by Janet Preece
Oh, God. Only thirty minutes in, she uncrossed her legs and crossed them over the other way, hoping it would make her more comfortable and take the pressure off her bladder. Maybe the trainers should come off too? She took them off in the dark and lifted her feet onto the headrest in front, realising opting for no socks had been a mistake. She wondered if anybody else was within sniffing range, but wasn’t going to look about her and make it obvious she was the perpetrator.
Julie got out her notepad and pen. She hadn’t really thought this through – making notes would mean looking away from the screen and potentially missing the ‘good bits’. The sound was so loud that every noise made her jump. It was such a dark movie, both in lighting and subject matter. She wished she had researched beforehand so she knew what to expect. Another reminder-to-self for next time!
The cinema was silent. It had filled up quite a lot, and there were lots of women in there with her, mostly in pairs, and one man sitting on his own. Another loner like her. She hoped he wouldn’t think she was fair game and come sit with her. It was an odd feeling, being on your own in the cinema. It felt wrong yet deliciously right, naughty and self-indulgent. She pulled her coat firmly around her and zipped it up, keeping cosy in her gloves and hat. It was an odd mishmash when partnered with bare feet, but it made her feel comfortable; comforted.
On the big screen, the woman started to strip off and prance about the house. It was night-time, and she put her music on and swayed in the dim candlelight. No! Why would you? Don’t do it! Swigging from a bottle of vodka in the dark, alone in your own house – who does that? Get a glass, dear! The woman flounced into the bedroom and picked up some tablets from the bedside cabinet, topless now, wearing only a peach thong. Sleeping pills, perhaps, Julie wondered, more interested in the dangerous position she was getting herself into than the titillation of the actress being half-naked. She cringed. Those candles were precariously close to the beautiful negligee the woman had so thoughtlessly discarded.
The bedroom was in darkness despite the candles, yet they gave out more than the expected amount of light. It just isn’t realistic, Julie was glad to report. In reality, there’s a film crew in there with a fuck-off light attached to the top of the video camera. If it was real life, the room would have been much darker. Unless she has very fine curtains, Julie mused, in which case, she’d likely be waking up at dawn… Or maybe not, with the combination of drugs and alcohol she’d consumed. Had she opted for Temazepam or Loprazolam or perhaps Nitrazepam, that’s what Julie would have chosen, perhaps with a little Lormetazepam thrown in if she could get her hands on it.
Overthinking it, Julie, she told herself as she wriggled in her seat once more, her bladder now straining for release. It’s a movie. Just make a note of the things that don’t quite work and include them in your film review. She started scribbling down in the dark, then jumped as a crash came from behind, the surround sound system making the most of the moment. She looked up to see smashing glass as a hand reached through the front door and turned the doorknob. Make it easy why don’t you! Where’s the double lock? The bolt? The latch?
The cloaked intruder was now in the apartment. He walked slowly towards the bedroom and laughed – a low, deep-throated sound – as he reached the vulnerable sleeping beauty. He started to pull off her remaining clothing and lower himself onto her. The bedroom scene. Julie rolled her eyes at the absurdity of it. All Julie could think about was her bladder.
She finally understood the phrase, ‘Lost the plot.’ She had no idea what was going on but an overwhelming anger at the stupid woman for making herself so vulnerable. She deserved it. Julie would never put herself in that position. She was prepared, always prepared. Never lower your guard. Maybe the flames would still take hold, engulf them both in the room, put an end to her torture?
Good luck, lady. I hope you’re okay when I get back!
She quickly tied her trainers and got up. Nobody sat behind to complain about her blocking the view, though on her way out, she had to apologise to a few people in her row as she crunched popcorn underfoot. She took the stairs two at a time down to the exit, making a fist with both hands in case she needed to retaliate against any attacker. She ran down the corridor and with one brave, strong push, burst into the toilets.
Silence.
