by Anton Palmer
At fifty-eight years old and single, he had enough funds in the bank to see him comfortable for many years ahead - as long as he did some paid work to make his money stretch. While business was definitely not his forte, DIY certainly was and the job of General Handyman for Chillingworth Mews fitted his needs perfectly.
He opened the bedroom door and looked around. The bed was dishevelled, a damp towel sitting on top of the crumpled quilt and a puddle of dirty thongs on the floor. In his younger years, he may have been tempted to give the underwear a quick sniff but he liked to think he was beyond such juvenile perversions now – besides, in this day and age you couldn’t be sure there weren’t any hidden cameras around just waiting to catch someone in the act.
Quickly pushing such thoughts from his mind, he glanced down at his work schedule: squeaky floorboard under bedroom window, and, placing his toolbox on the floor, he stepped towards the far side of the room, pacing slowly until he located the offending board. The two dark knots in the grain stared up at him as if issuing a challenge.
He knelt down to take a closer look. The board didn’t appear to be warped in any way, and there was no discernible movement around the nails that fixed it to the sub-floor – the usual culprits where floorboard noise was concerned. Jonny decided he was going to have to take the board up and have a good look at it, maybe shave a sliver off one side.
Rummaging around in his toolbox, he pulled out the slimmest flat blade screwdriver that he thought would be up to the job and manoeuvred the blade into the tiny gap between the creaky board and its next door neighbour. The pristine varnish on the boards in question would no doubt get chipped but he could easily dab a fresh coat on any noticeable marks afterwards.
Being as careful as he could, while still trying to use the necessary force, he attempted the push the blade under the wood, wiggling it as he did so to help the screwdriver’s progress.
“Shit!”
Jonny cursed aloud as the tool slipped from his fingers and gouged through his jeans into the side of his knee, blood immediately flowing from the gash onto one of the staring knots. He winced as he stood, pressing the denim of his jeans against the hole in his leg to stem the flow, and hobbled to the en-suite to grab some tissue paper.
BLOOD!
The voice reverberated inside his skull. He froze in his tracks and nervously scanned around the bedroom.
MORE BLOOD!
The voice seemed to swell within him and Jonny suddenly felt strangely drawn towards the screwdriver lying on the floor. Its blood flecked blade seemed to call to him - the thought of stabbing his flesh with the tool growing irresistibly attractive. He walked slowly towards the screwdriver and bent down to retrieve it, the voice in his skull drowning out all thoughts except the spilling of his own bodily fluids.
MORE BLOOD!
The power of the command was physical, surging through his veins, tightening his muscles and hammering through his bones to the marrow. He gripped the screwdriver tight, his hand trembling as somewhere in his brain, a faint beacon of self-preservation battled the dark thoughts that had almost consumed him.
GIVE ME BLOOD!
The creaky floorboard flexed visibly as the voice in Jonny’s head reached a skull-splitting crescendo, sweeping asunder any final vestige of rebellion, the handyman screaming wildly as he plunged the screwdriver deep into his knee, twisting and gouging, fresh blood pouring from the gaping wound and soaking into the floorboards as if they were made of sponge.
*
Margaret Brown had been dozing fitfully on the sofa until the screams from the adjoining apartment woke her up. She immediately thrust her hands to her head, the throbbing at her temples now worse than ever. She decided that if she was no better in the morning she would go and see the doctor.
Another bout of screaming made her sit up.
What on earth was going on in there, she thought. Should she call the police? What if it was just an overly loud TV?
The elderly woman hated the thought of wasting police time – especially if it was just a TV left on in an empty apartment and they had to bash the door down…
The shrieking from next door started afresh, the noise banging into her throbbing skull like a pneumatic-drill.
“For Christ’s sake!”
She shouted at the adjoining wall as she pounded her fists against it, suddenly stopping as she realised she had blasphemed for the first time in goodness knows how long.
Oh, this blessed headache…
She pressed her palms hard against her temples and sank to her knees, gazing longingly at the picture of her late husband through welling tears of frustration.
*
The pain in Jonny’s leg was excruciating but he was powerless to stop himself inflicting even more damage. The dark eyes in the floorboard held him in their gaze, urging him on to spill more of his life-force. He watched, disconnected, as his blood was drawn into the wood, the floorboard seeming to pulse as if it was literally drinking its fill of the dark red fluid.
The bedroom suddenly echoed with a loud bang, as cracks snaked across the magnolia walls. Jonny shook his head, the spell broken for a second and the handyman sensed his chance at freedom. Adrenaline surged through his veins, masking the agony in his knee as he ran for the front door. Tugging on the handle, he felt resistance, as if the door was on a powerful spring, pulling against him, but his hormone-fuelled energy was superior and he staggered onto the landing as the door slammed shut behind him. He headed for the stairs, gripping the hand-rail tight as the initial surges of adrenaline began to fade, the pain in his leg burning with a renewed vigour, threatening to send him crashing. As he stumbled down the last few steps, he forced himself across the communal hallway, almost diving at the white button to the left of the doors which would open the locks.
