“Fucker’s … in there,” breathed Paul, the words slightly muffled by his hand stemming the blood flow from his nose. “I can almost see him, can’t you? He’s in the front room, right there.” I knew what he meant; if I concentrated, the awareness of Blondie’s presence was so strong that I could almost conjure a vision of his outline. I tried harder, leaning on the wall myself so that my efforts could be totally focused, trying to home in on our quarry. The outline became clearer but still vague, like watching someone through extremely bad thermal imaging.
“Bloody hell, Paul, you’re right,” I said breathing hard myself. “He’s on the … other side of this wall. He’s …” Something wasn’t right. The outline seemed squashed, misshapen. I concentrated as hard as I could, but it didn’t change. It was then that I realised there wasn’t anything wrong with the image, it was the just the angle that I was ‘seeing’ it from.
“He’s … low,” I said. “Isn’t he? He’s low down. He’s lying on the floor … he’s asleep on the floor?”
“Nope,” muttered Paul, grimly. His eyes were shut and his forehead was knotted in concentration. “That’s not someone asleep. That’s someone hiding. He’s hiding and hoping we’ll … go away. He doesn’t want us to find him.”
Opening his eyes, Paul straightened up, swayed for a moment, and then moved to the letterbox and bent down. He pushed it open with his fingers, and spoke loud enough for his voice to carry inside the house but not out in the street.
“Hello?” he called, gently. “My friend here has … come a long way to see you. We know you’re in there, so there’s no point in thinking … we’re gonna assume you’re out. This all gets done a lot … a lot quicker if you just come and open the door like a good lad, and we’re not … here to hurt you or do anything nasty.” His struggling voice softened slightly, and he took on a more reassuring tone. “Seriously, we just … want to talk. But listen, this looks like a nice house, and I’m … sure you want to keep it that way, so it’s probably best that you come and open up, ’cos one way … or the other we’re coming in. Trust me, mate. And hell, I honestly don’t want to break anything to get in, as … uh, you know, I’d feel bad about that. Really. So do us both … a favour and stop pissing about on the bloody floor, up you get now.” When he stopped speaking, he turned his ear to the open letterbox and waited, closing his eyes again and rocking on his heels slightly as he got his breathing under control again. After a while he looked up at me, raised his eyebrows and shook his head. He then turned his mouth back to the letterbox.
“Okay,” he called, “but I’ve got to say I’m not … happy. Don’t worry, I still won’t do … anything when I get inside, but you’ve made this into far … more of an all-round ball ache for me than it needed to be. Not good to make a man’s day … harder for no reason. Poor form.” He waited for a moment for a response, then let the letterbox shut and straightened up. He let out a weary sigh, shivering slightly as it left, and then shrugged slowly at me. “Right, fuck it, we’re gonna … smash a window in round the back. I’m not pissing around here all day. Silly sod. I can’t take much more of this … need this shit to stop. Come on,” he said, beckoning me to follow as he stepped down from the door and made his way round the back on shaking legs. I didn’t reply, and meekly followed instead. What was there to say? He was right. We were going in one way or another, so we might as well have been getting on with it. I did wonder, however, how he planned to smash in double-glazed windows without any heavy blunt objects, or at least alerting the neighbours.
The answer to the first question was fairly immediate; Paul checked the garage door at the end of the short driveway, found it to be unlocked, and disappeared inside. I leant on the house, breathing slowly whilst I waited, and he shortly returned carrying a small hammer and wearing a satisfied smile.
“Neighbours … neighbours will hear you,” I said, shaking my head.
“Aha, not true,” he said, pointing at the rear of the house that I couldn’t yet see from where I was standing. I peeled off the wall and staggered towards him, resisting the pull that was trying to drag me through the brick wall and towards our target. The garden at the back was small but neat; no plants here, but several garden ornaments were present (stone bird table, ornate paving slabs down the middle, stone heron stood in the corner) and the whole thing was surrounded by a high wooden fence. All in all, nothing dazzling but perfectly pleasant, and again at odds with what I’d expected to find here.
