The Hollow Places - A Paranormal Suspense Thriller Read online

  Gloved fingers on the door handle, Firdy took a few seconds to compose himself. Perhaps quick and dirty wasn't the way to do it after all. He put his ear to the door and listened. He could hear her breathing, slow and regular, snoring lightly. All he had to do was creep in and this could really happen. There was no time for fuck-ups. When the Third returned, he wanted Sarah at his side.

  He pushed the handle down and edged open the door inch by inch, listening, holding his breath. The bottom of the door hissed over the carpet.

  Inside was dark, but he was used to darkness. Flimsy curtains at the far end of the room allowed in enough light for him to make out stacks of boxes. He stepped inside and craned his neck to see around them, noticing with confusion that the sound of snoring was no louder. If anything, it was quieter. He saw no bed, makeshift or otherwise. It was a small room and it didn't take him long to see that Sarah wasn't in it.

  He looked for a wardrobe or closet. Nothing. There was nowhere to hide.

  She had been here though. He was sure of that. That familiar smell was stronger than before. She'd been here moments ago.

  He'd checked downstairs and had then ascended the stairs, so there was no way she could have got past him. The window was locked from the inside, so she hadn't escaped this way.

  That left one more room.

  He crept back to the landing.

  Again, he could hear snoring.

  Finding Sarah, take two.

  He pushed open the door, ever so slowly, and this time the sound of breathing was louder. As he tiptoed in, he wrinkled his nose against the odour of sweat and deodorant. This room was significantly larger. In the middle was a double bed and in it lay a large man with his legs sprawled out and his hands behind his head, tribal tattoos visible on his muscular arms. This, he presumed, was the Ultimate Fighter; Sarah's protector.

  Firdy got down on to all fours, knees clicking, and looked under the bed. Weights. A sit-up bench. A box of books. No young woman.

  He saw himself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror that hung on one door of a built-in wardrobe; he was not a person anyone wanted to see upon waking. The knife was a creepy touch. The sight even made him feel uncomfortable.

  He opened the first wardrobe door with a click and pulled aside dresses, skirts and trousers. The wooden hangers clacked against each other. These would belong to the woman he had seen in the wedding photos on the stairs. The wardrobe was as it should be; no screaming girl crouching in the corner. He checked the spaces behind the other three doors with the same result.

  He crept across the room towards the bed, timing his steps to coincide with the man’s snores, thinking that this must be what it felt like to be a child. Once he was beside the bed, he found himself gazing at the man's chest, which was covered in wispy, light brown hair. A pectoral muscle twitched as he slept and a perfect arm swatted away a dream fly before the hand flopped down on the bed on top of the covers. His tribal tattoo ran from his shoulder to his forearm. It was called a sleeve, he knew; he had found some measure of acceptance in a bar where the clientele were primarily adorned with piercings and tattoos, Prince Alberts and sleeves.

  He touched the blue-black ink with a gloved finger and traced a line from bicep to forearm. The man stirred but did not wake.

  Firdy drew back the covers. The man was naked beneath. Beautiful, toned abs, strong thighs; his penis was small and uncircumcised; his pubic hair was shaved.

  Given the opportunity, he would have swapped his body in half a heartbeat. A new body, new memories, a new life. He would have swapped with almost anyone.

  The man grunted and slapped himself in the face.

  It was time to act before he woke up. He pulled out Simon’s mobile phone and punched in another message to Sarah. He sat on the edge of the bed, like a gargoyle, waiting for a reply.

  Apart from the smell, it was a pleasant room. It would be nice to sleep here. Comfortable. The floor-to-ceiling curtains glowed pink and orange with the rising sun. It was pretty. He had no desire to draw the curtains, because sunlight didn’t agree with him. Pale skin. No melatonin. He was thankful that it was autumn. Summer had been almost unbearable.

  He paced the room and while he continued to wait for a reply to his text a large screen television showed him another reflection of himself. This time he saw himself grey and deformed. He stared at himself, horrified, desperate to be done with this place.

