A Knock at the Door

by Ellis, T. W.

  So I tip the dainty unit over. Items scatter across the tiles. Some fall on me.

  I reach for the waterproof bag, dragging it through the mess.

  The zip is difficult to work. My fingers have a fraction of their dexterity.

  My hand shakes as I pull and yank the zipper, opening it almost one small plastic tooth at a time until I can turn it upside down and shake out the contents. A nail file falls out first, followed by nail clippers, a bottle of cuticle oil, and finally what I want: the pair of stainless-steel scissors that cut my toe.

  The scissors are only small because they’re designed to trim nails but the blades are heavy duty and extra sharp for that purpose. A precision-made expensive item that I bought to add a little luxury to my grooming routine.

  I realise I can hear Messer outside on the landing.

  ‘I’m handling it,’ he yells down to Wilks. ‘You sort out that.’

  I don’t know what it is Wilks needs to sort out and I don’t care.

  I care that my hearing is better, my vision clearer, my muscles stronger.

  I care that Messer is coming back, to handle it.

  Me.

  My grip is tight around the scissors’ handle. The closed blades protrude from the bottom of my fist. I hide them under the free palm of my left hand.

  The instant I see Messer coming back through the doorway, I let myself go slack. I half-close my eyes. I groan. I whimper.

  ‘Where were we?’ Messer is saying.

  He ignores the fallen unit, the mess. He’s convinced enough by my playacting to come right up to me. He squats down, grimacing from the pain in his calf, bracing himself against the sink to ease that pain. His right hand dangles useless at his side.

  ‘I don’t enjoy this,’ he tells me.

  His tone is different, his voice quiet. Maybe he thinks I’m unconscious.

  ‘If it were up to me it wouldn’t have got this far.’

  Maybe he’s confessing to me because he thinks I can’t hear him.

  ‘But it’s not up to me.’

  He adjusts his footing and goes down to one knee so he no longer needs to brace against the sink, then he wraps the twisted towel around my neck. It’s not easy for him because he can’t grip with the broken right hand. He has to take both ends of the towel in his left only. He begins to twist the towel, tightening its grip on my throat, constricting my airway.

  ‘Shush,’ he whispers. ‘This won’t hurt. Just drift away. Drift away …’

  I grab Messer’s forearm for purchase, taking him by surprise, and haul myself up enough to stab him with the scissor blades in his neck.

  4:32 p.m.

  Messer doesn’t scream but he does go white. He throws himself away from me, going to his feet briefly and stumbling backwards until he collides with the wall which he then slides down, stopping when he’s propped up against it, legs splayed before him. He doesn’t scream, but he gasps, he keens. He stares at me with wide eyes. His good left hand is covering the wound, the scissors protruding between his fingers. He’s in shock. He doesn’t know what to do.

  There’s only a little blood. I don’t know if it’s a fatal wound and neither does Messer. Either way it’s serious.

  I stand. I use the bathtub for support and then the washbasin for more.

  I approach him.

  I think about reaching for his gun but decide against it. If I get that close to him he’s going to grab me. I have to go past him to exit the bathroom but I don’t have to get close.

  His mouth opens to say something but no sound comes out.

  I step over his legs.

  I’m unsteady on my feet. Not only are they sore from the run across the hard forest floor, I’m also suffering from all the blows to the head. I can see fine, I can hear fine, but I’m wobbly. My balance isn’t right. I’m drunk without the buzz. Which is no one’s kind of fun.

  Something breaking startles me when I step out on to the landing.

  It comes from downstairs. Maybe glass. Maybe a mirror.

  Then come more sounds. Thumps and bangs. Grunts.

  What is going on down there?

  I shuffle to the top of the staircase, peer over. My heart is still racing. I’m trembling with adrenalin.

  I see the front door is open. Wide open. I can feel cooling air blowing inside. It makes me more aware of the sweat on my skin, the blood. I grip the banister hard and begin to descend. I don’t know where Wilks is and I don’t know why the door is open but this is my chance. I have to seize it.

