One knock.
Another.
Followed by the wait.
Frank held his breath, a treacle of sweat falling like a tear from his brow.
Knock, knock.
Go away.
The shadow moved away from the window.
The bell chimed loudly.
Could this be Simmons? He doubted it. Simmons was weak and would not dare come here after he had refused to bring him in the first place.
The bell chimed again.
Frank sank back deeper into his chair.
Knock, knock.
His eyes where being nailed down.
Knock, one eyelid. Knock, two eyelids. Nailed shut.
The knocking drifted like perfume in the darkness, joining the blue smoke in the ceiling, dancing above him. He felt comforted by the dancing, his head cocooned in the safety of the soft leather, and by the darkness that came to claim him.
4
Present Day
She had met the stranger only yesterday, and already she was letting him get away with murder. He had stepped into her path as she had been driving out of the supermarket on her way home from work. She had braked too late and knocked him over. Horrified, she had stepped out of the Shogun and looked beneath the chassis, expecting the worse. And there she had found him, smiling his perfect smile at her.
He was handsome as the devil, and strong, and Liz Dohlme was at a low point in her married life. And so everything had found a way to click together and make sparks, and she had been happy to let those sparks happen.
He had refused for her to drive him to the hospital to get checked out, but had insisted instead that they have a drink to calm their nerves. Liz seldom drank, and never during the week, but the stranger was seductive, and he seemed to bring out the girl in her with ease.
She joined him and drank a cocktail, after which she had needed a strong coffee to clear her head. And even then, she was convinced that she had driven home over the limit.
His name was Adain and he was from Belgium. He had told her how beautiful she was – something she had not heard in years. She had blushed and her heart had raced like the first time she had met Frank, only harder. She thought at first that the shock of getting knocked over combined with the cocktail he drank might have loosened his tongue somewhat, but he seemed in perfect control of his senses even after his second drink. Perhaps she was making excuses to justify why he might be wrong to tell her those things. But then, perhaps he was right and she was still beautiful.
And he told her more, how he would like to kiss her round lips and make love to her.
Liz had been gob-smacked. She had blushed fiercely, had seriously considered slapping him across the face and leaving him there. But a part of her had wanted to stay, to hear more. The situation had become ridiculous in the space of a single sentence. She felt like she had somehow entered one of the thrillers that she so loved to immerse herself in, that this strange, handsome man would sweep her away with his love. His eyes gleamed with passion. Despite herself, she felt herself growing excited at the possibilities that all of a sudden lay ahead for her to explore. And at the prospect of having sex with a complete stranger ten years her junior.
And so temptation had won her over, and she had stayed a little longer, losing herself to the experience and discarding her old self for this new, adventurous vixen that had been lurking inside her all this time.
The stranger had turned his words into poetry for her, but she had not been able to lose herself in the moment as fully as she had hoped. Before long, the ring on her finger began weighing down on her. Perhaps the vixen she had believed to be was in fact an illusion borrowed from her many novels after all, and was now shattering all around her like Cinderella’s dream at the stroke of midnight.
Liz had made her excuses and left the stranger in the bar. Her had been in turmoil when she reached the car park, willing herself on without looking back, forcing herself not to even consider what might happen if she didn’t leave.
But by the time she had climbed into the Shogun, Adain had caught her up. And then he had kissed her, a virgin kiss that very nearly broke whatever restraint she had found in her.
It had been harder this time to push him away, but she had found the strength to do so in the end and driven out of the parking lot, watching him standing in the rain, heartbroken, dwindling in her rear-view mirror.
When she had gotten home, Frank hadn’t even asked where she had been, or why she was late. As usual, he had spent the evening immersed in himself, in and out of his wretched shed. And his dammed offspring, Nathan, had raided the kitchen again, accompanied by his dullard friends, emptying it of most of the snacks she had brought home. She had said nothing and saved her anger for Frank, for whenever he cared to make an appearance in the bedroom.
