A Knock at the Door

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A Knock at the Door Page 1

by Ellis, T. W.




  As Tom Wood

  The Hunter

  The Enemy

  The Game

  Better off Dead

  The Darkest Day

  A Time to Die

  The Final Hour

  Ebook short stories

  Bad Luck in Berlin

  Gone by Dawn

  Copyright

  Published by Sphere

  ISBN: 978-0-7515-7592-7

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Thomas Hinshelwood 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Sphere

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  As Tom Wood

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  8:01 a.m.

  8:18 a.m.

  8:19 a.m.

  8:26 a.m.

  8:29 a.m.

  8:32 a.m.

  8:36 a.m.

  8:40 a.m.

  8:46 a.m.

  8:50 a.m.

  8:54 a.m.

  8:57 a.m.

  9:14 a.m.

  9:18 a.m.

  9:23 a.m.

  9:31 a.m.

  9:33 a.m.

  9:40 a.m.

  9:54 a.m.

  10:03 a.m.

  11:45 a.m.

  3:59 p.m.

  4:06 p.m.

  4:09 p.m.

  4:15 p.m.

  4:23 p.m.

  4:27 p.m.

  4:32 p.m.

  4:34 p.m.

  4:36 p.m.

  4:39 p.m.

  4:43 p.m.

  6:01 p.m.

  6:06 p.m.

  6:13 p.m.

  6:21 p.m.

  10:28 p.m.

  10:36 p.m.

  10:41 p.m.

  10:50 p.m.

  12:00 a.m.

  12:05 a.m.

  12:17 a.m.

  12:32 a.m.

  12:57 a.m.

  12:59 a.m.

  1:07 a.m.

  1:15 a.m.

  1:17 a.m.

  1:28 a.m.

  1:34 a.m.

  1:38 a.m.

  1:42 a.m.

  1:45 a.m.

  1:47 a.m.

  1:53 a.m.

  1:59 a.m.

  2:00 a.m.

  2:03 a.m.

  2:07 a.m.

  3:11 a.m.

  3:16 a.m.

  3:19 a.m.

  3:25 a.m.

  8:01 a.m.

  The Next Day

  Acknowledgements

  For Marjorie

  A knock at the door can change everything. If it’s expected, maybe not so much. But if you don’t expect it, what then? There’s that moment of surprise, perhaps even alarm, that demands your attention. Who just shows up unannounced these days? It’s a summons that can’t be ignored. A question that must be answered. Are they bringing good news or bad? Do they have something for you or do they want something from you?

  Are they friend or are they foe?

  Everywhere is busy in Rome at the height of the summer tourist season. This espresso bar was no exception. Tucked away in the Old City, it was small and cramped with bare stone walls, a domed ceiling, and only marginally less hot than it was outside. The huge coffee machine saw to that, pumping out a dragon’s breath of steam and heat every few seconds. Fans thrummed overhead and did little more than stir the soupy humidity. I didn’t really mind it. I liked the sheen I had to my skin, the glow. I had been in Italy for a few weeks and had somewhat acclimatised. I liked wearing shorts and sandals every day. I liked wearing my oversized sunglasses and floppy-brimmed hat. I felt in disguise. Another person almost. No longer a clueless New Yorker but a pseudo-European. I had been travelling for so long most people I met couldn’t guess where I was born, but returning was inevitable because I was broke. Although in the process I had become cultured, tanned, worldly, and most of all bored as hell.

  I’d grown up on the move and now I was a grown-up and restless.

  Reckless, too. But I had a plan.

  I had already made so many bad decisions I think I had lost the ability to recognise one in the making.

  In he walked.

  There was such an effortlessness to his gait that his footsteps seemed weightless. He was tanned from the Italian sun and his fair hair bleached blonder. I knew he wasn’t a native because of his shoes. No Italian man would wear such severe lace-ups in the summer heat.

