by Athena Dore
“If I told you I had a dark past, that I was dangerous, that I was prone to violent outbursts, would you still want to get to know me?”
His eyes were piercing now. This was a hypothetical question; surely he was just testing her He looked down at the red wine in his glass and swilled it around once.
“Yes”, she said slowly, “they would all be things that happened before I met you. I'd only care about the ‘you’ now...”
He looked up, fixed her again with that penetrating gaze and leaned even closer.
“What if I told you I was still dangerous?”
~*~
Rochelle was home. She hadn’t been home in three years. She’d spent that time teaching English in Japan. It was weird, but somehow exciting being the first black girl her students had seen; how they wanted to touch her hair and know more about her. She’d got used to her life there –learning how to communicate with people who didn’t speak the same language, the sound of cicadas and crickets in the summer, passengers looking at her curiously on the train, or telling her she was pretty, and even being interviewed on the street by a couple of TV stations - so now, she had mixed feelings about being home. It was nice to have rice and peas again instead of ramen, and find clothes to fit her curvy figure but something had changed. Her town, her street, her house were familiar, but at the same time, alien. Everything had stayed the same but somehow, through her experiences, she was different. It was as though she were a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that had been removed and left in a glass of water and now, returned to the puzzle, she was still sort of the same shape, but had become swollen and waterlogged and didn’t quite fit anymore. Still, it was only temporary – until she found a new job. After that, she’d leave her small hometown, Lower Ferton, for good.
She was alone in the house. Nico was wherever he was doing Nico-like things, Shawna was at university and her parents were at work. Always the nocturnal type, she got up late and checked her e-mails. Nothing; not even a hint in her junk mail of online pharmacies urging her to buy Viagra, or hot babes looking to chat.
Bored, she turned on the radio. It made a soundtrack of dull, monotonous speech as she made brunch. In films, heroines had soft leitmotifs full of oboes and shimmering violins; in real life, her own leitmotif featured the sound of the toaster and the drilling going on next door.
She sighed and turned to her phone to idle away some time. Glenda had put her wedding photos up and she flicked through them, critiquing the choice of outfits, food and décor, like the slightly bitter forever-alone she was – and she did want to emphasise the ‘slightly’ because it wasn’t in her nature to hate. She wasn’t one of those people who despised Valentine’s Day just because she was single, but there were times when she saw couples together and felt a pang over what could be if she found the right man… But anyway, looking at Glenda’s photos – even people who weren’t feeling bitter or ‘slightly’ bitter, or any degree of bitter at all – could see that Veneshia’s pink shoes clashed with her fluorescent yellow dress and that Candice was crying out for attention by dressing in white. Glenda looked nice, though. It was good to see her looking so happy.
Rochelle didn’t mind being eternally single because she knew eternally was only until a prince came to wake her (perhaps on the train after dozing off) with true love’s kiss. However, in these modern times, he’d have to be subtle about it, or he’d probably be charged with sexual harassment.
Finished with Glenda’s wedding photos her eyes wandered to the letters on the table, obviously delivered that morning. They looked ominous and bill-like, so fortunately, they weren’t for her. Some for her dad, two for her mum and one for Shawna. And there was another one – a package – for an X. Knight living at Number 11.
Number 11 was up the road, at the end of the cul-de-sac. An elderly woman lived there. Rochelle had seen her around over the years, but never spoken to her and until now, had never even known her name. She wondered what the ‘X’ stood for. Xena? Xanthe? (Ale)Xandra? Suddenly, she was very curious. It was one of her weaknesses. Curiosity killed the cat, her dad would warn her as a child.
“But I’m not a cat, daddy” she always reminded him, which was all very well because she had a feeling that her ninth life had run out somewhere around the age of ten when she climbed a tree to dislodge her tangled kite, fell and broke her leg. That was what she told her parents, at least. The official version of events was that she jumped out the tree with the kite to see if she could fly…
But there was nothing dangerous in delivering a package to find out someone’s name.
She went upstairs and looked out her bedroom window. Mrs Knight’s car was there so she was obviously home now.
Rochelle threw on a jacket, grabbed her keys, and Mrs Knight’s package, and went outside.
It was only after she shut the door that she realised: this door was new and she didn’t yet have the key.
“You idiot!” She cried. She hit the door with her free hand – more out of frustration than expecting it to open. She couldn’t even phone her parents; her phone was on the wrong side of the door.
Oh well, first things first: Mrs Knight’s package. Rochelle started walking up the road. She could ask to borrow Mrs Knight’s phone and call Nico. It sounded like a good idea and having a plan made her feel a bit less annoyed about the inconvenience of being locked out.
