Page 22 of No Safe Place

Thursday | Midnight

Callum

“How Soon is Now?” blared through the speakers and Callum sang at the top of his lungs.

Fuck the neighbours.

Fuck it all.

He’d lost track of the time, but it was late. Could be four in the morning – he didn’t know.

He’d lost track of how much he’d drunk, but around his tenth can of cider he’d decided he didn’t care.

He spun in a dizzy circle – arms spread – imagining he had Morrissey’s branch in his back pocket.

Lily should live with her perfect smug-faced-cunt boyfriend.

And it would be all right. Because eventually Lily would have to tell the prick that she was mental too.

And if she didn’t, Scott would work it out.

There was a sound, under the music. Callum turned his head, to the hallway, squinting into the darkness. He flicked the light switch, forgetting nothing would happen.

The song was fading out, but before “Handsome Devil” could start up, someone knocked again.

He stumbled in his haste to get to the door before whoever it was got to nine knocks. It’d be next door, the timid wife sent by her uptight husband to tell Callum to keep it down, remind him that they had work tomorrow.

Well so did he, Cal thought, as he fumbled with the locks. He had work to do – he had to write a book that would prove to Lily – to everyone – that he was fine. Fine on his own. Better.

But once he’d managed the key, the door wouldn’t open. Lily must have locked the bottom bolt.

He frowned at it, stumbling again.

Fuck, he was drunk.

He groped on the side for his keys, knocking things over. Really, he should keep a torch in the hallway, or learn to cope with the one on his bloody phone.

He found the keys, finally, and after a few wobbles, got the bottom lock undone.

And opened the door.

He must be dreaming.

Callum pressed his hand harder into her throat, but it slipped from under him. She let out a low moan. His palm was already slick with thick, hot blood.

He gagged.

‘Help—’

His voice sounded pathetic, thin in the night air. Not loud enough to raise the neighbours.

Less than five minutes ago he was in his living room, safe, angry-drunk. Then the knock on the door and the body in the street, the blood …

Callum shouted again, louder.

Then again, and again.

Apart from her gasping, the night fell back into silence. He looked up and down the street, waiting to see a light go on in a window.

He hadn’t seen Sam in over a decade. And now she was here, on his street – bleeding to death.

Sam’s eyes were frantic, her hands scrabbling weakly at Callum’s wrist, like he was strangling her.

‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ Cal choked on a sob. ‘I’ve got to.’

Callum twisted to look at the wounds to Sam’s stomach, her thigh.

Don’t count them.

In spite of himself, he counted.

One – the wound to her neck. Two, three, four – down her side. There was a deep slash in her jumper, and the blood was staining the blue fabric black.

Five. Six. Cuts to her forearms. Seven – the thigh, visible below her denim skirt.

Stop.

Cal forced his attention back to Sam’s face. She was trying to cough, and Callum considered twisting her onto her side.

He should phone an ambulance. His phone was in his back pocket.

The cough exploded out of Sam and Callum felt blood spatter his face.

Callum gagged again, pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth. In the dim streetlights the blood looked more black than red. Fake, Hollywood gore. It was everywhere – his T-shirt soaked, his jeans.

Her feet scrabbled feebly, kicking out at the air. She’d lost a shoe, one foot bare.

The effort of pressing down on Sam’s neck was making him sweat, beads of it dripping down his forehead.

Phone an ambulance. Do it.

Sam’s head moved and Callum’s hand slipped again. In the split second he broke contact, a new rivulet of blood sprang from the wound.

‘You’ve got to stay still, Sam,’ Callum urged.

Call an ambulance.

Call 9-9-9.

‘I can’t,’ Callum gasped. ‘I can’t, I can’t.’

Callum screamed for help again, threw his head back and let rip. Not even words, just a desperate noise. It could have been an animal.

The blood had reached paving slabs over a metre away. A tear leaked out of one of Sam’s eyes.

There was a shift in the darkness, a few houses down. A square of light in a window.

‘Please,’ Callum said. ‘Please, fucking please.’

The light stayed on.

‘It’s all right, Sam. It’s all right, someone is coming.’

They could phone – they could ring for help.

Sam’s eyes were unfocused now. Staring at a point in the sky, over his shoulder.

A door banged open.

‘What the fuck—’

‘Ambulance,’ Callum spat at him. ‘Call an ambulance.’

Callum squeezed his eyes shut. Not wanting to see the man dial. Not wanting to see Sam’s now vacant expression.

Then there were strong arms on his shoulders, pushing him aside. Clean hands taking over from his bloodstained ones.

A voice shouting into the night, down the telephone.

Callum scrabbled backwards, away from the pool of blood.

The man was bare-chested and barefoot in jogging bottoms.

‘She looks about early thirties – maybe younger. I can’t tell. There’s blood everywhere. Yeah – multiple stab wounds.’

Callum tried to breathe, but the oxygen wasn’t reaching his brain.

‘No – there’s someone else here. A guy.’ The man didn’t turn to look at him.

Callum wiped his hands on his jeans. The blood didn’t come off, just smeared. When he clenched and unclenched his fists the creases of his palm stood out white against the red-black blood.

A siren in the distance.

He lay backwards on the pavement. The mirror of Sam next to him.

From above Callum imagined that, with the bloodstains, he’d look like he’d been stabbed too.

Minutes ago, he’d been sure the night was oppressively hot, but he was cooling quickly. The rough concrete of the ground pressed against his phone.

His eyes flicked back to Sam. The man was kneeling over her. Attempting CPR.

Callum closed his eyes.

The ringing in his ears.

Sirens.

The rhythmic counting of the man, as he performed the chest compressions.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six