Jonny yanked at the handle but the door remained closed. He jabbed at the switch repeatedly, listening for the soft ‘thunk’ which would indicate the latch had been released but heard nothing.
Again he tugged at the handle.
Again the door refused to budge.
Frantic, Jonny turned and looked at the staircase, as if waiting for some unseen force to slowly descend, like a scene from a horror movie, but his focus on the stairs was purely for his own benefit, something for his mind to latch onto. Deep inside he knew the unseen force was not coming down the stairs; it was in the stairs – and in the walls and floors and doors. It was all around him in the very structures of the building. And it was closing in, the sense of being disconnected beginning to cloud his mind once more, as if he were watching events unfold through a dirty window.
To his left, at the foot of the stairs, the door to the store room suddenly sprang open.
He didn’t want to go. He knew that if he entered that room he would never leave, but the voice was in his head again, whispering this time; almost soothing.
As if watching a character on a TV screen and just as helpless to interfere, Jonny’s dislocated mind looked on as he stepped slowly through the door.
20
Roger woke.
For a few, fleeting seconds, until his brain had booted up, he felt fully refreshed, fully relaxed – both physically and mentally.
He rose from the battered sofa and collapsed to the floor. Every part of his body hurt, every muscle throbbed. On hands and knees, he crawled through to the kitchen and used the table to haul himself to his feet, leaning over Bob’s bloated corpse for a few minutes, allowing whatever strength he had to solidify the jelly in his calves and thighs.
His belly growled loudly. He was starving. He couldn’t remember his last meal and his eyes scoured the kitchen looking for something to eat. In the yellowed fridge, he found a block of cheese and greedily bit off a chunk. There was an open pack of streaky bacon on the shelf below it, but after inspecting Bob’s collection of filthy pans, he couldn’t bring himself to cook anything. The stench of Bob’s shit on the floor was also starting to turn his stomach and, looking out of the grimy kitchen
window, he could see a small town in the distance – perhaps a couple of hours walk away – and he decided there would be far better grub on offer in a pub or takeaway.
Money - if he wanted to eat he was going to need money. He also needed to buy some new clothes and find somewhere to stay.
Unless…
He suddenly thought of Lisa. How he had left her; walked out on her without any explanation. It wasn’t her fault that he had witnessed her wilder past. Most people had to accept that their partners had a sex life before they had met…but then again, most people didn’t have to experience and witness that sex life.
Tears filled his eyes. He loved Lisa and wanted to be with her; hated himself for the hurt etched deep in her face when he had walked out.
But how could he go back? How could explain why he left and what he had been up to? And how long would it be before the dead came calling again – tugging at his bowels and dragging him off on another mission of vengeance?
As if to save him from further torment a sharp pain stabbed at his guts and the images and sensations of Lisa’s student gangbang flooded his mind and body. Roger wept as the truth was brutally laid out for him – he could never go back to Lisa. This was his life now – alone and homeless, at the beck and call of the departed souls he had traded his own for…
As the pain in his belly began to fade, so did his memories of Lisa, her face dissolving a little in his mind – as if the dead had applied an emotional Band-Aid. He sniffed back his sorrow and stared out of the greasy window once again. The town in the distance was calling to him, its church spire thrusting proud of the surrounding houses like a guiding beacon.
Roger turned out all the kitchen drawers searching for cash. Bob didn’t strike him as rich, but he did strike him as the sort of man who was frugal and possibly wary of banks. Also, the kind of man who would empty his victim’s accounts. Sure enough, his search quickly turned up a wad of banknotes, rolled tight and bound by an elastic band. A quick flick through the edges told him he had more than enough to get him through the next few weeks, possibly longer.
Taking a last, satisfying look at his handiwork laid out on the table, Roger slammed the kitchen door behind him and headed down the lane towards the town, the late afternoon sun warm and comforting at his back.
21
Sam slammed the front door shut behind her and crashed on through into the bedroom. She dumped her bag onto the floor and flopped onto the unmade bed, moaning quietly into her pillow.
The pain in her head had grown steadily worse throughout the day, seemingly untouchable by over-the-counter painkillers, and her boss had sent her home a couple of hours early – she had an important meeting the next day and he wanted her fit for it. Alongside the headache, her vision had become increasingly blurry, the fact that she had safely negotiated the fifteen mile drive from work owing more to light traffic and luck rather than any degree of judgement on her part.
Hurriedly discarding her shoes and skirt she crawled under the quilt, wrapping her arms tightly around her head in a futile attempt to ease the constant pounding. Her stomach rumbled and although she felt famished, she had no energy to cook. If Steve was hungry when he got home he would either have to cook for himself or get a takeaway.
*
According to the sign planted in the overgrown verge at the junction where the narrow lane joined a busier A-road, the town of Lydmet ‘Welcomed him’. The road, which was starting to fill with rush-hour traffic, led directly into the town itself and Roger only had to follow it for a few minutes before hedgerows gave way to bricks and concrete.
To his left he a spotted a small motel – ‘The Deanery’ – and judged it to be a suitable place to lay his head for the night. He decided that some clean clothes were probably in order first, though - any half-decent receptionist likely to think twice about letting someone in his current state book a room.
