above a shop.”

  “Is this a fascinating story?”

  “Not remotely. Every night, outside my room, a broken streetlamp hummed, non-stop. It was background music, white noise. I didn’t even know it was there. Never had any trouble sleeping.”

  “And?”

  “Not and: until,” she said. “Never did I struggle to sleep until, one night, the buzzing stopped.”

  As realisation settled, Richard smiled. “The sound stopped, and the silence was deafening.”

  “Like a drill to the skull.”

  “And you can’t sleep.”

  “No,” she said. “Like if you shared your body with a demon, and you don’t know it’s there. All you see is the fall out of the actions it performs when in control.”

  “I had no trouble sleeping.”

  “Until your father rips from your soul that demon.”

  “The silence was deafening.”

  “That would take some getting used to.”

  “A long time.”

  “An eternity, I would guess, given sixty-five years have passed and you’ve not left. You could have gone anywhere. Done anything. The silence, the drill to the skull, traps you like a ball and chain.”

  Atop the book, one hand trembled. The other rose as if to wipe his eyes then fell on the table. Gone was the laughter. Devastation, despair sat behind the eyes.

  “These beings are pure, beautiful,” Richard said. “At first I was furious at my demon for killing, but soon I thought, how often are humans chastised for murdering ants? That is what we are to them, to beings so powerful, Godlike: ants.”

  He leaned forward, over the book, his hand still upon it. Somehow, Amira managed not to lean back.

  “Your friend has been given a gift. If you care for her as you say you do, you shouldn’t take it from her. An exorcism is a blow from which she will never recover. Of that, I am evidence.”

  Finishing his drink, Richard took the bottle and topped them up, though Amira didn’t need it, and wouldn’t drink it.

  “That’s as maybe, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.” She picked up her wine out of habit. Put it down without taking so much as a sip. “You already knew I’d say that, though.”

  “I did.”

  “As I know what you want in return for that notebook.”

  Richard drained his drink. Taking the notebook from the table, he held it to his chest, like a possessive child with a toy.

  He said, “And what’s that?”

  “Simple,” she said. “When I rip the soul from my friend, cast it into the air, you want to be the one who receives it.”

  Fifteen

  Richard spread his arms, smiled his broadest smile and said, “have I mentioned how pleased I am we’ve met? You truly are brilliant.”

  Amira grimaced and jammed a knife into Unwin’s leg.

  Screaming, his hands shot to the blade, to remove it.

  Previously clasped to his chest, the notebook tumbled towards his lap.

  Keeping one hand on the knife, Amira brought the other forward, snatching the notebook before it slid beneath the table.

  Both Richard’s hands grabbed hers, around the knife. Releasing, she jerked away and slid from beneath his calloused grasp. Struggling from her chair, she almost tripped over her bag. Kicked it away. Knife removed, she no longer needed it.

  “No,” hissed Richard, but he hadn’t stood. Both hands were on the blade, gripping it tight. Blood was coating his thick farmer’s trousers.

  Notebook in hand, Amira rushed past the island, noting the knife block from where she had taken her weapon; resisting the urge to rush over and
grab another.

  A howl indicated Richard had attempted to pull the blade from his leg.

  Maybe he had succeeded. Either way, she heard his chair fly back and knew he was standing.

  Throwing open the heavy black door, Amira stepped into the square lobby and slammed it behind her. Immediately releasing that handle, she reached for the other across from her and swung open the heavy white door.

  This, too, she closed behind her. In the kitchen, she could hear the stamping feet of a furious Richard Unwin.

  The notebook was still in hand. Clutching it in a whitening fist, Amira rushed across the conservatory and barged outside.

  With the key in the door from the other side, she screamed as the white door burst open, and Richard appeared. Deep in his now red left leg, the blade remained lodged.

  He didn’t seem to notice. Once handsome, now crazed eyes shot to Amira, saw her ploy. With a growl, he ran for the handle.

