Follow You Home

by Mark Edwards

The dog had had a Rottweiler’s face but was completely black and the size of a pit bull. A dog bred to guard, to fight. To kill.

At the exact moment that he turned, somebody else walked into shot, obscuring his face. There were two of them! And as they both walked further into the living room, I saw that the second person had the black dog who’d tried to kill me, on a short leash.

She was slim with small breasts and narrow hips. The dog pulled at the lead and she jerked it back, causing it to jump up onto its hind legs. Poor thing. Whoever she was, she was strong.

the boats that drifted by on the grey, churning Thames looked like they should be carrying the dead across the Styx.

‘Like the dogs we saw at the station,’ she said, nodding to herself as if this confirmed something.

‘No, Danny. No. Don’t you see? She’s come back to guide us.’

She is cra cra!

Tragic suicide of musician on the brink of the big time Police have confirmed that they are treating the death of Jake Turner, whose body was found beneath Thornberry Bridge last night, as a suicide. Turner, 32, was on the verge of signing a deal with a major record company, his manager said.

I had spoken to two people about what had happened to Laura and me, both within the last few days. I’d told Dr Sauvage part of the story, and more to Jake. And now they were both dead.

I was worried he’d end up dead

He was not a quitter. Of course, none of us ever fully knows other people; we can’t see inside their heads. But time and again, since I’d known him, Jake had demonstrated that he was determined, unswerving. Even if something had gone wrong at the last moment, I was sure he wouldn’t commit suicide. He had even told me that if he didn’t get a deal it wouldn’t matter.

world had lost a talent, a singer. They had lost his songs. But I had lost my best friend, the person who knew more about me than anyone else.

wasn’t arson, Mr Sullivan. The report from the fire scene investigator came back yesterday. It was her e-cigarette.’ ‘What?’

Weirdly, I didn’t remember switching the phone back on, but it wasn’t the only thing I had no memory of recently.

Outside, a car alarm went off, and the noise shook me out of the almost-fugue state I was in. I stared at her. There was something familiar about her, something I’d seen since our first encounter. ‘What was all that about?’ She shrugged. ‘Have you been here before? In my flat?’

He wasn’t a man. He was a devil.

As Laura removed the snow and ice, she told

herself repeatedly not to panic, to ignore the birds that

flapped about her head. They weren’t real....

Baby arrived at 10.15 last night! Oscar James Tranham, 8 lb 4 oz. Erin was brilliant! Oscar is amazing! The

Mate, Laura was a hero. She drove Erin to the hospital through the snow. Got there just in time.

Camelia was the female intruder. And that probably—almost certainly—meant she was one of the burglars who had taken then returned my laptop. I paced the flat as I thought it through. She had followed me to Jake’s gig, tried to seduce me then, for whatever reason. She must have dropped her phone deliberately, knowing I would take it home, not realising I would switch it off. I had no memory of turning it back on—probably because she had done so when she came into my flat with the dog. I felt cold and shaken. Why was she following me? Why had she broken in? Had she been trying to kill me? Was it connected to what had happened to Laura and me in Romania, and if so, how?

young, punkish woman waited for me, holding the office door open. She reminded me a little of Alina, the way she dressed, the spiky attitude. The big difference was that this woman was still alive.

The desk was open underneath, giving me a clear view of her rather wicked-looking black leather boots, the toe of one of them tapping along with her typing as though keeping time.

It took me a moment to realise he was wearing a balaclava. The other details only came back to me afterwards: in his hand he held a bottle, three-quarters filled with a clear liquid, a rag attached to the neck of the bottle. There was a cigarette lighter in his other hand.

Edward standing in the doorway of his inner office, grappling with a fire extinguisher which didn’t appear to work. The flames, which had reached the desk now, consuming the papers that lay beside the computer, were blocking Edward’s exit. More people, from other offices in the building, had appeared in the corridor. Sophie lay on the floor beside me, gasping for breath.

That someone was trying to stop me from telling Edward my story.

A baby. Crying.

I noticed something snagged on one of the steps and, looking closer, saw that it was a clump of hair.

The view was of the back of the house and I saw, with surprise, that there was a narrow road that led through the trees into a backyard where a flatbed truck was parked.