The sky was divided down the middle like the sea crashing onto a sandy beach. Behind her, it was sunny and as warm as a British day can be in the early spring, while in front of her, stormy grey clouds loomed with the threat of rain.
If the weather held up, she’d walk to the library or something and hang out until Nico came. If not…she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
Number 11. She was outside. The numbers were large and shiny and silver against the blue door. She pressed the doorbell. Somewhere behind the door, a dog barked.
She waited but besides the dog, there was nothing. Perhaps it might take her a while to get to the door, Rochelle thought. She waited a bit longer. Still nothing. Mrs Knight could be hard of hearing… She tried the doorbell again.
Moments later, the door opened a fraction.
“Hello?”
“Um, hello…”
Rochelle was startled. She’d been expecting Mrs Knight but here was a man she’d never seen before. He was tall and all dark hair and shadows, though from what she could see, he looked to be in his mid-thirties. Grandson, perhaps?
“Is Mrs Knight here?” she asked.
“Mrs Knight? There’s no one here by that name”.
“Yes, there is – the elderly woman with short, curly hair and glasses”.
“You mean the former occupant? She moved out a while ago. She’s in a home now, I believe”.
“Oh”, said Rochelle, “I’ve got a package for her...”. It was all she could think to say for the moment. Mrs Knight had moved out. She wasn’t sure where that left her and the package – cold and wet in the pending rain, probably.
The man looked down at the parcel.
“That’s for me” he said.
“You’re Mrs Knight?” she blurted out before she had time to think things through.
“Only on the weekends” he said.
For a second, Rochelle cringed. Clearly, he was mocking her. X. Knight had never been Mrs Knight; she saw that now. Not even Mrs Knight had been Mrs Knight. The X. Knight of the package was the Mr Knight standing before her.
“Sorry”, she said, “I meant you’re the owner of this package. I just assume
d it was for the woman who lived here before; I didn’t know you’d moved in”.
She held up the package like a peace offering. Mr Knight opened the door a bit further and reached forward to take the box. His eyes glistened briefly in the watery sun.
“Thanks” he said. He tucked the box under his arm and went to close the door.
“Wait!” Rochelle cried, pushing the door. Mr Knight stopped accordingly.
“Sorry, I’ve locked myself out. Would you mind if I used your phone?”
He looked at her, unblinking. It was a penetrating, analysing look, and though it lasted only a second, it felt as though he was deciding whether or not to let her in based on what she was wearing, her hairstyle, eye colour, height.
Whatever it was he was screening her for, she passed. He opened the door further and stepped aside to let her in.
It was dark inside. As soon as she stepped in, she spotted a large, alert collie sitting impatiently just behind the door. Its eyes darted back and forth, as though subjecting her to a second screening. It let out an excitable bark and stood up, taking a few steps towards Rochelle.
“Mindy, sit” Mr Knight ordered. Mindy looked as though she would rather do anything but sit. However, she obediently sat down again, her tail swishing and her tongue lolling before her.
Rochelle stroked her. She was glad to have something to do. She couldn’t deny she was feeling slightly awkward in Mr Knight’s house.
“She’s a bit excited”, said Mr Knight, “We don’t often get visitors”.
“That’s a shame” said Rochelle. Mr Knight didn’t seem to think so.
“The phone’s in here” he said, leading her into the living room. Rochelle looked around. The room was immaculate. A large window, nearly the same height as the room, overlooked the garden. At the far side, by the window, a glossy black grand piano reflected little bits of the greenery outside, mixed with the brooding, overcast sky.
Immediately before her, the cushions were arranged perfectly on the sofa, and on a small table beside it, under a lamp, was the telephone.
The only thing out of place was a thick hardback book on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa. Rochelle suspected he’d been reading before she had come and disturbed him.
Mindy stalked into the room, obviously unable to sit any longer.
“Here you go” Mr Knight said, gesturing towards the phone.
“Thanks” said Rochelle.
Mr Knight withdrew from the room.
“Mindy!” he called. Mindy trotted after her master.
Alone, Rochelle felt a bit relieved. She went over to the table, picked up the phone and called Nico.
“Hello?”
“Hi”, said Rochelle, “It’s me. Look, where are you?”
“I’m on my way home. Just stopped off at Sainsbury’s. Do you want anything?” There were several things Rochelle wanted, like going to swim with dolphins, or taking a hot air balloon over the Valley of the Kings, but sadly, neither was easily bought from a supermarket.
“No, I’m all right. How long do you think you’ll be? I’ve locked myself out”.
