“Shut up,” said Paul, firmly, shaking him. He didn’t seem to have too much trouble restraining him, being a lot larger, but Patrick wouldn’t stop shrieking and babbling. “Shut up. Shut up,” repeated Paul, shaking him by the arm over and over. Patrick kept on bellowing, and I suddenly thought about how all the commotion might be attracting attention.
“Paul,” I said, “the neighbours.” Paul looked up at me, anger still on his face, but he got it after a second. Paul paused, looked at the screaming man, and then pulled Patrick towards him, wrapping a thick bicep around his throat. He then slipped his other forearm under Patrick’s shoulder and up behind his squirming head and pushed, hard. Patrick’s voice immediately dropped to a squeak as his air cut off, but he still tried to curse us out. He made desperate rasping sounds that came in regular bursts, and flailed his arms fruitlessly backwards.
“Ssh,” said Paul, effort etched across his face, “ssh. Calm down.” Looking back, I think normally this wouldn’t have been too hard for Paul, but keeping the sleeper locked on as well as keeping himself upright, whilst standing this close to the heart of the pull—touching it—must have been a superhuman effort of will. I was impressed.
Patrick started to tire, and as his struggles lessened, Paul lowered him forward towards the sofa, finally dropping him slowly down so that he lay on the side of his face. At first I panicked—I thought he was dead—but then I saw he was breathing gently. I looked up at Paul, who had his hands on his hips now, taking in heavy breaths through his nose and pushing them out through his mouth. His face was covered in sweat. I stood there like an idiot, stunned not only by what had happened—and how quickly—but by my own lack of action or decisiveness. I had frozen, and furthermore I’d come up with no suggestions or contributions of my own since we’d arrived here. Sure, I’d gone in through the window and gotten us into the house, but that had been Paul’s idea. He’d done everything else, whilst I’d stood there and waited to be told what to do. I’d been full of ideas until now, running out of them when action needed to be taken, and quickly. Frankly, it was embarrassing.
“You okay?” I asked Paul, sheepishly. He nodded, not looking up from where he now sat the floor as he breathed. The effort of restraining Patrick had wiped him out.
“Uh,” he said in further confirmation, “just give me a sec. Room … room’s spinning.” His left hand felt the air around him blindly, and found the back of the sofa, which he then used to pull himself up. As he did so, I heard a faint whimpering; Patrick was already awake. He obviously hadn’t been as completely out as we’d thought.
I looked down at him to see tears running out of his screwed up eyes, his hands balled up into fists. He was muttering something as he cried, but in such a high-pitched, desperate whimper that I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Realising both that Paul would need a moment, and that this was my moment, I made my way over to the sofa and sat next to Patrick’s head. He didn’t seem to notice, which was just as well; my mind had gone blank. Totally fucking blank. All those questions, my future possibly hanging on finding out the truth. Now that the moment had arrived, I was freaked out. I don’t know what I’d expected to find here, but it wasn’t a crying wreck.
I tried to steel myself; I needed answers. A reporter gets answers. I had to do my job, had to think like a reporter, get past the weirdness and find out the truth. I suddenly thought that I should get my Dictaphone, so I could have a record for important future reference. That did it; just like that, the spell broke. Suddenly, it was work, and I was in work mode. Unfortunately, like an idiot, I’d left it in the car along with my bag and laptop, but a shift had occurred in my head and I was capable again.
“Paul?”
“Mmm. Just give me a minute.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m just going to the car. Can you keep an eye on him?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sure?”
“Uh.”
“Just sit on him if he moves, okay?”
“Will do.”
That would have to do. I quickly got up, nearly fell over, then straightened myself and staggered into the hallway. I shut the door behind me to slow any sudden bolting that Patrick might attempt. Walking to the front door, I was relieved to see that it was locked by a latch mechanism, and didn’t require a key to open it. Popping the latch, I pulled the door open—wedging it with one of my shoes to make sure it didn’t shut behind me—and wobbled out to the car, where I retrieved my bag. As I slung it over my shoulder and made my weaving way back inside, I realised that I felt strangely good, even with the physical onslaught I was enduring. This was what I knew now—work—but on a level that I had never experienced. Only a few before me actually had. I couldn’t get back inside quick enough; as I said, the shift had happened, and my momentum was building.