  It occurred to him that he had neglected to search one place. On all fours, he looked under the bed. No girl clambering out the other side. Disappointed, he rolled the nearest of a pair of dumbbells toward him. It bore three metal weights on either end and was too heavy for him to lift. Of course it was. His fingers screamed as he unscrewed the clamp. With consistent pressure, the lever turned, giving up its grip on three of the weights, which he guided off the bar. He attempted to lift it again and this time he was able to raise it, arms shaking, above his head.

  Without the Third, the gloves were off, so to speak; he had to get to the truth quickly and he felt no shame in enjoying the process. In about five minutes, he'd either have Sarah's new location or a means of finding her, as well as anything else he wanted to know.

  He positioned himself beside the bed, ready to begin.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sarah had known that Simon would be infuriated to find that she had left the house, after his text had told her to stay put, but she'd had no choice. He'd have to be satisfied with her new location. He'd always stressed that she should stay in a public place if she was in danger and a theatre/community centre on the opening day of a play was a pretty good find. Geraldine had rushed in already, late because her husband had decided he needed the car and she had had to rely on Sarah for a lift.

  The double doors were wide open. Sarah decided that she would walk right in. She imagined that that was what Simon would do.

  Had to move from house. Sorry, but will explain when I c u. Now in community centre in Walthamstow. All ok. Not sure what the door no. is but on the high st, nr station I think.

  It was a touch too long for one text and she didn't want to sound like she was gabbling, so she started to condense it. She was concentrating, tapping quickly, when the phone rang and she almost dropped it.

  She waited, looking at the number, which had an Essex code but was otherwise unrecognisable. While it could have been Simon calling - maybe the battery had run down on his mobile phone - she had expected him to have reached London by now. Maybe there was a problem. Maybe this was the reason for the sense of dread she'd been unable to shake off.

  It wasn't long before the phone stopped ringing.

  If it was Simon, she'd know in about ten seconds.

  Two.

  Four.

  Six.

  The same Essex number appeared on the display. She waited three rings and it rang off.

  It was him.

  It rang a third time.

  On the fourth, she answered the call.

  “We need a quicker system,” Simon said.

  “Thank God you’re ok. You're still coming to get me, yeah?”

  “You think that I contacted you earlier, Sarah, but whatever was said, it wasn't me. A man has my phone. He's the one you replied to and he's looking for you right now.”

  Are you ok?

  I'm ok now.

  Where are you?

  Where are you?

  “Fuck.”

  “What did you tell him, Sarah?”

  “I gave him my friend's address, where I was staying. I texted him.”

  “Was staying?”

  “Yeah. I moved. I was about to text you. Or him as it turns out.”

  “What happened to our code, Sarah? The one we worked out. The one you said you understood.”

  “I woke up and there were four missed calls. I thought I'd slept through the code … are you there? I'm not at the house now anyway. I'm in a theatre in Walthamstow. Well, it's a community cen-”

&nb
sp; “Stop. Don’t be specific. I'm back, but I don't know for how long. Do you understand? You can't tell me exactly where you are yet. Now that I know you're at a community centre, I need you to move again, in case I'm not myself by the time I arrive. It's very, very important.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t go back to your friend's place for anything.”

  “Is she in danger?”

  “Don't go back there, Sarah. Stay in public. Don’t go anywhere by yourself, not even to the toilet. And leave the car. It'll make it too easy to find you.

  “Okay, Simon. I'll leave it here.”

  “Listen to me. Look out for a small guy – skinny, scars, sick-looking. He might wear sunglasses; he's got a dodgy eye. He might be wearing a hat, covering himself up.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you even think you see him, walk the other way. Stay public.”

  “Simon, I'm scared.”

  “Do as I say. I’ll call you with more instructions when I reach Walthamstow. It'll be from a payphone. I'll do the code, but let's make it three rings. I've got to go.”

  “Simon?”

  The line had gone dead and she had gone limp. She felt as she had done when watching Geraldine walk through the double doors without a look back; only this was ten times worse. Her loneliness swamped her. It had been waiting to do so.

