by Ellis, T. W.
It’s loud. It’s so loud.
I daren’t move. I stand immobile, in fear, listening for the inevitable sound of hard soles stamping on the stairs, Wilks and Messer dashing up in response.
Nothing. I hear nothing.
Which means they heard nothing too. For this moment, I’m safe. For this moment only, I’m safe.
I climb up on to the chair. It’s more precarious than I imagined with its four wheels, but the carpet is thick. Too much friction slowing those wheels down. Thank goodness we didn’t go for wooden flooring throughout. I could have been doomed by red oak.
Gripping the back of the chair in one hand for support I stretch one leg out of the window. I’m glad I haven’t showered. I’m glad I’m still in my yoga attire and not dressed and ready for the day. I couldn’t be this limber in jeans.
I look out on to the roof, the barrier I need to cross, but to where?
There are no other buildings in sight. No neighbours to run to for safety. The house sits alone on the end of the road. There are trees everywhere: in front of the house, behind the house, on both sides of the house. We bought it for its isolation and serenity, and now both have turned against me.
I try not to think about that impending problem because I’m still in the house. What comes afterwards can get in line.
My bare sole finds roof tiles. They’re cold and hard and unstable. I’m shaking as I apply pressure, searching for sure footing, scared the tiles will collapse underfoot and a cascade of slate will slide off the roof and shatter in a black waterfall on the driveway.
I’m not going to find the stability I’m looking for, I soon realise. No roof is going to provide the perfect exit. I need to commit, to risk it, because I have no choice. I shift my weight and breathe a sigh of relief when the tiles stay put beneath my toes. I grip the window frame and pull as I push off with the foot on the chair.
The chair rolls away from me and I watch with horror, halfway through the window, precarious and immobile, as the chair creeps towards a bookcase that Leo never bothered to secure to the wall, a bookcase heavy with books and files and boxes and any number of things that Leo has crammed on there, all ready and waiting to fall off when the chair bumps into it.
But the chair stops well before. I could kiss that carpet.
I go to withdraw my trailing leg and realise I didn’t keep it high enough because the hem of my yoga pants is attached to one of the cacti’s needles. Damn you, Jethro.
I raise my leg in the hope gravity will help me out and little Jethro will come free yet no such luck. The little shit is too spiky and too light. I can’t prise him free because both my hands are occupied as I maintain a fierce grip on the window frame. I haven’t been contorted like this for long but already I can feel the burn building in my muscles, already I’m starting to tremble. I never realised how heavy one leg could quickly become.
With no other option presenting itself I draw my leg towards me, slowly – so slowly – through the window with a cactus dangling from my ankle.
Don’t drop, Jethro, please don’t drop.
When I have my left leg and foot and cactus all through the open window, I’m able to free up one hand and give Jethro’s pot a gentle tug. He comes free, pulling Lycra fibres with him, and I set him back down on the sill.
I’m sweating so hard now that there’s a drop at the end of my nose. I swipe it away.
In movies, every American teen has climbed out of a window and on to a roof, or the other way round, but I never did. It’s scary off the ground with nothing solid beneath your feet, with nothing secure to hold on to. I don’t know how I’m going to traverse the slope once I release the window frame. Years of yoga mean I can perform some pretty crazy feats of balance, yet out here, on an incline, with precarious tiles underfoot, I’ll lose my balance in seconds after standing and tumble off the roof moments later.
That’s the key, I realise: don’t stand up.
I shift my ass from the frame and on to the slate. I brace with my legs. I let go with my hands.
I don’t move.
I’m stable. Well, as stable as I can hope. I plant my palms on the roof either side of my hips and shuffle like a beetle. The slate clinks beneath me but isn’t loud. Progress is slow but as long as the tiles don’t come free under me I can maintain a semblance of control.
