by Helen Harper
* * *
I’m not sure how long I sit on the uncomfortable step. It feels like an eternity but I’ve experienced enough within these four walls to know that what feels like hours may only be a few minutes. As anyone who’s been in an accident will tell you, terror slows time down, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline.
I don’t wear a watch because I don’t mark minutes, so when my phone starts ringing in the study, I don’t know how much time has passed. I stare at the front door, then the study, then back again. By the fifth ring I manage to stand up.
I catch the phone just in time, answering it as I return to the hall and my vigil. ‘Hello?’
‘Zoe, how are you?’ Jerry’s voice is warm.
‘Uh, good.’ He doesn’t really want to know. With Jerry, as with many other people, ‘How are you?’ is nothing more than a formality. It’s funny how I never noticed that until I became housebound. ‘The website? Have you gotten anywhere yet?’
I feel guilty. I should be working. ‘I’m getting there,’ I say quickly. ‘But I’ll need more time.’
‘This client is rather anxious. Do you think you’ll manage it by tomorrow?’
I make a few quick calculations. It should be possible. I can’t risk letting Jerry down so I no longer have to worry about stopping my mother’s little test, even if it’s not yet been a full hour. I have bills to pay, after all. ‘I can do that.’
He exhales loudly. ‘Super! I knew we could count on you.’
‘It’s what I’m here for.’
‘You’re a trooper.’
‘A super trooper?’
He doesn’t register my little sarky comment, merely responds with warm agreement. ‘Absolutely.’
I say goodbye and hang up. ‘Lowest form of wit, Zoe,’ I mutter. Jerry is a good guy; he doesn’t deserve my snide remarks. I’ve learned to be content with my existence, but I sometimes wonder if my enforced isolation has made me lose my good manners. At least he wasn’t offended.
I gaze at the door again, my eyes travelling over its familiar veneer. There are a few scratches on the bottom panel where the Chairman sharpened his claws once or twice. I run my fingers over them, before pressing my ear against the wood. Other than the chirping of a few mating birds, I can’t hear anything. Maybe it wouldn’t do any harm to leave it unlocked for another fifteen minutes while I return to bytes and coding.
I curl my fingers into my palms until they hurt. My stomach is fluttery but I know my body well enough and I still have some way to go before a full-blown panic attack sets in.
I think of the expression on my mother’s face when I tell her I managed to sit out of view of the door. Fifteen minutes is only 900 seconds, that’s not long. It would take far less than that for someone to come inside and attack me though. I glance at the wall, imagining its pristine white splattered with my blood and I shiver. I can’t do it.
I am tugging at the first lock to slide it shut when there’s a knock. Actually, ‘knock’ is the wrong word; it’s a frantic staccato, rising in intensity. I fall backwards, my veins twisting into ice. My breathing abruptly changes and my chest rises and falls alarmingly.
‘Help me.’ It’s a male voice and, despite the muffled quality thanks to the closed door, it’s obviously full of panic.
I shake my head rapidly. I’m imagining things; I have to be imagining things. But the door rattles and the knocking continues. I’m frozen to the spot. My eyes are fixed on the door handle. I will myself to lurch forward and lock it but my brain won’t send the right signals to my legs. My throat feels tight and pins and needles tingle up and down my arms, I can feel the sweat on my skin and my vision starts to swim. No. Not now.
The door handle jerks downwards. I can’t do anything except stare in horror as the door crashes open and a figure appears. His face is red and his eyes are bulging. He lunges towards me and I scramble back. He’s going to grab my ankle though, he must have a weapon, it’s only a matter of moments and he’ll...
I blink several times. He’s not reaching out towards me at all; he’s face down and twitching. His hair is snow white and very thin and his hands, clawing the carpet, are wrinkled and old.
Move, I tell myself. My heart thuds but my breathing is slowing. The man’s feet hang lifelessly out of my porch. He’s wearing tartan slippers and I focus on them. Move, Zoe. Move.