“Typical, isn’t it?” said Nico. Rochelle could almost hear him rolling his eyes over the phone.
“Probably about half an hour”.
“Well, when you get home, can you come and get me? I’m at Number 11”.
“What, the creepy man with the dog? Chelle, get out of there”.
“I can’t; I’m using his phone”.
“What, seriously, Rochelle?”
“I left mine at home…”
“Be careful – I’ve heard some dodgy things about him”.
“Like what?” Rochelle asked. She tried to keep her voice casual but a slight pressure started welling in her chest. It wasn’t fear; not yet. It was more like foreboding, uncertainty…
“People have heard things in the night…banging, cries, that sort of thing. Some people say he’s got his wife locked away somewhere”.
“Um…” It all sounded a bit far-fetched.
Just get out of there”, continued Nico, “I’ll be there soon”.
Rochelle said ‘bye’ to her brother and put the phone down. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of Nico’s warning. If she’d heard it from the comfort of her own house, she would have thought it was nonsense. Now, in the potential lair of danger, she still thought it was nonsense but a nagging part of her told her to be wary and on guard. Perhaps she should wait for Nico outside…
She glanced at the garden. Large drops of rain slashed across the window. Her heart sank. She couldn’t wait half an hour in that; her hair would be ruined and she’d be drenched within thirty seconds, let alone thirty minutes. She sighed and went to find Mr Knight.
Her eyes, used to the light filtering in through the living room window, took a while to grow accustomed to the dark. She noticed two rooms to her right: one at the end of the hallway and one next to the living room. The same dull, grey light of the living room spilled from the room at the far end but the one next to the living room was closed. No, she wouldn’t pry… But even as she thought those words, she found herself approaching the door. It stared menacingly down at her. She reached for the tarnished brass knob. It was as cold as a corpse in the palm of her hand. She turned it. The door didn’t yield. It was locked.
“What are you doing?”
Rochelle snatched her hand from the knob and spun round.
“I was looking for you”. It wasn’t a lie. She had been looking for him; she’d just decided to take the scenic route…
Either way, Mr Knight didn’t look too pleased.
“I think you should go” he said.
“My brother’s coming to get me”, she said, “And it’s raining outside. Could I…You wouldn’t mind if I sit…or even just stand here ’til he arrives?”
Mr Knight furrowed his eyebrows and looked at her with a hint of bemusement.
“You can sit” he said. He gestured towards the living room. She went inside and sat down in the arm chair. She guessed from where the book was positioned that he’d been sitting on the sofa.
Mr Knight threw himself down in the exact spot, picked up the book and carried on reading.
A clock somewhere in the room ticked in silence. Rochelle looked around the living room several times, and looked out at the garden before watching the rain fall onto the window. Eventually, her eyes rested on him. His straight dark hair tumbled over his thick dark eyebrows and into his eyes. He was actually really good-looking, Rochelle had to admit. She admired the way that the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to just below his elbow. She had a thing about men with rolled-up sleeves. It made them look stylish, sophisticated, in control.
He looked up as though he had heard her. He had pretty eyes too – a kind of honey gold. She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Xavier” he answered. Hmm, X stood for Xavier. Unusual, but it suited him somehow.
“I’m Rochelle” she said. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but said nothing.
“So, how long have you been living here?” she continued.
“A few months”.
“Don’t you find it dull sometimes?”
“Not really”.
“I’ve lived here all my life”, admitted Rochelle, “It’s so quiet I had to get out”. She smiled as she looked at him but the smile was one of nostalgia – lounging on a Mediterranean beach at sunset, riding a rickshaw through Tokyo, partying in Las Vegas with her friends…
“Quiet’s what I need right now” he said.
“But things are so uneventful here.” Rochelle sighed. Sometimes, she longed for pirate ships, new worlds on other planets, fairies at the bottom of the garden, anything anti-mundane.
“‘Uneventful’ is girls not invading your living room after locking themselves out”.
Rochelle shifted uncomfortably in the armchair at her stupidity.
“Sorry” she sai
d.
A silence began to freeze between them.
“Tea?” asked Xavier.
“Oh, yes, please”.
He must have put the kettle on while she was calling Nico as he came back presently with a tray of tea and milk and sugar. He placed it on the coffee table. He passed one of the cups and saucers to her and went back to his book. He should go in the Guinness Book of World Records for his scintillating conversation. The thought made Rochelle smile to herself.
The two of them sat in silence – Rochelle sipping her tea and Xavier pretending she wasn’t there – until the doorbell rang and startled her. Mindy barked at the door.
