[2018] Abel's Revenge

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘I think it’s only burglary if you take something. I’ll be trespassing.’

  ‘Dan, give me a break. I need to talk to you about Mike. He’s been sending me weird messages. I’ve had a few missed calls from him at strange hours as well.’

  ‘Weird in what way?’

  ‘I’ll show you when I get there.’

  ‘Okay, no problem.’

  ‘Do not go in his house. Besides, who’ll be looking after our children?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. See you soon.’

  I walk back inside and upstairs to check on the kids. Charlie has fallen asleep on his bed, and Grace is reading on hers. The urge to look is overwhelming. I’ll be quick. I grab my rucksack, just in case he has too many bottles of wine in that cellar he keeps banging on about, and sneak out the door.

  The window lock has come loose and I can pull it wide open. The problem is it’s higher than I imagined. I’m debating pulling a bin over to stand on to make things easier when I get a tap on the shoulder.

  It is a close call on the underwear front. Pete the postie grins.

  ‘Did anyone tell you not to sneak up on people?’

  He’s oblivious, and gawps.

  ‘Mike’s left his window open, so I’m going to have a quick check inside his house. You know, make sure he hasn’t been burgled by a junkie. Give me a lift, and then I’ll help you in. Safety in numbers and all that.’

  ‘I don’t want to go in there.’

  ‘What! You can’t be scared of an emaciated, thieving, heroin addict? You’re a vigilante. The Taekwondo Tapir no less.’

  He looks bewildered and frightened at the same time. It’s not flattering.

  ‘Mike would be angry if he found us in his house.’

  ‘We’re doing him a service.’

  ‘I don’t care. He’s been mean to me. He said if I couldn’t be quieter sticking his mail through the letterbox in the morning, he’d kill me.’

  I’m not surprised. Mike’s behaviour over the last few weeks has been most unusual. I’ve heard smashed glasses, raised voices and heavy thumps through his walls. Maybe it’s not such a great idea to enter his lair.

  No, I have a purpose. I am also dying to see what’s in that room with the taped curtains. He’ll never know I nosed around.

  ‘Okay, you be lookout. Make sure my kids don’t come out of my house either. Now, give me a bunk up. By the way, I’m disappointed in you.’

  Pete fails to mention the rucksack. I clamber in and tiptoe through what looks like a dining room. I put my dog walking gloves on before I touch anything. There’s a lot of high-end furniture covered in a thin layer of dust. Mike doesn’t appear to have had any dinner parties of late. I nip into all the rooms downstairs, but the house feels empty.

  I creep up the stairs, find the evil room, depress the handle and push the door. The sound of Velcro coming apart causes the hairs on my neck to stand on end. It is pitch-black. I flick the light switch and a dim red bulb lights up above a desk. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know a dark room when I see one. The paraphernalia is there, and it looks well used.

  There are photographs in frames covering a wall. They’re of animals — foxes mostly — and taken at night by the looks of things. There’s one of a cat rooting in an overflowing bin. The next picture is the same animal disturbed, with a violent look on its face. I knew Mike was weird.

  Then, there’s Olivia. The shot is of her leaning over and buckling Charlie up in the car. Her skirt has risen and there is a glimpse of underwear. Pete would love that photo. There’s also a close-up of her outside the local bakery. She’s smiling at something in the distance. It’s a good shot of her; natural. Even in the poor lighting I notice the glass is smudged. Kiss marks maybe? Mike has a problem.

  I back out of the room. I definitely don’t want him catching me in there. Nerves send adrenalin flowing into my body as I recall Mike’s face that rainy night when we ignored him. Tell-tale cramps rumble through my bowels. I might have to use his facilities. Imagine if he came home and found me on his throne, flicking through his latest copy of Outdoor Photographer.

  Just before the door shuts, I notice the black and white photo of Olivia from our house siting proudly on his desk.

  Thieving bastard. What’s wrong with this city? In the place I grew up, I never used to lock my door. If you do that here, it’s carte blanche for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to take what he fancies. I’m glad I bought the rucksack now as I pop the stolen picture in it. I’ll leave him a few presents in exchange. Maybe I won’t flush afterwards. That will help his mental state.