I make it to his side and turn him over. He gulps for air; his skin is no longer merely red – it’s purple. One hand flails towards his chest and I realise what is happening. My panic fades, to be replaced by an even more alarming sensation that I can’t yet name.
‘You’re having a heart attack.’ My voice is weak and shaky and I have no idea whether the man heard me. ‘Recovery position,’ I mutter. ‘I’m going to put you in the recovery position. Stay calm.’ I don’t know whether I’m telling him or myself. He chokes and I can see red threads lining the whites of his eyes.
I adjust his right leg and manoeuvre his heavy body. His arms thrash, making it difficult for me to move them. He grunts something. ‘Don’t talk,’ I say. I try again to move him into the correct position but he has more strength than I’d have thought possible and he fights me.
I remember the phone. It was in my hand when he started knocking and I must have dropped it. I search frantically, finally locating it under his back.
I did say logic isn’t my strong suit. The sensible thing would have been to call the police immediately I saw the man. Instead, I let the panic destroy any semblance of common sense and now, if I don’t get help in the next few minutes, this man is going to die.
I jab in the number and wait for someone to answer. ‘999, what’s your emergency?’
‘I’m at 17 Christie Crescent. There’s a man. I think he’s having a heart attack.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Zoe. Zoe Lydon.’
‘Zoe, I need you to stay calm. I’m dispatching an ambulance right now.’
‘Please, tell them to hurry.’
‘They will.’ The voice is soothing and calm but it’s not helping.
‘What do I do?’ I shriek. ‘What do I do?’
‘Is he still breathing?’
‘Yes.’
‘You need to keep his airway clear. Put him in the recovery position. That’s...’
I drop the phone. The woman’s voice continues, disembodied, but I refocus my efforts on moving the man into place. He’s losing strength; his arms are easier to manoeuvre now. He doesn’t have much time. He grunts again. ‘The Department.’
‘Shhh,’ I say. ‘Help is on its way. Don’t talk. They’ll be here soon.’ I can already hear the distant sirens.
He twists onto his back and his right hand clutches at my blouse, pulling me down. ‘Don’t trust them.’
‘Sir,’ I begin as his left hand reaches up. He presses it hard against my chest and I feel a funny jolt like an electric shock or something, sending prickles down through my body.
Then his arms collapse onto the floor and his eyes roll back into his head. The sirens get louder and louder while I begin CPR.
Chapter Two
All men dream, but not equally.
T. E. Lawrence
It all happens so fast. When the paramedics lift his body and take it away, I’m still in a daze. By rights, I should be huddled in a corner and whimpering – or back within the safety of my wardrobe – but somehow the events have overtaken my natural urges. That’s not to say I’m not in a state of horrified disbelief, however.
‘Did you know him?’ the young policeman who arrived some time after the ambulance asks.
I stare at him slack jawed. The words make sense individually but as a whole they flummox me. He repeats the question.
‘Uh, no. I’ve never seen him before in my life.’
He seems concerned. ‘You should go to the hospital, Ms Lydon. You may be experiencing mild shock.’
Compared to my normal state, it’s a miracle how I’m handling things. I look him over.
He has kind eyes and he’s obviously keen to help. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against my arm, and I flinch. He drops his hand immediately while my mind flashes back to the wooden walls of my wardrobe. In the past hour I’ve had more strangers in my narrow little hallway than in the last year.
‘Please go,’ I whisper.
He’s confused. He opens his mouth to speak but a pale hand appears from the sunny outside world and gently touches his shoulder. I register a familiar face gazing at me with pity. My jelly-like insides start to harden.
‘Ms Lydon,’ the policewoman says politely. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
I realise that she’s been here before; that’s why I recognise her. This is a small town so it should be no surprise – in fact, the only surprise is that her colleague hasn’t heard of me. The batty woman who refuses to go outside. I can imagine I’m a source of amusement down at the small police station.
‘Would you like me to call your mother?’ she asks.
Desperation claws at me and I just manage to prevent myself from whimpering yes. I steel myself. The worst is over; I can cope on my own. I shake my head.