  Too late. The door was locked. Though Amira shouldn’t need it, she withdrew the key and rushed across the garden, diving through the hedge arch.

  The path was short. In ten seconds, Amira had reached its end and burst into miles of empty land.

  Stopped.

  It occurred to her what a terrible decision this had been. In one hand, the notebook spine creaked as she continued to grip. In the other, the key’s teeth bit in retaliation to being squashed.

  The absence of a relentless pounding indicated Richard wasn’t trying to break the conservatory door. The lock wasn’t powerful. Had he wanted to, he could have smashed his way out in ten seconds, and come after her.

  Why would he?

  When she turned, over the bushes, the back of the house was visible. To reach her car, she would cut diagonally from the hedge’s edge to the house’s corner. Sprinting along the east-facing wall, past the cellar doors, to the next corner, she would reach the gravel front drive. Her car would be in sight. It would be difficult to access.

  By surrendering his attempts to exit the conservatory, Richard freed himself to twist and return through the house. At the other end of the kitchen, he would pass into the long corridor, at the end of which he would enter the entrance hall and exit out the other side, at the front of the house.

  Even limping, he would reach the car first. He would have time to settle on the bonnet, fold his arms, and choose his best victory smile before she appeared around the side of the house.

  It made no sense for her to tire herself out.

  Believing her panicked, knowing they were too far from help for her to escape without her car, he would assume she would take the predictable route.

  The key, then, was to be unpredictable.

  Simple in theory, terrifying in practice.

  Because of her stupid escape plan, he was always going to reach the car first. That was a hurdle she would need to overcome no matter what. Her only hope was the element of surprise.

  Knowing to delay was to make things worse, Amira returned through the arch and jogged to the conservatory, at the doors of which she paused.

  The room beyond was empty. The white door hung open where Richard had departed. There was neither sight nor sound of him.

  Even if he did suspect her new ploy, he would not be waiting in the kitchen to ambush her. Too risky, in case she did go around the house. Whatever route she took had to end at the car. That was where he would be.

  Unlocking the door, she released herself into the conservatory and moved to the white door, through which she peered.

  The black door was also open. As was the door at the end of the kitchen. There was no sign of Richard, as expected.

  Passing the black door, she paused. This time she did return to the knife block. When she’d grabbed the first blade, she’d taken the smallest, in case Richard should glance into the kitchen. The absence of a blade would more likely be missed if it were smaller. This time, she grabbed that on which she had previously passed.

  At the end of the kitchen, she stepped into the long corridor. Except two, all the doors were closed. The living room in which they had first chatted remained open. As did the door into the entrance hall.

  Though she knew he must have gone through the latter, she approached the former with caution, in case he’d slipped inside to hide.

  Pressing against the wall, next to the opening, she listened but could hear nothing. Although Richard had to be at the car, she waited nearly a minute before spinning around and stepping into the living room.

  Empty.

  Turning to leave, she paused at the exit, span back.

  Her eyes fell on the grand fireplace above which a mean-spirited knight skewered a peasant beside a beautiful tulip.

  A minute later, she was back in the corridor, rushing down the hall into the box within which Richard had stored many coats and boots.

  Amira doubted Richard had closed the front door. None the less, it had swung shut as he rushed towards her car. Beyond its black surface, she could hear nothing, indicating he was not pacing on the gravel. He would be leaning against her car, rotating this way and that, trying to watch both sides of the house. He would be waiting.

  Despite the temptation, Amira could not wait. Past the front door lay a ten second run to her car. The gravel drive was clear, but for her vehicle so the moment she opened the door, he was going to see her. From when she turned the handle, she would have a two or three-second window where he was surprised and needed to compose himself. Then all advantage would be lost.

  Afraid, with no real idea how this was going to go, Amira shoved the knife in the back of her belt. In either hand, she held a weapon, of sorts. In her left, as well as the weaker of the two weapons, she grabbed the door handle.