It was eerie. So many of the doors read ‘occupied’ but were slightly ajar. She hated that – and the silence. Needing to be sure there was nobody lurking, she began to push open each door along the row.
One, two, three…
One, two, three…
She pushed each one as fast as possible, holding her breath. They all swung open to reveal an empty cubicle and gave her a fresh burst of relief. Behind the next door and the next, there were no feet, and when she did her usual sideways glance up and down the row, Julie seemed to be alone. She was getting pretty desperate for the toilet. Cursing the ridiculous obsessive habit she’d developed over the years, she pushed open the final door with as much strength as she could muster, adrenaline rushing through her veins.
Then, it happened.
Something barring the door, stopping her from checking, preventing the all clear, something there, hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce, to devour her.
Oh God help me! Deliver me from this evil, give me the strength to defend myself against the darkness within.
With all her might Julie pounded against the door, willing the evil to stay in confinement, chanting to herself over and over, her mind screaming ‘No!’
She would not give in.
Chapter Ten
As she pushed, the door swung backwards like a knock-out punch. There was a loud bump, and as she peered around cautiously, she saw a dark shadow in the back of the cubicle.
Julie banged the door open again, a cry spilling out through gritted teeth, the resulting smash a cracking sound. The figure kept coming, this time covered in blood and moving towards her.
Help me! Is it dead? Must kill it, stop the attack, defend myself. Fight back, come on, be strong, it’s not your time to die.
Fight-or-flight, Julie’s heart pounded as she continued to smash the door back and forth into the encroaching abomination. She wasn’t ready to meet with death. Decades of fear and frustration at her own anxiety flowed out with every bang of her fist against the wood. She imagined bones splintering and cracking, wet blood splattering up the walls, ruining the paintwork. No human sound came out, just that of an animal gurgling blood, and the crunch of snapping sticks.
And then, a whoosh as it fell.
Had she won?
She waited as the seconds passed, then slowly opened the door – her weapon – to peer inside. The bloody monster she’d imagined gave way to an image of unexpected calm. The figure was slumped over the toilet, unmoving. At peace in its serenity. She’d expected blood, lots and lots of it, but surprisingly, there was very little on the body. Perhaps it was the angle she’d collapsed, her face covered, hair stuck to her head stemming the blood flow. Julie blinked and tried to make sense of the scene. There were clear splatters across the wall, a substantial amount of blood and… what was that, skin? Drip-dripping down the back of the toilet and into the bowl where her head rested.
How convenient. She watched as tiny droplets formed on the walls. Tiny blood blisters, racing each other down but somehow disappearing before they reached the floor. Tiny pockets of joy, relief, escapism, taking Julie back to her childhood.
She smiled, remembering the games she would play in the car with her sister when they were little. Before. Her rain stream, her tiny droplet, always seemed to collide with another and then take off on a different path, impossible to follow to the bottom of the window. Claire, oh how she missed her. Where was she now? Staring at liquid droplets drip-drip-dripping too?
They’d parted ways the day her father died, and she hadn’t the strength to argue. Julie had tried her best to mother her when
their own mother had walked out, but she was just a girl herself, struggling with her own survival. Julie’s relationship with Albert had become worse than ever, his anger and verbal abuse transferring onto her in the absence of his wife. Thoughts of ending her own life were forever teasing her, offering relief from the hell she had to put up with. All she could think about was escape, so when Dan came onto the scene, she threw herself towards him and out the door.
That was then, powerless, leaving one hell for another. No control. No confidence. No way out… Julie focused once more on the scene in front of her now, the ringing silence of the moment. This is freedom.
She looked at the woman slumped over the toilet seat in front of her, the beautiful serenity. The blood against the white wall was so dark she wanted to touch it, smear it over her cheeks, beat her chest like an Amazonian warrior queen – the victor – in celebration.
I did that. I protected myself. I won. She looked at the carnage she had created and smiled. Survival of the fittest.
Julie willed her eyes to take in the full scene, a mental photograph of the exquisite purity. A ritual cleansing, the ease with which a life could be taken away in an instant.