As he walked on, he passed a new apartment block on his right. A sign next to what he presumed was a sales office announced the building as ‘Chillingworth Mews’ – a complex of modern, luxury apartments. He noted that at least four of the apartments were still for sale and continued walking, spotting the familiar logo of a supermarket a couple of hundred yards ahead.
The supermarket security guard at the store’s entrance eyed Roger with some caution, his unshaven face and dirty clothes presumably flagging him as a potential shoplifter. He doubted that his odour was doing him any favours either, and the sudden thought of a hot shower reminded him to pick up some deodorant and other toiletries while he was here.
The clothing department was located at the rear of the store and mostly consisted of a basic range of leisure clothes. Roger pulled a pair of jogging trousers from the rail, thinking they might be more comfortable for running in than his denim jeans. They were cheap so he grabbed a few pairs in his size along with some plain white T-shirts and a fold-up waterproof jacket.
“Everything ok, sir?”
Roger started. He hadn’t noticed the shop assistant walking up to him and as he turned to face the woman, he spotted the security guard standing a little way behind her, deep set eyes firmly focussed in his direction.
“Fine, thanks,” Roger replied, flashing his best smile and suddenly conscious that he hadn’t cleaned his teeth in days, “is there a changing room handy?”
“Yes, sir – this way.”
Sitting on the small padded stool provided he pulled off his trainers, the rank odour of stale sweat immediately flooding the curtained off cubicle. Acutely aware that the shop assistant was loitering nearby, he felt a little embarrassment at the fact that the young woman would almost certainly be able to smell it and assume that he was normally this unclean. He added socks to his mental shopping list.
Along with his new clothes and toiletries, he also purchased a ruck sack and drinking bottle, raising a few eyebrows at the checkout by insisting on wearing his new clothes – the checkout-girl having to stretch across to him to scan the barcodes.
As he exited the store, the burly security guard still eyeing him suspiciously, he threw his old clothes into a bin and headed back towards the motel on the town’s outskirts.
22
“What’s for dinner?”
The lack of any cooking smells coming from the kitchen pissed Steve off the second he opened the apartment’s front door. His headache had not improved since that morning, his temper growing rapidly shorter as his day had progressed.
“I’m in the bedroom.”
Steve strode across the dining room from the kitchen and into the bedroom, finding his wife curled up in bed, dark streaks of mascara running from her eyes.
“Why haven’t you fucking cooked anything?”
Despite seeing Sam’s obvious distress, Steve was devoid of any sympathy.
“I haven’t got the energy to cook…my head is pounding, I can barely stand - I feel so fucking exhausted…”
“You and me both, babe. Surely you could have just chucked something in the oven before you crawled into bed?”
As he waited for a response he spotted the cracks in the walls.
“What the fuck’s happened to the walls?”
Sam raised her head and turned, trying to focus on the wall behind her. In spite of her blurred vision, she could see what her husband was shouting about – multiple, thin fissures were spread across the paintwork like fractals.
Was the wall like that when she got home?
“How did that happen? “ She couldn’t recall noticing the cracks earlier but then, she hadn’t been in any fit state to notice anything. “Is it the building settling like the sales woman said?”
“Fucking settling, are you stupid? If it settles any more it’ll be in a pile of dust on the fucking floor.”
Steve stomped around the bed to take a closer look, stubbing his foot on the handyman’s discarded toolbox.
“Shit! Whose is this?”
Sam crawled across the bed to peer over the edge at the offending object. “What
is it?”
“What d’you mean ‘What is it?’ – It’s a fucking toolbox – what’s it fucking look like, you dumb -” Steve’s words trailed away and paranoia dawned in his face. “You fucking slut! Where is he?”
“Where’s who?” Sam screamed, “What are you fucking talking about?”
“I see it all now – you come home early and fuck the handyman!”
“What?”
“He must’ve given you a fucking good pounding, banging the headboard into the wall, cracking the shit out of the plaster. C’mon, where is the fucker?”
Steve barged into the en-suite, checking behind the door when he saw the small bathroom was devoid of life. Turning back to his terrified wife, he laughed, “No…surely not – not in the fucking wardrobe…” He banged his fists against the mirrored doors, ‘Get out here now, you fucking cunt! I’ll kick the living shit out of you!”
When no one appeared, Steve yanked the door open in frustration, smashing his fists wildly into the rack of hanging clothes, hoping to make contact with flesh.
“Stop it, Steve. Stop it! You’re scaring me!”
Sam reached for her husband, attempting to calm him down. Steve grabbed her chin roughly, pulling her face up towards him.
“I’ll fucking scare you, you fucking slut! When I find ‘lover boy’ I’ll fucking kill him – then I’ll fucking deal with you!”
He spat in her face before pushing her back onto the bed.
Sam wailed - her tears a mix of fear, anger and the pain in her head which was now almost unbearable. Ignoring her cries, Steve looked towards the window, desperate to focus on something outside of the bedroom and his thoughts of what his cheating whore of a wife had been doing in it. As he stepped towards the curtains, the floorboard creaked under his feet.