  I’ll have to run again. The Explorer is blocking my Prius just like it did this morning. At least this time I’m wearing shoes. Even with sore feet I’ll run all the way to town, to Rusty, if that’s what it takes.

  What do I tell her? The two FBI agents are trying to kill me so I stabbed one in the neck?

  It sounds ludicrous, but the credibility of my story seems the least of my concerns at this moment.

  I can only manage one step at a time and I need to have both feet securely on that step and a secure hold of the banister before I can attempt the next one. It’s agonisingly slow progress. This time it’s not my feet slowing me down. I can barely feel them. It’s the fizzing, buzzing sensation inside my head making my body hard to control.

  The closer I get to the bottom of the staircase the more I hear of the commotion downstairs. At the top, it sounded like it was coming from the living area, yet now it seems as though it’s originating in the kitchen.

  A vase is broken in the hall, lying in pieces on the red oak floor where it’s fallen from a sideboard. A framed watercolour painting is askew on the wall. I could have done both as Messer dragged me along yet I know I didn’t do either. Someone else did.

  The sounds coming from the kitchen become clearer, more intense. There are grunts among the gasps, growls and grimaces.

  Two people are fighting.

  I know Wilks is downstairs, but who is the other person?

  ‘Leo,’ I call out.

  He must have been driving home when he called, then sped the rest of the way to come to his wife’s aid. Any joy that he is near takes second place to fear for him. Wilks is dangerous. She has a gun. Leo is just a regular guy. I don’t think he’s ever been in a fight before in his life. It’s one of the many things I like about him.

  It can’t be Leo, can it? He was at the airport when he called.

  I lean around the end of the banister to look back through the hallway. The dizziness intensifies as I do and I almost lose my grip and fall.

  I see a snapshot of the kitchen: Wilks, face twisted in a grimace, wrestling with a man who isn’t Leo.

  It’s Carlson, or at least the man who calls himself Carlson.

  The man who warned me about Wilks and Messer, who tried to help me. How I wish I had listened to him and got into his car.

  He’s losing the struggle against Wilks. Carlson is naturally bigger, stronger, but Wilks knows what she’s doing and has him bent backwards over the island, fighting to keep a knife in Wilks’ hand away from his face. Wilks is winning. The knife is inching closer. It’s one of my good samurai knives, taken from the rack.

  Carlson sees me in his peripheral vision. He glances my way.

  Wilks doesn’t see me. All of her focus is on Carlson, on killing Carlson.

  The front door is open behind me. All I have to do is walk through it and keep going. No one is in a position to stop me. Messer is upstairs in the bathroom, paralysed by shock. Wilks has no idea where I am, what I’m doing.

  All I have to do is go.

  And leave Carlson to die.

  The same Carlson who was on my side all along, who was right about Wilks and Messer, who warned me.

  The same Carlson who has just come here. Who has come here for me.

  I can’t do it. I can’t leave him.

  I can’t save myself if it means leaving him to die.

  I don’t hurry along the hallway because I can’t hurry. I can’t do anything at speed. I’m still drunk
without the buzz, still unsteady, still weak.

  Carlson sees I’m coming. It gives him a surge of hope, of energy. He fights back harder so Wilks is forced to fight back harder too. It keeps her attention on Carlson. Wilks doesn’t know I’m coming.

  My short, shuffling steps are silent on the hard flooring. I’m looking around as I get closer, looking for some kind of weapon. There’s no good sneaking up on Wilks empty-handed.

  There are no convenient wrought-iron pans lying nearby for me to hit Wilks with, no knife block within reach. There is, however, a wine rack. I can use a good bottle of merlot as a club.

  Carlson, however, has a better idea.

  4:34 p.m.

  Rusty quit smoking way back. She still buys a pouch of tobacco from the store every couple of weeks. She never finishes it and ends up throwing at least half away. Dries out too quick, even sealed in a little tin decorated with an image of a fish. A pike she painted herself. She doesn’t fish, has never fished, but pikes are famously aggressive and she likes that. The pike is a reminder for her to be more aggressive sometimes because sometimes that’s what the job needs her to be and that isn’t who she is or has ever been.

