Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  He climbed, turning the corner, the landing drenched in shadow. It was too dark up here, and as he reached the top step Blake saw that every door had been shut tight. They had been open when he’d checked the house earlier, he was sure of it. He never closed doors, except at night. He went to grab his phone then remembered it was in his trousers. What time was it anyway? How long had he been out for? It could have been minutes, it could have been hours.

  Thump.

  The noise was coming from Connor’s room. Up here it was clearer, but somehow more muffled. Something was definitely moving behind that closed door, something scratching at wood, rattling the handles of Conn’s dresser. Thump thump. It was him, the devil man. He was in there right now.

  This is your chance. He doesn’t know you’re here, doesn’t know you’re armed.

  He hesitated, holding the poker out in front of him and trying to ignore the way it trembled. Did he have what it took? Could he really go in there and strike a man down?

  He’s in your son’s room. He’s in your son’s fucking bedroom.

  Blake stumbled to the door and grabbed the knob with his free hand. He twisted it, pushed, but nothing happened. It was locked. Only, none of the doors up here had locks. Especially not Connor’s room, it would have been too easy for him to flick it accidentally and trap himself inside. Blake tried again, rattling the door.

  “Hey,” he said, a witch’s croak, barely audible over his pulse. He put his shoulder to the door, using his body weight to push. Something groaned from the other side, a noise that was almost human. “Hey, let me in.”

  No reply. But he could smell him there, that foul aroma of unwashed flesh and rotting clothes. It clawed its way inside his nose, sat fat at the back of his throat. He gagged against it, the beer churning in his stomach. He clenched his teeth against the sickness, against the pathetic rage, and barged the door harder, harder, the groaning just the scrape of furniture on the bare wood. Something had been placed behind the door, probably Conn’s chest of drawers.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  He could make out another noise, now, a soft, snorting whine. Through the crack he’d opened he saw movement, a flash of something dark running from one side of the room to the other. The arsehole was making a break for it, he was going to climb out of the window. Blake stepped back, steeled himself, then ran at the door. He hit it hard enough to send a shuddering wave of agony down his side, but it worked, the chest teetering onto two legs before crashing down. He squeezed through into Connor’s bedroom, the poker held high.

  There was no man in the room. No devil. The shape he’d seen flying past the door wasn’t somebody trying to escape.

  There was a length of black wire attached to the light fitting on the ceiling. The other end of the wire had been wrapped around Doof’s throat and knotted tight. It was long enough for the dog’s back legs to touch the floor, but only just. In his panic Doof was spinning in circles like a piñata struck by a bat, arcing up then dropping back down long enough for him to scrabble along the floor—thump—and push himself up again. His eyes were big and white and flooded with panic, his tongue a fat pink shape that wormed between his teeth, too long. Doof hit the floor again, his nails scratching, searching for purchase, running himself airborne. This time he crunched into the upturned dresser, close enough to touch.

  Blake dropped the poker, snatched at the dog, missed. Doof swung back, his trajectory changed by Blake’s clumsy fingers. He thudded into the side of the cot and hung suddenly limp. Blake lunged across the room, grabbing the dog and holding him close, fumbling at the knot with his free hand and then his teeth. Doof was a dead weight—please please please—grotesquely silent, but suddenly the dog gave an almighty yelp, wheezing hard and kicking against Blake’s grip.

  “Easy, easy,” he said. He sat on the open edge of the cot and pinned Doof on his lap, ignoring his claws as they gouged at his forearms. “Easy, it’s okay, I’m here.”

  The knot finally loosened and Blake unwound the wire, blood slick on his fingers from where it had cut into the dog’s neck. He held him tight, whispering to him, flinching when he felt Doof’s teeth lock around his finger. He let go and the dog jumped to the floor, landing badly, cowering against the dresser with one hurt paw raised and an expression that broke Blake’s heart.

  “Hey, hey, it’s me, okay? Don’t be scared, he’s gone now, okay? He’s gone now.”

  You don’t know that, though.

