by Neil Davies
She checked her hair in the mirror. Grey and thinning, cut and styled by herself, of course. She would not venture out to a hairdresser and would never allow one into her apartment. She straightened her brown knee-length skirt, her white blouse. She had put on weight since Ronnie died but it didn’t overly concern her. Her knees ached and her lower back shot bolts of pain down the back of her right leg if she moved just wrong, but she didn’t worry about it. As long as she could move, however slowly and painfully, about the apartment she was content. She even smiled as she made her way out of the bedroom.
Not long now. Almost time.
She looked affectionately towards her most treasured possession, her single most expensive purchase on the internet. Her chest freezer, humming and buzzing happily to itself at the far end of the kitchen. Worth every cent. Still spotless, the chrome handle gleaming on the lid. She would never run short of food. Frozen food, a microwave and a combi-oven provided her with everything she needed. She loved her chest freezer, and it had fitted in with the apartment so easily, so quickly. It felt as if it had always been there.
It clicked and buzzed louder for a moment, as if it understood she was thinking about it, loving it, and wanted to respond.
Rick Bolger had just turned twenty last week. He celebrated with a bottle of cheap wine bought with his first wage packet from Woodrow’s Groceries and shared with a select few down at the shelter. Hours later he had spent the rest of his pay on a rock of crack-cocaine to celebrate in style.
He stood on the sidewalk squinting against the morning sun, using his free hand to brush lank, greasy black hair away from his eyes. His other hand gripped the strap of the heavy freezer bag, easing the hot sticky plastic away from his bare shoulder. Dolores had told him to wash his hair. Dolores had told him to wear a proper shirt, not the same vest he wore every day. Dolores had fussed and mothered and eventually given up on doing anything other than get him out the door on time.
Dolores had found him this job, delivering groceries.
That was Dolores’s purpose in life, to find jobs for the poor unfortunates in her care at the homeless shelter, that refuge for the dispossessed and those recently out of the State’s care. She had a bright smile, a trusting nature and the simple and unshakeable belief that there was good in everyone.
She was at least twenty years Rick’s senior, skinny but with breasts more suited to a woman twice her size. It was Dolores’s breasts that were on his mind as he jacked off on his cot at night, imagining them free of the often painful looking restraint of her bra while the rest of her struggled taped and bound to the table in the shelter’s kitchen. Sometimes he wondered if she realised the effect she had on him, and the thought that she might made him even more excited.
Sighing, and pushing his fantasies about Dolores out of his mind, he made his way up the stairs of the apartment block before him.
It had the smell of all but the most luxurious of apartment buildings in the city. A stale, fetid smell. Garbage mixed with bleach mixed with shit. Graffiti patterned walls and dark, shadowy doorways were as familiar as the smell. For a moment his fingers found the bulge in the back pocket of his jeans. Just knowing the knife was there made him feel better. Nothing in this place was as bad as he was as long as he had his knife.
Now, where did this bitch live?
He glanced at the paper in his hand. Apartment 304. Third floor!
He was young, he was slim, but too much alcohol and too many drugs had made his body ache. He stopped at each landing, gasping for breath, the weight of the freezer bag increasing with each step. It had been easier snatching purses and rolling drunks. More lucrative too. But he’d got caught one too many times and the shelter and a paid job were the only option after parole. Perhaps if he’d told them where his parents were? Shit, he didn’t even know if they were alive! Once he’d run away from the beatings, the fists and the feet, he had never gone back. He would rather have gone to jail. He had gone to jail. Aggravated assault. Bullshit! The guy he’d been trying to steal from had fought back. Of course it was aggravated. It had pissed him off!
He waited for a moment at the third floor landing, letting his breathing calm, before heading down the hallway. At 304 he rang the bell and forced his face into a smile, just like he’d been told on his first day.
The woman who answered the door seemed older than Dolores, probably by about ten years. He did his best to hold his smile as the musty smell of the dark apartment enveloped him, as if the apartment had breathed out as the door opened.
“Woodrow’s Groceries’ delivery service Mrs…” he glanced down at the paper still clutched in his hand, “…Wilson.”
“Just put them inside the door please.”
Her voice was faint and clipped, her mouth barely moving. She stood back, partly behind the door, holding the edge, her pale fingers gripping the wood as if it was all that kept her from falling. He was aware of another door further down the hallway being partly opened and someone peering out at him.
Old people gave him the creeps.
Except Dolores. She was old, sort of, but she was sexy old. These people were just old old.
He slung the freezer bag off his shoulder, unzipped it and started unloading the packs of frozen meals, meat and vegetables onto the floor just inside the apartment. He couldn’t help but notice the purse on the table, the money in notes and change lying alongside it. Had to be nice to the old dear. Could be a good tip in this.
He placed the last of the packages on the small pile he had created and zipped up the bag again. As he lifted it back over his shoulder he forced his smile even wider.
“All done Mrs Wilson.” He’d remembered without having to check the paper this time. He was getting better at this.
The old woman nodded once, as if to show she was satisfied, and then closed the door in his face. Not hard, but slowly, gently. It made a barely audible click as it sank home.
