12
Davidson zipped up his jacket and tried to tuck the knife Cheryse had given him up inside his sleeve. The blade was much smaller than hers was, and he was able to conceal most of it, at least.
"You ready?" he asked.
Cheryse stood behind him at the foot of the stairs, her hairy hood pulled up over her head. She nodded abruptly, her eyes staying fixed on the heavy security door that was currently keeping them cut off from the world outside.
"My car is in the car park. It's only a hundred yards away. Just a hundred yards, that's all," he said, trying to convince himself as much as the girl. "We'll get to it, we'll get to the station, then we'll find out what's happening. It's going to be OK. OK?"
Cheryse gave another nod. She had the knife clutched flat against her chest, pointed downwards, her knuckles white on the handle.
"OK, three, two, one…" Davidson turned the lock and pulled open the door.
He jumped back, as if expecting someone to come rushing in at them, but all that came in through the gap was a swirl of cold air, and a faint smell of burning. Davidson and Cheryse both breathed out at the same time.
Davidson leaned around the door and looked in both directions. Far off on the left, just beside the corner, he could see broken glass on the pavement. There was something else there, too. It took him a moment to recognize it as a hand. The arm, and the body it belonged to, were mercifully hidden by the rest of the building.
"Coast's clear. This way," Davidson said. He began walking quickly towards the car park on the right.
There were five or six other cars parked a little closer, but he always made a point of parking his under the street lights in an attempt to dissuade any random pricks who might otherwise think about breaking into it. Right now, though, he wished he'd just parked the bloody thing closer and taken the risk.
Cheryse glanced around anxiously as they took a shortcut across the patch of grass – Dog Shit Field, she always used to call it – between the car park and the flats.
Outside, the sounds of sirens and alarms and distant shouting were much more in your face, and the longer they were exposed to it all, the faster her pulse began to race.
"What one is it?" she asked, keeping her voice low.
"There," said Davidson, pointing ahead to a dull grey Renault that looked mostly orange in the glow from the street light hanging above it. "Not much further. Don't worry."
"Andy," Cheryse hissed. She caught him by the back of his jacket and tugged hard. "Look."
Davidson turned in the direction Cheryse was staring. They were level with the rear side of the flats now, and in the gloom Davidson could make out a group of people all huddled together.
"Come here," he whispered to Cheryse, and they both ducked down next to the first car in the car park. They watched the group for several long seconds in silence, before Cheryse finally spoke.
"What should we do?"
Davidson looked around them, then back at the group. It was hard to tell for sure, but there seemed to be around eight or nine of them there. He thought he could just make out the old woman from downstairs – God, what was her name? – standing there in a dressing gown.
"They don't seem violent or anything," Davidson said. "We should talk to them."
Cheryse's eyes went wide.
"Are you fucking nuts?" she whispered.
Davidson frowned. "What? Of course I'm not, but look at them. They're not doing anything. Look, that's the woman from downstairs. What's her name? In the dressing gown. She's, I don't know, in her eighties. I hardly think she's going to cause us any trouble."
Despite Cheryse's hissed protests, Davidson straightened up. He glanced around again, then began walking quickly towards the group.
"Andy," Cheryse whispered, keeping low. "Andy, come back."
"Hello, there," Andy called, as he drew closer to the crowd. Almost at once, he realized his mistake. Every head snapped towards him as one, and in the faint orange glow of the street lights, he could make out their faces.
Twisted. Snarling. Wrong.
The crowd moved together, lurching from stationary to sprinting in a split second.
Davidson hesitated, transfixed by the jerky movements of the old woman from downstairs as she powered towards him on her bare feet.
From behind him, Davidson heard Cheryse shout his name, and at last he began to run. The air at his back was filled with a chorus of frenzied screeches and screams as he hurled himself across the grass and raced towards his car.
Cheryse was running ahead of him, head down, her knife flashing in the light as her arms pumped the air.
The car was close now, but the screaming and the gnashing and the thudding of running footsteps sounded closer still. Cheryse slammed up against the passenger door and yanked on the handle.
Locked.