That night, Liz went to bed early. She had lain awake for most of the night, pretending to be asleep when Frank had finally joined her just to avoid having to speak. She had thought of nothing but the stranger, kissing her, and her leaving him behind. The whole experience had been too scary for her at the time, but now she regretted not having stayed a little longer, or even meeting him again. Now she would never see him again. All for Frank, who indulged only in himself, who never told her how beautiful she looked, or how much he wanted her.
That night, Liz had cried for the first time in years. Cried for herself, and for her miserable existence.
The next day, there had been flowers on her desk at the bank. And a note. And that night she had met him after work, and now she was in the Shogun, parked under a conifer tree in a deserted country road, making love to him.
Adain had been in control from the start. He worked fast. He had started kissing her and speaking into her ear, words that she could barely hear but that travelled deep, making her ready for him. The rain pelted against the windscreen, water-falling from the roof in an inch-thick torrent, oblivious to the rocking of the Shogun. Adain was athletic and muscular, and he seemed as infatuated with her as she was with him.
The time had passed quickly, evening falling upon them, enclosing them in darkness. Liz had lain there, with Adain at her side, covered in a thin film of sweat, wishing they could stay there forever. She knew Frank would not be wondering where she was: he never did care.
She dropped Adain off in the city, thanking him for the flowers. Earlier in the day, she had been tempted to bring them home with her, defiantly, to provoke a reaction from Frank. However, in the end she had opted to leave them in work, where they were generating more gossip and attention than they would elsewhere.
They parted with a kiss, after which Liz drove home slowly in the rain, taking the country lane where she and Adain had made love that evening, close to home.
When she arrived home it was already dark. To her surprise, she found Frank’s secretary trying to peer through the window into the main room. She parked the Shogun next to Frank’s Jag and stomped toward the house under a stripped golf umbrella.
Linda looked embarrassed to have been caught staring inside. She waited for Liz to reach the stone steps before she spoke.
‘I was worried about Frank,’ she explained, almost whining. ‘He missed two appointments today. I tried calling here after leaving two messages in his mobile, but I got no answer.’
Liz wondered fleetingly if something had happened to him. She felt oddly detached from any feelings she imagined should be surging through her right now, as she pondered this.
The light in the hateful shed was off, so Frank was in the house.
‘How long have you been knocking?’ she asked the woman.
‘I only just got here,’ Linda said in her annoyingly apologetic voice. Liz had always thought the hateful whine was reserved for work hours. Evidently not.
She opened the front door, motioning Frank’s secretary to step inside, closing the door after her. She wondered fleetingly whether Frank was having an affair with Linda. The woman had fat legs, a big backside, an annoying voice and far
too much makeup. If he was screwing this woman, then he needed to see another psychiatrist.
Liz saw Frank’s gabardine on the coat stand.
He’s in, she thought.
And then she smelt the smoke, wafting in the hall.
Jaw clenched, she marched toward the living room and pushed the door wide open. The room stank. It smelt like a giant ashtray. The heavy drapes were drawn tight. She looked at Frank, slumped like a sack of manure on his favourite chair, mouth open, shirt stained. He stank of urine and whiskey. A bottle of Jim Beam lay on its side on the glass coffee table, the red carpet beneath it stained dark where the liquor had fell and formed a puddle.
Linda stood behind her, gasping when she saw Frank. The sudden sound of her breathing right against her neck made Liz want to turn round and punch the woman in the face.
Liz turned the ceiling lights off and closed the door, smiling hard at Linda.
‘There you have it, Linda. Frank came home and got pissed. Mystery solved.’
Linda looked horrified. Her mouth moved silently as if trying to formulate words, perhaps of consolation, no doubt trivial and annoyingly useless.
Spit it out, you stupid bitch. Say it and then go home.
‘Is he okay?’ she blubbered.