  I watched him from the little round table where I was sat in the corner. Which wasn’t a great distance away given the espresso bar was tiny. There were only a few tables for sitting at because most of the customers ordered an espresso, drank it while stood at the bar for usually no longer than a minute, then left. The bar itself was stainless steel, wiped down by the baristas every few minutes so that it always gleamed.

  I found such places intimidating at first because they weren’t the relaxed coffee shops I was used to back home but now I couldn’t think of anywhere better to sit and people watch. My table was messy with my bag, my guidebook, the memoir I was struggling to read, my journal, my hat, my sunglasses. The glass of water and espresso cup had to compete for the leftover space.

  I’d like to think there was something cute in this chaos.

  His Italian was clumsy if I were to be generous and laughable if I wanted to be cruel. He tried, though. He only resorted to English because the barista took pity on him and cut short the indignity.

  That’s when I first saw him smile.

  There was a sweet self-consciousness to it that was immediately ingratiating, as if he had no idea how handsome he was, how beautiful he looked when smiling.

  Of course he did. He would have to be a fool not to know, but the power of his smile was in creating the illusion of obliviousness.

  Maybe he practised.

  Yes, I was a cynic.

  Either way, I didn’t care. I was already attracted to him and because the only other table in the bar was next to me, I had positioned my own chair so as to be closer to the one he would inevitably take before he had even turned round to look for a seat.

  By that point, of course, I had my head in my book.

  It was one of those achingly serious journeys of self-discovery, personal growth and womanhood.

  I wanted such a journey myself, but so far no sale.

  He took his time crossing the short space between the bar and the table. Maybe he felt awkward at the potential intrusion into my personal space given how close the chairs were set.

  Fearing he might be a little shy and sip his coffee at the bar like a local, I glanced up and provided him with a shy smile of reassurance.

  He relaxed and set his drink down on the table next to mine and then knocked it with a knee as he sat down. Coffee spilled from his cup and formed a small but steaming dark puddle on the table.

  He exhaled. ‘That was smooth.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ I told him. ‘Those legs of yours are too long for these little tables.’

  ‘They seemed taller at a distance.’

  He went to stand again in the search for napkins but I took some tissues from my bag.
<
br />   ‘Here,’ I said.

  He thanked me and took them, soaking up the spillage as best he could, shaking his head to himself as if this was an unforgiveable error on his part.

  ‘You’re a lifesaver.’

  ‘You don’t know how much I’m going to charge you for the tissues yet.’

  He smiled and offered his hand. ‘I’m Leo.’

  I took it. ‘Jem.’

  He already knew I was from the US too, so he said, ‘What brings you to Rome?’

  ‘That’s a long story.’

  ‘An interesting story?’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that but maybe you’ll be able to tell me by the end.’

  He said, ‘So you’re willing to tell that story to a stranger?’

  ‘Are we really strangers?’

  He smiled again. ‘Not any more.’

  8:01 a.m.

  The first thing I remember about that day is Leo gliding through the kitchen, trailing a scent of shower gel and shampoo in his wake. Clean, robust notes. He won’t put on cologne until he’s ready to leave. He’s looking for something and humming to himself, providing a sweet if out-of-tune soundtrack to my preparations.

  He finds what he’s searching for – cufflinks he left by the sink as he slurped a hurried cup of coffee, hair still wet and uncombed – and passes behind me on his way back out.

  ‘Doesn’t really make any sense,’ he says, peering over my shoulder.

  I know what he’s trying to do and I refuse to take the bait.

  ‘If you say so then it must be true,’ I reply, my tone as innocent as a fat little cherub.

  He makes a sound of dissatisfaction. A gruff, throaty growl because he doesn’t get to have his fun with me. He’s in too much of a hurry to hang around here on a lost cause.

  He’s gone just as swiftly as he entered yet I know he’ll be distracted as he continues to get ready, conceiving and scheming little ways to take revenge. Ours is an endless game of oneupmanship fought hard with passion and verve. Kind of like a duel but a gentle one – playing not fighting – and there can be no loser because it’s too much fun simply to play.