  Blake jumped to his feet, realising that the man could still be here, hiding inside Connor’s wardrobe or under the—

  He jumped away from the cot like he’d been electrocuted, almost tripping on the mess. He ducked down, nothing there but bags of old clothes. He reached for the wardrobe door and heard a scream from somewhere else in the house—long and full of terror. He stood there, immobile, hoping he’d imagined it, hoping his brain was playing tricks. Then it came again, somebody shrieking at the top of their lungs. He doubled back, ignoring the dog and picking up the poker before pushing back through the door. Another scream, exactly the same, coming from the bedroom.

  Blake charged towards it, knowing that somehow the devil man had brought Julia here. Or maybe she’d just come home, had walked in on him as he was torturing the dog. She screamed again and Blake opened the door, his teeth gritted so hard they might have splintered right out of his gums.

  This room, too, was deserted, and when the scream cut through the quiet once again Blake saw a phone lying in the middle of their immaculately made bed. He watched it buzz, listening as another shriek burst out of it. The ring was different, but he knew that phone and the cheap plastic pug case it wore.

  It was his.

  He dropped the poker on the floor, no longer strong enough to hold it. Everything had been leeched out of him and he barely managed to stagger to the bed before collapsing. The phone cut out, then immediately started again, the screaming ringtone so loud he was worried the neighbours might hear it. He reached out nervously, like it was rigged to an explosive or was resting on a nest of spiders. It shrieked as he lifted it, as if it was protesting. A name and a photo were displayed on the screen. The name he recognized.

  Julia x

  The photo wasn’t the one he’d saved to her contact, though—her at the beach, ice cream on her nose after he’d playfully pushed her face into her cone, his smile reflected in her sunglasses. No, it was something red and fleshy and indistinct. Something that had glimpses of bones or maybe teeth, distributed almost but not quite randomly, like a real-life Picasso. It could have been a medical photo, something from one of those awful websites, and when he saw it he started to cry.

  The phone screamed for him to answer it, and even though he commanded his thumb not to swipe, it did so anyway. He put it to his ear, but not too close. He didn’t want that ruin of flesh to reach out, to lick its wet tongue down his cheek. There was no sound from the other end, but he could sense somebody there, somebody grinning. He opened his mouth and tried to find words, but the only sound he was able to make was a low, deep groan.

  “I told you what would happen.”

  What? he didn’t say, the sobs rocking him.

  “If you spoke to them, if you warned them.”

  I didn’t.

  He forced himself to speak, his voice barely even a whisper.

  “I didn’t.”

  “They cannot hide from me, Blake,” the devil said, his voice so close and so clear that he might have been sitting right next to him on the bed. “I see everything. I know everything. They are not safe with her parents. They are not safe anywhere.”

  “No,” Blake said, choking on the words. “No, you’ve got it wrong, that’s not what happened. We had an argument—”

  “You’ve killed them, your wife and son. You have given them an unimaginable death.”

  “Please,” Blake said, sliding off the bed onto his knees. “Please, you’ve got it wrong, we had an argument that’s all, she went to her mum’s, just for the afternoon, I ha
ven’t said anything to them, I haven’t said a thing. Please please please, you have to believe me.”

  There was another sound coming down the line—soft, wet sniffs, like the man was smelling something. He breathed out, slowly, and Blake almost felt it, hot and sickly against his ear. He looked at the phone, trying to understand, trying to work out what to do, but that deformed corpse stared back and he pushed the phone into the floor.

  “Nononononono.”

  Only when he heard the devil’s voice again did he lift it.

  “Your life or theirs. It is simple, Blake. It is your choice to make. They come home, right now.”

  “Okay,” he said, wiping the snot from his face. “Okay, please. I’ll bring them back.”

  More sniffs, or was it quiet laughter? Was he alone there? Blake had a vision of the devil man and the guy from his office and the delivery guy and whoever the fuck else was involved. He saw them standing around the phone, sniggering, holding their stomachs with laughter. Was that all this was? A joke? Then he thought of Doof, hanged by his neck and almost dead.