The crying was coming from just behind this door. I lifted the latch and, holding my breath against the stench and the fear of what we’d find, pushed the door open.

The crying baby was in one of the cots, lying on its back, screaming, its face shining with tears. It waved its arms above it, clawing at the air, but was too small to roll over or sit up.

On the other two beds were a pair of women. The woman in the nearest bed was asleep or unconscious (or dead?), a filthy white sheet drawn up to her waist. She was wearing a thin pink gown that revealed how malnourished she was. Her arms were like pipe cleaners and her flat chest rose and fell jerkily as she breathed.

Her head looked like a skull with stringy brown hair attached. Forcing myself to step closer, bracing myself against the acrid smell of urine and rot that emanated from her, I saw tha...

This woman was less skeletal than the first. She had blonde hair that was matted and stuck out at all angles. Her eyes were sunken, cheekbones like razors, arms skinny and weak. She was wearing a gown like the other woman, her sheet bunched up by her feet, which were also chained to the bed. Her skin was covered in bruises and tiny round scabs. Cigarette burns.

Romanian, then spoke in English again. ‘Please.

Baby. Help.’ A scream came from below us. Both Laura and I froze. The woman in the bed looked towards the door again. ‘Go. Baby,’ she said.

Pinned to the wall were about two dozen Polaroid photos.

Behind him, at the bottom of the staircase, a woman lay face down. Black jacket and jeans, black hair streaked with red. Alina.

He turned the gun on Laura and pointed his other hand at the baby. Behind her, I could see Alina’s back rising and falling. She was alive. ‘Mine,’

As the man moved towards the baby, I ran for the door, grabbing Laura’s arm and pulling her after me. She dropped the candlestick and I yanked open the door, convinced a bullet would fell me at any moment. But as I risked a glance back I saw why the shot hadn’t come. Alina had got onto her hands and knees and crawled nearly to the candlestick. He was distracted by this, needed to stop her from reaching it.

The baby stopped crying. I could hear screaming and thought it was me or Laura—my senses were fucked up, muddled—but then I realised the screaming was coming from inside the house. It was Alina. ‘Come on, please, please. Let’s go.’ Another gunshot. And this time, Alina fell silent.

‘There’s one more thing. As we reached the trees, we heard another shot, then another a few seconds later.’ Edward thought about it, then nodded. ‘He went upstairs and shot the two women.’

Edward looked pale, even a little sick. He hadn’t touched his pint since I’d started telling the story. He got up from the table. ‘I’m going to start by making some calls, doing a bit of research. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, OK?’ ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You coming?’ he asked. I shook my head. I didn’t want to leave the pub. I was going to stay here and get thoroughly fucking drunk. I watched him go out through the double doors. He knew all of the story he needed to know to help me. I had done the right thing.

Constantin has gone missing. Nobody has seen him for two weeks.’

putrescent /ˌpyo͞oˈtres(ə)nt/ I. adjective undergoing the process of decay; rotting • the odor of putrescent flesh. II. derivatives putrescence /pyo͞oˈtresns / noun – origin mid 18th cent.: from Latin putrescent- ‘beginning

But the old man was real. When he saw Laura approaching he fired up the engine and drove away, the car gliding silently up the street, slipping out of sight.

The car door opened and a blonde woman with chunky silver rings on her fingers got out. ‘Laura?’ she said. She had the same accent as Alina. ‘Yes? Who are you?’ ‘Get in the car.’ ‘What?’ The woman produced a knife from beneath her coat. ‘Get in the car.’

‘One weird thing: one of the bedrooms on the top floor appeared to have been decorated recently. It still had that fresh paint smell. But it was completely empty. They found some furniture in one of the rooms—some chests, a dresser, a few ancient chairs—draped with sheets.’

Laura forced herself to get a grip, to start noticing things. She might need these details later.

‘The backpacks? We left them behind. In the police station. In Breva.’ The woman stared at her. ‘I don’t believe you.’ She pressed the tip of the blade against Laura’s throat. ‘You sold it, didn’t you? Just tell me, and then this will all be over.’

‘We left them in Breva. I swear. I don’t understand—what . . . what are you looking for?’