  I smile to myself, both pleased at winning this little exchange and curiously excited in anticipation of his inevitable counter when he returns. I remind myself not to be too smug because I’m holding one of our good samurai knives and I really don’t want to slice off a finger by mistake. I need to concentrate on the task at hand, which is halving a fat avocado, turning it around in my palm to circle the stone. I separate the two halves with a disproportionate degree of satisfaction because there are few things more satisfying than slicing an avocado in half and finding that it’s not just ripe but perfect. People say they can tell just by squeezing one, but if that power does exist, I don’t possess it. In fact, it could only ever be an estimate of ripeness at best and doesn’t account for the possibility of bruising or oxidisation. In that way, slicing one open is a lottery. You have to commit to playing to know if you’ve won or lost.

  In this instance, I’ve hit the jackpot.

  There’s not a single dark speck. Not a hint of oxidisation. The flesh is soft all the way through but not squishy. When I chop at the stone with the knife and twist and tug, it plops out without effort. My stomach cheers me on from the sidelines with rumbles of encouragement.

  I’m going as fast as I can, I assure it.

  Leo must have a sixth sense for timing, or he was sneakily waiting outside the kitchen for this exact moment to make his reappearance.

  ‘It really doesn’t make any sense,’ he tells me again, this time not gliding by but stopping next to me as he fixes his tie into a well-practised full Windsor knot. His tone is firmer now, resolute, because whereas before he was making a passing observation, now he’s all set to make a point.

  I honour his presence with a glance in his direction. ‘Are you looking for something else or are you just here to tease me?’

  ‘If I were here to tease you I wouldn’t be knotting this tie,’ he says with a wry smile. ‘I would be ripping it off.’

  I place the knife down and swivel on the spot so my back is against the worktop, which I grip hard in both hands.

  ‘Then why don’t you?’ I say, voice hushed and meaningful and my gaze boring into his own. ‘I’m yours for the taking.’

  Blood rushes to colour his cheeks as he stammers an incomprehensible response before roaring in frustration.

  ‘What’s wrong, honey?’ I ask.

  He points a finger at me. ‘You,’ he snarls with a smile. ‘You’re what’s wrong.’

  I flutter my eyelashes. ‘Whatever could you mean?’

  His mouth hangs open for a moment but he says nothing further. Instead, he taps his watch with that same rigid finger and backs away, beaten again.

  There’s a chill to the morning air as I step outside to the greenhouse and inspect the tomato plants. There’s more than a dozen, all tall and bushy thanks to the greenhouse’s warm embrace and my diligent watering. Now in the first throes of winter they’re yellowing in the tragedy of the perennials. Soon, they’ll all be dead. They’re all grown from seeds planted at the start of spring. Each seed saved from last year’s harvest and lovingly germinated indoors until the shoots grew strong enough to be taken outside. No pesticides. No chemicals whatsoever. The tomatoes may be a little on the small side as a result, but they’re one hundred per cent organic and utterly delicious. You’ve never really tasted a tomato until you’ve tasted one you’ve grown yourself.

  It takes a few minutes to dig through foliage to find the ripest fruits to pick, and, when I have a fist’s worth, I return to the kitchen to give them a quick rinse. A couple of seconds under the tap is all they need. Like I said: organic.

  I heat a few drops of cold-pressed virgin coconut oil – organic too, obviously – in a stainless-steel skillet before swiping in the avocado chunks from the chopping board. A couple of minutes later I add the tomatoes after halving them. Himalayan salt, chilli flakes and freshly ground pepper follow. The scent is divine.

  I try to be healthy, but what’s the point in living for ever if you can’t eat bread along the way? I saw off a couple of doorstop-thick slices from the crusty loaf I picked up at the farmer’s market yesterday. It’s sourdough, wholewheat, and sprinkled with all kinds of seeds. Soft and crunchy at the same time.