Pulling my shoe back out from under the front door, I kicked my other one off as well—we were guests here, after all—and shut the door behind me, making sure the latch was shut. I dumped my bag on the small table by the front door, fished out my Dictaphone, and brandished it in front of me as I opened the living room door.
“For future reference,” I explained to Paul, expecting him to be impressed by what he would see as simple forethought, not knowing my job. He was sitting on the arm of the chair now, looking at Patrick, and looked up.
“Oh, yeah, yeah of course,” he said, as if suddenly woken from a daydream. He waved a hand at me to say carry on, all yours. I switched it on, and sat down again next to Patrick, who hadn’t stopped crying or whimpering. I pressed record, the little red light came on, and I was away. I would listen to that recording a lot in the hours to come, during the waiting. If you asked me to back then, I knew it so well that I could probably have recited it word for word. I couldn’t manage that now, though.
But not because I don’t remember it.
***
(Sound of faint crying, and creaking leather as I shift on the sofa, moving closer to Patrick. I am the first person to speak.)
“Can you hear me?”
(No response.)
“We’re not here to hurt you. We’re sorry we had to break in, but you wouldn’t answer the door. We didn’t have a choice. We just really need to talk to you. I’ve come a long way to do it.”
(He says something now, but it’s barely audible.)
“Sorry? I couldn’t hear that?”
(He says it again, and it’s still hard to hear, but it sounds like ‘Lies.’)
“Lies? No, we’re not lying. We just think you might be able to help explain a few things. People are dying.”
“Please … please . ..leave me alone. I’ll do anything.”
(The voice is dripping in fear. It’s like he’s pleading for his life.)
“What are you so afraid of? What do you think we’re going to do?”
(There is a long pause, but the crying has stopped. When he next speaks, it’s in a harsh, broken whisper.)
“Something awful. Something terrible. Knew you were coming, felt you coming for days. Locked the doors. Couldn’t go outside. Couldn’t go outside. Had to be safe. Secure.”
“You … you knew we were coming? Like … I mean, the same way we knew how to find you?”
“Knew disaster was coming. Some disaster. Knew running would only make it worse. Had to hide. Had to hide. Had to get secure.”
(There is a pause again at this point; he opens his reddened eyes and looks at me. They stare into mine for nearly a full minute, his head trembling, and then he looks me up and down. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly clearer.)
“It’s … it’s not you, is it? You’re not the … disaster. You’re not it. And … he isn’t either, is he?”
“Try throwing something else at my head. Then you’ll see disaster.”
(That voice is Paul’s.)
“I thought …”
(Patrick breaks off suddenly, wide eyed in terror. There is a sound of rapid movement as Patrick bolts upright, and grabs my arm in a p
ainfully tight grip.)
“The window! You broke the kitchen window! It’s not safe!”
“It’s okay, it wasn’t the big one, it was just the little one—”
“No, no, it has to be fixed, has to be secure—”
“Okay, okay, we’ll let you fix it, but please, you have to answer some questions first—”
“But it’s not—”
“That’s the deal. Okay? Quicker you answer our questions, the quicker the windows gets covered. I’m sorry, I know it’s your house, but there’s some really bad stuff going on that you might be able to help stop. Okay? So calm down.”
“PLEASE!”
“Sorry, pal. That’s the deal.” (Paul again.)
(There is a very long pause, then a slumping sound on the leather, followed by heavy breathing.)
“Come on then, come on come on come on. Quick.”