I don’t know how long it takes because time seems to have lost all meaning – or perhaps I’m too stressed, too scared, to keep track. I’m not sure if it’s only been seconds or whole minutes. In either case I need to be fast. I need to be off this roof before Wilks and Messer realise what I’m doing. While I’m up here I’m just as trapped as if I was with them inside the living room.
I make it down the incline to the guttering that separates this section of roof from the garage roof. I’m now only about ten feet off the ground but it seems dizzyingly high. Still plenty high enough to break my skull if I fall headfirst, but I’ve found a rhythm. I feel as good as I can be shuffling down my roof to avoid cartel killers. I’m not going to fall, I tell myself.
I cross the guttering on to the garage roof. I’ve crossed a threshold both real and metaphorical.
I can do this because I have to do this.
The roof has other ideas and a tile comes loose underfoot. Maybe I pressed down too hard. Maybe I moved too fast, too eagerly. That instance of self-belief was self-destruction.
The tile slides along the sloped roof. At first at a slow speed, but one that doesn’t slow, doesn’t halt.
It takes all my strength and balance to maintain my position, and I can only watch as it reaches the edge, then tips over.
I have a moment’s fantasy that soft flowerbeds will cushion the tile and it will remain intact.
An instance of horrible, awful silence.
The tile shatters.
8:36 a.m.
The time for stealth has passed. Now, I need speed.
I shuffle faster across the roof, slate tiles clinking and rattling, working my way to the far side, the east wall of the garage where the trash cans stand against it. They’re metal, corrugated steel, so I’m thinking they’ll hold my weight when I lower myself down on to one or more.
To get there I need to climb over the central peak of the garage roof, which means switching to my hands and knees and then scrambling up the slope. It’s so much easier than descending with my beetle-shuffle but I’m moving faster, with more desperation.
Tiles feel unsecure beneath me and move as though the whole roof is going to slide off and take me with it.
It’s only seconds before I’ve reached the east wall and yet each long second is pure terror. I peer down at the shiny trash cans. They’re maybe three feet tall, so I guess I can just reach them when my arms are extended.
I hope.
I turn away from the edge and, on my hands and knees, inch backwards until my feet are off the roof, and then my shins follow, then my left knee. Then my right.
I’m trying to control my breathing but there’s too much fear, too much adrenalin. I’m exhaling and inhaling at such speed it’s more like a pant.
The guttering and the tiles jab into my abdomen, which is taking the weight of my dangling lower body. My elbows and palms are pressed hard against the roof yet I can feel myself sliding backwards regardless. There’s nothing to hold on to and I’m not strong enough to fight gravity tugging at me. I’m not sure how I would work my way backwards off the roof without risking slipping.
Gravity is beating me, little by little.
It hurts, a lot. Slate tiles may look lovely but they are digging into me, scratching me. I’m sure the adrenalin is mitigating much of the pain I would otherwise feel.
My breaths are quick and shallow as my elbows, now in line with my shoulders, reach the guttering and the vast majority of me is dangling off the roof. I’m stretching with my toes but I still haven’t found the trash cans. I can turn my head but I can’t look down and see how far I have to go because my body is in the way.<
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For all I know, Wilks and Messer are standing right beneath me.
I don’t know what to do, whether to keep trying to lower myself and risk losing control of my descent or make a controlled drop now while I still can. Either way, I can’t remain hanging off the garage roof for much longer. There are two killers in my house, and even if there weren’t I don’t have the strength to stay like this.
I’m trying to go as fast as I can but progress is painfully slow. I don’t want to make more noise than I have already and I don’t want to drop and turn my ankle, or worse.
I risk slipping to lower myself a little further, hopeful the trash cans are just inches beneath my feet.
They’re not.
I’m starting to lose control. The pain in my fingertips from the pressure I’m applying is intensifying, soon to become agony. I’m going to fall any moment. I have to let go.
I do.
I drop.
It doesn’t even last a second, or a half-second. Almost as soon as I let go steel clangs beneath my feet. Despite expecting it, despite wanting it, I’m not ready. I can’t react.
