“I didn’t even know they had a dog,” said Sarah, moving toward him to examine his shoulder. She took his hand away, inspected the mess, and then placed his hand back on the wound. “It’s bad,” she said, visibly straining to hold back her emotion.
“Dad?” Connor stepped forward, moving in front of his sister.
Good lad.
“It’ll be fine. Just need a bit of patching up.” He smiled, but it hurt his face and his shoulder.
Sarah took off her sweater, then the T-shirt she was wearing underneath. She tore the shirt into bandagelike strips and put back on the sweater. “Best I can do,” she said. It took her several minutes to apply the homemade dressing to his shoulder, but when she had finished, the worst of the bleeding had stopped. Blood still seeped through the white material, forming dark red patches, but it was a slow process: seepage rather than a heavy flow.
Robert led the way as they moved across the drive, stepping carefully so as not to make too much of a sound. Soon they stood before the house…their house; the one that had been taken from them. The darkened lower windows were all shut, but upstairs they were all open, and the sounds of music and laughter drifted out into the night. Robert held Sarah’s hand; Sarah held Molly’s hand; Molly held on to the hand of her brother. And they stood there, in the open, watching the house and waiting; waiting for the signal they needed to pounce.
4:20 A.M.
The lights had been out for just over ten minutes, and Robert was convinced the time had come. They were sitting at the edge of the drive, shielded by the trees, and had been watching things closely. The figures had remained on the upper floors, flitting from room to room. Music went on and off. Once, briefly, they had heard sounds of rather energetic sex—screaming and moaning and the calling of names—but it had only occurred the once. Robert had no idea who had been fucking whom, and he did not particularly want to know.
“I think it’s time,” said Sarah, preempting him. “I think we should make our move.”
Robert stared at his family in the darkness, and to him they resembled a group of primitive hunters, weapons in hand, and hunger in their bellies. There was not a tear to be seen, nor had any one of them professed a change of heart: each was committed to the task at hand, and their determination was visible like war paint on their faces.
“Are you sure about this? All of you?”
They nodded, one by one, grimly.
“Then let’s go.”
They moved out of hiding one at a time, with Robert once again in the lead. He crossed the drive and went around the back of the house, looking for a way inside. The garage, behind the main building, was open, its up-and-over door sticking out like a metal tongue. The Cortina had been parked half inside, with its front wheels resting on the external gravel. Robert walked over to the car and bent down by the front nearside tire. He stabbed the tip of the knife into the tire, pushing his weight against it, and then removed it, smiling at the sound of air hissing out of the slit. He repeated this process on the other three tires, and then returned to his waiting family. “Just in case,” he muttered.
The only windows left open were those on the top floor, and he could trace a manageable access route up an external drainpipe and through the bathroom window. It would be tough going, particularly in the dark and when trying to be silent, but he could do it if he kept his focus.
“I’m going up,” he said, directing his gaze to the window in question.
Sarah followed his eye line, nodded, and turned to the children. “We’ll wait here while your dad climbs up, and once he’s inside he can go downstairs and open the back door. Then we’re in. Then we sort this thing out.” She looked back at Robert, and in the gloom, with her dirt-streaked face, he barely even recognized her.
“Stay quiet. If I’m not down in ten minutes, something’s gone wrong.” He did not know what to suggest if that did happen, so he simply let the sentence trail off into the night.
Sarah stepped toward him and kissed him on the side of the mouth. She did not say anything; she did not need to. Her gesture had said more than words ever could; he knew that now more than ever. Words were not real, they could be molded and manipulated and had more than one meaning, but gestures were made of more solid stuff, and between two people who knew each other intimately their meanings could be easily read.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He broke away and made for the drainage pipe. It was the old-fashioned kind, made of cast iron, and bolted firmly to the wall. He tested it with his hands, and it did not shift an inch when he tugged on it. He raised his hand and grabbed the pipe above his head, and then hauled himself up, his feet scrabbling quietly on the wall. Soon he had a good grip, and he began to make his way up the face of the building, hand over hand, foot over foot. He did not look down. He could not look down in case he caught sight of the ones he was leaving behind, down there in the dark.
His wounded shoulder ached, but he bit down and tried to ignore the pain. Robert had long believed in the concept of mind over matter, and here was the perfect opportunity to put that belief to the test. Gritting his teeth against the incessant burning at a spot deep within the meat of his shoulder, he climbed. He climbed for his life, or what was left of it. It felt like he was leaving reality behind.
Only when he reached the window did he pause to take a breather. It was a short climb, but in his condition it had been hard going. He hung there, like some giant mutant simian, and fought to regain control of his body. After a short while he felt ready to continue, and hoisted himself onto the outside lip of the window ledge. The ledge consisted of roughly an inch of rotten timber, and he was barely able to get his toes on its crumbling surface. He moved quickly, aware that the ledge could break away at any minute, and even if he did not fall, he would certainly draw attention to his clumsy attempt at entry.
He popped the window latch and opened it fully, then slithered up, forcing his hands and then his arms into the small gap. Wriggling wildly, yet trying to make as little noise as possible, he squirmed though the gap, his body tight against the frame. Then, finally, he reached the point of no return and the rest of his body slid through easily, sending him sprawling on the bathroom floor. He lay there for a moment, holding the knife to his chest, convinced he had disturbed someone with his racket, but when no one came, he dared to believe he had managed to enter unheard.
The bathroom was in darkness, and when he looked up at the light, he saw the bulb had been shattered. He trod carefully, not wanting to put a foot down on broken glass and wake up the whole house, and made his way from window to door. He glanced to his side, at the toilet, and saw it had been smashed. The stench was terrible—a strong meaty odor. The floor around it was wet and chunks of porcelain toilet bowl lay along the skirting boards. The mirror above the sink had also been shattered, and smeared with excrement; at least he guessed that was what it was by the smell. The sink itself was black, and filled with ashes.
Looking at the opposite wall, he glanced at the bathtub. It was filled with what looked like about a ton of bloody meat, and the sight stirred up a roiling nausea in his guts. The full force of the smell hit him, then, after he had seen the mass of decaying matter, and he placed a hand across his mouth to stifle the gag reflex. He refused to accept the meat was moving, that even now something (or was it someone?) was shifting within its terrible mass and preparing to sit up…