“You said this ‘disaster feeling’ started a few days ago? Wait, what’s your na—”
“At work. I was at work. I was sitting at the computer, preparing the contract for the Anderson shipment, and then suddenly I knew that I had to go home immediately because total disaster was coming. It was COMING. I wasn’t safe out in the open. I looked around the office, and no one else knew it. Thought about telling people, but no time. I just grabbed my keys and left. I think someone asked where I was going. Didn’t stop. That was Monday. Haven’t left this room since, except for food and toilet.”
“This was Monday? Has it gotten worse since then?”
“No. I know it’s coming. That’s enough. I thought it was you. Can we fix the window now? Please? You said you’d help me!”
“What kind of disaster?”
“I don’t know, I told you. I’m not crazy. It’s coming. Just because I don’t know what it is doesn’t make any difference. If it finds me … something terrible will happen. Something … TERRIBLE. I … I have to stay here, and be secure. I’ll be safe in here. I’ll wait. I’ll wait it out.”
(There is a pause here, as I look at Paul. He returns my gaze, and I know we’re thinking the same thing. This house will not protect this man. Paul suddenly looks confused, and it’s him that speaks next.)
“Monday? But the Stone Man didn’t arrive until yesterday. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“The what?”
“The statue thing.”
“What are you talking about? Help me fix the window, you said you would.”
(The voice is pleading, desperate again, almost like a child. Paul speaks next.)
“The bloody statue thing that’s been smashing up half of the country, it’s the only fucking thing that’s been on the TV!”
“Haven’t had it on. Didn’t want to risk attracting attention. I’ve been very, very quiet … had to be SAFE!”
(There’s another pause, and I remember the confusion Paul and I shared here. We did not expect this. I speak next.)
“There’s … there’s something very big going on right now. And we think—well, we know—that it involves you.”
(There’s a loud intake of breath. I can still see his wide, terrified eyes. He doesn’t say anything.)
“We thought … you could tell us …”
(Silence.)
“You don’t know, do you?”
(Silence.)
“When you say ‘disaster’ … do you mean for you? Or do you mean disaster for … everyone else?”
“Don’t know. Don’t know. Please …”
(There is a loud, slapping sound of hands on thighs, caused by Paul slapping his own and standing. There is a stomping sound as Paul moves, and he speaks next.)
“THIS thing, THIS fucking thing—”
(Sound from the TV is suddenly heard as Paul turns it on, the steady sound of helicopter blades interspersed by occasional remarks by the on-the-scene commentator. The live feed is from high above, as always, although initially there is no visual other than an immense cloud of smoke in the middle of what could possibly be an urban centre. This goes on for a while, as evacuation updates pan across the tracker bar that runs along the bottom of the screen. The camera zooms farther suddenly, and although it is still shown at a distance, the unmistakable shape of the Stone Man appears from the smoke, unmistakable and unstoppable.)
“WHAT do you know about THAT thing—”
(There is a loud crash, so loud the audio distorts, as the glass coffee table goes over. Patrick has just leapt to his feet, striking it hard enough to upend it. He doesn’t even notice. He speaks next, his voice barely a whisper, strained and soaked in horror.)
“What … what …”
“It’s okay, just talk to us, and we—”
“It … it walked through a building … what is … the building didn’t stop it from …”
“Okay, calm down a second and we—”
“I’M NOT SAFE! I’M NOT SAFE! I’M NOT SAFE! I’M NOT SAFE!”
(There is flurry of movement followed by a popping sound on the recording, and it ends.)
***
The Dictaphone flew out of my hands as Patrick smashed past me. I was unprepared, surprised, and off-balance, as well as being barely able to stand as it was; I tumbled aside like a pathetic bowling pin as this half-starved, older man knocked me down. Paul lunged over to grab him, but his foot connected with the corner of the upended coffee table as he did so, and he tripped, slamming onto the floor for the second time in five minutes. Patrick flung open the living room door, fled through it, and was out of sight along the hallway, still gibbering. We made it to our feet as we heard the front door opening, and reached the hallway ourselves just in time to see Patrick’s pale body disappearing out of the house and onto the driveway. We lumbered after him, jostling against each other in our efforts to catch up, and reached the front door at the same time as Patrick was halfway across his driveway. In a second he would be out of the gate.