The can’s lid crumples, deforming yet momentarily holding my weight. I slip straight off and hit the ground, landing on my hip. I grimace. It hurts, but I’m not hurt. Not injured. I scramble to my feet, aware of the noise the smashed tile made, the noise the trash can made, the noise I made.
I expect Wilks and Messer to appear, guns in hand, at any moment. I can’t hear them, though. Maybe, just maybe, the tile smashing didn’t alert them. The living area is at the rear of the house after all, and it’s a big house, larger than Leo and I need, bought to be filled. A waste of money but that size has helped me here.
What now?
Trees everywhere, but I can’t run off into the forest, can I? Close to the house, the trees are not as dense, but the undergrowth is thick. I’ll have to flatten an obvious trail through it. Maybe Wilks and Messer can run faster than me but I don’t for a second think they can run as far, for as long. As fit as they may be, I work out seven days a week. It’s my job to be fit. Stamina is no good when you have bare feet, however, and I’ll shred my soles trying to run along a forest floor, or put a thick twig right through my foot. No thanks. They make hiking shoes for a reason.
I still don’t know how much time has passed since I started up the stairs but I know I’ve been longer than any normal trip to the bathroom. Wilks or Messer or both must be investigating by now. Maybe knocking on the door. Maybe asking me in a loud voice if everything is okay, growing concerned when I don’t answer, getting ready to kick the door down but trying the handle and realising it isn’t locked.
I pause for a second to get my breath back, to think, to realise my cell phone is still on the kitchen table.
Stupid, stupid Jem.
No, it’s not my fault. I was so scared in that moment when I saw Wilks was with me that I wasn’t thinking I might need it a few minutes later. I was only trying to survive. No point worrying about that now, especially when I have another, greater problem: my car is on the driveway yet the keys are in the house. They’re sat in a bowl right next to the front door inside a house with two cartel killers.
A sound. Muted, but aggressive.
A shout, perhaps.
Wilks or Messer calling for assistance after finding the bathroom empty and the tap running.
I make my way along the side of the garage. At the corner, I peek round to look at the front of the house. There’s maybe twenty feet from my position to the front door. On the driveway is my beloved Prius. Behind it is a black SUV, an Explorer – that must belong to Wilks and Messer. It looks like the kind of thing the FBI – or those pretending to be them – would use. It’s an intimidating vehicle. They must have driven slowly to the house, otherwise I’m sure I would have heard this monster pulling up.
I peek through the window in the minuscule hope that the keys have been left in the ignition, but of course Wilks and Messer aren’t stupid or lazy enough to do so. I creep up to the house, hoping I can get inside the front door, grab my car keys from the nearby bowl, and be out before they have any idea what’s happening.
That’s no longer viable because I can hear Wilks’ voice, loud and coarse, shouting, ‘No, of course she hasn’t.’
A response to some question I wasn’t close enough to hear Messer shout.
Wilks sounds like she’s at the top of the stairs.
Messer says, ‘They’re by the door so she’s not gone anywhere.’
He’s in the hallway, only a few feet away from where I’m hiding, only an inch or so of walnut door between us.
‘Then what is she—’ Wilks begins to say, then: ‘I can feel a draught. A window’s open.’
I have mere seconds before Messer comes rushing out.
I don’t know what to do, where to go. I don’t have anywhere to go.
The big SUV.
I hurry over to it, lie on my stomach, and shuffle beneath.
The front door bangs open.
Messer charges outside.
8:40 a.m.
I’m facing the house. I made sure to turn round before I crawled beneath the Explorer. My view is interrupted by the Prius but I can still see the open door, the step, and Messer’s polished black shoes. They look like solid, decent footwear. I can see the lower portion of his trousers, charcoal grey. For a few seconds he doesn’t move and I picture him looking at the vehicles to reassure himself they’re both still there. He takes a step forward, then another. He’s looking into the distance, checking I’m not sprinting down the road, or maybe into the woodland flanking both sides of the road and surrounding the house.