  Trying not to think of the man who had come into her home and shot her, or wonder whether all farmers carried shotguns, she turned the handle, opened the door and stepped outside.

  Immediately, she oriented herself, spying her car and Richard.

  As his eyes snapped to her, she threw the first of her weapons and charged.

  The surprise of her arrival disappeared immediately, but not before the flying shoe caught his attention. With a raised hand, he batted it away. Her aim had been good.

  From his leg, he had pulled the knife. Around his feet, blood-soaked the gravel. Had he been an ordinary man, he would have fainted. Changes to his genetic makeup caused by a possession sixty-five years ago exorcised allowed him to carry on.

  The shoe bounded into the gravel.

  Richard turned back to a roaring Amira.

  She charged like the skewering knight. With no lance to hand, she’d had to make do with the fireplace poker.

  He stepped from the car, having regained his composure. With one hand he caught the makeshift lance.

  With her free hand, she’d withdrawn the knife from her trousers, even as he’d reached to catch the poker.

  “That demon is mine,” he roared, then screamed as she once more pierced him with a knife, this time through the hand.

  When he whipped the hand away, the knife was torn from Amira and disappeared.

  Freed up, she used both hands to grab the poker, yanked it back, and swung, bringing it upon Richard’s head.

  As he cried out, she hit him again, and again, and again.

  And dived to the side as he launched. Richard spilt into the gravel and howled as his sliced hand stopped his fall, as stones pressed towards bone.

  Standing, he spun to watch lights flash on Amira’s car. The passenger side door was open. In dived his quarry.

  Richard ran to the driver’s side as Amira scooted into the same seat. Pressing the blipper, she locked all the doors.

  “You can’t do this,” he roared. “This is what we want. This is what we both want. Give me my demon.”

  He bought both hands into the driver side window. A spider’s web of cracks appeared under his enhanced strength.

  She started the car.

  Again, he brought his fists to the window.

&nbs
p; This time, it shattered. Glass cascaded into her lap.

  His hand was through the window.

  Car in reverse, Amira slammed her feet onto the accelerator, even as he got his bloody hand around her throat.

  The car was moving. Richard was running. Somehow, he wasn’t falling behind.

  Worse, his grip was secure. Amira started to fear he would pull her from the car before she gained enough speed to shake him.

  She launched an elbow into his nose.

  With a roar, taken by surprise, he let his grip slide but did not release.

  While the impetus was with her, she jammed her thumb into the unlock doors button, grabbed the door handle, and threw it open.

  Metal smashed into his stomach. Amira’s head jerked with his hand. She almost flew from the car, saved only by grabbing the handle above her head.

  She felt his hand slide away, watched as he tumbled over and over in the gravel.

  Kept reversing, reversing, reversing.

  Until, at last, he was out of sight.

  She was free.

  Sixteen

  On the mantlepiece in the living room was a family photograph. In a mahogany wooden frame, Sammy’s father wrapped his arm around Sammy’s mother. Hunched over, Sammy bore the weight of his little sister. Everyone smiled. Four beaming faces.

  “It’s sad,” said Sammy, looking at the photo. “What we had to do.”

  Sammy didn’t look sad. While his father searched a media folder on the smart telly, he pointed to a two-person sofa facing the screen.

  “How can you live with yourselves?” Mercury asked.

  Neither answered, nor looked bothered. Mercury wanted to kill them. Because Heidi had infected their blood, she didn’t. They were not the people they had been before meeting the demon.

  Then again, infection only instilled pure devotion to the infector when the infectee accepted it willingly. A man named Laars resisted. When Heidi infected his blood, he began to go mad but wasn’t enthralled with his infector as were the others. Having found the secret to killing demons, he had tried to put the weaponised blade through Mercury’s heart, thus killing Heidi.

  As far as Mercury was concerned, Sammy and his father were at least partially responsible for their actions, the fruits of which lay upstairs. Her hands twitched. Crossing the room, she slammed the photo to its front.