As it turned out, that didn’t matter. As he ran through the gate and out onto the street, we saw Patrick jerk upright suddenly, as if he’d been shot. His whole body then suddenly went utterly limp and buckled sideways, like a marionette with all of its strings cut.
Paul and I stood frozen in the doorway, shocked, and then Paul half-ran, half-limped over to Patrick’s unconscious form on the concrete. I shook my temporary freeze off and followed, but even close up I couldn’t see Patrick thanks to Paul’s bulk blocking him from sight. I suddenly had a very bad feeling indeed; this was all very familiar, and I couldn’t think why.
“What … what the hell …” said Paul, looking down at Patrick in amazement. I started to ask what was wrong, and then I heard it, and remembered where I’d seen this before.
“GCCAATTGAATTTGGCCCGTTAACTCAGG ….”
Patrick’s eyes were open but vacant, devoid of thought, and in this too he was exactly like the guy in the green vest I’d seen jump on the Stone Man back at the transport museum in Coventry. The same staccato, rapid-fire gibberish over and over, coming from Patrick’s mouth this time, low and steady. Paul looked up at me in confusion.
“What the hell is this? Is it the bang on the head?”
“No … I’m afraid not. Something else is at work here, I think. And it’s pretty worrying. This is long-range stuff.”
“This is to do with the Stone Man? It must be twenty miles away still, at least.”
“I know. Look, let’s get him inside, then I’ll tell you all about it. We can prop him up in the living room; I don’t think he’s going anywhere for a while. Then we’ll have a cup of tea and try to figure out what’s what. We need to calm down.” Paul nodded in response, then looked down at Patrick and sighed.
“Poor bugger,” he said. “Something’s messed him right up. Sounds as if he didn’t even ask for it either.” He paused, then touched Patrick’s arm, surprisingly. The touch was quite tender. “I shouldn’t have put the TV on. I was just … so frustrated. Being like this, and him freaking out, and not even knowing a bloody thing about the Stone Man, when all those people have d
ied … I just snapped. This is my fault.”
He was being hard on himself. Whilst I agreed that putting the TV on was a dumb move, I could understand his frustration. I squatted down opposite him, and hooked my hand under the still-babbling Patrick’s shoulder.
“Done now,” I said. “He might still be fine, we don’t know. At least we don’t have to worry about him doing anything stupid and hurting himself, and hey … it leaves our options open, doesn’t it?”
Paul stopped in the action of putting his hand underneath Patrick’s opposite shoulder to help pull him upright.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I just mean that we have to decide whether we’re going to try to take him to the Stone Man, or sit here and wait. And this way, with him like this, well … it means we have a choice, right?”
It made perfect sense to me, but Paul just stared at me for a long time, his eyes examining my face.
“What?” I said, tersely. I wasn’t having any more of this. What I’d said was absolutely true; we did have a choice to make, and regardless of anything else, Patrick being like this made it easier. Fact. We had a job to do, and Patrick was in no state to make choices now (not that he exactly was before). The responsibility was now ours, like it or not. Why couldn’t Paul see that?
Either way, he suddenly waved it off with his hand.
“Not yet. You’re right; tea. We both need a cup. Let’s get him inside and have some bloody tea.”
***
I badly wanted to shut the kitchen door for two reasons. One, in the unlikely event that Patrick was in any way aware of our presence, I didn’t want him to overhear this conversation, and two, more importantly, it would drown out the now incessant drone of his constant babbling in the living room. It was maddening, every syllable clipped and fully enunciated. It was obvious to us both why it wasn’t an option though, as we had no idea if Patrick might suddenly come to at any minute and attempt to run away again. Basically, we just wanted to keep an eye on the guy.
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