by Matt Shaw
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I’ll bring her home.
A final walk around the house to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.
The lounge.
I’ve ripped the carpets up. One less thing to distract us from our time together. Carpets aren’t important, in a relationship and, again, it’ll be nice traipsing around the stores together, in the coming months, choosing a nice thick carpet to keep our feet warm in the colder months. The walls are just as bare as the floor - I’ve re-painted them white and taken down the various paintings I had originally hung to add colour and character to the room; again, none of which are important whilst I’m trying to show her I’m the perfect man for her. And, again, it will give us something to shop for in the future.
Against the far wall is a settee which will comfortably seat three people. To the side of that is an armchair for a further one person. I don’t plan on having more than four people in here. I especially don’t want just three people.
Truth be told, in the early months, I don’t want any other people in here. This is my house.
Susie’s home.
Our home.
The settee itself is a relatively nice sofa. I didn’t feel the need to buy the most expensive but, considering the amount of time I plan to be in here with Susie, I didn’t want the cheapest either. It had to be comfortable.
Comfortable doesn’t come cheap.
Sadly.
On the opposite wall of the lounge is a small television but I doubt I’ll be keeping that there, when I bring Susie home. I want her to talk to me, get to know me - enjoy my company. I don’t fancy the idea of her sitting there, watching television all night barely speaking a word to me.
Maybe I’ll just take the fuse out of the plug. There is no denying the television helps make the room look more comfortable to sit in - even if it doesn’t work.
Yes.
I’ll do that.
Mental note to self - take the fuse out of the television’s plug.
I walk through to the kitchen.
The shelves and sides are crammed with food. Too much for the two of us to eat before it goes out of date. But I’m not wasting it. Well, she’s not. I’ll eat the good stuff and serve her the out of date stuff first.
Apart from the overflowing cupboards, I’ve more or less left the kitchen as it was. It’s not a room I plan on her seeing for a while. After all, she’s my guest to start with so I’ll do the cooking.
In time? Well, in time it will be nice to come home to a meal cooked by the woman I love. I think that’ll be a few months off, though.
Sadly.
The hallway, leading to the stairs is also missing it’s carpet. The mirror, that hung on the wall adjacent to the stairs - smashed and removed. Only a nail sticks out of the wall showing there once was something there.
A nail also showing that something could hang there once again, too.... when we’re ready to make the home our own. Our little nest.
Not that it’s really needed, as it was the last room that I sorted, I stick my head into the dining room. A cheap table from B&Q, less than one hundred pounds and four chairs, which came with the table, around it.
I left place settings on the table.
I think place settings are important. They show everyone has their own place. A place for Susie, a place for me and, eventually, a place for some guests. Maybe, and I’m getting ahead of myself now, her parents.
I wonder, will they give me their blessing to be seeing their daughter?
Hopefully.
I walk up the stairs noticing they creak more, without the carpet. Maybe getting rid of the carpet here was a mistake? No matter, something else to shop for - a romantic shopping trip..... looking for carpet. I smile to myself.
The bathroom - a clean, white bath-tub, white walls, white sink, light blue tiled floor. I don’t like this room. It seems clinical. Depressing. The other rooms are a little depressing - what with being so empty - but there’s scope, there, for improving it.
To improve the bathroom - to the scale which I think is needed - would be a major upheaval. I don’t have the time or the patience. Still, it’s clean. That’s something at least. I close the door as I step back out onto the landing.
She doesn’t need to see that room straight away.
Not until we’ve spent the day together.
The spare bedroom, next to the bathroom. This is her room until she feels ready to move in with him - which will be soon, I hope. Not that I’ll pressure her.
Not straight away, at least.
Again, another room of white walls and floorboards - a single bed across from the doorway, against the far wall. Flowery sheets. A little colour for her. So she can feel comfortable.
This will be the nursery, in a few years.
That’s a strange feeling.
The next room down the hallway - my bedroom.
Soon to be our bedroom.
Same white walls, same creaky floorboards. A large double bed on the far wall. Built in wardrobes. This room - this room has potential for us. So many possibilities for what it could look like, in time to come.
I hope she doesn’t make it really girly, though.
I hope there’s a little compromise along the way.
Maybe she could do one side of the room and I could do the other? That would be fair. No, that’s stupid. Forget it. Even if I did mention that to her - it would probably offend her; like I don’t trust her to make choices that I’d like.
I close the door and peer into the next room; my study.
A black, glass table...
Top of the range iMac computer. No expense spared.
A digital clock on the magnolia painted wall. Silver frame. Black numbers. Classy.
Light wooden flooring - nicely laminated.
Comfortable, high-backed leather chair. Again, no expense spared.
This is my room.
Boys’ toys, in here. It’s none of her business what style I decorate this room in.
I close the door and lock it - with the lock I added to the door.
My room.