  She closed her eyes and put her head down, sobbing so hard that it made her throat ache. Knowing that nobody would see or hear her for the moment, she let go, coughing, tears dropping from her cheeks and splatting on the coat that Simon had made her wear. It was the full works and it left her breathless.

  A few minutes later, she wiped snot from her nose with the back of her sleeve and tried to stop shaking. That morning, she had thought that if she started crying she would do so forever, but it wasn't so bad in the end; it seemed that she could only make so many tears and now that she was empty, she could get on with life for a while.

  She got out of the car, pleased to be ditching it, because that was where this nightmare had started. There was even a smudge on the door where Simon had tried to yank it open while she was moving.

  Head down, she headed towards the double doors.

  “What are you so upset about, darling?”

  The woman was wearing brown, leather boots, faded-blue, skinny-fit jeans and a long white coat over a fluffy, pink jumper. Evidently, she had slipped out of the community centre for a cigarette. She held it unlit in one beautiful hand. Long fingers, but short nails. With the other, she pushed neat, rectangular glasses up her ski-slope nose. Sarah smiled at her and scrubbed her face.

  “I'm fine,” she said and continued towards the entrance.

  “Darling, if you're feeling sensitive, I think you're better off out here. It's like Piccadilly Circus in there and they want to minimise traffic. They don't really want me in there.” She pointed to a poster in the window that was advertising the play. “And I wrote the fucking thing.”

  Sarah walked over to have a look. The play was called 'Sunrise Sunset'. The woman's name was Clare Harris.

  “I suggested a couple of changes,” Clare said. “Didn't go down well. They're not bad people, but they're under a lot of stress. You too by the looks of it. Are you meant to be working in there?”

  “No. I'm with my friend. Geraldine.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, it doesn't seem to be a spectator sport. Pre-match nerves.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Smoke?” Clare said.

  Sarah accepted and pulled one from her packet.

  “Got enough?”

  “You look like you need one more than me; that's saying something.”

  Sarah sighed and put it in her mouth. She wasn’t supposed to smoke, but Simon wasn’t here to see.

  She was alone.

  “Sometimes I think life would be easier without other people,” she mused as she lit Sarah's cigarette for her and then returned the cheap, plastic lighter to her coat pocket. “Present' company excepted, of course. Actors? We could definitely do without those.”

  “Aren't you nervous too?”

  “Shitting myself. Talking to you makes me realise that I need some normality. I can't stand the tension in there. It's not even nine o'clock and I'm thinking about getting drunk.”

  Sarah laughed, for the first time in hours.

  “You too, eh?” Clare said.

  Sarah nodded and took a deep drag on her cigarette. It tasted foul and she tried not to retch, hoping that the nicotine was flowing into her system quickly and would do some good.

  There wasn't much of a view. Across the road was a large grocery, which had already been open when she arrived, servicing a slow but steady stream of customers. On either side of that were uninspiring enterprises: estate agents, a textile store, a fast food chicken restaurant.

  Can you have fast food restaurants? she wondered. Isn't that a misnomer?

  Up above, a flock of about a dozen birds broke cover, taking up a triangular formation, like an arrow, as they passed overhead.

  “Have you ever wished you were something else?” said Clare.

  They locked eyes then and Sarah knew that they could be friends. Although, that was the way she had felt about Geraldine and she had made a mess of that.

  A bus pulled up nearby, wheezing like a wounded animal. The engine grumbled. Sarah's eyes flitted over the windows. Every face she met seemed to be looking out at her. She glared back, angry, vulnerable. As the bus moved off, she stuck her tongue out and felt better for it.

  Even the drivers of cars were looking at her as they accelerated by. She found herself searching their faces for sunglasses or a gammy eye.

  He might be wearing a hat.

  Covering himself up.

  I need to get off the street, she thought. The street is too public.

  Clare flicked her cigarette up in the air and it bounced off a taxi cab window before landing in the gutter.

  “Shot,” said Sarah.

  Clare shoved her hands into her pockets. “I'm going down the road for a coffee. Nice to meet you, babe. Try not to worry too much. And don't go in there unless you have to.”