Paul was pointing towards the back wall, or rather the section of the back wall that stuck out about seven feet from the rest of the house to create a small, one-storey extension. Embedded in the wall there was a door with a large glass panel, and to its right was a small double-glazed window.
“The trick with … double glazing,” he breathed, pointing with the hammer now as well, which swayed left and right as his wavering hand held it, “is to get it in the corners, you see. It’s extremely strong in the middle, but in the corners …” he tapped his nose and grinned, pleased with himself.
“How do you know?”
“Friend of mine. Builder,” he said, staggering over to the window, “and this baby … here is small enough so that when it shatters—and it will shatter, into lots of little bits—it won’t be that loud. We could both go through … door panel, but the sound of that … size of breakage would attract attention, so we’ll do the window.”
“You’ll never fit!” I exclaimed.
“No, I won’t, but you will. And I’m sure you’ll … find a key back there.” A thought occurred to him, and he rattled the door handle. Locked. “Just … checking,” he said. He closed his eyes once more, took a few breaths in through his nose to stay himself, and then went to work.
I felt a jolt of fear pass through me as Paul took aim at the bottom corner of the window and gently drew the hammer back a short distance. Not fear of alerting the neighbours—I thought Paul was right about the window being small enough to make minimal noise—but of the idea of me having to go through solo. We knew nothing about this guy and who he might be. Yes, he was currently hiding from us inside, but that didn’t mean he was defenceless. If he were linked to the Stone Man, the possibilities were endless. What if he were hiding not for his own safety, but to avoid a situation where he might have to kill us? It was a crazy thought, but compared to the last two days it was well within the realms of reality. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I had no problems breaking in when it meant a: I’d be breaking in with a large man as backup, and b: Paul was going first. Now it was me going in alone, with no guarantee that I’d be able to get Paul in, and certainly not in a hurry if I needed to. Even through the already-present adrenaline, shakes, and racing heart rate, I knew that I was scared. But the job had to be done, and I was glad of Paul’s all-business approach to things; he made it hard to hesitate, stopped me from chickening out.
Paul struck a corner section of the glass with the hammer and it shattered beautifully, making a noise but certainly nothing to attract attention from neighbouring families undoubtedly huddled round a TV in the house next door. He dragged the hammer’s head around the edge of the frame, clearing any remaining jagged bits, and then leant his head through and looked at the opposite side of the door.
“Ah, good. Key’s … in the lock this side. Can’t reach it from here though.” He looked at the room. “Back porch and utility room or something. Washing machine here … nothing exciting.” He stepped back and laced his fingers together, palms up at stomach height. He fell back against the wall for support and bent his knees slightly, breathing in heavily through his nose again to steel himself.
“This is gonna be … harder than normal,” he said, and jerked his linked hands upwards briefly, beckoning me. “Come on then, good lad.” Whilst I was greatly reassured by the fact that the key was in the door, and that Paul would be in straight after, I couldn’t shake the fear now. I could feel that Blondie was still at the front of the house, but he would now know that we were coming
in. We knew nothing about him except that he was involved with the most fantastical, impossible, indestructible thing that the world had ever seen, and that he didn’t want to talk to us. And here we were, breaking into his house against his will, his capabilities unknown to us.
The only other option, of course, was to walk away, and that was impossible. I moved forward, stood facing the squatting Paul, and gripped the window frame with hands that felt as brittle as the glass that now lay all over the floor inside. I wasn’t even sure that I could do it, but I was going to try. Without a word, and after a brief glance into Paul’s eyes, I put my foot into his linked hands and boosted myself through the window frame.