  I steal into what must be the master bedroom. It’s shambolic. There’s smashed wine glasses on the floor and strange stains on the walls. Even I would consider the duvet cover is in need of a wash. I have a quick glimpse in the wardrobes and under the bed, but see nothing of interest.

  I step back onto the landing and notice a security camera with a flashing green light in the far corner. I spy another one on the stairs which I only notice on the way down them. There’s even one in the room where I entered. I should have pulled my hood up.

  Pete, frozen with terror, is still waiting outside the window, but it’s now shut. He flinches when I knock to attract his attention. He almost pulls my arm out of its socket getting me through.

  ‘Bloody hell. What the heck have you been doing in there? Why were you so long?’

  ‘I had to check every room. It’s okay. The place is empty.’

  ‘Good. Pull the window to and let’s get out of here. It can be our secret.’

  ‘Nice. All on me now, is it? You were the look-out, remember. I have disappointing news. I didn’t think he’d have security cameras.’

  Pete takes an instinctive step back. ‘Oh my God. He’ll know. You’ll be in trouble.’

  Someone with that much security inside must have more outside. I stare up to the eaves of the house. Pete follows my gaze.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, shit, indeed.’

  Knowing Mike, he would have the cameras linked to his phone. We hear a slight screech of wheels in the distance. Our eyes narrow as we regard each other. We both jump as an enraged Mike pulls up in front of us.

  Chapter 71

  Dan

  Your natural instincts take over at times such as these. We flee. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as furious as Mike when he saw us outside his house. And I have annoyed many people over the years. I sprint through my front door, thankful this time it isn’t locked. Pete flies in after me, and I slam it behind him. I fumble for what feels like a long minute but can only be seconds before I slip the key in and flick it shut. We both exhale together.

  I remember what Malcolm did to that internal door at his house. However, this is a bulky, wooden, external one with a good lock. I rest my hand on its solidness. A hard thump causes it to vibrate. We back away along the hallway as another heavier thud arrives. I hear a small ripping sound. Surely there’s no way even Mike can kick through that. The final boot coincides with a tearing sound, and the frame splinters and snaps. Mike pushes the door open and steps through. His face is determined and wide-eyed.

  We back up to the kitchen, the oven stopping us from melting into the walls. My hands are numb and I force myself to take deep breaths. Mike comes through the doorway sideways. He’s so pumped up maybe his shoulders won’t fit straight on.

  ‘I want a word with you.’

  The words are growled as his temper flares.

  Pete whimpers next to me. I can smell the rancid stench of diarrhoea. Fleetingly, I consider telling him that Charlie does that, too. I’ve managed to calm myself. This isn’t a movie. Although, for a minute, I am convinced I’m about to be terminated.

  Nevertheless, it’s real life. He might be mad, but I’m sure he’s not a killer.

  ‘Morning, Mike. That’s some knock you have.’

  Mike’s movements are slow and jerky. He is on the edge of insanity. A smart man wouldn’t provoke him.
<
br />   ‘You. I hate.’

  He can barely get the words out of his clenched jaw. What do you say to that? He’s not getting a cup of tea.

  ‘Mike, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere. You, are a waste of space. Every day I see you with everything and you’re too stupid to realise it. You have two wonderful children and the most fantastic partner and you don’t give a shit. Olivia deserves better than you.’

  ‘Someone like you, perhaps?’

  ‘I suggest you stop talking if you want to survive this experience.’

  Hmm. Too many Die Hard repeats for this guy. He’s unlikely to kill me in front of an admittedly ill-looking Pete.

  ‘I’m rich, I’m clever, I work hard, I’ve done everything right, and a bum like you has what I deserve. It’s handed to you on a plate.’

  My hackles rise.

  ‘Is that right, Mike? Did you know I lost my job? You’re rich, I’m not. I’ve got to move back in with my mother for a week. No longer than that, mind, as she doesn’t want me there. Olivia and the kids are going to California without me for at least six months. Possibly forever. And my neighbour is a grade-A psychopath. What I have, my friend, is fuck all.’

