Six Days, Six Hours, Six Minutes

by Alex Smith

  Then he felt the carpet against his face, warm with his own blood. He opened his eyes, seeing the upturned stool, the dust beneath the sofa, Adam’s feet calmly swinging. The entire left side of his body burned like he’d been set on fire. He clamped a hand to the wound in his side, his hoodie drenched.

  He was a dead man. Surely nobody could be stabbed so many times and live.

  He rolled onto his hands and knees, feeling like he still had a knife stuck in his shoulder. He managed to crawl to the sofa, bracing his elbows on it and taking a deep breath that tasted of copper and filth. He could breathe, though. There was blood in his throat but he thought it was just from where he’d been punched. He’d bit his tongue.

  Cathedral bells were ringing inside his skull, but there was definitely a siren in the air now, closer.

  Groaning, he grabbed the hood of his jumper with his good hand and tugged at it, managing to get it over his head. Once it was off, he pulled his sodden T-shirt away from his chest, trying to make sense of the ruined flesh beneath. There was too much blood to see anything clearly, and he pushed himself to his feet, almost falling, using Adam’s hanged body to hold himself up. His friend creaked back and forth and Blake had to turn away before the madness of it consumed him.

  He stumbled into the bathroom and switched on the light. The space was still full of their smell, as if they were still here, invisible, watching him. Something dark rose in his vision and he flinched, spinning to the side and crashing into the glass shower screen. The dark spot moved with him, something was wrong with his eyes.

  He fell against the sink, pulling off his T-shirt and staring at himself in the mirror. Everything from his neck to the waistband of his trousers was drenched in blood and he smudged it away from the wounds. The pain was a machine that throbbed in time with his pulse, filling him up as quickly as the blood emptied out.

  There were four open mouths in his skin, one in the top of his chest, two higher up on his shoulder. The fourth was the worst, gaping beneath his ribs. All of them were spitting blood and Blake sobbed at the sight of it, tried to cup it in his shaking fingers, tried to hold himself inside. He needed help, he needed an ambulance.

  He reached into his pocket but the phone wasn’t there. It must have fallen out. What good would it do him anyway? Even if he got to a hospital, the devil would find him eventually. The man probably had people there. If he could kill somebody inside a secure psychiatric hospital then he could kill somebody inside an open ward. They’d ask questions, too, about why Adam was strung up like a butcher’s carcass.

  The devil had tried to kill him, wasn’t that evidence enough? His fingerprints would be on the knife. His DNA would be on there too, he’d licked the fucking blade. Blake groaned at the horror of it, at the thought of the man’s diseased spit inside his veins, carrying its pollution through his body. He scratched at the wounds, wanting to force out every drop of blood if it meant getting rid of his poison.

  It would be enough evidence, but it would be too late. Blake knew it. If he went to the police now then he would be condemning his family to death. In the time it took the cops to find the man, he would have fulfilled his promise. Blake’s thoughts tumbled against each other, circling his skull like draining water. He couldn’t make sense of them.

  His leg began to tremble, like he was on a shaking walkway at the funfair. He crashed onto the toilet and doubled over. Maybe he should curl up on the bathroom floor and let death have him. It’s what he deserved. He’d brought the devil here, he’d condemned Adam to death—to an unthinkable, agonising, humiliating death.

  “I’m sorry,” he whined, sobbing. “I’m so sorry.”

  He groped at his wounds, at the thickening blood. It was still leaking out of him but nothing was gushing. If the blade had severed an artery then he’d already be dead, wouldn’t he? How long did it take a man to bleed out? Five minutes? Less?

  He didn’t want me to die, Blake thought. Not yet.

  They were serious wounds, yes, but they weren’t fatal. And the relief he felt at the thought was tinged with something else—an exhausted disappointment. Because it meant he had to get up, it meant he had to carry on.