◆ ◆ ◆
The movie was progressing without her – Julie would need to hurry back. But how to contain the moment, freeze it still inside the cubicle? She pulled out a coin she had been turning over and over in her coat pocket and thought back to the times when her kids locked themselves in cubicles accidentally. Cries of, ‘Help, help!’ A panicked child; a panicked mother unable to get under or over the door to set the child free.
It would be simple to wedge the coin inside the screw of the lock and twist it halfway. Putting her foot under the door, Julie pulled it closed. No hands, no fingerprints. She still had her gloves on as she fiddled with the coin, changing the sign to occupied.
Simple. Done.
The urge to release her bladder had subsided. Very odd. Maybe a mental issue rather than a physical need, she considered blaming the children – their birth, their very existence – for the irritating need to pee.
As she walked down the row, she looked back at the closed door. White, clinical. These things didn’t happen.
Was it all a dream?
At the mirror, Julie marvelled at her flushed cheeks. Perhaps she was warm from keeping her hat on indoors to tuck away all that frizzy hair? She would have to book an appointment to sort it out – maybe the straightening treatment Rachel was always banging on about. What was it called again? She couldn’t quite remember.
She wondered what the woman was up to in the movie as she walked casually down the strobe lit walkway, back to screen five. The intruder had a knife in his head and was lying on the floor, no sign of the previously sleeping woman. Was it a trap? She would have to really focus now to work out what was going on. She took off her trainers and sat back again, crossing her ankles over the seat in front. With a small smile, she thought, Brazilian blow-dry!
◆ ◆ ◆
Julie was totally immersed in the movie and before she knew it, the lights were coming on, and people were getting up, thoughtlessly leaving their rubbish behind. It would be so easy to grab it on the way out knowing there was a bin blocking the exit anyway.
Sixteen, eighteen, twenty…
She lost count. So many people left the screen she hadn’t noticed were even there. She was usually so diligent at surveying her surroundings and possible threats. Julie joined the trail and followed them out, taking note most of the women were snaking their way in the direction of the toilets. A few men hung around outside, mobiles in hand.
Nobody had closed off the toilets? Very odd. There was a queue forming outside, and Julie tagged onto the end in curiosity. Had she dozed through the movie and dreamt the whole thing? Putting her hand in her pocket she felt for the coin, it was still there. That doesn’t confirm anything really.
The toilets were still very much in action with a one in/one out routine working as per usual, slower perhaps because Julie was feeling impatient. She couldn’t understand why she felt no fear or remorse, no panic or anxiety as per her usual day-to-day activities. Her mind told her she should, but her body felt enlightened. Had it not been for the school run threatening her as the seconds ticked by, she would have happily waited more patiently.
A group of ladies stood chatting in front of her, talking at such a rate, so enthused by the movie they were all speaking over each other.
‘Yeah, that was so obvious!’
‘I don’t think she should have gone over.’
‘So predictable!’
‘The acting was brilliant,’
‘Really? I thought it was self-indulgent.’
Blah, blah, blah and more of the same, Julie thought. It wasn’t exactly a cinematic masterpiece in her opinion. She should write that down.
‘God, how long are these fucking queues?’ said a short woman dressed in what could only be described as glitzy partywear. Not very Wednesday afternoon, Julie thought. She hoped the outfit wasn’t going to be wasted on a cinema trip with girlfriends and that she’d be going on to somewhere more appropriate afterwards – at the very least, selling her body outside on the street (she looked the part). She didn’t stop moaning, her voice whiny through the din of her group. ‘Why do people take so long? I’m literally going to piss myself! I’m going to use the sink in a minute if this lot don’t hurry up!’
Julie finally rounded the corner and gave the position of door prop to the woman behind, taking pleasure in moving forward and hearing it thump. Her eyes went straight to the end cubicle. The door was shut, the ‘occupied’ sign shining back at her. She felt excited, waiting for it to open – more excited at the thought it would stay shut. They wouldn’t have cleared the body away already and if they had, they would be cleaning up? She pinched her checks to check she was still awake, ignoring the frowns from the woman queuing behind.