‘Yes,’ Liz snapped. ‘He is fine. In fact, he does it all the time. I expect he was practising for the weekend.’
Linda seemed about to faint.
Liz dearly wanted to tear the woman’s hair out. She stood deliberately blocking her view into the room, folding her arms.
Read my body language, bitch, and get out of my house.
Linda jolted, perhaps sensing Liz’s animosity. She mumbled another barrage of fresh apologies and made her way back to the front door. The door opened before she could reach it and Nathan stepped in, eying both women suspiciously.
Jesus, thought Liz. That’s all I needed.
Nathan pulled his hoodie off, skirting past her, looking at her as if he had heard her, probably reading her mind. He went straight to the kitchen, much to her dismay.
Frank’s secretary was still hanging at the door.
What the hell is this woman waiting for?
‘He went to see an old friend,’ she babbled.
Liz was losing her patience.
‘Who?’ she asked, though she knew well enough that she was talking about Frank.
‘Simmons,’ she replied, misunderstanding her question.
Liz remembered Simmons and his wife. She did not like either of them.
‘Good,’ she said, pushing Linda outside.
Here’s a medal, now fuck off.
She slammed the door shut and turned round.
Nathan was standing in the hall, looking at her, munching on a snack bar.
’What’s that smell?’ he asked, looking around him.
‘Ask your father!’ she barked, pushing past him up the stairs to her bedroom.
Nathan scowled after her, then shrugged. He opened the door to the main room and stepped in, seeing his dad on the carpet, snoring, wet from drink and urine.
Grimacing at both the smell and the spectacle, he stepped back, moving his snack bar away from the smell. Nathan pulled his phone out and snapped half a dozen pics before flipping over to video mode. Then, smiling to himself, he closed the door gently and went upstairs.
He had forgotten to lock the loft again. He didn’t like the idea of anybody coming in here, tripping over a power lead and damaging any of his hardware. He closed the door behind him and sat in front of his workstation.
He flicked the mouse, waking his PC up from its slumber. The new mail icon was flashing in the corner of the screen. Nathan double-clicked the envelope. To his surprise, the email was not for him, but his dad. He frowned, perplexed, studying the email. He took a bite of his snack bar, then spat it back out when he saw who the email was from.
5
Present Day
Simmons no longer knew whether he was awake, or dreaming. He was home, facing the ominous door, unable to move away from it, from the knock, waiting to happen, and the man, coming back for him.
Jesus.
The man, screaming, disappearing.
Simmons was shaking uncontrollably, emotionally exhausted by his two-day ordeal, downing cheap vodka.
The bastard Frank had left him, ran out screaming, piss on his crotch.
Frank who always knew what to do.
Bastard, bastard, bastard.
Simmons had broken the silence of months, and Frank had come to gloat in triumph. “Pete, you look like shit!” he’d said. ‘Well, you stink of piss!’ Simmons shouted at the door. He spat, drank, spat again.
The door faced him. Another game of silence. Knock, knock, break the silence, break the door, come to kill you, kill you, kill you, scream, scream and vanish.
Simmons threw his glass against the door. It bounced off, unbroken, landing on the carpet and rolling under the faux-leather settee. The door smiled, holding the silence, winning the game. Simmons had broken the silence. He was a bad player. He was too weak to be a player. And too drunk to play.
He stood up and fell face-flat on the carpet. When he managed to lift his head slightly, he could see the glass under the settee, empty, rolling back and forth, excited at some secret the door had passed on to it upon contact. The door was laughing at him, but silently, in order to keep the game going, to win. The glass was loving every moment.
He closed his eyes, lowering his head, bringing the carpet flat against his cheek. He felt his aching body begin to settle as he lay still, feeling heavy. I can’t stay here, he thought. The door will get me and start screaming again…
Simmons woke up in his bed the next morning with a banging headache. It was six thirty am. He grimaced, searching the darkness with a tentative hand for the glass of water he always kept on his bedside table. Just when he thought he must have forgotten it, he knocked it over the side.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, trying to swallow, his throat dry.