He shouts back to Wilks: ‘Nothing. She’s not out here.’
I’m not sure what I’m going to do next. Without knowing their next move I’m too frightened to do anything.
Please, give me an opportunity.
Wilks joins Messer.
‘There’s a window open upstairs. I think she climbed out on to the roof. She must have done. She’s nowhere else inside.’
‘You’re kidding me,’ Messer replies. ‘What’s she trying to do?’
A pause, during which I guess Wilks shrugs. ‘The window’s facing front,’ she says. ‘But maybe she scrambled over. Stay, I’ll circle round back. She might—’
‘Look,’ Messer interrupts. ‘A tile’s missing. There, it fell off.’
I watch their feet and lower legs head towards the smashed tile. They stop. Think.
Messer says, ‘Why’s she running?’
Wilks says, ‘She knows.’
‘But how—’
‘Phone call. Has to be.’
‘Leo?’
‘Maybe.’
Messer says, ‘Go. If she’s out back she won’t have gone far barefoot. I’ll keep eyes on the front.’
Wilks hurries off, not circling around the building but going back inside via the front door to cut through the house. Messer stays behind as they’ve discussed. I can’t tell what he’s doing – I can still only see a sliver of him – but I can’t do anything, go anywhere, with him right there. The second I’m out from under the SUV, he’ll see me.
All I can do is wait, hope. Pray.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Please, let me get out of this. I don’t want to die.
Amen.
Nothing’s different. I’ve probably left it a little late in life to turn to religion.
Messer stalks about. I can only see him from the shin down. It’s frustrating not being able to see what he’s doing but I suppose I should be grateful. If I can’t see him he can’t see me.
How long will that last?
Wilks calls for him and he goes back inside.
At last, I’m alone again.
Now what?
This is a step-by-step process. All I’m trying to do is make it through to the next step, the next moment where I can get my breath back and collect my thoughts. My face is damp with perspiration from crossing the roof and
the perpetual fear of discovery.
What have you gotten yourself into, Leo? You should have told me. We could have worked it out. We could have—
I have an idea. I don’t know where it came from but it’s the only one I have. In the absence of any other, it’s the best idea.
I crawl out from under the SUV. Stand. There are bits of gravel embedded in my skin and I ignore them. I don’t care.
I dash back to the house. Barefoot, I’m as good as silent. This time I can’t hear Wilks and Messer – they must be out back – and I slip inside.
I’m so full of adrenalin, so overflowing with fear, I’m shaking. I can hardly breathe. I grab my keys from the bowl by the door, then stop. Look back.
The SUV is blocking the Prius.
I place the keys back into the bowl. I don’t want to be parted from them but Wilks and Messer know they should be there. If they notice they’re gone they’ll know I’m nearby. It takes a huge effort of will to release the keys, to deny myself the option of speeding away from here in a car, yet I have to let them go. There’s no choice.
I can hear Wilks and Messer shouting to each other, but I can’t decipher the words. They’re checking something out behind the house. Maybe a helpful fox or deer has wandered by, disturbing undergrowth, fooling them.
There’s a door off the entrance hall that leads inside the garage. I ease it open and close it carefully behind me. The soft click of the brass catch seems as loud as a ringing bell.
It’s gloomy, yet I don’t reach for the light switch. There’s just enough daylight creeping around the edges of the motorised door for me to see and I know my way around the space blindfolded. This is my domain. I put up the metal shelving units. I hung the tools off the wire rack. Leo can spend hours up in his office, working on whatever he needs to work on. I can spend all weekend in the garage if he doesn’t come and drag me out, working on furniture, making candles, building art out of trash. If I’m not busy, I’m thinking. If I’m thinking, I’m going to end up thinking of things that only make unhappy. I’m not religious but this is my temple. Here, I find peace.