‘Get off your phones, ladies, or I’m going to start kicking those doors in!’ Ms. Glitzy stepped out of line towards the cubicles and began to pummel her fists on each door, making them shake precariously on their hinges. Julie held her breath as one of the doors flew open. Thankfully, it looked like the occupant was a time-waster and hadn’t been caught with her knickers down. Or her head smashed in, bleeding out into the toilet bowl.
At Ms. Glitzy’s raucous outburst, a number of chains flushed, and two other women came filtering out, zipping up their bags, angry scowls on their silent mouths as they shared their irritation without the bravery to confront their aggressors. The vacant toilets soon filled, and a fresh gaggle of ladies moved to the front of the queue, quickly forgetting about the end toilet that had not opened.
Relief? The end lock held tight. Disappointment, her dream not yet a confirmed reality. Julie embraced the conflicting emotions flooding through her body, equally frightful and delicious, making her skin prickle and her taste buds tingle. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, swallowing the excess saliva, flicking her tongue to a metallic taste. The lady behind her was staring blindly past, focussing on the closed doors.
Julie’s time came, and she walked into a cubicle, calmly sat and urinated. Such a relief – she’d forgotten she hadn’t been earlier. Looking at her watch again, she noted the time. There was still half an hour before school pick-up, so she’d have a brisk walk back.
Her pulse flashed up on the Fitbit with sparkles moving around it. ‘New low,’ it read. She looked forward to going through the app later and seeing how it had fluctuated throughout the day – if at all. Flushing the toilet was a trial, so she just tore off extra toilet paper to cover what she was leaving behind and exited. She thought about apologising to the next person in line, a stranger she would never remember, someone unlikely to feature in her life again. Instead, she spent time trying the soaps, washing her hands and then drying them thoroughly, enjoying watching a little kid cry and make
a fuss about the hand dryer. What doesn’t kill them makes them stronger, she thought, giving them an extra few seconds just for fun.
Exiting the bathroom, Julie took the stairs out of the cinema and breathed in the fresh air. The trees looked beautiful swaying in the breeze, the smell of crisp autumn and the promise of cosy winter nights drawing in. She cuddled herself in her warm coat and gloves and smiled. Her new job had begun.
Julie realised she had not felt anxious using the public restrooms for the first time in as long as she could remember. Conquer your fears, she recalled Kate’s words – then doubled over and vomited.
Nobody stopped; nobody noticed. She felt cleansed, a renewed power in her step as she walked onwards, head held high.
Chapter Eleven
That day at pick-up, Tommy came out of class timidly, face down and silent. Usually, he’d throw his lunch box in the air as soon as he spotted her, and if she wasn’t on guard, it would end up hitting her in the face. But today, nothing. He held on tight, pulling at Julie to move away.
Then, his teacher’s voice. ‘Mrs. Summers, could you wait behind please so I can talk to you?’
Oh, great. What’s he done now, and why is it, no matter what age you are, teachers manage to make you feel like a naughty child? If Tommy had done something wrong, why should Julie get the brunt of it? Discipline him and move on.
Usually, she would feel intimidated, but today, Julie couldn’t help but stare the teacher up and down. Seriously, what was she wearing? Heels and leggings? She looked young enough be in school herself. When had teachers become so young? Was she trying to assert herself, strutting around like a peacock? Did it make her feel more powerful to wear that amount of makeup? Julie would give it a go. She felt Tommy squirm next to her and wondered what he had done. No child had left with obvious bruises or broken bones, and no other parent had come up shouting the odds, so what could it be? Had he forgotten to write in the cursive, frilly, joined-up, illegible writing they all insisted on? Or perhaps he’d jumped ahead in maths and learned an alternative style of working out his long division?