It was a reasonably tight fit, but I could still make it through without too much trouble. The problem was on the other side; Paul was right about it being some kind of rear entryway that doubled up as a utility room, with two wash baskets and a washing machine on the right, and some coats hanging from a rack on the left-hand wall. A small row of men’s shoes lay underneath them. There were two doors leading out of the room, one on the left wall and one in the wall directly ahead of me; the latter was the one we wanted. Blondie was farther inside the house. I went to stretch for the washing machine to prop myself up on whilst I pulled a leg through—one hand holding the window frame as I reached with the other—but even though I could just about get a hand to it, the distance was too much. In my current state I didn’t have the strength to hold myself up properly at such a stretch, and my stomach was doing most of the work. Below me, the floor sparkled, reflecting the sunlight back from a thousand shards of broken glass. I let go of the window frame to get a second hand over to the machine, now breathing very heavily and sweating hard already, but the muscles in my stomach that had been keeping me horizontal suddenly had nothing left and I pitched forward. I just had time to have another grab at the machine as I fell, but my arms were too loose and my momentum was too great. My legs were dragged through by the weight of my torso, and my whole body crashed to the floor.
I cried out in fear as I hit the deck, panicking as I realised that I was crashing into a sea of broken glass. I could hear Paul shout my name, and more out of panic than quick thinking I twisted as I fell, effectively causing myself to forward roll. I grabbed out blindly as I came up onto my backside, hands finding a coat, and pulled myself, frantic and gasping, to my feet, waiting for the pain that would shortly be screaming across my lacerated back and shoulders.
It didn’t happen; I’d been lucky. The many tiny fragments of glass were simply stuck to the back of my shirt, none of them penetrating the fabric. Incredibly relieved, I pulled a coat off the rack and used it to brush them off me as I tried to calm down. Paul was frantically stage whispering something at me as I stood there, breathing hard, my whole body shaking so much now that I thought I would fall straight back down onto the glass, and face-first this time. That thought got me steadied pretty sharpish, and, one hand on the wall for support, I staggered over to the door and turned the key. As the door opened and Paul came through, I whipped my head round to look towards the other side of the house. Paul started to speak, and I held up a hand to shush him. I wanted to listen.
After a moment, I was convinced no one was coming. Plus, I could still feel that Blondie hadn’t moved. Or had he? Not from the front room at least, I was sure of it, but had he moved round, perhaps now facing our direction? I thought that he had. He was conscious, then. If so, he definitely knew that were we now inside the building.
“You all right?” whispered Paul, looking at my face and hands. I gave him the thumbs-up, and he let out a quiet rush of air. “I thought you’d broken your neck,” he said, shaking his head and patting me on the shoulder. His concern was sincere, and touching.
“No, I’m fine,” I whispered. “A little bruised on my hip, I think, but I’m okay. You can go first the rest of the way though.” Paul smiled briefly and nodded, accepting the suggestion without question and moving towards the door at the opposite side of the small room. His response wasn’t a display of bravado, but simply that of a man getting on with things. I found myself wondering how much—or at all—he’d considered the unknown quantities here, the strong possibility of danger. I wonder now who would be the better man if it turned out that he hadn’t.
The door wasn’t closed all the way, and when Paul pulled it, it swung inwards silently. Beyond it was a dark hallway; the only light inside this part of the building came from the small glass panel in the front door at the other end. The wallpaper was covered in a raised pattern, and was some kind of shade of white, adorned with several small picture frames whose images couldn’t be made out in the darkness. On the right was a staircase, and there was no light from the top of it either; presumably the bedroom doors were shut on the upper floor as well, shut like the single door in the left-hand wall; this was the door that Blondie currently lay behind, hiding. Or waiting.
***
Later, someone told us Blondie’s name was Patrick. Patrick Marshall. We didn’t get to find out at the time, you see. Of course, we’d have known eventually anyway. It wasn’t long until the whole world knew his name.
***
Paul went in first, as requested, and slowly made his way towards the door in the wall, moving very quietly for a big man; he’d even managed to slow his erratic breathing. He turned his head to see if I was following and, embarrassed, I realised that I wasn’t. I held my hands up, nodded quickly, and began to follow. Paul shook his head a bit, then turned back and carried on walking. In a few steps he’d reached the door. He grabbed the handle, looked at me, and then raised his eyebrows. Ready? I wasn’t anywhere near ready. I could barely even stand, and I felt like my eyes were burning, but I gave him a shaky thumbs-up. He nodded, turned the handle, and slowly pushed the door open.