I’m happy. The house is looking ready for it’s guest of honour.
All I need to do....
All I have to do....
I have to collect her. Bring her home....
My heart skips a beat at the thought of it. In my mind, it’s a relatively easy process where I invite her around and she simply comes of her own accord but, seeing as she can’t even answer a straight-forward text, I doubt my invite will be accepted that easily.
The only way I can think of getting her back here is by taking her from her home. She won’t thank me for that. She won’t thank me but, in time, I hope she can forgive me - when she sees why I did it.
There’s no point second guessing what she’ll think or how she’ll behave. I just need to do it. I just need to get her home. Bring her back and worry about how she behaves then.
For all I know, she could be happy to see me? It’s been a couple of weeks now.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
I read that somewhere.
Not sure where though.
Stop delaying.
Wasting time. Waiting for my brain to find a reason for me not to do this.
I’m doing it.
Tonight.
Tonight is the night.
I’m not coming home empty handed.
Not after all this.
17.
“Sam?” I open my eyes and peep into the darkness of my bedroom - half expecting to see Sam stood at the foot of the bed, with that charming smile.
There’s no answer.
I sit up, in my bed, a general feeling of unease. My heart beating hard from the sudden wake, the strangest feeling that someone was watching over me as I slept.
I squint harder into the darkness - I’m pretty sure no one is there but, even so, I lean over to the table, next to the bed, and flick the switch on the bedside lamp - illuminating the room as be
st as the little bulb can.
“Hello?”
I knew there’d be no answer. I feel stupid for even calling out. At least, when I called out for Sam, I can blame the fact that I was half asleep. Of course there’s going to be no answer. No one to reply. I locked the door on the way up to bed. I know I did.
I always lock the door before coming up.
Every day it’s the same.
I’m sure I did.
I think.
Did I?
I reach over to the small clock, next to the bedside lamp.
Three-thirty.
It feels like ages since I’ve slept properly. I blame it on the afternoon naps - something of a daily habit since finding myself unemployed. I’ll suffer, for those, when I do get a job again.
Did I lock the door?
Dammit.
You’re going to make me get out of bed, aren’t you?
You aren’t going to let me just go back to sleep; a peaceful dream. You’re going to make me get up, out of my warm and cozy bed just to check a door I am sure I locked. Pretty sure I locked, at least.
For fuck’s sake.
Okay.
But when we see it’s locked - I’m going to say I told you so. So, as long as you can cope with me gloating that I was right and you were wrong, I’ll check.
I wait a moment.
Nope.
I need to prove it to myself. Prove the nagging doubts, in my mind, that I did lock it, like I said I did. At least they’ll let me sleep then. Hopefully. And, tomorrow, I won’t have an afternoon nap. I’ll stay awake all day; keep myself busy so I can get a decent night’s sleep tomorrow evening.
Get my body clock back to normal; a head start for when I find myself a job again.
Everything sounds so easy when you say it in your head.
If only it was just as easy when you had to do it for real.
The lock?
Okay, I’m going.
I kick the duvet back. Jesus Christ it’s fucking cold.
Yeah, well, just think how lovely and warm the bed will be when you clamber back into it and snuggle down into your duvet. The warmth will be your reward for checking on the lock and proving me wrong.
I’m not going to be long so I don’t even stop to throw on my dressing gown. I just want to get downstairs and check the front door is locked and then straight back upstairs to the warmth of my bed.
I dart across the landing and down the stairs in what seems like seconds - not even stopping to turn the lights on - and I’m soon at the front door.
I twist the handle and give myself a little triumphant smile.
Locked.
I knew I had locked it.
But are you so sure about the back door?
I can’t even remember the last time I used the back door.
Which means it’s potentially been open for a good number of days. More reason to check it. Arguing with myself is just wasting time so I hastily walk through to the kitchen and try the back door.
Another triumphant smile to myself.
Locked.
And now, back to my bed - calling to me from upstairs.
I stop.
Another feeling of unease washes over me and I slowly turn back to the kitchen door - a typical back door with a large window showing the blackness of the night outside.
I walk over to the door and put my face up against the glass-pane to see the world beyond but it’s shrouded in nothing but blackness. With my hand, I feel for the light-switch, on the wall, to the patio light and flick it on illuminating the back garden.
I freeze.
Looking hard into the garden - to the shadows of the far corners - to see if there is anyone out there. To my relief, there is no one. A nervous laugh escapes my mouth.
See - I said I locked up.
Told you so.
I flick the light switch off and retire to the safety (and warmth) of my bedroom - under the covers, to be more precise. Had there been anyone in the back garden, I’m not entirely sure what I would have done - other than scream, that is.
In the dead of night, it’s amazing the tricks your mind can play on you.
You can be your own worse enemy.
I shake my head at myself, again, and lean over to flick the light off on the bedside lamp - plunging the room back into the haunting darkness that disturbed me in the first place.