‘You know we’ll need to come back and ask you more questions. Once we’ve established more about the victim, that is.’
‘Okay.’
‘We’ll call ahead so you have advance warning. I can call the surgery and have a doctor...’
‘No.’ I’m taken aback by the strength in my voice. I straighten my shoulders and look her in the eye. ‘I’m fine.’
Her lips tighten at my tone but she’s professional enough to refrain from commenting further. She nods, gesturing to her partner who seems completely baffled by the interplay. Like a good boy, he does what he’s told and leaves. I slam the door shut behind them, fumbling with the locks as I peer at their departing backs through the spyhole. The policeman bows his head, obviously listening to her explanation.
‘Don’t worry about Zoe Lydon,’ I say, mimicking her clipped voice. ‘She’s just cuckoo. We should be thankful she stays off the streets. She probably murdered that old guy because he came round for a cup of sugar.’
I pause for a moment, my eyes widening. Maybe they’ll actually think that. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. He had a heart attack; I couldn’t have caused that, but my worry refuses to subside. The policeman jerks his head back in my direction and I stumble away from the door. Then my legs give out and I collapse onto the carpet.
Eventually I get my hiccuping sobs under control. I smooth my trembling hands over my trousers several times before clenching and unclenching my fists. My heartbeat races and I think of the strange electric shock the old man gave me. It felt more powerful than static and I wonder if it had something to do with his heart attack. It’s a ridiculous notion, of course: heart attacks aren’t contagious. Perhaps it was psychosomatic. I rub my chest. Whatever it was, it’s gone now, just like the old man. His slack jaw and unseeing eyes are seared into my memory. His poor family. He had to be visiting one of my neighbours. I make a point of knowing who lives around me and he wasn’t one of them.
There was nothing I could have done. The thought doesn’t help me feel any better. I return to the door and check the spyhole again. Both the path and the pavement are clear; even the Chairman has vanished.
I check each lock, tugging hard at the door. It rattles against the frame but it seems secure. Satisfied, I start moving around the house, testing each window. During the day, I’m not too stressed about the windows because most of them don’t open widely so it would take anyone larger than a child a long time to squeeze through. As long as I’m conscious, it would be impossible for an intruder to get in without me noticing. I avoid having them open, of course. Right now, they’re all tightly closed. Finally, I go into the kitchen and let the tap run until it’s icy cold. I splash water on my face and dab my wrists. I strain my ears but beyond the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark from the Labrador at number twenty-five, everything sounds normal. Normal. A man just collapsed in my house and died in front of me. How normal is that?
I sit down at my desk, my eyes following the screensaver as it bounces from edge to edge. It seems crazy to go back to work after what’s just happened but I don’t know what else to do and it might distract me. I wish for a moment that I knew the man’s name; it would give him more dignity if I could stop thinking of him as ‘the old man who died in my hallway’. I wonder about his tartan slippers and his harsh whisper of caution about the mysterious department. Maybe he was suffering from Alzheimer’s. He could have been confused and wandered away from his carer and ended up at my door. If that were true, maybe his passing is a relief to him and those who loved him. And the police will close the book on the case without dragging me away for interrogation. I shudder. No, work will definitely help.
Several hours later, my neck and back are aching. My soul still feels heavy but my earlier panic has all but subsided. I send Jerry a quick email, informing him that I’ve finished ahead of schedule. He’ll have left the office already – it’s been dark outside for some time – but, like many people these days, he’ll still read the email and respond.
I massage my weary muscles, realising that I’m very hungry. Not surprisingly, I’d skipped lunch and the last thing I’d had through the afternoon was an appetite. I guess normal service is resuming.
I walk into the hall and stare down at the patch of carpet where the old man breathed his last. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly. I’m not sure whether I’m talking to myself or to the old man’s departed spirit and my voice echoes emptily as if to emphasise how paltry my offering is. I blink away tears and head to the kitchen to prepare some food.
