by Edwin Dasso
Her next thought was to stick a notice in the window; ‘HELP’, written large. There was the slightest chance someone might see it but, realistically, how often did people look up? She thought back to family holiday trips to destinations such as Florence, Rome, Paris and Madrid; her father constantly reminded her and Graham to look up, explore above head height. She’d told herself she would teach her own children the same. Towers soared towards the sky above them, gargoyles glared down at them, even the pigeons roosting in nooks and crannies she may not have seen.
No one but no one would be walking in the park this early in the morning. The runners only ever stared straight ahead, just glancing at the electronic gadgets on their wrists to check their running speed, distance or heart rate before fiddling with the settings on their iPods to change the music.
Her only option was to escape. Leaving the curtains undrawn, she tiptoed over to the door and peered through the keyhole. What was Andy doing? The key was still in the lock and only emitted a glimmer of light, impossible to see anything of the lounge. She put her ear to the door and listened, but she could only hear a low rumble. What equipment did she have that made a noise like that? Nothing. Then it dawned on her. She could hear snoring. Was it possible that Andy had fallen asleep?
She paced back and forth for minutes screaming to herself inside, telling her brain to work. Come on, you’re not stupid. You’ve got more brains than that animal out there. How the police hadn’t already caught him and locked him up was a miracle. Were they even more inept?
Helen had one of those lightbulb moments. A fragment of a film she’d seen years ago. She began searching the bedroom for a large piece of paper. There was a ream of A4 typing paper in the desk drawer in the lounge, but nothing in here. Since the murderer had emptied most of the drawers and the wardrobe, it was easy to see at a glance there was nothing useful. Then she remembered. Kneeling on the floor she slid her hand under the bed. The tips of her fingers felt the edge of the magazine she had pushed out of sight with the vacuum only last week. A page torn from that would be perfect. She wriggled her fingers but only succeeded in pushing it further away out of reach.
She scooted around to the other side of the bed and tried again from that side, but she couldn’t feel it at all. What did she have that was long and thin? Her coat hangers were padded and too thick and wouldn’t fit under the bed. Her umbrella was by the front door, all other useful equipment was in the kitchen and out of reach.
She tried to push the bed away from her, but it was heavy and the short legs would not slide over the thick pile carpet.
Something bright sticking out from behind the wardrobe caught her eye. It was Joanna’s kite, the one they’d been fighting over that she had snatched and confiscated. She’d hidden it in her room after screaming at them to share, which was a total waste of both her time and energy. Most times Joanna the peacemaker gave way, but not on this occasion. The kite was a new toy from Mrs Harris and she loved the bright colours and the promise that Mr Harris would take her to the park and show her how to fly it.
Helen crawled over and tugged it. For a moment she thought it would not come lose and she pulled harder. It popped out so suddenly she fell over backwards, landing on her back staring at the ceiling. She saw stars, red, green and blue which floated past her eyes, followed by a dull thump in her head. She clenched her teeth, rolled over onto her knees and crawled back to the bed.
Shoving the kite underneath it, she poked at the magazine attempting to push it away and out the other side. The dust she disturbed floated into her nostrils and she only just managed to pinch her nose tight to stop herself sneezing.
She pushed and wriggled the thin wooden sticks each time hoping she was succeeding in easing the magazine out.
Every few minutes she slid over the top of the bed to check if it was in sight. At last her efforts were rewarded and she grabbed a corner and yanked it free. Leafing through the pages, she was dismayed to see the pages were much thinner than she wanted, but it would have to do.
Now she needed a hair grip. Her possessions had been scattered far and wide, but there was one lone kirby grip stuck at the back of one of the bedside drawers, imprisoned in a blob of dried nail polish. She prised it loose and raced to the bedroom door and paused to listen for a moment. All she could hear was the low rumble of the snoring. Had Andy really gone to sleep?
Helen had never played with locks. On the television it looked easy, a quick wriggle and jiggle and the door flew open. Helen wasn’t attempting to turn the key, just poke it through on the other side. She slid a page torn out of the magazine under the door until she was certain it was at least half way across and then began to worry the key.
It didn’t take many minutes before her wrists began to ache. Her fingers too felt stiff. She changed hands, massaging each one when she couldn’t stand the pain any longer. She trying pushing the hair grip up and down and side to side, then in figures of eight and diagonally from top to bottom. Every few minutes she stopped to catch her breath. She could feel the tension in her neck muscles, the strain on the tendons in her arms and even when she fetched the chair to sit on it didn’t help much. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and pricks of perspiration itched at the base of her hair follicles. Even her legs began to ache, scrunched up in one position for too long. The longer she worked, the hotter she became as the sweat trickled down her back making her itch. She wriggled, trying to scratch her back against the towel.
The towel! Why had she not got dressed? It’s a fallacy you have more protection in clothes than nightwear, but it gives you confidence. She gazed at the door for a moment as she massaged her wrists. First things first. She needed the key.
When the key dropped out of the lock on the far side of the door it took her by surprise. There wasn’t enough of a gap under the door to see if it had landed on the magazine or bounced further away. She could only hope.
