The kitchen was small, identical to all the others in the street. There was a yellowing calendar on the far wall and Greene noticed that it had not been turned to the appropriate month. It was two behind. He wished that time could, indeed, be reversed, so that all this had never happened. He drove the thought from his mind and continued through into the living room, pleased to find that the curtains were drawn and sunlight was flooding the small room. Tiny particles of dust fluttered in the golden rays. Nothing here. Shaking a little more, Greene made his way upstairs towards the narrow landing.
Three doors faced him. Two open, one closed.
All the houses on the road had either two or three bedrooms as well as an inside toilet. Greene could see through the two open doors that the rooms were both bedrooms. Not much chance of anyone hiding out in a bathroom, he told himself, trying to find reassurance in the assumption. He placed a hand on the knob of the closed door and, praying, shoved it open.
Nothing.
The house was empty. Thankfully, he hurried back downstairs out of the back door and made his way to the next house.
Meantime, across on the other side of Redhoods Avenue, Davies too had found the house he was searching to be empty. Almost disappointed, he left the building vaulting the low fence which divided the adjacent garden.
There was a loud crash, a shattering of glass and Davies looked down to see that he'd landed in a cold frame. He groaned and stepped clear of the wreckage, cursing himself for not being more careful. The grass of the lawn hadn't been cut for a while and it grew knee high, competing for supremacy with large growths of chickweed and dandelions. There was a rusted lawn roller propped up against the fence beside the remains of the cold frame. The constable walked up the path towards the back door which he found was already open. The lime green paint had peeled away in places, leprous slices of the stuff chipped away to reveal the thin wood beneath.
Davies lowered the shotgun, the barrel pointing ahead, and took a step inside. The kitchen smelt damp* the cloying stench mingling with something else. A more pungent odour which caused the constable to cough. He looked around, searching for the source of the odour. There was a white door to his right which he took to be a larder and, as he took a step towards it, he realized that his suspicions were right. The stench grew stronger.
Davies lowered the shotgun and pulled open the door.
'Christ,' he grunted, discovering the source of the smell. On the lowest stone shelf of the larder was a rotting joint of beef. It lay on the place in a solidified pool of blood which spread into a rusty circle around it. Davies heard the somonolent buzzing of flies; some were crawling on the meat. He also noted with disgust the loathsome writhings of maggots on the joint.
He pushed the larder door shut and walked into the living room. The curtains were drawn here, the room in semi-darkness but for the thin beams of sunlight lancing through gaps in the dusty drape. Wary of the darkness, Davies advanced further into the room and tore the curtains down, flooding the room with bright sunlight and throwing up a choking cloud of thick dust. The policeman stepped back, eyes darting round the room. Come on you bastards, he thought, where are you? Satisfied that downstairs was clear, he pushed open the hall door and made his way up the narrow staircase finally emerging on the landing. Four doors. Two bedrooms, an airing cupboard and a toilet. All empty.
Shaking his head he descended the stairs and made his way across the front lawn to the next house, wondering how Greene was doing across the road.
As it turned out, his younger companion was having as little luck as he in finding anything. There were not even any signs of the creatures and Greene was beginning to think that the search of the street would end up being fruitless. At least that was what he hoped. The perspiration which soaked his back was beginning to stain his uniform as he began searching the fifth house. He didn't even attempt to tell himself that the sweat was heat induced. It was the product of fear. Pure, naked fear. He wiped his brow and pushed the door which he knew led into the living room of the house. The curtains once more were open and he passed through without checking, anxious to scan upstairs and get out of the bloody place. There was a sofa and two chairs in the room, and no carpet on the floor. The sofa was stretched across one corner of the room, a sizeable gap behind it.
It was as the young constable made his way up the fifth staircase that morning, that the sofa was pushed forward and the creature sheltering behind it crept slowly forward.
From his position in one of the bedrooms, Greene didn't hear the slight squeaking of castors as the sofa moved. Having thoroughly searched the upper story, he hurried downstairs once more, his heart slowing a little.
He walked into the living room.
All he heard was a high-pitched rasping sound as the thing launched itself at him.
Greene screamed and swung the shotgun round, his actions accelerated by sheer terror. Luckily, the monstrous discharge hit its target and the young constable slumped back against the wall gasping.
At his feet lay what remained of a cat. It was now little more than a twisted heap of fur and blood, large lumps of it splattered around the room by the horrendous force of the blast. Had it not been for the fact that the partly obliterated head stared up at him, Greene wouldn't have known what he'd killed, so great was the destruction wrought by the gun.
He bolted from the house. Fortunately, he managed to reach the back door before vomiting. Sweating profusely, he leant against the wall, gulping in the grass-scented air and shaking madly. It was some time before he found the courage to move on to the next house.
Across the road, Davies has heard the shot and he smiled. That's one of the bastards gone, he thought. He was surprised that Greene had had the guts to use the shotgun, he seemed such a spineless little sod. Davies himself was more than half way down the street by now, having discovered nothing so far and he, like Greene, was beginning to suspect that all the houses were, indeed, empty. The house he was in this time was built somewhat differently from those further up. He stood in the kitchen, his eyes alert. No pantry here, just a door in front of him, which, he found, led out into a hall. Peeling wallpaper once more, flaking away like dried skin. There was a door to his immediate right and another to the left. Between them lay the staircase. He chose the right hand door first and found that it was a bathroom with toilet. Piss stains up the wall, more flaking paper and a yellowed plastic shower curtain. The place smelt like a urinal.
Davies closed the door behind him and nudged open the other across the tiny hall with the barrel of his shotgun. The living room. He checked it quickly, anxious to inspect the upper floor but even more anxious to get out into the sunlight again. He left the living room and started slowly up the uncarpeted stairs. His heavy boots sounded conspicuously loud in the deathly silence and the policeman swallowed hard, aware that anything up there would most certainly have been alerted to his presence by now. There was a small guard rail running along the side of the landing and, through its wooden slats, he could see the half-open door of a bedroom. It was in darkness, the dirty blue curtains drawn tight against the invading sunlight. He gripped the shotgun tighter and finally stood still on the cramped landing.
Two more doors in addition to the one he had already glimpsed. He kicked open the nearest and walked in. Nothing in there, just bunk beds and an old dressing table. At the far end of the room, a cupboard door had fallen open, spilling toys across the wooden floor. Davies closed the door behind him and crossed to the second bedroom, pulling at the curtains as he did so.