by Rick Wood
Something that made every hair on her body stick on end.
A flicker of light from the outside the window.
With an air of caution, a caution she didn’t particularly understand, she edged toward the window and peered at the drive below.
And, on that drive, was a Mercedes, slowing down and parking.
21
Gray shook himself out of his funk.
Now wasn’t the time to get all dark and depressed about life.
Now was the time to focus. To listen. To make sure…
What was that noise?
He rushed to the window. Something went by, but it went too fast, he only saw the end of it, what was it?
He listened intently.
What was that?
Was that an engine?
The sound of an engine dying and a car door opening answered his question.
“Shit!”
He’d been so busy wallowing he hadn’t noticed.
Right, that was a car.
A car.
A car.
Dammit.
What now? What was he supposed to do?
He ran back and forth, trying to collect his thoughts, trying to distinguish between each piece of indeterminate panic floating around his mind.
What had Luke said? To warn them? How should he do that? What was the plan?
The grandfather clock.
He ran up to it. Looked it up and down. As tall as he was, but standing far more proudly.
What was he supposed to do?
Make it go. Make it go off.
Make the clock go off.
Right.
That’s what he had to do.
Make it make a sound. Go off. An alarm or something.
Does a grandfather clock have an alarm?
No, it doesn’t.
He reached his hands out to do what he was supposed to do – but how was he meant to do that?
How was he meant to make it make sound?
To go off as Luke had so eloquently put it?
He lifted the screen and took the handles in his fingers. He could move them easily.
He moved the handles to an hour. That would make it chime. It always chimed on the hour.
Chime.
That was it.
Just one chime.
One sodding chime.
That wasn’t enough! They were on the top floor, they wouldn’t hear that!
He bounced from one foot to the other.
He could go. He could run out the backdoor now, and he’d escape, uncaptured and unharmed.
Or I could fight the guy.
Hell, who was he kidding? He couldn’t beat up a kitten. The closest he’d come to a confrontation was when someone, by their own fault, spilt their pint on him, and he had apologised profusely to avoid getting punched.
He hit the side of the clock. Hit it again. Harder.
What was that meant to do?
Like the clock was going to make noise upon being assaulted?
He shift his body.
From one foot to the other. To the other. To the other.
Oh, shit.
He had no idea how to make it make sound. He should have asked. Should have thought about this.
Fuck, he should have done a lot of things.
Footsteps on the gravel driveway grew closer.
He looked over his shoulder at the front door.
It didn’t move. Or budge. Or falter.
Where was this guy going?
He tried opening the main body of the clock. It took a bit of a pull, but he managed.
All he found were cogs and whirs and a hundred things he didn’t understand. He had a history degree, not engineering. He couldn’t even mend a plug. He’d screw up putting a picture on the wall. What was he supposed to do with this?
He looked over his shoulder again.
He ran up a few steps and paused, gripping the bannister.
“Amber!”
Nothing.
“Luke!”
Nothing.
“Amber! Luke!”
He was barely even shouting.
He looked back at the door.
Screw it.
“Amber! Luke!” he screamed, so hard his voice broke under the strain.
No response.
It was too late.
It was all too late.
He rushed through the room, leaving the grandfather clock behind, through the corridor, back through the kitchen, to the backdoor.
The backdoor that opened.
The backdoor that opened and revealed a man,
The backdoor that opened and revealed a man with a large grin on his face, walking with a suave step and a suit to match.
“Hello,” said the man. “What do we have here?”
22
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Amber didn’t know what to do. She bounced from one wall to the other, running her hands through her hair, leaving them stuck in the solidity of her dried sweat.
She’d find Luke.
That’s what she’d do.
She’d find Luke. Carry on around the corridor, find him.
She began to run, then halted.
The bag.
It had everything she needed to save Mum.
Whatever happened, she couldn’t leave it.
She doubled back, picked it up, then carried on running around the corner.
She entered another new corridor, longer than the one before, to find two more corridors. She took one, to find another two corridors. She chose one, to find another three, then another two, until she stopped, suddenly aware that she was completely, unequivocally, totally lost.
She dropped the bag.
Stuck her hands in her hair.
Paced back and forth.
Should she go back on herself?
If she did, would she even know which way to go, or would she just be even more lost?
No, the best thing to do would be to go on.
She carried on walking, her legs feeling like they were filled with lead, like she was wading through water, like there were weights tied to her ankles.
She reached a dead end.
Just two doors, nothing else.
Maybe it was through one of those doors?
She listened. Tried to see if she could hear a car door opening, or, even better, a car driving away.
She listened.
Listened.
Listened.