  “Please,” he said again. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this. Just tell me who you are, what you want.”

  “I have no name,” the man said. “I am nameless, and all I want is death.”

  “Please,” Blake said. “Don’t do this.”

  One last breath, shuddering with what might have been delight.

  “It is already done.”

  Then the phone went dead.

  Nineteen

  Blake knelt there, on the bedroom floor, for an eternity. He could have been a statue in the cemetery, a memorial to himself, if not for the tears that fell from him—first hard and uncontrollable, then, when he simply didn’t have the energy for it anymore, gentler. He might have stayed like that forever had Doof not poked his head around the door, there for a flash and gone, then there again, studying Blake with those hurt, uncertain eyes. Seeing the little dog loosed another round of sobs and he patted his legs, coaxing him into the room. Doof sniffed his fingers like he was a stranger, his tail flat and low. Then he seemed to see his owner there, hidden somewhere inside this shell of a man, and he stood on his hind legs, whining, licking at Blake with his swollen tongue.

  Blake scratched the dog’s head, running a hand down his back. He picked him up, struggling off his knees and sitting on the edge of the bed, Doof on his lap. The dog’s claws scratched his bare legs but he held him close, whispering words of comfort. The wound on his neck was bad, but it wasn’t deep, and the blood was already starting to congeal. When the dog had calmed down he’d put some antiseptic on it, maybe a bandage. He’d tell Julia he got out, tried to get through the fence or something, got his stupid head stuck. It was the kind of thing Doof would do.

  And he felt so bad for thinking it because this wasn’t the little dog’s fault. This was nothing to do with his stupidity. He’d been strung up and left to die. What if Blake hadn’t woken up? What if he’d been too scared to check upstairs? Another few minutes and Doof would have choked or beaten himself to a pulp against the walls. He’d be dead. He lowered his head and let the dog lick his lips. He couldn’t bear the thought of it, of his little body going cold and stiff.

  The man had crossed a line. Before, there had only been threats—even in Homebase nobody had been hurt, not really. Now a member of his family had almost been murdered. The devil had made it abundantly clear that he meant to keep his promise.

  Did he? Did he really? Killing an animal is one thing, killing a human is something very different.

  He slapped a fist against his forehead, screaming at himself.

  You have to stop doing this, you have to stop pretending that nothing is happening.

  He lowered Doof to the floor and pushed himself up, looking at his phone. How the hell had the devil man got hold of it anyway? He shuddered, imagining his dark shape drifting silently across the living room while he was asleep, looming over him, his shadow falling across Blake’s face. He must have taken it right out of his pocket. But how did he unlock it? It had a fingerprint scan and a code if that didn’t work. Connor’s birthday, you idiot. If the man knew where Julia’s parents lived then he sure as hell knew what Conn’s special day was.

  Just how long had this guy been watching them?

  Blake opened the phone and found the photo of the corpse—not an image from a website, an actual photo, in his phone, as if he’d taken it himself. He couldn’t bear to look at it so deleted it, flicking through the album just in case there were any more. It was just pictures of him and Julia and Connor, laughing and smiling and eating and gurning. Their life before all this had started, before that fucking doorbell had rung.

  He thumbed the phone icon, ready to call Julia and tell her he was coming to get her. Then it hit him, a demolition ball in his stomach. Why hadn’t he thought it before? The man had called him from Julia’s phone.

  Julia x

  He scrolled through his address book, the phone too slow, his fingers shaking too hard. Did the devil already have her? Maybe he’d been waiting in the front garden of her parents’ place and snatched them both before they’d reached the door. Maybe they were in the back of the truck now, strung up like Doof, wires around their necks.

  There, Aldous’s number. Blake pushed his thumb against it so hard the glass might have cracked. The phone paused, thought about it, and Blake jabbed his thumb again and again until he heard ringing at the other end.

  Please.

  Ring.

  Please.

  Ring.

