6
Ashleigh was dead.
That much was obvious, even to Cheryse. Her head hung at a right angle to her body, twisted so it was looking back over her naked shoulder.
Blood spurted like a fountain from a wound in her throat, spattering the walls and the floor. Cheryse felt its warmth spray like a mist across her face.
She pulled back, and that was when she saw Samuel.
He stood in her parents' bedroom, hunched over.
He was naked and, his bare skin slicked all over with smears of red. He was staring at his hands, his eyes wide, his fingers flexing in and out, in and out.
Cheryse let out a gasp and Samuel's gaze flicked in her direction. His brow furrowed and his face twisted into a snarl. He launched himself at her like a sprinter off the starting blocks, going from stationary to full speed in the blink of an eye.
Ducking into the living room, she slammed the door.
Samuel thudded against it from the other side.
Again.
Again.
The force of the impact shook the walls and Cheryse stumbled backwards as the door's hinges gave way with a crackling sound.
She turned, but there was nowhere to go, no other way out.
Samuel lumbered into the room, like he wasn't quite sure what he was doing there. The sight of Cheryse seemed to jog his memory, though. The face drew up into a snarl once more and he hurled himself towards her, arms reaching, fingers curled up like claws.
Cheryse grabbed the glass ashtray from the coffee table and swung.
It hit Samuel on the temple with a sickening thonk. He staggered, thrown off balance, purple-red blood already flooding his right eye.
It took just a second for him to recover.
He pounced, moving too quickly this time.
His fingernails dug into Cheryse's forehead and cheeks and his weight brought her crashing down, his naked body pinning her to the floor.
"S-stop!" she squealed.
A hand was drawn away.
She glanced up and his fist smashed against her face, splitting open her cheek and snapping her head to the left.
Samuel roared and spat like a demented animal, but the sudden rushing sound in her ears all but drowned him out. She coughed and a trickle of vomit spilled out onto the carpet.
The floor rolled beneath her like the deck of a boat, and shadows rushed in to fill her field of vision. The stink of Samuel's sweat flooded her nostrils and smothered her lungs as he pressed down on her. She could only sob as his thumbs pressed against her eye sockets and the darkness was replaced by a rainbow of swirling colours.
"What the fuck?"
Lenny.
Samuel hissed and Cheryse felt his weight spring off her.
"Samuel? What are you—?"
There was a crash and a sharp yelp of pain. Cheryse dragged herself backwards across the carpet, the blaze of colour fading from her vision.
She saw Lenny swing a punch at Samuel. It cracked across his jaw, but Samuel didn't flinch. He caught Lenny by the hair and pulled back suddenly, bending him backwards.
Samuel's fist struck like a hammer in the middle of Lenny's face.
Once.
Twice.
Lenny's howl burst in a bubble of blood on his lips. He held up his arms to shield himself, but Samuel's teeth snapped down on his flesh, tearing free a chunk of skin and sinew.
With a triumphant cry, Samuel turned towards the window. He charged forwards, Lenny held in front of him like a toy.
"N-no!" Cheryse yelped, suddenly realising what was going to happen next. "No, no, don't!"
The window erupted outwards as Samuel forced Lenny backwards through the glass.
For one frantic fleeting moment Lenny seemed to hang there in space, his eyes wide, his face a mangled mess of blood and snot.
And then, like that, he was gone.
Samuel stood by the broken frame, his back to the room, chewing noisily on the chunk of meat in his mouth. Cheryse looked to the door on the other side of the room.
Could she make it?
Samuel seemed to have forgotten about her again.
Maybe if she was quiet…
Supporting herself on the wall, she stood up. The ashtray was still in her hand. She held it out like a shield and began to back towards the door.
Samuel stopped chewing.
He cocked his head, like a dog listening to some distant sound, and Cheryse knew in that moment she would never get away. He'd catch her before she even reached the hall.
There was only one choice left.
She closed the gap in four quick paces, the ashtray raised above her head.
Samuel spun, but by then she was swinging, bringing the heavy chunk of glass down, down, down with all her might.
It caught Samuel higher this time, just above where she'd hit him before. He buckled awkwardly, like a puppet whose strings had all been cut. His hands grasped limply at Cheryse, but she hammered down with the ashtray again.