Like she was going to hear anything this far up and this far in. She was in a labyrinth of undiscovered rooms.
She looked at the two doors. One of them would surely take her to the next corridor, or they’d be a throughway.
She should have just gone back on herself to start with. As it was, she had no choice but to shout.
“Luke?” she tried.
Maybe he was close by.
“Luke, are you there?”
She was going to have to shout louder.
If she wanted to stand a chance, she was going to have to raise her voice.
She closed her eyes, told herself she had no choice, that there was no way the guy would be this far up the house by now.
Maybe he wasn’t even inside yet. She hadn’t heard the grandfather clock. He could have left.
Could he?
“Luke!” she wailed. Or, at least, she tried as much as her weary voice could let her.
Nothing but an eerie silence responded.
Fuck it.
She tried the door to her left. It took a big of leveraging, being a bit stiff, but a good push forced the door to swing open.
Darkness returned her stare without disguise or fear.
She reached a hand out to the wall, searched for a light, but found none.
She searched the other side of the door.
She crept forward a few steps, reaching her arm out for something, anything, something that would guide her way. A chair, or a desk maybe.
Her foot kicked something.
She crouched, feeling her hand over whatever it was.
It felt stiff. Hard, yet soft. Something crusty.
A discarded plate, maybe.
She stepped over whatever it was and edged forward. Her outreaching hand touched a desk, and she grabbed hold of it. Searching the desk, she finally found a lamp.
She turned it on.
A gentle, orange-tinted illumination cast a small light over the room.
She looked at what she had just felt.
Eyes stared back at her.
Beside that, another set of eyes.
She recognised those eyes.
That girl… the news…
It took a couple of seconds to register that these faces were real. Empty, stiff – but real.
Once she did realise, she flattened herself up against the wall.
Screamed.
Screamed again.
Two blood-encrusted naked corpses lay upon the floor.
One of their heads was so bashed in that a wayward eye poked out, held on by a loose piece of artery.
The other’s hair was crusted to the floor via a puddle of dried red gunk.
One of them was still on all fours, stuck like a dog, rigid as a doll.
Eventually, her thoughts reformed some resemblance of coherence.
This was a mistake.
She wondered if she’d make it out of this house alive.
Part IV
IN HERE WITH ME
23
He grinned a lecherous grin.
Looked like he wasn’t going to have to venture out for his kill tonight.
No prowling the clubs.
No working on the right woman with the right hair and the right face and the right lipstick.
Not too much red, but a slight tinge.
Not too much perfume, but enough to excite him as they brushed past.
The stress over whether she was the right one. The worst thing that could happen is he’d choose the wrong one and have to go through all this for someone who wasn’t worth it.
But not tonight.
Not needed.
Could wait.
Maybe another night.
He’d arrived home to a beautiful sight.
He had everything he needed right here.
24
Gray’s feet itched. He swivelled back and forth.
Should he run at this guy?
Or should he run from this guy?
But this guy was standing right in front of the backdoor, and he was standing so, so still. There was no shock or surprise, no fear in his face, no holy shit I’m calling the police get out of my house – just a smile, slanting upwards at the side of his mouth.
Gray could try to fight, though he was sure he’d be lousy at it. He would quite eagerly apologise to someone who had barged into him so that person didn’t take offence to Gray’s existence.
Maybe now was the time to start.
But he knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to throw a punch. And he doubted that, if he did, it would have much effect.
The guy didn’t look particularly well-built. He was slim, but not muscular. Maybe that could work in Gray’s favour?
But, even though he didn’t look well-built, he still somehow looked powerful; the kind of man who would tread on Gray’s family then wipe the remnants off his shoe.
The man took a step forward and Gray immediately echoed the step backwards.
Why couldn’t Gray move any more than this? Why couldn’t he just run and hide or run and escape? Why was he so frantically immobile?
The man chuckled at Gray’s reaction.
“You look as white as a ghost,” the man observed. Not in an aggressive, demeaning or hostile manner – more like he was talking to an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while, like he was pleasantly surprised to see him.
Gray’s mouth stuttered open but only a feeble murmur came out. Not only did the ability to move escape him, so did the ability to talk or shout.
That’s what he should do.
Shout for the others.
Three on one and they’d be fine, right?
I mean, Luke knows how to handle himself…
Luke could take this guy out.
God, now I’m looking for my little brother to protect me…
No, Gray. Now’s not the time.
Run. Fight. Do something for Christ’s sake…
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
Gray went to answer then stopped himself, dumbfounded by the casual question.
“I said, what is your name?”
“I– I– I’m not telling you.”