I sit in my usual spot at the table, my ankles curled around the chair legs. I carefully chew each mouthful of my omelette. The large clock on the wall ticks away. I clear my plate before carefully washing it, along with my knife and fork and the frying pan. Once I’m done, I allow myself to turn on the radio. I want to hear the local news in case the old man is mentioned. I endure the DJ gabbling about an upcoming dance festival that’s going to attract ‘hundreds of people of all ages and from all walks of life’. I sigh although in the past I’ve not been beyond turning up the music and dancing around the living room on my own as if to re-create the same effect.
When the news finally comes on, there’s no mention of the man. I give up and move to the living room, settling back into the plump cushions with a book. At some point the Chairman joins me, deigning for once to settle on my lap with a deep, throaty purr. The pages blur and I find it difficult to concentrate. After reading the same paragraph five times, I set the book aside and close my eyes. Enough already.
* * *
It’s the prickle along the top of my ears that alerts me to the fact that something is different. I snap open my eyes. What on earth...?
I’m on a cobbled street, streaks of orange light bouncing off the puddles. There’s a steady stream of drizzle and, without consciously doing it, I lift my face, enjoying the damp splashes on my skin. I wait for the screaming panic to start but there’s nothing. Curious. I don’t feel afraid; neither do I feel cold.
There’s not a breath of wind. In fact, there’s no sound whatsoever, which makes as little sense as my lack of fear. It doesn’t matter where you are, whether it’s in the country or the city or at the top of Mount Everest, there are always sounds. Even soundproofed rooms have a certain quality to them that suggests, well, sound. Here, there’s nothing. The effect isn’t frightening. It’s not even unnatural. It’s just ... weird.
I look over my shoulder, starting in surprise. There’s a wall of black, deep impenetrable black of the sort I never achieved on the walls of my teenage bedroom. I reach out towards it, feeling an odd tingle as my fingertips brush against it. It has a spongy quality. I press harder, keeping the rest of my body well back from it. It doesn’t matter how much effort I make, I can’t penetrate it by more than an inch or two.
I withdraw my hand and look at
it, wiggling each finger in turn. I half-expect some strange sticky substance to linger there but my skin is clean. I frown then shrug. In the absence of anything better to do, I leave the strange wall behind and start walking. My feet don’t make a sound.
I stop next to a large puddle. Experimentally, I kick at it, sending a spray of water arcing upwards. Everything is still silent. I take a deep breath and jump in, shocked when my legs plunge downwards. For a moment my stomach leaps sickeningly into my throat until my toes touch the bottom. The puddle is deep enough to reach my chest. I laugh and the sound is so unexpected it reverberates around the strange street. I lift up my arms and crash them down, creating a mini tsunami, then bob there, marvelling at what I’m experiencing.
I’d thrown a few mushrooms into the pan when I made my omelette. They looked normal enough and the large supermarket chain I’d ordered them from shouldn’t have been selling hallucinogenics, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. I giggle at the thought of people up and down the country having similar visions because of dodgy fungi. As soon as I come round, I’ll have to order more before the supermarket realises its mistake. This is so much fun.
I heave myself out of the puddle. It’s surprisingly difficult and I end up half sprawled on the cobbles like a beached seal. I clamber to my feet, shaking my body to rid myself of the worst of the water and start walking again. Well, I say walking; it’s more of a skip to be honest. No, I don’t advocate drug use and I really enjoy my boring existence – most of the time, anyway. But after the day I’ve had, this hallucination is taking my mind off the horrors. Besides, it’s only a street with a few wacky puddles in it.
I start humming a skewed version of Ode to Joy. I’d love an umbrella because then I could recreate Gene Kelly’s dance from Singin’ in the Rain. I glance down at my empty hands and will an umbrella to appear but it doesn’t work. I wrinkle my nose and shrug: it’s no great disaster.
I continue, my humming getting louder. The rain continues to fall, the cobbles stretch ahead and the street remains silent. This really is ... oh, shit.