by Alex Smith
Blake grabbed it with his free hand. It was heavier than it looked. He wanted to throw it to the floor and crush it, but for all he knew it would detonate and take out half the street. The guy made no move to go, he just stood there, half in and half out of their house. Blake tried to shut the door again but his trainer was still firmly in place.
“You forgot to say thank you,” the delivery guy said.
Blake pushed the door so hard that the wood creaked. His socks slipped on the tiles and he gave up. He could feel the guy’s eyes boring into his forehead but he couldn’t bring himself to look at him.
Stab him, something inside him demanded. Just get the knife and jab it into his foot. See how quickly he moves it then.
“I can’t hear you, Blake,” said the delivery guy. “Come on, it’s not that hard.”
“Thank you,” Blake said, staring at the guy’s stomach, at his feet, anywhere but his eyes.
After an endless silence the man moved his foot, and Blake slammed the door shut so hard the whole house rocked with it. He waited for the image of the man to shrink away in the glass, wishing he really had split into a hundred pieces. He could hear him whistling as he walked back to his truck. Then the engine roared to life, pulling away and fading into the quiet of the morning.
Blake stood there, the package clasped in one hand and the knife in the other. What the hell is wrong with you? And there was something wrong with him, because he’d basically let the guy ride all over him. He might as well have said do whatever you want to us, because I’m not going to fight you. He might as well have been holding a banana for all the good the knife had done him. He carried the package into the living room and sat on the sofa.
It couldn’t be anything good. Whatever it was, it was wrapped tight in parcel wrap, sealed with strips of brown tape. There was nothing written on it. Blake shook it, something rattling inside.
Bin it, he thought. No, put it in the car and drive somewhere, dump it.
Or he could take it to the police. This was evidence, wasn’t it?
Yeah, like the devil man would be stupid enough to give Blake anything he could actually use.
Upstairs, he heard the bathroom door slam shut, heard Connor chatting to his mum in those meaningless non-words. It was another world up there, one that was a million miles away from here. He was losing her, losing them both.
No, he’s taking them from you. It’s what he does. He takes things.
He placed the package on his lap. Maybe this was a clue, something he had to do. Maybe it would help him figure out how to get out of this mess. It was surely better to open it than to sit here with it on his lap. Not wanting to touch the tape—that’s how parcel bombs worked, wasn’t it? By opening the flaps—he eased the tip of the knife into the paper on one side, inching it open. There was something dark inside, dark and shiny. He gingerly ripped further, pulling off the paper to reveal an iPad.
“What?” he said, turning it over. It looked brand new, not a scratch on it. He pressed the home button and nothing happened. Then he pressed the top button, the apple appearing on the screen as it booted up. A few seconds later, a handful of icons bounced into view. Blake studied them, no idea what he was supposed to be doing. What had the delivery guy said, that Blake would want to watch something?
Watch what?
Blake shivered as he loaded up the Videos app. Sure enough, there was one saved file. He studied the thumbprint image, unable to make any sense of the smudged shapes there. The file was one minute and eighteen seconds long.
Get rid of it, he told himself again. It was all he wanted to do, find a hammer and smash this thing into splinters. Whatever had happened in those seventy-eight seconds, Blake was better off not seeing it.
He wiped a hand over his dry mouth. Maybe it was something he needed to see, though. Maybe it was a message. Hahaha, turn that frown upside down, Blake, we were only kidding! Maybe it would be a video of the man and his minions—Daniel Keller there with a prosthetic ripped throat—laughing at him. Smile, you’re on Candid Camera! Maybe it would be the punchline to this awful joke.
Yeah, right.
Blake pushed himself up, holding the tablet out in front of him. At least it couldn’t be a video of Julia and Connor—we’ve got them, they’re dead. He could hear Connor upstairs, probably in his playpen. He could hear Julia as she stomped around in the bathroom. They were here, and they were safe.
He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. What he could see of the street past the apple trees was quiet and deserted.
The iPad sat in his hand, as warm to the touch as human skin, screaming silently at him.
Fuck it.
He pressed play, walking into the middle of the room so that the glare from the window wouldn’t mask what was happening. On the screen he saw an untidy, cluttered kitchen that looked vaguely familiar. The camera swept up and around, like somebody was holding it without knowing it was recording. Blake saw a flash of a poster on the wall, Muhammad Ali with his gloves up, that told him whose house this was seconds before the owner appeared.
Adam.
Blake felt like he’d been punched in the gut. His whole body flinched, and he almost hurled the iPad into the wall. It couldn’t be him. They couldn’t have got to him.
Adam looked tired, like he’d been awake for weeks. Huge dark circles ringed his eyes. He coughed, staring at something across the room. The image was shaking, unsteady. Then he stared directly into the camera. He grunted, opening his lips to reveal clenched teeth.
“Blake,” he said.
Oh god.
“Bet you…” he looked away again, then back. “Bet you didn’t see this coming, eh? Life is full of surprises. You always thought you were the smart one, you and your perfect life. Always thought you were better than me. Well, how about now? Bet you’re not feeling so fucking clever now, eh?”