  The mournful wail of the siren was louder now, it had to be on the street outside. He didn’t have long. He grabbed a bath towel from the rail and folded it, winding it around his waist. Adam’s dressing gown was hanging from the back of the door and he pulled the cord free, tying it tourniquet tight. He grabbed another towel from the cupboard and pressed it against his shoulder, pulling his T-shirt back on to keep the padding in place. His reflection was something from a horror movie, his face already swollen and yellow from the assault, his clothes stained crimson.

  Taking a deep breath, he made his way slowly out of the bathroom and down the corridor towards the front door. He found a black jacket on the rack, “Security” embroidered on the back in big, yellow letters. Gingerly, he put it on, zipping it up to his neck. There was a matching cap there too and he placed it on his head, pulling it down as low as he could to hide his sunken eyes. There was nothing he could do about his trousers, and even though his trainers were drenched with blood he didn’t think he could bend over to take them off.

  He glanced back into the living room, seeing the trail of footprints he’d left in his wake. Adam hung there, swinging absently, silhouetted by the window. Blake wanted to cut him down but he knew he’d have to use the last of his strength to do it, knew that he’d end up lying on the floor next to his dead friend, unable to get back up.

  I’m sorry, he said again, or didn’t say, he couldn’t be sure. He wondered who would find him, and who would tell his son. And he thought of Brighton, and of all the times they’d sat and drank beer together, shot the shit together, talked about women and kids and jobs and money and video games and football and life together. He thought of Adam’s smile, his hoarse, dirty laugh, the way he’d always plant a big hand on Blake’s shoulder when he was giving him advice.

  And now he was dead, hanged by his neck.

  He turned his back on his friend and collapsed against the wall. Somewhere outside the door he could hear voices and he forced himself to walk. He kept moving, shuffling like an old man, feeling trails of kettle-hot blood trickle down his side, down his leg. He gagged against the residue of their scent, following it down the corridors of the building. No, he couldn’t risk the police, couldn’t risk an ambulance.

  There was only one place he could go.

  Forty-Seven

  The hospital was teeming, but if there was somewhere a dying man could go unnoticed it was here.

  He wasn’t even sure how he’d managed it, the drive across town from Adam’s apartment was a blur. He parked as best he could, the bumper of his car colliding with the vehicle in front and filling the air with a shrill alarm. When he tried to move he realised he was stuck, his hands glued to the steering wheel with dried blood. He tugged them loose, a rolling wave of pain making the world go momentarily dark.

  He sat there for a moment, taking a few shallow breaths. The A&E car park was mobbed with ambulances and paramedics, a couple of people in gowns standing by the doors smoking cigarettes. The entrance was maybe forty feet away from his car but it looked like a million miles. It was too far, he’d never make it.

  He fumbled for the handle and popped the door. Then, screaming into his closed mouth, he managed to manoeuvre himself out. He clutched at his side, feeling like the skin might tear open, like his guts might slop over the asphalt. His jacket was damp with blood but it was invisible against the dark fabric. Only his trainers gave him away, them and the fact that he looked like a corpse that had crawled out of its grave.

  He took a step and almost lost his balance, the world spinning too fast. He put his head down, focussing on where he was going, feeling his way along a parked ambulance. One of the paramedics peeked out from behind it and looked him up and down.

  “You okay there, mate?” he asked. Blake did his best to smile.

  “Yea
h,” he said. “Just a rough night.”

  “Looks like you tried to fight a tank,” said the guy. He glanced at the hat, “Security” written over the peak, then he went back to whatever he’d been doing. Blake almost couldn’t get moving again, a locomotive without an engine. He shuffled on, somehow making it past the curious smokers and through the automatic doors.

  A blast of hot air dropped from the heaters, nearly blowing him back outside. He glanced up, squinting against the too-bright lights. The reception was busy, a desk up ahead and a waiting area to the side, crammed with old people, families, screaming kids. Blake couldn’t remember if Julia was in surgery today or just doing rounds, couldn’t remember which direction to walk. He walked anyway, knowing that if he stood still for too long he’d keel over.

  His foot squished as he went, something squeaking. Looking down, he saw that he was leaking blood, a trail of footprints following him to the lift. He increased his pace, slamming a hand on the button and leaving his prints there. A man walked past with a little girl and she stared at Blake, her jaw dropping. He turned away, come on, come on, just about falling into the lift when the doors opened. He collapsed against the mirrored wall, doing his best to smile at the old lady who stood there.