He stared at it, unbelieving. Down the hall the other door closed too.
He waited. Maybe she would open it again. Maybe she just didn’t like to leave it open while she got the money.
She hadn’t even said ‘thank you’.
Still he waited.
She wasn’t coming back. There wouldn’t be any tip. All that money lying openly on the table and she wasn’t going to tip him.
The cheap bitch!
He stepped away from the door, the disgust, the anger, the rage boiling inside him. He wanted to kick the door in, to scream at her, to pound her old face, but he kept backing away. If he lost his job so soon they’d put him straight in jail.
He could wait.
He wouldn’t forget.
Veronica looked at the closed door for a moment feeling guilty.
She hadn’t closed it. She was sure of that. The door had simply eased itself out of her grip and shut right in that nice young man’s face. How embarrassing. And she had been just about to get his tip. He deserved it for delivering her groceries so nicely.
She thought about opening the door again, but she didn’t know what she would say. Anyway, she couldn’t help thinking that she wouldn’t be able to open the door again. The apartment wanted it shut, it would stay shut.
The unshaded bulb above her head dimmed and buzzed for a moment. She understood that to mean yes, keep it shut.
She started moving the frozen food towards the kitchen and the freezer. She thought the freezer began buzzing louder.
It was hungry.
Rick was going to do this one on his own!
After work he had thought about bringing along a friend from the shelter, but finally he had decided to do it alone. Now, standing on the dark sidewalk under a lamp that wasn’t working, he was glad. How much trouble could one old lady living alone in her apartment be? No need to share the money.
He would teach the bitch not to give him a tip!
No one saw him enter the building. He was careful about that. This was not the first time he had set out to burgle an apartment.<
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He walked at a relaxed, easy pace up the stairs, struggling against the trembling in his stomach. He felt his body was betraying him. He was not frightened. He was too tough to be frightened. Yet he felt sick.
He should have taken something before coming out. He had been in too much of a hurry, too eager to get some easy money.
He pulled the knife from his back pocket, feeling better with its weight in his hand, the sharp blade leading his way upwards.
At the third floor he hesitated, remembering the inquisitive neighbour further along the hallway. Shit. If he got in the way he’d be dead. No problem.
Inside apartment 304 the only sound was the faint buzzing of the freezer. Veronica lay asleep, deep in dreams of better times. As the door swung slowly open, the lock picked easily with nothing more than a piece of bent wire, the apartment, too, seemed to be asleep.
Or waiting.
Rick shrugged the uncomfortable feeling off. How could an apartment be waiting? It wasn’t alive. For that matter how could it be sleeping? Sometimes he let his imagination run away with him.
He checked the hallway once more but there was no movement. No inquisitive neighbours this time.
He pushed the apartment door quietly closed behind him and paused, standing silently, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He did not move until he could see the faint outlines of furniture. Then, stepping carefully around them, he moved further into the old woman’s home.
He tried the table first, the one he had seen the money on earlier. Nothing. He ran his hand over the smooth surface, surprised to see dust rising into the air, disturbed by his fingers. He always imagined old people cleaned constantly, like Dolores did down at the shelter. He guessed he was wrong.
Now, where would a dirty old bitch like this one keep her money?
He carefully checked the chairs, shelves, cupboards, anything with a flat enough surface to hold a bag or a purse, or just the money itself.
Nothing.
Ok, so she kept her money in something. Or she kept it by her bedside while she slept. He didn’t like to think of that. Had no intention of going near her bedroom if he could help it. Too risky. If he was caught he would go straight back to jail. Still, the thought of the older woman lying asleep so near had an attraction. True, she was no Dolores, but he could imagine she was Dolores while he fucked her. Slit her throat afterwards, no one would know it was him.
Until they checked into visitors to the apartment and saw he had delivered groceries earlier in the day. With his record they’d be bound to question him. He’d been questioned before. His balls still ached thinking about it.
Better stick to the money. With a bit of luck she wouldn’t even notice it had gone for days, perhaps weeks. Too long for any direct connection to him. Stick to the money.
He began to look in jars, boxes, drawers. He found pens, nail files, toe-nail clippers, cotton reels, needles… everything but the money he sought. The bedroom was looking more and more likely, if no more appealing.
Then he noticed the buzzing, gentle in the background. He had not noticed it when he first entered the apartment, but now it was a constant background noise. He had no idea when it had started and, at first, no idea where it was coming from.
He held his breath, straining to find the source. It was strange. Almost as if the noise had crept up on him when he wasn’t watching.
He shook his head angrily. He was doing it again. Letting his imagination make out this apartment was something other than a little box where an old lady lived. An old lady with money!
If he could find it.
The kitchen. The buzzing came from the kitchen, and it seemed to be louder.
Cautiously he walked towards the kitchen area, being careful to avoid the handles of pots and pans on the cooker range. The buzzing seemed to be coming from the far wall, over by the big box-like shape. The chest freezer! He should have realised. After all, he delivered the bitch’s frozen food just earlier that day.