Inch by inch she pulled the paper back into the bedroom. Was there enough clearance to bring the key too? She slowed down, aware that she had stopped breathing. She peeled back the edge of the carpet, tugging against the sticky tape that held it in place.
After several agonizing minutes the last of the magazine slipped under the door.
No key.
Helen grabbed the kite and tore off the cross bar. It would never fly now, it was already battered and bent. She started by the door jam and swept the floor on the other side. On her third attempt she saw the edge of the key. It refused to move further but remained wedged under the door. The crossbar from the kite was made of thin plywood and snapped when she put more pressure on it.
Helen scrambled to her feet, and began searching frantically for her tail comb. Made of thicker plastic it might be strong enough to force the key through.
She flung the bedclothes to one side, pawing through the scattered items, pouncing on the clothes on the floor as she squeezed them hoping to feel something solid.
Just as she was beginning to give up, collapse in a heap on the floor and cry, whether from frustration or fear she wasn’t sure, she noticed the tail poking out from under a pillow. She crouched down, her aches and pains miraculously fading as she curled the comb round the fat side of the key and yanked it through to her side of the door.
A wave of adrenalin surged through her, she felt like Superman and Batmen rolled into one. She mopped up the sweat off her forehead with an abandoned scarf and flung on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and two jerseys. Not that she was cold; the apartment was well insulated with an efficient central heating system, but the fear of the knife sliding into her body was not far from her thoughts. She added her leather jacket in a pathetic attempt to protect herself just a little more.
She sat on the bed and thought. Was it safer to stay in here and wait for help, or, go out and confront him? What would be best?
10
Monica wasn’t the only one who could not sleep that night. Mrs Vera Harris lay awake next to her husband Bert who snored fit to wake the
dead. Something wasn’t right; what, she had no idea but the vibes were out of sync. Vera’s mother had been something of a psychic, and would tease her daughter for having her feet rooted solidly in clay. The truth was that her mother’s visions had scared Vera as a small child and, if she ever found herself having her ‘out of body’ thoughts as she called them, she would deliberately suppress them and think of something different; a coming birthday, Christmas, a shopping trip, anything to push them away.
But, tonight, the feelings of unease would not go away. They were stronger than they had ever been before, and the flashes she was receiving were all showing her scenes from Helen’s apartment.
She flung back the bedclothes and wriggled her feet into her slippers. She wrapped her housecoat against the chill in the bedroom. Bert liked it cool, said it helped him to sleep better. She knew better than to wake him with her worries. He’d always sneered at her ‘stupid visions’ as he called them and told her not to be so daft.
She shuffled into the kitchen and filled the kettle from the tap and put it on to boil. She smiled. When in doubt, do what the British do; have a cup of tea. As she sat sipping the hot liquid from her favourite cup, decorated with fat, misbehaving Thelwell horses, she considered her options. She could creep along the corridor to Helen’s door and listen, or she could even use her key to peep inside to see if everything was in place, or she could, as she so often did, quash her feelings, finish her tea and go back to bed.
She stood and reached for the biscuit barrel. As she munched a custard cream she continued to think. Her watch told her it was now 3.30 am, so it would not be a huge risk to walk five doors along and put her mind at rest. It was too early even for the most enthusiastic joggers or the early morning workers on shift work. If she went back to bed she knew she wouldn’t sleep.
She rinsed out her cup in the sink and took the key to Helen’s flat from the hook and opened her front door. She looked both ways but there was no one in sight. Just in time she remembered to leave her door on the latch, before she padded silently along the concrete veranda. Was it the reports of the local murders which had upset her? Was it just her mind preying on the broadcasts of the gruesome events taking place only a few streets away? Maybe it didn’t matter. She was very fond of Helen, felt very sorry for her and she adored the twins. She’d miss taking them to the park later this morning and wondered what Helen was doing if she wasn’t playing tennis with Monica. She had probably planned a special treat for them, Helen was a good mother, kind and caring.
Vera Harris paused outside Helen’s front door and put her ear close to the wood. These apartments were old now, built in the days before they started throwing them up at breakneck speed. They were well soundproofed.
She hesitated, key in hand hovering an inch away from the keyhole. The feelings of alarm were stronger now, bouncing around in her head, screaming for her to take action. Gingerly she inserted the key and turned it and opened the door a crack. Now she could hear snores, loud snores and she almost smiled, she had no idea that Helen snored and it sounded as if she suffered from sleep apnea as well. The breaths stopped for seconds before starting again. Strange that one dim light was still on, perhaps she preferred not to sleep in the dark. She pushed the door a little wider, and noticed a body lying hunched on the sofa. It wasn’t possible to see who it was, but as she pulled the door too, Vera Harris decided it was probably Helen’s brother Graham. As an out of work actor, resting they called it, she wasn’t surprised to see him sleeping over. Had he been evicted for not paying his rent she wondered as she padded back along the passage and in though her own front door. She spoke sternly to herself, instructing her out of control vibes to behave themselves. All was well with Helen. Nothing was out of place.