  “Oh my,” she said, one hand to her mouth. “Do you need me to call somebody?”

  Blake shook his head and pressed the button for the third floor, the lift seeming to move deliberately slowly. The doors opened onto a dimly lit corridor and he followed the signs for Oncology. The people he passed gave him a wide berth. Each step he took threatened to be the last, everything drained. He was running on fumes.

  He pushed through a double door into an empty corridor. Wards sat left and right and he looked into them, trying to find her. It was hopeless, the department was huge. He pushed on, a wind-up toy about to fizzle to a stop. There was a junction up ahead, some chairs there for waiting patients. Blake didn’t know which way to go, and when he felt the floor rush up to meet him he only just managed to land on one of the seats. He was done.

  A door opened up ahead, the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. A woman appeared, so lost in her paperwork that she didn’t notice Blake until she was almost on him. She glanced at him, then away, then back again, taking in the blood, the bruises, the slumped posture, the security uniform. She rushed over and crouched beside him.

  “Hey,” she said, snapping her fingers in his face. “You’re hurt. You need to be in Accident and Emergency.”

  She looked like she was going to call for help, but Blake reached out and grabbed her wrist.

  “Julia,” he managed to say. “Julia Barton. I’m her husband.”

  The woman pulled free, her expression saying yeah, right.

  “Doctor Barton?” she said. Blake nodded, the effort nearly tipping him off the chair.

  “Can you… Can you get her?”

  The woman didn’t reply, she just looked down the corridor, chewing her lip. Then she nodded.

  “Wait there,” she said.

  Blake heard her shoes clap down the corridor. He wanted to look up to make sure she wasn’t going to call security, but he didn’t have the strength. He wasn’t even sure how much time passed, the corridor perfectly still, only the sound of distant chatter from the wards letting him know he wasn’t inside a morgue. He felt himself drift, felt the hospital break apart around him, felt himself being pulled through the air, across the streets, back towards Adam’s apartment; saw Adam hanging from the ceiling, his swollen lips moving, the dead lump of his tongue trying to form words, you left me, you killed me; his hands reaching for Blake, grabbing his shoulders, shaking him.

  “Blake?”

  He snapped his eyes open. Julia was kneeling in front of him, her eyes wide and moist, her mouth a downward crescent. Her hands were on his shoulders, shaking him gently. It filled him with pain but he didn’t care. He fell against her, pushing his face into her chest.

  “Jesus Christ,” he heard her say. “Call it in, get a trolley up here.”

  He pulled away, leaving a bloody imprint on her white coat. The other woman was running away again, vanishing around a corner. Julia was unzipping his jacket, trying to ease it off him, but there was so much blood it was stuck.

  “Oh god, Blake, what happened to you? Who did this?”

  She wiped away a tear and he took her hand, trying to stand.

  “No, don’t move, we’ll get you downstairs. Please, Blake, what happened?”

  He ignored her, getting to his feet. She stood with him, her arm around his waist to keep him from falling. She was swearing, crying, shaking.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said, his voice a dry whisper. “But nobody else.” He swallowed hard. “Nobody else can hear, Jules. They can’t know.”

  “What?” she said. “Why?”

  “Just find a room,” he said. “An empty room. And I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Julia helped him down the corridor, checking three rooms before she found a vacant one. She laid Blake on the bed, lifting his feet and pulling off his trainers, throwing them straight into the hazardous waste bin. She finished unzipping his jacket, easing it off. His T-shirt was completely saturated, and Julia gasped when she saw it, putting a hand to her mouth.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said, offering her a weak smile.

  She didn’t bother taking the T-shirt off, grabbing some scissors instead and carefully cutting it away. When she removed the towels and saw what was underneath, her expression turned from one of fear to one of anger.

  “Somebody did this to you,” she said, using a finger to probe the outside of the wounds. “Jesus, Blake, somebody stabbed you. Wait here.”