He switched the bedroom light on and sat up wearily, scanning the room with one open eye.
The brightness hurt him. The sheets felt rough and worn to his touch, his bladder like a dam about to burst. He realised he was still wearing his shirt, his socks, his underwear. His trousers lay crumpled on the floor, by the bed, with his only pair of shoes on top of them.
He thought of Miriam, his ex wife.
Clothes lay scattered all over the bedroom floor where he had left them, day after day, meaning to wash them when he had a big enough pile to justify the effort. I must get a linen basket, he thought, swinging his legs out of bed.
He groaned inwardly at the smell in the room, the taste of stale air, leftover food and worn, lived-in clothes.
The door reminded him of the screaming man, and the ache in his jawbone filled him with memories of the previous night, lying on the floor of the living room, waking up at four am and crawling painfully to bed.
This would never have happened with Miriam.
Nursing his face, Simmons stretched and made his way unsteadily toward the bathroom, where he could deal with his full bladder.
Frank. Shit. Where’s Frank when you need him?
The bathroom was a small, six by six foot square of ocean-blue tiles, an ageing bathtub with a bleach stain down the middle, a dirty sink and a toilet bowl with a clashing maroon seat made of bent plastic. Simmons leaned on the cool tiles with one hand, hovering over the toilet bowl, taking aim.
He missed, peeing all over the seat, and cursed, angling his torso until he hit the well centre-on. His movements, the cool tiles, the clammy bathroom and the night before all conspired against him, sending his head into a dizzy spin. His bladder showed no signs of emptying as a sudden wave of warm discomfort flushed his body, rising from his kidneys, pushing bile up toward his mouth.
Simmons knelt down, under the strain of nausea, helplessly peeing all over the floor. His body went cold. The sweat he had worked up made a cool layer around him, stickin
g his creased shirt to his back. He breathed in sharply, a deep breath, tasting the acidity of his own urine floating in the bowl. His eyes snapped open as the bile rose, and it was all he could do to grip the bowl and hunch over it as vomit rushed into his mouth.
When he was empty, after the dry spasms that hurt his stomach and brought tears to his eyes, Simmons slid down the wall. He lay there awhile, breathing through his mouth, glad for the coolness of the tiles spreading across his back, through his soaked shirt.
His head was filled with images of Miriam, memories of a different bathroom, a different fragrance.
When he could manage it, he rose on unsteady legs and realised he’d been sitting in his own urine. Sickened, he flushed the toilet and slammed the plastic lid down before he could catch a whiff of its contents. Then, head still spinning, he stumbled over to the kitchen, where he picked up an empty pint glass from a pile of unwashed dishes and proceeded to fill it under the cold water tap. He drank it in one and filled it again, stooping to open the door of the small fridge with his free hand.
No food. Just scraps. Jesus, he thought, slamming the door shut. How had he survived before Miriam? He had spent the last three months readjusting his lifestyle, following his divorce, after almost three years of marriage. Although a career woman, Miriam had always taken care of everything around the house. In her absence, the scale of his uselessness was blatant. It appalled him.
Theirs had been a childless marriage, by choice. After the court settlement, Miriam had kept the house and had wasted no time in moving in her new love – the marriage wrecker. And now Simmons was alone, with a head full of painful memories and sour regrets.
He could – should – have done more, but he had always let his work take precedence over everything else. Coming home had always felt like taking time out and stepping into somebody else’s life and home. He would sometimes lie awake at night wondering who Miriam was, and how he had ever said words of love to her. And then, six months ago, she had announced one night that she had ‘fallen in love’ with her work colleague at the media company she worked for, somebody she shared a lot in common with. Unlike him.
The Man Who Vanishes_a gripping horror thriller spanning 3 timelines_One Man. Everywhere. Page 3