He was angry with himself. Allowing the noise of a freezer to spook him! He really should have had a rock before coming out tonight. Then his nerves wouldn’t be on edge.
He was about to turn away, preparing himself to enter the bedroom, when the buzzing seemed to grow louder.
He looked back to the freezer and the thought entered his head as if someone had stood alongside him and whispered it in his ear.
She keeps the money in the freezer, under the frozen food.
The moment he thought it he knew it was true. He did not doubt it for one moment and chose not to analyse how he knew. He just knew.
It only took two long strides to reach the freezer and he hesitated, just a second, before gripping the chrome handle and lifting.
It was full almost to overflowing with frozen food. Boxes, bags, Tupperware containers. Every kind of frozen food he could think of. How could one old woman ever hope to eat all this? It almost didn’t seem like food, more like a bizarre collection. Something to be owned and looked at and admired, not eaten.
He began to lift some of the packages out, the same packages he had delivered earlier that day. He just needed to make a little room so he could push his hand down there. The money he was strangely sure she had would be down near the bottom. Well hidden.
It took some time to make the space, moving slowly and quietly as he was, but finally he decided there was room. Taking a deep breath and bracing himself for the cold, he plunged his right arm down into the remaining packages, pushing them aside with his fingers, searching for the bottom, or for something out of place.
Something like a metal money box.
When his fingers touched it they burned and he had to suppress a cry of pain. The metal surface was so cold it was almost unbearable, but it was there. A money box. He knew it.
He walked his fingers painfully along the top, searching for and finding a handle. This was too easy. Well worth a few frozen extremities. He closed his fingers around the handle and pulled.
It wouldn’t move.
He hissed a curse. It was frozen to the bottom of the freezer.
He pulled again. Nothing, not even the slightest movement that might have given him hope. But he couldn’t leave it there, not when he was so close.
He glared desperately around the kitchen, looking for something, anything that he could use to free the metal box. His eyes passed over the sink, and returned.
Hot water! Get some hot water in there, melt the ice a little, take the box and fuck off out of there.
He smiled, he grinned, he almost laughed. It was perfect. With the box frozen like it was she obviously didn’t check on it often. By the time she noticed it had gone his delivery would be a distant memory. The police would never connect him with the crime.
He let go of the handle.
His fingers wouldn’t uncurl.
A cold block of fear that could have come from the freezer itself slid inside him and settled in his stomach. His fingers were frozen in place.
He tried again, willing them to open so he could pull his arm free. His fingers might just as well have been severed from the rest of his body. They did not, could not respond.
The buzzing of the freezer began to grow louder.
At first he thought he was imagining it. Then he thought it was the motor picking up because the lid had been open for so long. But it grew and grew, louder and louder, the pitch rising. It reminded him of an animal growling, then screeching with rage.
He wondered why no one was hammering on the door asking about the noise. He wondered why the old woman hadn’t come running out of her bedroom. Perhaps it was all in his own head? Perhaps he was going mad?
Real or not, it deafened him and he tried to cover both ears with his one free hand.
Then something grabbed his other hand, deep in the freezer. A painfully tight grip around his wrist. And the pain began.
Ice cold tearing at his skin, ripping through his flesh, freezing the blood in his veins as it dragged itself up his ar
m.
He screamed, staring as his trapped arm turned blue, then white, crystals of ice forming on his skin, splitting, great chunks of flesh falling off like icebergs breaking free of the glacier. Beneath the skin of his shoulder he watched as his veins bulged, froze and burst through like ice-razors, sharp burning pain making his whole body spasm. There was no blood as the blood froze before it could run.
He cried, he struggled, he pulled. He felt tearing at his shoulder, searing agony as he tore free and staggered about the kitchen, blood now flowing freely, spurting from the ragged mess that had been his shoulder, spraying the walls, the floor, the kitchen tops. His frozen arm stood upright in the freezer, a gruesome stalagmite.
Barely conscious he twisted away, tried to get away from the freezer, buzzing angrily that it had lost its prey. He lurched wildly and unknowingly onto the breadknife held outstretched by the now awake Veronica, hardly even felt the blade punch a hole in his stomach.
She pulled upwards, splitting him open, stepping back as his guts spilled onto the tiled kitchen floor.
Rick Bolger didn’t think anything anymore.
Veronica sat on the kitchen floor, still in her nightdress, pulling and pushing the hacksaw back and forth. It was surprisingly tough for young meat, and the bones were hard and healthy.
She placed the hacksaw on the bloody floor and wrapped the calf in clear film, placing it with all the other packages ready for freezing.
The chest freezer in front of her buzzed happily, its lid still open, its cool air flowing into the apartment like a soothing breeze.
Veronica frowned at the frozen arm jutting upwards towards the ceiling. She was leaving that until last. So much harder to cut when it was frozen solid.
The buzzing grew gently louder for a moment and the arm lifted and dropped heavily over the edge to the floor, bouncing and rolling towards her.
She smiled and whispered “thank you”. Now it would defrost. So much easier.