  Ple—

  The call connected, a pause, then, “Blake? Hello son, are you looking for Julia?”

  “Yes,” he could barely say. “Is she there?”

  “They’re both here, yes. I heard you had a bit of a contretemps. Don’t worry, she’s okay, she’s used to you by now. Shall I pass you over?”

  “Yes, please,” he said, pacing the room.

  “Will do. Jules, it’s him.”

  Him. Blake ignored it, waiting to hear his wife’s voice, chewing his nails, everything inside him a coiled spring. He almost spluttered with the relief of it when he heard the phone being passed over, when he felt her presence on the other end of the line.

  “Blake, look—”

  “Have you got your phone?” he blurted out.

  “What?”

  “Your phone, have you got it?”

  “Blake, why?”

  “Please, Julia, just tell me.”

  He heard her sigh, then the sound of her walking, rummaging. There was a clunk as she put the mobile down somewhere, then her voice again, distant, “Dad, have you seen my phone?”

  It was Connor who answered, calling something out in that tiny voice of his, impossibly distant. Blake tightened his grip on his phone to halt the sudden rush of vertigo. Footsteps again, then Julia.

  “That’s weird, it’s not in my bag. Have you got it?”

  “No,” he said. “No, I just wondered. I’ve… I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “Haven’t heard it so it can’t be here,” she said, and he thought no, it can’t be there, because right now a man who thinks he’s the devil has it, is making calls on it, is browsing through the photos on it. So many photos, and right now he was peeling back their lives and probing inside, seeing the weakest parts of them laid bare. Blake’s grip was so tight now that the phone was in danger of splintering, and he forced himself to loosen it. “I must have left it in Costa,” Julia went on. “Somebody will find it. I need it, though. I’m on call next week.”

  “I’ll ring them,” he said. “I’ll try to find it. Julia, listen, I’m going to come and get you.”

  “Yeah?” she said. “It’s not even three, Blake.” Three? He’d been asleep for hours. “Mum said she’s putting dinner on in a bit, I’ll get them to drive me back after.”

  “Please, Julia, I…” I need you to come home, otherwise, a man is going to come for you, and he is going to kill you both. “I’m sorr
y, for being so… for being such a dick. I’ve just had a lot going on in my head recently. I’ve sorted it, I just want you back here. I’ve hardly seen you all week.”

  “You see me every day, Blake.”

  “You know what I mean, work and everything. Come home, I’ll make something nice. Or we can get takeaway for a change. Chinese. I miss you guys.”

  Julia sighed again, and Blake could sense her looking over her shoulder, or across the room, silent communication with her parents. She popped her lips, then said, “Okay, dad’s got some of his bridge buddies coming over tonight anyway. I think he was a little pissed when we showed up, not that he would say anything.”

  “Good old passive-aggressive Aldous,” Blake said.

  “That alright, mum? I don’t have any stuff for Conn here anyway.”

  Hermione said something that Blake couldn’t quite catch, and the three of them chatted for a moment, muffled snippets that faded in and out: leaving already? Did he apologise? That’s okay, she’s always ditching us. Dad, you weren’t even going to hang out with us tonight. Then, “Okay, come get us. You better buy something good for dinner, though.”

  “I will,” he said. “Chicken balls, sweet and sour sauce, wine, the works.”

  “See you soon,” she said and ended the call.

  Blake kept the phone to his ear for a moment longer then pocketed it, walking out of the bedroom. He started downstairs then remembered the chest of drawers. Making his way to Connor’s room he hefted it against the wall. Two of the drawers had come out and he slid them back in, returning spilled clothes. One of the photo frames that had once stood on it had cracked—Blake remembered hearing the sound. Doof must have knocked it off as he was swinging. He checked for loose glass but didn’t see any, putting the frame on top of the wardrobe. He had to stand on the bed to undo the length of rope, the bastard tied so tightly that it took the best part of five minutes to loosen the knot. Checking that everything was more or less in the right place, he wound the rope into a loop, grabbed the poker from his room, and traipsed downstairs.