  Leo is back in the kitchen for one last try to even the score. I almost feel guilty that I’m winning so handily thanks to his pressing need to be out of the door in a few minutes. Well, almost guilty.

  He gives up any pretence of looking for something and gets straight to the point he’s failed to make twice already.

  He gestures at my breakfast. ‘This is what I’m talking about. Avocado and tomato. They’re both technically fruits, right? And you’re going to put them on toast. Which means you’re going to eat fruit … on toast. How does that make any kind of sense?’

  ‘It’s delicious and you know it.’

  ‘Hamburger ice cream might be a taste sensation but I’m never going to try it.’

  I sigh. An exaggeratedly sympathetic sigh with plenty of disappointment wrapped up in there too.

  ‘Is that really the best you can do?’

  He grunts. ‘Well, you kinda killed my groove the first time. And the second.’

  ‘If something’s easy is it even worth doing?’

  He leans in to kiss me on the neck. ‘I do what I have to do to get your attention.’

  ‘If you want my attention,’ I whisper into his ear, ‘you know exactly what to do.’

  ‘Jemima Talhoffer,’ he says in his very best stern schoolmaster tone, ‘I’m not doing that.’

  ‘When exactly did you become so boring?’

  ‘In case you’ve forgotten, your loving husband needs to be on a plane very soon.’ He smiles a smile that could melt glaciers. ‘Also, because you clearly have forgotten, I was always boring. You just didn’t care before.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say in return. ‘Becau
se you’d do that when I asked you to.’

  ‘I had more time in those days. Have you seen my cufflinks?’

  ‘You’re wearing them.’

  He glances down. Shakes his head. ‘Duh.’

  I shoo him out of the kitchen, saying, ‘Don’t you dare miss that flight, mister.’ Then, I shout after him: ‘You need to keep me in the manner to which I’ve grown accustomed.’

  He calls back with some retort but I’ve already switched on the radio for some musical accompaniment while I finish preparing breakfast and sit down at the kitchen table to devour my creation.

  The table is too big for just the two of us but so is the rest of the house. It has more rooms than Leo and I could ever need, which is the point. When we bought the property we did so with the idea – the intention – of filling up that extra space. We spent months hunting for the perfect town, the perfect school, the perfect neighbourhood, the perfect street, and the perfect home. We spent so long getting everything right we didn’t stop for a second to think that everything would go wrong before it even started.

  My fruit on toast is delicious, yet somehow it’s utterly unsatisfying and I can’t finish it. I don’t want to finish this one small plate of food on a table large enough to hold many plates.

  Leo says, ‘I’m almost set and I even have a whole minute spare with which to lavish you with affection.’

  I don’t hear him at first because my mind has drifted to that dark place, so familiar it’s almost routine, and it takes an extra moment for his words to reach me. They drag me back out of that void. I don’t know how long I dwelt there. It felt like a few seconds but it could have been so much longer.

  I stand and face him so he can draw me into an embrace. He’s now fragrant with cologne, warm and strong.

  He glances down at my unfinished breakfast. ‘You’re not hungry?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not as hungry as I thought.’

  He gives me a look I know too well. ‘Did you sleep okay?’

  An innocent question asked in an innocent tone and yet there are so many questions within that one single question it would take all morning to answer them all. It’s not just how did I sleep, but did I sleep enough? Did I have nightmares? Am I tired? Am I feeling okay? Is how I slept going to affect my day? My mood? Do I feel down as a result? Am I so down I will go back to bed? Will I cry all afternoon? Will I make a phone call begging him to come home because I can’t make it through the day without him? Will he then speed home to find me perfectly fine because my mood has flipped once more? Am I going to explode into a rage over nothing at all because I simply have to let out all the negative thoughts? Can I be saved? Will I drive him away with this awful, cruel disease?

 

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