“Sweet dreams,” whispered a voice from behind the bedroom door.
I screamed.
* * * * *
I’ve covered the room in less than the time it took for her to finish screaming and straddled over her body, as she lay there in the bed. She’s fighting hard, trying to get me off but she’s no match against my dead weight sitting on top of her and - as I hold a pillow over her face - she must be running out of air now.
I should have got a drug, or something, to speedily knock her out - like they do in the movies. But, where do you find things like that? I’m guessing it’s not something you can easily pick up on in the pharmacy. I imagine they’d ask all sorts of awkward questions.
She’s weakening now - as her legs try and kick me off and her hands pull, helplessly, at the pillow over her face. Yes, definitely weakening. She’ll go limp soon. And, when she does, I’ll keep the pillow over her face a little longer - just in case she’s pretending to be unconscious.
I wonder, how long should I hope it there for? I don’t want to kill her. What if I can’t get her to wake up? What if I do kill her? Do I still take her home with me? Or do I leave her here for the neighbours to find when the rotting smell of her corpse invades their home?
So many questions.
Why do I come to these things so ill-prepared.
I should have Googled it.
I’ll learn for next time.
Next time?
There shouldn’t be a next time. She’s the one for me. I shouldn’t need to do this again. I’m sure she’ll be fine...
As if to cue her body went limp underneath me.
This is it.
She’s mine now.
I take a little of my weight off her body - just enough to give her the chance for freedom but allow me the chance to easily take control again - just in case she is pretending.
She doesn’t move.
In response to her lack of movement, I lift the pillow slowly from her face. Her eyes are shut. She looks so peaceful. I’m not fooled though. I don’t lower my guard. I’ve seen too many Hollywood movies where it turns out the victim is merely feigning death or unconsciousness and, just as the attacker lowers their guard, the victim suddenly springs to life and turn the tables back onto their attacker. The attacker becomes the victim.
I’m not falling for it.
She does look peaceful though.
An Angel.
My Angel.
I move my face closer to hers - half expecting her eyes to suddenly open. Half expecting her to sink her teeth into my throat. She must be able to feel my breath against her face now. If she’s going to suddenly wake up and attack me - this is her opportunity. She doesn’t move, though. She doesn’t suddenly spring to life and turn the tables on me. I smile. Hollywood always gets it wrong.
I drop the pillow onto the bed, next to her head, and with my right hand, move a piece of hair from her eyes. So pretty. I’ve made the right choice. She’s gorgeous. The most perfect skin.
I’m glad I didn’t have to resort to punching her, to knock her out.
It would have been a shame to blemish her beauty.
On the floor, next to where I hid, is my bag. I reach down and lift it onto the bed, next to Susie. When I leant over, it would have been the perfect time for her to suddenly kick me off - as my balance would have been off centre. She didn’t move, though.
Actually.... she’s very still.
A quick check of her pulse and all’s good.
Well, as good as it can be, given the situation.
Good so far as - she’s not dead.
I open my b
ag, with the zipper, and pull the duct tape out. I’ll start with her mouth. Start with her mouth so, if she wakes up, she can’t scream. Screaming would be the first reaction and could alert people something’s not right. I’m lucky the initial scream was soon stifled.
Next, I’ll tape her wrists and hands. When she realises she can’t scream, she’ll do anything to get away from me - she’ll lash out, she’ll try and get the tape from her mouth.... a lot harder if her hands are taped. Also, if she does manage to get away from me, it will be harder for her to open doors, as she tries to make her getaway.
Her ankles are the last thing to tape together - making a quick getaway less likely. I’m sure people would have their own preference to which bit they secure first but my plan makes sense to me.
Logical sense.
I’m sure she can do damage by kicking and running but she can do more damage to my plan by screaming and throwing things. Yes, this definitely makes more sense...
And, as I struggle to find the end of the duct tape, I guess it would have made more sense to prepare the end of the tape first too - from the comfort of my home - where time wasn’t an issue. Eventually, after what seems like hours - although in reality was probably less than a minute - I find the edge of the tape and start tearing strips off.
The first, as per my plan, goes across her mouth.
She can’t scream now.
The next strips, multiple strips on each, are for her wrists - promptly followed by her hands. By the time I’m done tearing strips off and wrapping them around her wrists and hands - she looks as though she is wearing mittens.
I wonder, when I tear the tape off her - will it sting?
I didn’t even give that a moment’s thought.
Time will tell.
Finally, I bind her ankles.
They’ll be no screaming, they’ll be no hitting, punching, scratching or throwing things and they’ll certainly be no running. She’s mine. All I have to do now is get her in the back of my car and drive her to our home.
This should be easy now.
The hard bit’s done.
18.
It’s funny how much your driving improves when you have a body in your car’s boot.
Speed limits are adhered to.