As she slipped back into bed, causing Bert to grunt as the cold air wafted around his body, she congratulated herself on her night time excursion, relieved she had not phoned Helen and disturbed her peace. Goodness, she might even have woken the children. She snuggled down under the eiderdown and was asleep in moments.
11
Five doors down, Helen was wide awake. She had finally made up her mind. She could sit here for hours waiting for help to arrive and it was just possible that when murderer Andy woke, he would break down the door and she had no weapons to defend herself. Besides, she hadn’t finished with him.
Before inserting the key, she listened again at the door. She could just hear the snoring, it must be very loud, but it was not regular and came in snorts with quiet spells in between. She would just have to take a chance.
Inching the door open little by little she peeped out. His feet were hanging out over the end of the couch; it was too short for him to stretch out. He was curled up facing away from her, but she kept close to the wall as she slid along. He’d left one wall light on, so it was easy to see, but it also meant that he could see her.
She stepped into the bathroom, slipping the bedroom door key into her bra to leave her hands free. She collected a large can of hair lacquer. The effects wouldn’t be as good as the pepper spray but holding any kind of weapon was reassuring.
She was about to walk back into the lounge when she became aware something had changed. The snoring had stopped. She froze, every muscle taught, every sinew straining, a hammering in her head that felt it was about to explode. She began to count out the seconds. Her ears flared, listening for the slightest sound and still she counted. Five hundred and seventeen, five hundred and eighteen. That had to be long enough. If he’d woken up, she would have heard him.
She peeped round the door jamb. He was still lying in the same position. She took a chance and sidled past the hatch, ducking slightly as she tiptoed towards the kitchen. Dipping down below the hatchway so she was out of sight, she slid along the floor to the counter on the far side. She crouched down and reached up with her left hand, fingers inching towards the knife block. When Mrs Harris had given it to her last Christmas Helen was delighted. She’d always wanted one but they were quite expensive. Her friendly neighbour had caught her hacking away at a cheap cut of meat one day, and, having been married for decades to a butcher, well, Bert had always insisted a sharp knife made life so much easier. This particular set had been advertised on the TV and, so they announced, would never need sharpening.
Helen’s fingers strained to reach the block. Her finger tips brushed the wood, but she would have to stand to get the angle right to pull it out. She froze, and without turning to look behind her pushed herself up and counting along the row, she removed the second largest knife from the rack, just in time to feel a hand clutch her wrist and squeeze hard.
Helen gasped but held on to the knife as tightly as she could. It felt welded to her palm and cut into it painfully, but then her intruder put an arm across the front of her neck jerking her hand up which let go of the aerosol can. It flew away over the hatchway and landed on the carpet in the lounge. She realised this was the end. It would have been better to cut her throat while she was fast asleep, then she would have felt no pain, a humane way to die.
She kicked backwards, aiming for any area of soft flesh she could find but there was very little room to manoeuvre in the small kitchen. She twisted herself one way and another, she wasn’t going down without a fight.
Both of them were startled by the clatter as her mobile fell out of his pocket and skittered along the floor. It flashed through Helen’s mind that it might be broken. It came to a stop below the oven. Her only possible lifeline, the only way she could call for help. She had not forgotten that Andy had the front door key in his pocket.
They continued to wrestle. Helen pushed against his arm while bringing up her hand to scratch his hand, digging in her nails as hard as she could.
He yelped and pressed down harder on her windpipe cutting off her air supply. The kitchen began to fade, her eyesight grew fuzzy, she opened her mouth to gulp in as much air as she could. She felt as if she was going to pass out and gave one last, frantic struggle to break loose. She twisted her b
ody towards him and lashed out with her leg, pulling it up and kicking him as hard as she could below his knee.
She must have hit his shin bone harder than she thought as he gasped and loosened his grip on her and tilted forward. At the same time, he wrenched the knife out of her hand. She managed to break free and backed away into the corner. He was now between her and the archway into the lounge but she was within reach of the cupboard where she kept her baking equipment. She grabbed the handle just as he lunged towards her but as she flung it open, it slammed into his legs and gave her enough time for her fingers to curl around the end of the rolling pin. She swept it out, waving it like a fencing foil, baring her teeth she hissed, “Come and get me, just you try.”
She was balanced on the balls of her feet, bobbing up and down like a boxer in the ring, with her feet shifting from side to side in the small space.
He took a step towards her and paused and then to her surprise, he backed away. The moment he turned his head she took a huge swipe and cracked him on the back of his head. She was sure she’d hit him hard enough to break his skull, but she could see no visible damage. Her fingers were glued so tightly to the rolling pin it felt part of her. With her free hand she picked up anything within reach, the mugs and plates off the counter, the coffee and sugar cannisters and even the kettle and flung them. She followed him as he backed off into the lounge, and hurled the table lamp and vase, flowers and all. He turned and raced through the archway into the lounge, dropping the knife, fumbling in his pockets for her keys, which fell from his trembling fingers and bounced on the carpet. He ducked down, never taking his eyes off Helen as he searched around for them. He shrank away from her but she kept her distance. He was not going to tackle her, she was like a woman possessed, her eyes were wild, as she pelted him with anything within reach.