  She turned to go, and he called her back.

  “I mean it, Jules,” he said. “Nobody can know what happened, no one except you. We’re in danger, we all are.”

  That look flashed across her face again, the one that regarded him as a stranger, a threat. But it was only for an instant.

  “You need blood,” she said. “I’ll bring it here. Don’t you dare get off that bed.”

  She was gone before he could argue. He lay back, gripping the wound on his side. He had no idea what she would do. She might turn up again with hospital security at her side, the police. Then what? They’d want to know why he was wearing Adam’s jacket; they would go check his flat.

  The door opened and Julia walked in, closing it gently behind her. She was holding a tray of equipment and she set it down on the bed.

  “Rosie is getting blood,” she said, and when Blake started to protest, “We can trust her, she’s a friend.”

  She pulled out a bottle of iodine and some sterilised cloths, her eyes filling again as she studied Blake’s wounds. Pulling on a pair of gloves, she ran her fingers over each one, calculating, diagnosing. Blake was happy to sit in silence, happy just to be here. The devil knew where he lived, he knew where Adam lived, he knew where Julia worked, but right now, in this room, he was safe.

  “Here,” Julia said, passing him a blister packet of pills. “Take two. No, take four.”

  He did as he was told, knocking them back with a paper cup of water she filled from the tap. By the time he’d done that she had soaked the cloths in iodine.

  “This is going to hurt.”

  She wasn’t lying, it was like she was pouring acid into his wounds. He gripped the mattress hard enough to turn his knuckles white, almost dropping out of the world again when she cleaned the wound below his ribs. She took her time with this one, using a bud to scour the ragged flaps of skin. Even when the pills started to turn his thoughts numb he could feel the throbbing ache of it in every single cell.

  When she had finished, she took his hand in both of hers and held it tight.

  “Please Blake, who did this to you?”

  “Are they bad?” he asked, nodding down at his body.

  “You were stabbed,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Four times. Of course it’s ba
d.”

  “I mean, am I dying?”

  “No,” she said. “No, the two up here just cut through skin and muscle. Your deltoid’s fucked, but there’s nothing there that can cause serious damage. This one,” she traced a finger over his chest, over the wound that still oozed blood, “could have been really bad. It must have just missed the top of your lung. It could have cut your axillary artery. You’d be dead, Blake.”

  She wiped her sleeve over her face, the tears flowing freely now. Blake took her hands again but she pulled them free in order to frame the wound in his side.

  “This one could have been fatal too. You’re lucky the knife went straight through, out the back, and not sideways. It missed your spleen, your stomach, your intestines. You were lucky, Blake.”

  Yeah, lucky.

  There was a gentle knock on the door and the other woman appeared, wheeling in an IV stand with a blood bag hanging from it. She glanced nervously at Blake. Julia stood up, guiding her out of the room and whispering something to her before closing the door again. She rolled the stand to the side of the bed, fiddling with the needle.

  “I don’t need it,” Blake said, trying and failing to sit up straight.

  “You need it,” she said. “God only knows how much you’ve lost.”

  She eased the needle into his vein, taping it in place and opening the valve. The sensation of blood entering him—somebody else’s blood—made his empty stomach churn. He couldn’t help but think of the man’s tainted saliva inside his body. It made his veins itch. Julia busied herself with a needle and surgical thread, perching on the edge of the bed. She used her free hand to brush Blake’s hair out of his face.

  “I did what you asked, Blake,” she said. “I kept this quiet. I trusted you. I need you to do the same. Tell me what the fuck is happening.”

  Forty-Eight

  So he did. He told her everything.

  He talked as she stitched him shut, the pain helping to keep him focussed. He started at the beginning, with the mark on the door, and the young guy—Daniel Keller—in his office at the hospital. Then he told her about the devil’s visit, the way the man had just let himself into their house, had pushed him down onto the sofa. He told her that he’d pissed himself, because he couldn’t stop talking, the words swarming up from inside him like rats from a sinking ship, streaming out of his mouth so fast that several times she had to touch his face and tell him to slow down.