Samuel stumbled. He hit the gaping wound where the window had been and for a heart-stopping moment just stood there, flailing his arms and trying to catch his balance, his teeth still chomping furiously on the chunk of meat in his mouth.
Cheryse let out a sob as Samuel seemed about to find his balance, but then he toppled past the point of no return, and fell screeching into the darkness.
.
.
.
.
12:09 AM
Davidson stared at the TV.
He pressed the channel up button on the remote. Rarely had the phrase 'Two hundred channels and nothing on' been quite so accurate.
The terrestrial stations were mostly showing test cards, with 'Please stand by' and variations thereof assuring him things would be back to normal shortly.
He'd almost let himself believe that, too.
Until he flicked over to Channel 4.
That was when he knew things were a long fucking way from normal.
Tony Hayes, the Channel 4 news anchor, was dead.
Davidson knew this because he was right there on the screen, half on a chair and half off, his white hair matted and pink with his own blood.
There was no sound from the studio.
Either the place was in silence or the audio had been cut. Davidson turned over to the ITV test card and back again, as if that would somehow force the image to refresh, but the anchorman was still dead when he flicked back.
Still lying there.
Still alone.
Still.
Silent.
Davidson pushed on through the other channels.
Channel 5 and Sky 1 had more test cards. He thumbed the channel up button again and almost sobbed with relief when a face – a living one – filled the screen.
The relief quickly faded when he recognized the face as a young David Jason.
It was an Only Fools and Horses repeat. The one with the chandelier by the looks of things.
Davidson watched for a few lingering moments, almost allowing himself to believe things were fine. If Del Boy and Rodney weren't worried, then why should he be?
He shook his head and continued up through the channels. Those that were still broadcasting showed repeats. The others offered apologies for the break in service, and vowed to be back soon.
Davidson returned to Channel 4.
The station's logo now filled the screen. Below it were the words "We apologies for the break in programming."
"Fuck the break in programming," Davidson mumbled. "What about the break in the anchorman's head?"
He switched the TV off and the room went dark. The remote fell to the floor with a clunk and Davidson puffed out his cheeks.
What now?
The landline was still dead. The mobile was still doing… whatever it was doing.
He'd eventually realized he could just switch it off, but when he'd switched it back on the screeching sound had started all over again, so he'd shut it down again sharpish.
With the phone down the internet was dead.
There was his police radio, but he'd left it in the car, and the car right now seemed an awfully long way away.
He should go get it, he knew. More than that, he should go get in the car and head to the station to find out what was going on.
Harkness would have his balls in a vice for missing all those calls, but Davidson didn't care. He'd gladly tighten the fucking thing himself if it meant not being sat there all alone in the dark with no idea what he should be—
There was a knock at the door. Davidson froze, suddenly regretting that last thought.
He liked being alone.
He loved being alone.
But the knocking continued, soft at first, but quickly becoming sharper and more insistent.
He peeled himself off the couch. The door was locked and the chain was pulled across, but that didn't make him feel any safer. He picked up the chef's knife he'd taken from the block in the kitchen and held it low by his side, blade pointing forward ready to deliver a sudden upwards stab if required.
The knocking continued.
Softly, quietly, Davidson made for the door. Holding his breath, he slid the little brass cover away from the spy hole. It scratched against the wood and the knocking immediately stopped.
Heart pounding, Davidson leaned closer, putting his eyes to the spy hole.
He grimaced when he saw the figure on the other side, and rested his head against the door.
"Hey, I know you're in there," said the girl. Davidson recognized her as the daughter of the couple two floors up. Leona or Cheryse or something. "I can hear you breathing. Open up. Please."
With trembling hands, Davidson turned the lock, but kept the chain in place. He opened the door until the chain went tight. The girl stood shivering in the hallway, her clothes and face awash with blood.
"You're in the Heddlu, right?" she said. Davidson thought about denying it, but slowly nodded. Tears rolled down the girl's cheeks, cutting tracks through the crimson.
"Let me in," she said. "Something's happened."
Davidson looked back over his shoulder, first at TV then at the broken window with the curtains wafting in and out.
"Aye," he said, his voice little more than a dry croak. "You're telling me."