The room beyond was as dark as the hallway, but even in that dim light, the effect on us both was overwhelming; unless you’ve ever had a vivid dream that later appeared in front of you whilst you were awake, you won’t know what it was like. This was the room from our shared vision, as expected, but to see it in front of us—to be about to step into it—was mind blowing. After the last two days, to be amazed was quite a feat.
On the floor against the wall, ten feet or so away, was the same shattered picture frame, showing the same image of a far-neater Blondie clutching his certificate proudly. The same clothes, strewn everywhere. And bits we hadn’t seen before, as the angle had been different; a glass cabinet against the back wall, tucked into the left-hand corner and full of various corporate-award-looking trophies. These were the usual engraved, cut glass affairs given to regional salesperson of the year and the like. To the right of that was another door that presumably led to a kitchen—unless this house had the extremely unusual feature of an upstairs kitchen—and to the right of that was another picture frame, this one intact, full of photographs taken at various tourist locations. It was too far away to see, and we weren’t really paying attention to it, but I thought I saw Blondie posing with different people in each one. Blondie was a sentimentalist, it seemed.
I stuck my head further in, looking around Paul as my curiosity overwhelmed me. I could now see the empty TV dinner trays, strewn everywhere (including the top of the large, expensive looking coffee table that we’d previously seen) but accompanied in the flesh (or foil, as it were) by the unpleasant smell of leftover food and sauces developing a life of their own. The TV itself, a large plasma one that stood in the corner, was off. It faced the large leather sofa that, in. stark contrast to our previous vision, was now empty.
I looked at Paul, giving him an exaggerated expression of puzzlement. Where the hell is he? Paul started to shrug, and then seemed to think of something and held up a thick finger. The finger went higher in the air, and then the hand arched and the finger moved downward. Up and over; Paul thought Blondie was hiding behind the far end of the sofa. He tapped the side of his forehead. You can feel it, can’t you. In the excitement—and the fact that the pull was alm
ost unbearable at this range, so overwhelming that you actually had to focus to find its true direction—I realised that he was right. If I concentrated, I could feel that it came to a sudden stop point, right at the last inch, and that point was behind the far left arm of the sofa. I took a deep breath, and my skin seemed to ripple spastically across my back. I gave Paul another thumbs-up. He returned it, and then something took a chunk out of the wall to the left of his head.
I jumped a whole foot in the air, crying out, and Paul jerked away in response, losing his footing and falling over. There were two heavy thuds, one after the other; the flying object hitting the floor, and Paul’s head connecting with the door. I suddenly couldn’t get my breath—everything in my body was already running at maximum, and this was too much—as my wide and searching eyes scanned the room frantically, looking for more incoming projectiles. I saw that which had narrowly missed Paul’s head; it looked like a bookend in the shape of a horse and rider, made of metal. It had been thrown.
“Fuck!” shouted Paul in pain, holding his head with one hand and grabbing the door handle with the other, pulling himself to his feet. “You little twat, you could have fucking killed me!” I stood there dumbly as Paul brushed me aside and strode angrily round the settee, hearing a voice shouting weakly in response as he did.
“Get out!” the voice cried, sounding cracked and fragile. “This is my house! You’re intruding in my house! Get out!” Now Paul was bending down, and hauling someone to their feet, someone who was babbling and cringing at the same time. That someone was Blondie, wearing only a dirty white vest and underwear, covered in food stains. He was shorter than Paul—possibly slightly shorter than me, even—and although he was gaunt in the face, he still had the remains of a belly. His eye fell on me, and although Paul had a hold of one arm, Blondie pointed at me with the other.
“GET OOUUUUUUTTT!!” he shouted, having found his voice. His eyes bulged from their sockets, showing yellowing teeth that hadn’t been brushed for many days. “LEAVE ME ALOOOOONNNEE!!! YOU SHOULDN’T BEEEEEEEE HEEEEERE!!” It was the cry of a lunatic. Blondie was clearly at his breaking point, if not already past it. Sorry … not Blondie. That was just what we called him. Patrick. His name was Patrick.
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