by Brett McBean
If only you knew how many times I’ve thought about that.
“…At least she won’t keep you up with her pacing. You’ll be too tired from all the…”
“Yeah yeah,” Clayton said. “Thanks for the advice.”
Geoff laughed. “Okay Clay. I’d better be off. Catch me after the interview, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Good luck, huh?”
“Thanks.”
Clayton hung up the phone.
Went back to his dinner of beer and pizza.
It was a little after nine-thirty.
* * *
Clayton sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. His eyes were heavy and he knew he should be sleeping, but he wanted to see if the light came back again tonight.
He had racked his brain trying to work out what could be the cause of the light, and even though he was sure there was some simple explanation for it, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was something more intriguing, like somebody being kept prisoner was trying to communicate with him by the only way they could - by somehow flicking a light into his apartment.
He knew that was highly unlikely, merely a product of watching too many movies, but the light had to come from somewhere. There had to be a reason for it.
Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…
“And the time at the sound of the footsteps is twelve-fifty,” Clayton said and smiled.
He listened to Rose pace up and down, pausing to turn around when she reached each end of her apartment.
He’s called every night for the past two weeks. He’ll call again tonight.
Of course, if he had the guts…
Light glinted into the apartment. He sat up straight and watched, and soon realized he was holding his breath. He let it out gently as the light shimmered again.
His mysterious light was back - and just like the other times, it was the same pattern.
He stood, and as he wandered over to the window, his thoughts about it being a cry for help seemed more logical. It looked like some kind of signal.
It was a bright moon again and a warm night. He could feel a gentle breeze seeping in. He looked down at the alley. He noticed movement down there among the shadows. His heart began to race. What if he was right and down in the alley was his prisoner trying to reach him?
The distant sound of trashcans being hit made its way up into Clayton’s apartment.
As he leaned forward in the hope of a better view, his eyes caught a glimmer of light.
It vanished soon after, but in that moment, he was certain that the light was coming from somewhere directly ahead, not down in the alley.
Probably just some cats, he thought as the noise below continued.
He turned his attention from the alley to the warehouse opposite.
His window, like all the apartments on this side of the building, faced an old warehouse that had been closed for years. The FOR RENT sign had long since been defaced by graffiti and its dark, empty rooms were now home to the odd vagrant and junkie. It was big and dirty and empty and ugly. Not the nicest view to have, but considering the type of tenement he was living in, it was appropriate.
The light did seem to be stemming from that direction, but Clayton couldn’t make out exactly where it was coming from. The way the light flickered on and off, it could’ve been coming from anywhere.
But what’s causing it?
Clayton stared so long and hard into the dark windows of the warehouse that his eyes began playing tricks. He thought he saw the dark shape of a person - a person sitting in one of the rooms.
Clayton blinked and shook his head.
Christ, I’m seeing things.
He looked back into the room where he thought he had seen the dark figure, but saw only blackness.
He smiled.
Amazing what the mind can conjure up when looking into darkness.
The light glinted once more, then vanished.
From upstairs he heard the muffled voice of Rose.
Made it safely through another night, it seems.
With a sigh, Clayton turned away from the window. He wandered over to his bed and hopped in.
Questions floated around in his mind, questions he was still trying to answer when he drifted off to sleep twenty minutes later.
* * *
It had been a long, boring day. Clayton had gone to the store and bought some chocolate, coffee, bread, cigarettes and more beer. He was running low on cash, so he could only afford the essentials. The only interesting thing that happened was seeing Rose. She had been outside, leaning against the building, smoking. Hal hadn’t been around, Clayton assumed he was upstairs sleeping, and she had smiled at him as he walked up the steps leading to the front entrance, carrying his groceries. He had wanted to say something witty, but only smiled and nodded, then went on his merry way.
I’m an idiot, he thought as he sat waiting in the darkness of his apartment, a can of Coors Light clutched in his sweaty hand. I had an opportunity to talk to her, and what did I do? Smiled like a moron and kept on going.
It was some consolation that Rose had smiled at him. But he figured she was that sort of person - kind and gregarious and smiling at everyone as they went past.
He liked to think she had smiled at him because she fancied him. Liked to think it was some signal for him to come on up when her husband was out tonight.
Which is what I should be doing right now instead of sitting here waiting for the light.
Clayton jumped when the footsteps started. He let out a nervous chuckle.
Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…
He wasn’t sure why he was so keyed up tonight. He had been on edge ever since seeing Rose this afternoon.
He took a drink and watched the window.
She is hot, though.
He pictured the way she looked today - tight white tube top and short cut-off jeans.
Thank the Lord for summer, he thought, and continued waiting.
When the light didn’t appear, even after a few minutes of listening to Rose upstairs, Clayton sighed with disappointment.
Where is it?