"Open the door!" she shrieked, and Davidson fumbled in his pockets for his keys. His heart leapt into his throat. No keys.
Frantically, he swapped the knife to his other hand and checked the pocket on the other side. His fingers brushed against metal and he let out a high-pitched sob of relief.
Yanking the keys free, he pushed down on the remote.
The lights blinked and Cheryse dived inside.
Davidson chanced a look back over his shoulder, and his body went tight from the arse upwards. The mob was right at his heels, hissing and spitting and snarling like animals, their hands grabbing and clawing for his back.
The sight of them pushed him harder.
There was no time to make it all the way around the car, so he screamed at Cheryse to move over, and she hurriedly clambered into the driver's seat.
With a final desperate dive, Davidson hit the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. The charging crowd slammed into the side of the vehicle at full speed, and for a brief, horrible moment, Davidson felt like it was going to tip sideways.
He pushed down the lock on the door and thrust the keys into Cheryse's hands.
"Drive."
"I don't know how!" Cheryse yelped.
A figure pounced onto the front of the car and began scratching at the windscreen with her crooked fingers, her dressing gown flapping open in the wind. Mrs Maclean, that was her name. Davidson felt a strange sense of relief at finally having remembered it, but then the car rocked sideways again and the feeling passed.
He pulled on his seat belt and nodded in the direction of the ignition. "Then I hope for both our sakes you're a fast fucking learner."
.
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1:47 AM
Rhiannon Davies flicked open her eyes, then lay there for a moment wondering why. She slid her hand across the sheets, reaching for Johnny, but his side of the bed was cool and smooth.
Night shift, she remembered. Wouldn't be home for hours yet.
She wriggled around, turning her back on the rest of the bed. The LED display of the alarm clock flashed 00:11 at her, blinking on and off like a warning light. Through the fog of half-asleep it took her a moment to realize the power must have tripped out.
Police sirens had been wailing along the street all evening. Maybe the power cut had something to do with that.
The flash of another light caught her eye. One of the little red dots on the baby monitor flickered on and off again. It was little more than a blink, but enough to tell her that Micha was restless.
Rhiannon held her breath, not daring to move. Micha had been sleeping better these past few nights. They'd almost dared to believe that the months of sleep-depravation might be about to come to an end, but that tiny flicker from the monitor was enough to throw the whole dream into doubt.
"Don't wake up," Rhiannon whispered. "Please don't wake up."
She stared at the baby monitor, as if she could make Micha stay sleeping through sheer force of will.
She could hear her breathing – not the rhythmic sighing of sleep, but the louder huffing in and out of the wide awake and restless.
The little red dot flickered for a fraction of a second. Rhiannon tensed and gripped the duvet. This was still salvageable, she told herself. Micha may still fall back asleep.
The night wasn't necessarily a complete write-off yet.
She sat up and leaned in closer to the monitor, trying to get a better understanding of what was happening down there. Were Micha's eyes closed or open? Was she sitting up or lying down? If she could figure that out she'd know what the odds were of her darling daughter dropping back off.
The baby monitor buzzed softly in Rhiannon's ear.
She could still hear Micha breathing, but there was another sound, too. A scuff of footsteps on carpet. Rhiannon's stomach tightened and her lungs seemed to stop working altogether as she realized with complete clarity that her daughter was not alone in her room.
She'd never thought of herself as a brave woman, and even as she leaped from her bed and raced into the hallway in her pyjamas, she still didn't. Her baby – her daughter – was in danger. Nothing else mattered but that.
Micha's room was on the ground floor, but Rhiannon didn't even notice herself flying to the stairs, or taking them in bounds of two and three.
Snatching a heavy wooden candlestick from the sideboard, she barged into the room, throwing the door wide and screaming like a woman possessed.
"Get away from my baby!"
"What the Hell?" yelped Johnny, ducking and holding up his arms to protect himself from his wild-eyed wife. "It's me, it's me! Rhiannon, it's me!"
Rhiannon dropped the candlestick and covered her mouth with both hands. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks and she let out something that was halfway between a sob and a laugh of relief.
It was just bloody Johnny!