The camera shook, Adam staring right through that lens into Blake’s soul.
“Yeah, you fuck. Ever since that weekend we went to Brighton, remember? You always thought you were the important one, always thought you were worth more than me, that your life was worth more than mine.”
What?
The shot panned up to the ceiling, fast, like Adam had put the iPad down on a surface. Blake could hear a noise, something that could have been a growl.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” Adam said. “Okay, fuck!”
It shifted again and Adam’s face came into view, closer this time, close enough to see every piece of stubble, to see the acned skin beneath. His eyes were red raw, burning with an emotion that bordered on insanity.
“You can’t escape us, Blake,” he said, gulping hard.
No.
“You can’t divide us, you can’t…” He screwed his eyes shut and Blake saw them scrolling wildly beneath the lids. “You can’t separate us.”
Oh god no.
“You can’t turn us. We are his and we are legion.”
“No!” Blake said, like this was a conversation and not a recording. “No, Adam.”
Adam turned away again, his jaw flexing so hard it was like there was something living beneath his skin.
“We’re waiting for you here,” Adam said when he looked back. “My place. We’ve got something we want to show you. Don’t be late, or someone else will die.”
The iPad was lowered again, just the ceiling in sight, a flickering bulb. It counted down the last eight seconds, nothing happening until the very last instant when a shadow streaked across the camera and a voice started to speak:
“I—”
Then it was done.
Blake stared at the frozen final frame of the video. He didn’t know how to do anything else.
It was impossible. Adam couldn’t be in on this, couldn’t in any way be involved with the man.
Could he?
Blake had known him since he’d been in high school. If the devil man recruited frightened little boys then Adam was the last person he’d go after—ex-boxer, ex-bounce
r, failed the police recruitment examination twice for being too aggressive; now a security guard, and so confident he named his son after himself.
There was no way that Adam would see anything in the devil man’s lifestyle that would appeal to him, no way he’d be brainwashed like Daniel Keller, like those other guys. It just wouldn’t happen. If the man had approached Adam, if he’d tried to get him in his cult or clan or whatever the hell it was, Adam would have grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him out into the street.
But how well did Blake really know him? Adam was his best friend, but the other day had been the first time they’d met in weeks, months. Adam was as tough as nails but there were cracks beneath the surface. Blake had seen them. He’d had a rough time of it with his ex, he only got to see his son a handful of times a year, hadn’t had much luck with love recently. If he was down on his luck then maybe he could have fallen prey to the devil. Power was appealing, after all, especially to a guy like Adam.
And why wouldn’t Adam come after Blake? Every time they got together Blake just moaned about his problems—about Julia, about how scared he was having a kid, about his paranoia that the cancer would come back, about his neighbours, about his mortgage, about his dog. Maybe he had come across as a selfish prick. Maybe he hadn’t ever really been there for his friend.
But he had. He’d gone with Adam to divorce court, he had written a character statement for him before the custody hearing. And when things had been really bad, when Adam had almost drowned in a bottle or three of Famous Grouse one night after an argument with Marie, Blake had taken some time off work and practically dragged him down to Brighton for a weekend.
Brighton.
Blake played the video again, using his finger to scan through it.
“… thought you were better than me. Well, how about now? Bet you’re not feeling so fucking clever now, eh? Yeah, you fuck. Ever since that weekend we went to Brighton, remember? You always thought you were the important one, always thought you were worth more than me—”
Blake paused it.
That weekend had brought them closer together, it’s what had made them friends, rather than a guy who occasionally hung out with his ex’s brother. Adam had opened up like he was confessing his sins, he’d spent one night pretty much sobbing continuously into Blake’s shoulder in the corner of a nightclub with a floor so sticky Blake had thought they’d never make it out. Why the hell had he brought that up?
It was a sign. He was trying to tell Blake something.
He pressed play again, saw the iPad go down, heard Adam go, “Fuck fuck fuck! Okay, fuck!”
Somebody had been there with him.
Somebody might still be there.
“We’re waiting for you here. My place. We’ve got something we want to show you. Don’t be late, or someone else will die.”
Blake threw the iPad under the sofa cushion and picked up the knife, sliding it into his pocket. Then he ran into the hall, putting on his trainers. He was halfway out the front door before he heard the sound of the shower. He hovered for a moment, then scrambled up the stairs.
Connor was inside his playpen, knocking together coloured bricks that were slick with his dribble. He looked up at Blake, frowned for a moment, then broke into a huge, golden smile.
“Hey there, beautiful boy,” Blake said. He scooped him out and pushed his face into the baby’s stomach, breathing in that incredible smell. Connor giggled, wriggled, and Blake held him tight, feeling like this was the first time he’d seen him in a hundred years. “Hey, I missed you,” he said, his voice breaking. There was something inside him that wanted out, a physical force that hammered on his diaphragm. Connor pawed at his face with chubby fingers, grabbing his lip. Blake laughed, pulling loose.
“I just wanted to say hi,” he said, hearing the water shut off in the bathroom. “I just wanted to tell you that everything is going to be okay, yeah? I know things have been bad, but I promise you, things will be okay. I love you, Conn, more than anything. I will make things okay.”