  ‘Feels like rain, doesn’t it?’

  Earnest isn’t looking up from his newspaper. Barely ever does. Must read slow as shit otherwise the paper wouldn’t last him the morning, let alone all afternoon too. Could be for show, of course. An attempt to appear erudite.

  ‘I only feel rain when it’s hitting me on the top of my head,’ Rusty says back.

  She’s not a fan of small talk. All talk should matter. All interactions between sentient beings do matter and should be treated accordingly and with reverence. But if you voice such opinions you find no one talks to you at all so Rusty keeps her lips locked.

  Earnest mutters more about the weather as Rusty counts out the price of the tobacco from the change in her pocket. Earnest doesn’t have to ask for the money any more than Rusty has to ask how much it costs. She slides the coins across the counter so he doesn’t have to reach too far. Earnest had polio as a kid.

  He slides the coins off the counter without looking up from his paper. Hits buttons on the register without looking up. Drops them into the right slots while he turns a page.

  Rusty says, ‘So, what’s going on in the world?’

  Earnest huffs. ‘Damned if I know, but it’s not looking too good out there.’

  ‘Let me know when things are getting better, will you?’

  ‘We’re doomed, Rust.’ Earnest licks a thumb and turns a page. ‘Best get used to the idea. Sands of time ran out for humanity long ago. The End of Days is coming whether we like it or not.’

  Rusty heads for the door. ‘See you, Ernie.’

  Earnest calls back, ‘Keep keeping us safe.’

  Rusty wonders who exactly she keeps safe as she makes her way back to her vehicle. She might feel better about herself if she thought she made any kind of difference instead of just ticking boxes by giving motorists a hard time.

  Home is a short drive away that takes longer than it should because Rusty can never quite bring herself to apply enough pressure to the accelerator.

  Engine off, she sits behind the wheel and stares at the house and the glow at the windows. It’s a warm light but it’s deceptive, she decides. Almost a trick.

  A warm glow can disguise even the coldest of homes.

  There’s an incline to the driveway that becomes a little steeper every day. Must do because it takes more energy to climb than it did yesterday, than the day before that.

  Rusty lays her forehead against the door for a second, or a minute. She’s not sure. Time is relative and maybe this is why.

  The key goes into the lock. The door opens.

  The screaming begins.

  Obscenities, Rusty can handle. Words are just words. Just sounds to which we attach meaning. Even the worst curse could be birdsong if only we let it. She’s been called every name out there, heard every insult. Not just in English either. She’s bulletproof when it comes to such things. She’s Kevlar. So, she stands in the hallway and takes the barrage from her mother and tries not to react. She’s learned that the less she reacts, the sooner it’s over.

  The swearing and the cussing doesn’t bother her. It’s that it has no end. No solution. There is no possible retort, no way to stop it, and that’s the real heartache. Her mother won’t calm down because she is calm. As calm as a person in her situation can be calm.

  Doctors have their fancy names for it in the same way they have fancy names for most things but Rusty doesn’t need a doctor to explain to her what is happening. It’s obvious. It’s inevitable.

  Her mother is old.

  It affects people in different ways and her mother has gone from a polite, almost meek woman to a monster. Not quite overnight, but the process was so fast it was all over just as soon as it began.

  Now, all Rusty hears from her mother is how much she is hated, how fat she is, how she is a disappointment, a failure, ugly, useless, a mistake.

  Rusty doesn’t know if Mom has always felt like this and only now, her mind gone, speaks the truth. When it’s real bad Rusty sometimes has to get out of bed to change the pillowcase for a dry one.

  ‘Thanks, Mom,’ Rusty says. ‘I’m glad to be home too.’

  Mom has tired herself out or her focus has switched to something else. A favourite ad on the TV, perhaps. Rusty doesn’t hang around long enough to find out why she has a reprieve. She takes it and runs.

  With Alice moving in with her piece-of-shit boyfriend it’s just Rusty and Mom. Rusty would have Alice move back in a heartbeat, despite all the money she stole, but at the same time she wouldn’t want her to endure the abuse. In that way Rusty is glad the piece-of-shit boyfriend came along when he did, before Mom lost the ability to control what came out of her mouth.

