The road this time is long, wet and so dark I can only make out the faintest glimmer of light reflecting on the wet tarmac ahead. The man walking beside me stares straight ahead fixing his eyes on some distant object. His mind is difficult to read, but we push on together. I am not sure what I expected but it wasn’t this. You can usually tell what you’re going to get, or as near as damn it, so this is a surprise. There is a deeper darkness than usual from the space either side of the road, a sense of something there, that doesn’t wish us well, and I shiver. This is not going well, why the hell did I take this job? Apart from paying the rent and buying food, and feeding George, I was fine. Really. And I’ve done plenty of jobs like this, so this is no different. Except I have the uneasy feeling this is very different. The road has never been this dark, for one thing and for another, Mr Fink is a closed book, like he is keeping a very tight rein on his thoughts. And he’s walking so fast I feel like I’m in some army march and an irate sergeant will bellow, Move yer arse, yer lazy worm. He’s walking like he is being chased by the hounds of hell. Why am I thinking of the word Hell over and over? I take a deep breath and refocus ahead, listening to the sounds of my breathing. Mr Fink’s chest is rising and falling in panicked breaths, and I hear a moan from him. I start to sweat, this is not good. The darkness on either side of the road has thickened into a wall of seemingly solid black and I sense dread from it. Mr Fink’s eyes are now darting left and right to the dark and ahead I see a small white flesh shape emerge from the gloom. As we come closer, I see what it is and my scalp crawls: it’s a child’s hand, bloodless white, and wrinkled, as if the owner had been in water too long. Mr Fink is eyeing the hand out of the corner of his eyes, as if to look directly at it would cause its owner to come out…
This is a private blog