The Hollow Places by Dean Edwards

floorboards
and the grey camp bed against one wall. Its tail curled as it did
so. Simon thought that it was strangely playful for a beast that
was able to rip his face off with one bite.
    It peed on the
floor. When it was finished, Firdy checked the rope and collar,
which were attached by a single, metal clip and then tied the other
end of the rope to Simon's desk, which was to one side of the door.
He saw no ink stains on the desk, but found scratches and burn
marks, probably from where Simon was making weapons, he thought. He
had to remember that there were weapons stashed all over the house
and that Simon was dangerous. He was glad he had brought the
Dog.
    “The numbers,”
Firdy said when the rope was securely fastened. “The counting. The
footsteps. The breaths. Are you a Buddhist or something? Let's see
how long you can keep it up.” Firdy's eyes narrowed, searching. He
thought he almost had something, but it eluded him again. He gave
up for now. “Don’t move or he'll rip your head off. The rope won't
protect you; it’s to stop him leaving the house if he decides to
kill you. Stay still and you'll be fine. I’ll free you when I find
your sister.” He stroked the dog’s head. “Do you want to give me
that information now?” he asked Simon.
    “I can't,”
said Simon. “I don't know where she is.” Once more, he was telling
the truth.
    The dog
watched Firdy limp out of the room, then it lowered its head and
sat like a Sphinx, its bulky hindquarters thudding against the
floorboards.
    Simon turned
away before panic took him and made him do something stupid. He
thought of nothing. The dog sensed deceit and readied itself to
spring.

Chapter
Eight
    After the neatness of Simon’s room, Sarah’s bedroom
made Firdy’s head spin. He sat on the psychedelic, flowery sheets
of the bed, still unmade, and attempted to take everything in. It
was the room of someone much more childlike than he had expected,
though he could smell a sophisticated perfume and cut flowers,
dying lavender in a vase made of an old, white wine bottle. Beneath
the various scents he could smell her skin. Like fresh air, he
thought. He gathered up a t-shirt that she had slept in and put it
to his face. His eye rolled back in its socket.
    Shaking, he
put it in his pocket for the Cat. Her sense of smell, should he
require it, was much more profound than his and, perversely, better
too than the Dog's. She was faster, smarter and more independent.
She didn't go on the lead. She was constantly honing her skills and
kept her claws sharp. Should he need her before the night was out,
she would make a perfect hunter and retriever.
    Sarah's walls
were adorned with scribblings and sketches, postcards, notes in
varied handwriting, things to do, things to buy, places to go,
magazine clippings, supposedly humorous articles about animals or
unlikely things that had happened to 'real' people – and
photographs.
    Firdy squeezed
his throbbing temple.
    On the back of
her door, underneath several jackets and an array of scarves, was
an enormous poster of the play Chicago, perhaps the result of an
opportunistic grab from a bus shelter.
    Every surface
– dressing table, desk, chest of drawers – was covered in papers,
or items that held talismanic and ornamental value: matchbooks and
pens, stuffed animals, an electric glow ball, a fish bowl full of
marbles, a crystal figurine of a unicorn with a snapped horn.
    The floor was
littered with clothes, clean tops and dirty underwear forming a new
layer on top of the carpet.
    “How can
people live like this?” he said and lay back on the bed until his
vision steadied.
    On the ceiling
were stickers, cinema ticket stubs and glow in the dark stars.
    He closed his
eyes. He'd have to look at all this to gather clues, but not yet.
Not yet.
    When the
nausea passed – the headache was constant – he switched on Sarah’s
computer, a green and white Mac, hoping to access her email. He
knew that there were things called cookies