He turned and glanced at the clock. He saw his answer. It was only twelve-thirty. Based on the last three nights, the light wouldn’t start until twelve-fifty.
Still twenty minutes to go.
It was Rose that was early.
Poor woman, Clayton thought. She’s getting more and more nervous as the nights wear on.
He wondered what kind of state she was going to be in after a month of waiting and pacing.
Perhaps she would be grateful for the company. After all, she did smile at him, so she obviously knew he lived in the building and thought of him as a friendly neighbour.
I can’t. That’s not me. I’ve never gone up to a virtual stranger’s apartment and asked if they wanted company. She’ll think I’m a weirdo or something.
Still, the notion excited him.
Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…
And she was alone up there. Young, beautiful, anxious, probably in dire need of a strong arm to comfort her and keep her warm until hubby called.
He thought about his conversation with Geoff last night. About what Geoff had said to him - “Look, why don’t you go up to Rose and keep her company until Hal comes home? At least she won’t keep you up with her pacing.”
Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose.
Except his teeth if she told her husband when he arrived home.
But he won’t be home for another hour. Imagine that - a whole hour with Rose. I’ve got to grow some balls and take a risk every once in a while.
He decided it was worth risking a few teeth for the chance of spending some time with Rose.
Clayton stood up and headed for the door. He was still in his jeans and T-shirt, so he didn’t have to change, however he did stop off at the bathroom to use some deodorant and mouthwash before leaving.
He opened the door a crack
and peered out at the dim hallway. All was quiet, so he walked out, closed the door and crept toward the stairs that led to the top floor.
He didn’t need to be so sneaky, considering people came and went all throughout the night (there was business being conducted in the building other than men tending to the needs of poor helpless women), but he felt sly and even a bit shameful.
After all, this was a married woman he was going up to see.
Clayton took each step carefully, and when he reached the top, was relieved that he didn’t encounter any late night visitors.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans then proceeded down the hall.
Usually Clayton was the first to complain about the poor lighting in the building, but tonight he was grateful for it.
He stopped at apartment 612.
I’ve come to help you, Rose.
Still, good intentions didn’t mask how nervous he was feeling. He glanced over his shoulder at the rows of doors and expected one to open any moment and for some nosy neighbor to tell him to get the hell away from there, that her husband is a cop and that he’d better be careful.
He raised his arm, but didn’t knock.
He also reminded himself that if he was successful and Rose did let him in, he would miss out on seeing his light.
Come on, Clay. What’s more important? Sleeping with a beautiful woman, or watching some stupid light?
He knew the answer, yet as he stood there in the hallway, arm poised, the whole idea suddenly seemed ludicrous and juvenile. Perhaps someone like Geoff would be able to go through with it, but Clayton wasn’t like Geoff, and up until this moment, was glad for that.
Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…
The footsteps were faint, yet loud in Clayton’s heart. He knew that the moment he turned around, he would never be back. This was his one and only chance. His one opportunity to be with someone as attractive as Rose. Maybe afterwards he would finally get some fucking sleep.
It was in everyone’s best interest for him to knock on the door.
From somewhere below, a door slammed.
Clayton jerked, startled.
It had sounded like the front entrance door.
Clayton pictured Hal coming home early and making his way up the six flights of stairs. Imagined Hal walking through the door and catching him in bed with Rose. Imagined the carnage that would inevitably follow.
She’s still pacing. He hasn’t called yet.
He might want to surprise her, Clayton reasoned. Might have stopped off and bought some flowers and chocolates.
That was enough.
Clayton lowered his arm with a sigh.
Coward.
Better a healthy coward than a broken, but satisfied, man, he thought.
Clayton turned around and hurried towards the stairs. He didn’t care so much about making a lot of noise as he bounded down.
He wanted to make it back to his apartment before his imaginary Hal made it to the fifth floor.
He didn’t pass anyone as he dashed to his apartment. He opened the door, stepped into the familiar darkness, and felt safe.
Huffing and sweating quite generously, he noticed that the time was twelve-fifty two.
Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…
The footsteps continued upstairs, as loud as ever, but they only reminded Clayton of a missed opportunity and he wanted them to stop now more than ever.
And to make matters worse, there was no sign of the light.
He walked over to the window and looked out across at the warehouse. It was the right time, yet nothing flashed.
He felt sad, like he had lost a small part of himself.
Still, he waited at the window until the footsteps stopped and he heard Rose talking upstairs.
The light never came. He would never know the real cause of the light now.
It also seemed he was wrong about Hal coming home early to surprise Rose.
I should have knocked, he thought.
Feeling foolish, cowardly and a little disappointed, Clayton got undressed and hopped into bed.
Despite everything that had happened, or maybe because of it, he fell asleep quickly.