He breathed him in again, until it felt like his lungs would burst. Then he lowered him gently back into the pen. When he straightened he felt too light, as if Connor had been an anchor. He felt like he might float up through the ceiling, might just fade away.
Taking one last look at his son, he walked down the stairs and out into the morning.
Forty-Four
He was in the car before he thought of something else. What if this was a trap? Something designed to bait him away from his house, leaving Julia and Connor exposed. The devil man might be hiding on the street right now, watching him, waiting for him to leave.
Blake paused, the engine purring. He looked over his shoulder, nothing there. Nothing the other way either. Nothing he could see.
He couldn’t call the police, couldn’t tell Julia to leave. They might just be the actions that pushed the man over the edge, that blew the whole thing up.
He climbed out of the car, keeping the engine running. Letting himself back into the house, he made his way through the kitchen, past an exasperated Doof into the utility room. Their boiler hung on the wall, still roaring. There was a number on it for suspected gas leaks, and he dug his new phone out and dialled it, walking back through the kitchen as it rang.
Julia was coming down the stairs as he entered the hallway, drying her hair so vigorously that she didn’t notice him until they were close enough to touch. She jumped in fright, and the look she gave him was so conflicted that he couldn’t identify it. They stood there for a moment in silence. On the other end of the line, somebody picked up.
“Hello, British Gas, what’s your emergency?”
“Um…” Blake said.
“Stuff to do again?” Julia asked, not waiting for a reply before she crossed the hall behind him, stepping over the stairgate. Blake watched her go, hanging his head as he tried to decide what to do.
“Hello? Do you suspect a gas leak?”
“Julia,” he called after her, walking to the kitchen door. “This isn’t what you think. This is…” He glanced up, still unsure if the house was bugged. Julia was holding a frying pan, staring at him. She looked exhausted. The woman on the other end of the line was talking but he ignored her. “Go to work, I’ll call you in a little while, okay? I’ll explain. Just be safe, Jules. Make sure there are people around you.”
She didn’t reply, she just shook her head and slapped the pan down on the hob.
“Hello?” said the phone.
“Uh, hi,” said Blake, walking outside and closing the front door behind him. “I think so. I can smell gas, really strong. Can you get out here? I’m in Old Costessey.”
“We’ll send someone immediately. We need you and any family to vacate the property straight away, take all pets with you but please don’t stop for anything else. Open as many windows as you can and turn all electrics off. Wait somewhere safe. Can we reach you on this number?”
“Yeah,” said Blake, clambering back into the car. “How long will you be?”
“As quick as we can,” the woman said. “Please leave the house.”
Blake gave her his address, muttered a thank you then killed the call. They’d be here fast, and if anyone was watching the house then all they’d see was a repair truck come and go. At least somebody would be here, though. The devil man was crazy, but Blake didn’t think he was stupid. He wouldn’t go after Julia and Connor if there were other people in the house.
He put the Volvo in gear and took off, heading into town. He had no idea what to expect, no idea what would greet him when he got to Adam’s. But he had to help. He’d dragged his friend into this mess, he couldn’t leave him.
He hit the morning rush hour on the way across Norwich, grinding his teeth in frustration as he shunted his way south. It took the better part of an hour to drive six miles, and by the time he reached Adam’s street down in Riverside it was almost eight. A fine rain fell, a dozen or so umbrellas skittering up and down the pavement lik
e beetles. Blake didn’t park in front of the right apartment block, picking a spot further down instead. From here he could see Adam’s place, seven floors up, the shades pulled. It was a bachelor pad, about as close as you could get to luxury on his salary. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, the rest of it one huge open-plan living space. Blake couldn’t remember the last time he’d been here.
There were cars parked up and down the street, but nothing that looked familiar, and no trucks either. He cut the engine and climbed out, blinking against the cold, wet air.
If anything else happens, Adam had said the last time they’d met. Call the police. Promise me.
And he had. He’d promised. If the devil man was up there right now with Adam, if they had him, then shouldn’t he do just that? He dug his new phone from his pocket, thumbing 999. He didn’t hesitate this time, knowing that if he did then he’d never make the call. This wasn’t strictly breaking the rules, was it? This wasn’t about Blake or Julia or Connor. And if there was nothing wrong up there he’d just call back and tell them it was a mistake.
“Police,” he told the operator when the call connected. “My friend is in trouble. I think somebody is attacking him.”
He blurted out Adam’s address and killed the call before the questions started. Flipping up the hood of his sweatshirt just in case anyone was watching, he jogged to the door. He fingered the knife in his pocket, the blade woefully blunt but the tip sharp enough to do some serious damage. He’d just take a look to make sure Adam was okay.
The apartment block loomed over him, throwing him into shadow. He glanced up again, counting the floors. He couldn’t see anything inside Adam’s place, the windows now full of the day, drenched in bright clouds. He couldn’t see if somebody was watching him from up there.
He tucked his head into his chest, cutting up the short path that led to the communal door and its panel of buttons. Adam was 707, and Blake’s finger was almost on it before he paused. What if somebody else was still there with him? Did he really want to give himself away?