  Sarah watched Clare walk away, hips swaying naturally in her long, white coat.

  Ever wanted to be someone else? Yes. I'd swap places with you in a heartbeat.

  “Wait,” Sarah said.

  Clare turned, looking to see if she had dropped something.

  Simon had warned her to move location. “Do you mind if I come?” she said. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  Clare wandered back towards her.

  “You seem like a nice girl,” she said, “but I've got a lot on my mind. I wouldn't say no to some company, but if you start crying again, I don't know if I could bear it.”

  “I'm not going to cry again,” Sarah said, not sure if it was true, not sure that she wasn't going to cry at that exact moment. Accordingly, Clare didn't seem convinced and so Sarah thought of Simon and what he would think of her if he saw her like this. “I'm fine,” she said and this time she believed it. “I'm buying.”

  There were no more flocks of birds to punctuate the moment. The sky, the air, the faces in the windows: all empty.

  “This way,” Clare said and Sarah's shoulders sagged with relief.

  As they walked, Sarah looked out for Simon, and also for the man he had warned her about. She did her best not to appear frightened, but it was difficult because seeing one of them would mean life and seeing the other … she didn't want to think about that; not while there was hope.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I'm looking for Sarah,” Firdy said. “Who the fuck is Jerry and why the fuck should I care?”

  The man spat blood. Firdy had hit him too hard. Or too many times. In minutes he would be no more use.

  Jerry. Jerry. Jerry. That's all the man was saying. Who was …

  “Geri,” Firdy said. “Geri is your wife?”


  The man managed to nod.

  “Sarah is with Geri.”

  “I … don't know … I think … so.”

  Firdy clenched and unclenched his fist. It wouldn't do to hit him again. Not yet anyway.

  “And where is Geri?”

  The man's eyes rolled back in their sockets and Firdy slapped him, grabbed his mouth between finger and thumb. “Tell me where she is, and I'll go. I won't hurt you anymore. I won't kill you.”

  The man's teeth, those he had left, were bloody. “Play,” he spat. He pointed to the bedside table.

  Firdy pulled open the drawer, expecting to find a dicta-phone, but instead he pulled out a bible, some scribblings and letters, more Ultimate Fighter magazines and a flyer.

  “Oh,” Firdy said. “Play. Like the theatre.”

  The man wheezed.

  The play opened this afternoon and then would be performed again tonight. Geraldine was on the cast list. She'd probably be rehearsing.

  “Th-theatre,” the man said.

  “I understand,” Firdy replied, gazing down at him. “I smashed you up pretty good.” He wiped his bloody gloves on the bedsheets and put the flyer in his jacket pocket. “Thank you for this.”

  As he walked towards the door, the man struggled to speak again.

  “Don't ...”

  “I don't have time,” Firdy said.

  “Don't … hurt … Geri.”

  “I told you. It's Sarah I want. As soon as I have her, I'll leave you both alone. You'll never see me again. I mean that.”

  Nervous and excited, he skipped down the gloomy stairs and out into the street. It was no longer dark enough to hide what he was going to do, but he had to finish this anyway. It didn't have to be clean. It only had to be quick. In twenty-four hours, there would be no way to trace anything back to him.

  *

  George attempted to roll onto his side, gurgled and spat blood. As he inched across the bed, his chest burned. He couldn't move his neck enough to see the damage the man had done to him, but he suspected that that was for the best. If he saw the state of himself, he'd probably pass out. He'd already pissed himself and he was far from proud of that.

  In the second drawer of the bedside table, he turned over a mass of envelopes and reached under a magazine until his fingers felt the leather of his mobile phone case. Aware that every second left Geri in danger, he stretched, cried out and hooked the phone with two fingers, dragging it towards him.

  Eventually he was clutching the phone and he concentrated on not passing out. Not only did he have to warn Geri, but if he succumbed to sleep, no-one would find him until it was too late; he might not wake up, not in hospital, not ever. Geri was the believer in God. He believed in nothing and he wasn't ready to go yet. He hadn't given it enough thought.