  Rusty heads to the kitchen to put dinner in the microwave and carries it upstairs to her bedroom so she can eat it alone and without the need to wipe her mother’s saliva from her face every few mouthfuls. Mom can’t make it up the stairs these days so Rusty is safe for now. Maybe in a couple of hours Rusty will brave going back down to do some housework. Mom should have fallen asleep by then.

  Rusty thumbs on the old TV in her room and perches on the bed to blow on her lasagne. It smells good but she thinks they’ve changed the recipe. Consistency isn’t the same. Sauce used to be thick, now it’s a little runny. Watered-down. There should be a law that forces them to make such things clear on the packaging.

  When she’s done she sneaks downstairs past the living room to put the plastic tray in the trash and the fork in the sink. She won’t risk washing up until the morning because she’s hopeful Mom has fallen asleep already, and why chance waking her again?

  On the way back Rusty sees that she was wrong: Mom is wide awake and looking straight at her. There’s so much malice in her eyes, so much hate.

  Mom says, ‘I should have had you aborted.’

  Obscenities, Rusty can handle.

  4:36 p.m.

  As I near, I realise that Carlson is alternating glances between me and the kitchen floor. A pointed movement, which he repeats, and I follow his eyes to see a gun lying at the foot of the refrigerator. I don’t know guns so all I see is a boxy automatic pistol. Black metal and plastic. Ugly. Maybe Carlson’s, maybe Wilks’ own. It doesn’t matter. I’ve never shot one, but how hard can it be? Point and shoot.

  I force myself forward those last few steps, seeing Carlson weakening under the relentless pressure of Wilks, knowing he’s running out of time. I bend over to scoop the pistol from the floor. I have to do so with slow, careful motions to maintain my balance.

  The gun is warm in my palm. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and I have to fight the instinct to drop it, to get it away from me.

  I’m so close now that Wilks is aware of me an instant before I say, ‘Let him go.’

  Wilks is surprised I’m here, hesitant because I’m armed. She looks past me to
the hallway, no doubt hoping to see Messer coming to her aid. Wilks doesn’t know Messer is incapacitated.

  Wilks says, ‘Put the gun down, Jem.’

  I say, ‘Let him go,’ for the second time.

  Wilks doesn’t.

  I take careful aim at Wilks’ face.

  ‘Do it,’ I say.

  She still doesn’t but relaxes enough in her efforts to stab Carlson that Carlson can wriggle out from under her. Carlson sinks to the floor, exhausted. He’s no fighter.

  Wilks turns to face me. She doesn’t seem scared of me or the gun in my hand. She seems annoyed at this intrusion, annoyed Messer hasn’t killed me.

  I make sure to keep my gaze fixed on hers as I say, ‘Drop the knife.’

  She hesitates for a second, then does as she’s told. The knife clangs and clatters on the kitchen floor tiles. Wilks shows her palms.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ she says.

  ‘Too late for that,’ I reply. ‘I was beyond stupid to believe anything you told me.’

  ‘We can work this out.’

  ‘How? How can we possibly work this out?’

  Wilks doesn’t answer.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say, then to Carlson: ‘Are you okay?’

  I’m trying not to look at him because I don’t want to take my gaze from Wilks, even for a second. I’m certain she’ll launch herself at me given the slimmest opportunity. I don’t want to trust my poor reactions and poor aim to save me if I don’t have to.

  I can just about see Carlson nod in response to my question. It’s not a good sign that he’s sat slumped on the floor with the island the only thing keeping him from lying down. I can’t maintain my aim at Wilks and haul Carlson to his feet at the same time.

  ‘Call for help,’ I say to him. ‘Call for backup or call the cops. Dial 911. Get someone. Get the police chief. Get Rusty.’

  He doesn’t react.

  Wilks says, ‘He’s not going to call anyone, are you?’

  Carlson doesn’t answer her. He’s also not calling for help.

  ‘He’s not your friend,’ Wilks says. ‘He’s not on your side.’