The man nonchalantly shrugged.
“Fair enough,” he said. “I’m knackered. I’m making a coffee, you want one?”
The man sauntered into his kitchen and opened the cupboard, taking out coffee. Not instant coffee granules or powder or the Tesco value stuff Amber had been giving him since he’d arrived home – no, the man took out a packet of coffee beans, and began pouring them into the top of a rather fancy coffee machine.
Gray found himself absently floating into the kitchen, staying close to the door.
“You like it?” the man asked, noticing Gray’s stare. “Wilk Kopi Luwak coffee beans. Only the best. And this piece of genius” – he tapped his coffee machine – “is a Jura E8 bean-to-cup Automatic Coffee machine. They don’t make them like this just anywhere, I’ll tell you that.”
The coffee machine made a slight gurgle, but not an unpleasant one – less like a nasty drunk woman gurgle, more like a posh woman drinking tea type of gurgle; if there were such variations of gurgles.
“Do you take it black?” the man asked, taking two almost full cups from coffee machine, placing them on the side and opening the fridge, where he withdrew a carton of milk.
He poured a splash in one of the cups then turned to Gray.
“Well? Black or not black?”
“Er…” For lack of a better response, he found his stunned lips responding with, “Black.”
“I thought so. You look like a black man.”
Gray frowned.
Was that meant to be a joke?
The man put the milk back in the fridge.
Gray looked to the back door. The path was clear. He could run. He could do it, damn he could do it.
If only he could move.
By the time he’d decided he was going to have to move, it was too late. The man was inches away from him, handing him a black cup of coffee. Gray’s wide-open eyes stared at the cup. The coffee smelt magnificent.
“Cheers,” the man said, then took a sip. After his sip, he looked at the cup and said, “Damn, that’s good coffee. Tim Dixon Copper cups as well, no less.”
Gray nodded. A slow, subdued nod. Like he’d been concussed and was just starting to understand what was happening again.
“Would you like to sit?”
“Wh– what…” Gray managed, starting to notice the thudding of his heart, the racing thoughts bashing against the prison of his mind.
Why the hell was he having a coffee with this guy?
Why the hell was this guy giving him a coffee?
“Wh– what are you doing?” Gray finally managed to ask, briefly appreciating his own progress in finally speaking.
“What am I doing?” the man repeated, as if it was the most preposterous question ever asked of a human being. “I’m drinking some damn good coffee, that’s what I’m doing. What are you doing?”
“I… er…”
The man walked over to the table and kicked a chair out.
“Sit,” he instructed.
“I, er…”
“Sit,” he repeated, the first sign of venom in his voice.
Gray obeyed. The man then sat beside him, taking another sip on his coffee.
“Drink up. I don’t want good coffee like that going to waste.”
Gray lifted the cup to his mouth and, as he won
dered what on earth he was doing, he took a large sip of a rich aromatic blend that tasted bloody delicious.
“Good, huh?” the man said.
Gray nodded.
“Lovely. Right, now we’re sat down, and we have our coffee, would you mind terribly telling me what the fuck you are doing in my house?”
25
This was absolute bloody heaven, and Luke was loving it.
It was like a free-for-all of useless, expensive junk. Numerous holes were appearing in the lining of his bin bag from the pointed ends of all the fancy items he’d grabbed – all of which could get them more than the thirteen thousand they needed.
He bounced to the next room – a bedroom.
Honestly, how many bedrooms does one guy need?
Did he have staff living in them? Relatives? Family?
So far, there had been no photos in any of the bedrooms. In fact, they didn’t look lived in. Every bed had been made and every piece of wooden furniture was coated in a light graze of dust. Luke wondered if the guy ever actually came up here.
Such a waste.
As a child he’d had to share a bedroom with Gray. It wasn’t until Gray left for university that he was actually awarded his own private bedroom, but that’s only because Gray never came back to occupy the other bed.
Yet, here was this guy, with a ridiculous amount of bedrooms.
There were so many people living in poverty that could occupy those beds!
Yet, here they remained… Unoccupied and unused…
Honestly, after witnessing the interior of this ridiculously oversized egocentric mansion, he had no guilt or regret in robbing it, and no sympathy for the man who would arrive home and probably not even notice what was missing.
He had enough. His bag was bursting, and he was sure Amber had enough too.
“Amber!” he shouted out, waiting for a reply.
Nothing.
It was a big floor, she probably didn’t hear him.
He made his way back to the lift, where they had said they would meet, and dumped his bag.
He waited, listening for approaching footsteps or movement or something that would indicate she was done.
How long did it take her?
“Amber!” he tried again.