* * *
Even though he felt terrible in the morning, Clayton was able to get ready for the interview. He showered and shaved, had two cups of coffee for breakfast and donned his one and only good suit. He stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and liked what he saw.
I’ll knock ‘em dead.
He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.
He was shocked to find the hallway crowded with police. Some were talking with occupants of the apartment building; others were walking up and down the staircase that led to the sixth floor, which, Clayton saw, had yellow police tape tied to its posts.
“Clayton!”
Clayton looked over to see Herbert Jones. Herbert was another fifth floor resident and liked to know everything that was happening.
“Jesus Christ, what a circus,” the old man said, grinning and shaking his head. He was still in his bathrobe.
Clayton gazed at the diminutive, gray-haired man. “What the hell happened?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
Clayton shook his head.
“Young Rose Hawkins was murdered last night.”
Clayton’s head swirled. “Murdered? Rose?”
“That’s what I said. She was butchered. While she was asleep. Cops think it’s the work of that serial killer. You know, the one that kills women while they’re asleep in their homes.”
“They do?”
The old man grinned, displaying shriveled yellow teeth. “Nah, not really. That’s only what I reckon. But I bet I’m right.”
Clayton watched the goings on in a daze. Police dashing about, taking statements, looking for clues. It was all so surreal.
“I’ll bet the cops will want to talk to you,” Herbert said.
“Huh?”
Clayton began to panic. Did they think he did it? Did somebody see him last night?
“The cops. They’ll want to speak to you. I mean, hell, you do live right under the poor girl.” Herbert leaned in close. He smelled of sweat and coffee. “Did ya hear anything last night?”
Clayton shook his head and relaxed a little. “No. Only her footsteps.”
“Waiting for Hal?”
Clayton nodded.
“He’s the one who found her. What a thing to come home to, huh?”
“I heard her speaking to him,” Clayton said, his thoughts trailing off, remembering the events of last night.
“It seems that between her speaking with Hal and him coming home, the killer broke into their apartment. Must’ve been watching her or something I reckon. I mean, how the hell else did he know when to break in and get her?”
“That’s when I fell asleep,” Clayton said, his voice distant.
“Well you should have heard the commotion after Hal found the body. Christ, the place was packed with cops and paramedics. You didn’t hear any of it?”
“No.”
Herbert whistled. “Boy, you sure are a heavy sleeper.”
“Well I’ve been tired lately. Do they know who did it?”
“They’re the cops. What do you think?” Herbert laughed. “Hal’s their main suspect at the moment, but that’s not because of any hard evidence, just standard cop procedure. They’ve been talking to everyone in the building all morning, but they haven’t found any clues, apart from the one the killer left behind. Shit, the only clue they do have is because the killer was careless.”
“Left what behind?”
“Well, according to Mrs. Dally up in room six-sixteen, they found a necklace of some sort. Big old glass thing. Wasn’t Rose’s or Hal’s, according to Hal. So they figured it had to have been the killer’s. Of course, the cops won’t admit to that. There was a struggle, you see. Apparently Rose fought like a…” Herbert stopped when a policeman walked over.
�
��Who are you?”
It took a moment for Clayton to realise that the cop was speaking to him. “Clayton Patterson.”
“You the one who lives in this apartment?”
Clayton nodded.
“Well then, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions,” the policeman said, flipping open his notebook. The policeman eyed Herbert. “Do you mind, sir?”
“Sorry, officer.” Herbert scurried off, his bathrobe flapping behind him.
“Okay, son. What’s your name again?”
“I’m late for a job interview,” Clayton said.
The policeman huffed and one side of his mouth curled. “Son, you’re going to have to miss this one.”
Clayton dropped his briefcase. It clattered to the floor, its emptiness echoing his own feelings. “I didn’t want the job anyway.”
The policeman nodded. “Your full name, please.”
* * *
Clayton glanced at the alarm clock: 12:50.
He waited. When the footsteps didn’t come, he let out a sigh.
Not that he was expecting any.
Still, there was something missing now. It was too quiet. It seemed he had gotten used to the late night ritual.
He glanced over at the window, at the stream of moonlight that cut a bright line into his apartment. There was no light, either.
Nor would there ever be, Clayton knew.
It had vanished, along with Rose’s life.
Clayton shivered, despite the warm breeze drifting in through the open window. And even though he was exhausted, there would be no sleep for him tonight.
NOTES:
I’m a big fan of murder-mystery stories, and magazines such as Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock. I wrote this story specifically with the idea of submitting it to Ellery Queen. A tough market, and sure enough, a few months later I received my first rejection letter from the legendary mystery magazine. But, not too long after, Eric from Nocturne Press came to me asking if I had anything I could send him for the premiere issue of Post Mortem magazine. I had this story fresh in my mind, so I sent him the story, he liked it and bought it.
THE CYCLE