  My rant releases a little of his steam. Although the psycho comment was unnecessary. Stupidly, I’m not finished.

  ‘She doesn’t want you. Family is important to her and you’re not it. Not only that, you are weird. All this Cali this, Cali that. It’s bullshit. I bet you’ve never even been there. I checked it out online, and anyone who knows California calls it just that. Cali is for tourists and tosspots.’

  I question my intelligence as I watch Mike reflate. The silence stretches on, perpetuated only by Pete’s sobs.

  ‘You broke into my house,’ he snarls.

  ‘You left a window open. I checked for burglars.’

  ‘Rubbish. You are a thief along with every other flaw in your pointless body.’

  Mike edges further into the kitchen. The big table sits between us. For that, I’m extremely grateful. I can’t believe this is happening. For a start, he’s a hypocrite.

  ‘You can talk. You’ve been in here stealing things. I saw your dodgy dark room, you sick cretin. Photos of my Olivia everywhere and you stole my favourite picture from here, too. She’ll love it when I tell her about that. Come on, Mike. When does the stalker ever get the girl? You’ve lost. Now leave, I’m ringing the police.’

  His left eye squints when I say Olivia’s name. He bares his teeth in what could be a smile or a sneer. This time, he shouts.

  ‘You don’t win. In fact, you deserve to die.’

  With that, he launches himself over the table. Pete is immobile with fear and in my lunge to escape we become entangled and fall. Mike pulls me up by the back of my collar and bangs me against the wall. He turns me to face him, and slams me again. My head rings with both impacts.

  Pete snivels on the floor. I shout, ‘Use your martial arts,’ but he’s a lost cause. Against Mike’s rage, he would be as effective as attacking a giant tortoise with drumsticks. However, I’m not so easily defeated. A murderous urge comes over me as his fingers grab at my throat.

  I jerk my knee up hard into Mike’s groin. He releases me and clutches himself. I look for a weapon to finish him off but remember the children are upstairs. I figure if I can get them out into the street, they’ll be safe. I dart to the hall, and glimpse back. Mike seems to be in a lot of pain. What about Pete? I can’t leave him. I tiptoe past the now-leaning-over Mike and help Pete to his feet. He staggers in the same way as a newborn fawn.

  We scuttle past Mike with my hand guiding Pete’s shoulder. As I edge out of the kitchen, a strong hand grabs my ankle. Mike powers up and takes my foot with him. I manage to stop my head hitting the floor and spin out of his grasp. We circle. Pete stands open-mouthed in the doorway. I get my phone out and Mike’s on me. It spins away and we bang against the fridge.

  I’m thankful for my recent weight training as Mike is strong and solid. We struggle in a clumsy waltz, neither of us gaining the advantage. He grunts with focus and my tank empties. Mike’s innate strength and years of conditioning will overcome mine. He realises that at the same time.

  I spit in his face and push him away. My eyes notice the knife block and I feign right and stretch left to grab one. Mike’s too quick and the knives scatter along with the glass of water I’d left on the side. I slip on the now wet floor and he’s on top of me. His meaty hands circle my neck.

  I have no purchase in the position I find myself. My breath catches but I wedge my thumbs under his palms. I strain and release an ounce of pressure, but he’s too powerful, focused and angry. My eyes implore Pete to do something. He staggers backwards and runs out the house.

  The perimeter of my vision becomes black. Mike blinks sweat from his face in slow motion. His eyes burn into mine. My grip weakens. All that remains is a shrinking circle of light with a grimacing Mike at its centre. As even that dims, a salient fact becomes evident. Mike is capable of murder.

  Chapter 72

  Olivia

  I wince as I hurtle past a police van. I’m miles over the limit but I have an awful feeling. Knowing Dan, there’s no way he won’t have gone in Mike’s house. The policeman has sunglasses on and doesn’t turn his head. I pray he sleeps. I remind myself to be rational and cut my speed.

  My hands slip on the wheel as I career into our street. A car brakes in front of me on the wrong side of the road and I steer away with millimetres to spare. Mike’s car is haphazardly parked over both drives — the driver side door swings in the wind. I screech to a stop behind it. My stomach lurches as Pete tears out of the house, and tries to sprint past me. Petrified doesn’t come close to describing him. I grab his jacket.

  ‘What is it, Pete? What’s wrong.’

  ‘It’s Mike. He’s gone mad. He’s killing Dan.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  He slips out of my grip and sprints away. I think I hear him shout kitchen. I holler at him to ring the police. The door looks like a mule kicked it in. My thoughts are for my children, but I can’t lose Dan. I charge in and race towards the kitchen. Mike is red and bulging with effort, crouching over Dan, who is purple and dying. Both men’s eyes are glassy and veins bulge in their heads.

  I struggle to pull Mike off him. It’s as though he’s set like concrete. Dan’s eyes close. Panic and hysteria empty my brain. There’s a carving knife on the floor. Instinctively, I pick it up and ram it through Mike’s neck. His face turns in shock. Mine has the same expression. I step back, leaving the weapon in place.

  Yet, still, he squeezes Dan’s throat. I jump forward with a howl and yank the blade out. A spurt of hot blood blasts me in the face. Mike looks dazed now, sleepy. A second spurt covers my T-shirt. Mike slides forward and goes limp.

  I drag him off Dan by pulling on his belt. Dan’s spluttering, and the purple becomes less vivid.

  ‘Where are the children?’

  He rubs his throat, eyes wide and searching.

  ‘Where are the fucking children?’

  He points upstairs. I take the steps two at a time. Frantic.

  ‘Grace, Charlie.’

  I cry their names again and again. They aren’t in either of their bedrooms. I push our room’s door open, sobbing with worry. There they are.

  Never have I cried with joy to see they’ve pulled the cushions and covers off our bed. They peek out from their den, oblivious to the insanity downstairs.

  ‘Momma’s home!’

  I gather them up, covering them in gore. I don’t care. They’re safe.

  Chapter 73

  Olivia

  Two weeks later

  The last two weeks have been surreal. I left the kids playing upstairs and returned to see if Dan was okay. Mike was far from fine. His blood covered the entire kitchen floor. That bastard postman hadn’t rung the police, so I did it. Dan sat in the pool and hauled in deep breaths.

  To our great reli
ef, they believed us straight away. You could make out the red finger marks on Dan’s neck. The swelling dissipated after a week, and the bruise is still visible now. Dan was taken to the hospital, the kids went to my mum’s, and they drove me to the police station. They caught Pete hiding at home. They brought him in for questioning, too.

  I was exhausted and traumatised when they let me go. Dan had to give a statement on a gurney and they released him shortly after. He came to stay at my parents’ and we’ve all been there ever since. We’re a family again.

  I found myself having hallucinations. I can’t remember hearing the flesh being sliced when the knife entered, but the sound is in my dreams. Last night was the first that I slept for more than a few hours. They told me two out of three people don’t develop PTSD. I hope I am one of them. I’m still on edge, but that’s fading now.

  Dan’s been brilliant. I watch him with the children and he’s so natural. They love his rough play and foolishness. His control of Charlie is impressive. He knows exactly how to distract him when he begins the slide into a tantrum. Charlie and Grace yearn to be chased, hauled in the air, and rolled around. They need their father. I was wrong to consider taking him from them.

  More so, because I’m no innocent myself. Too soon we forget our own crimes. Who listened when I prayed for my own children? Did I make a trade? I understood what I was doing when I stopped taking those pills in Asia. I knew I had met someone I could raise a family with and it was my last chance. Perhaps my only chance.

  Dan was oblivious, and two weeks later, I was pregnant. Dan accepted it with good grace and enthusiasm. He never once told me he regrets what happened. Yet, at the first real rocky patch in our relationship, I cast him aside. I wanted to get married and then incredibly I fell at that first hurdle. I need to remember we are partners first, because without that, the rest doesn’t work. We can be lovers and friends further down the line.

  I don’t regret not telling Dan as him saying no was a risk I wasn’t prepared to take. I have the children I dreamed of. That’s not to say there’s no shame at how I did it. But I’m selfish. I think most of us are.