Imperfect Strangers

by David Staniforth

  “SALLY.”

  It’s Steve’s voice.

  “Sally.” Again comes the hammering on the door. “Sally you in there? I just want to talk.”

  Steve will break the bloody door down if he knows I’m in trouble. I know he will. Even if he doesn’t get an answer, if he knows I’m in here, he’ll break the bloody door down; he’ll break it down and ask questions later. If he’s the person I think he is, that’s what he will do. But then again, he might think I’m ignoring him; he might think that I don’t want to talk to him. I open my mouth to shout. To shout what, I haven’t decided. Keith’s eyes open wide. He drops the bottle and glasses. Time seems to go slow motion, like being in a car accident. He must have realised I was going to shout before I myself realised. The glasses bounce on the carpet, clatter against the bottle and shatter. Keith leaps onto me, his knee passing between my raised legs, striking my gut. It forces the wind from my lungs. He draws himself closer, pulling me away from the headboard, settling there himself, and clamping a hand over my mouth, he pulls me against his chest. With his free hand he strokes my shoulder, rhythmically, like you’d stroke comfort from a cat.

  “Shush, shush,” he says, in a soothing tone. I consider biting his hand, but it is clamped so tightly over my mouth that I can’t move my jaw. “Shush,” he continues, now stroking my hair. “It’s alright. I won’t let him in. You’re with me now. I’m going to take care of you. If we just ignore him he’ll go away.”

  Not if he’s the Steve I know, he won’t. He’d better not. I hope I know him, hope Kerry – for he must have spoken to Kerry – has filled his head with poison for Keith. There’s some doubt there, though, doubt which tells me he’ll make a lot of noise and then simply go away. In my mind, I will him to break down that door.

  “Sally. SAL! I just want to talk. Pete’s with me. It’s them photos, Sal, they’re fake. Pete will tell you.”

  I know they are, there’s more up here. Not as convincing as the others, but they’re equally fake.

  All goes quiet for a moment. For a long moment, too long of a moment, there’s silence. Panic rises in me, as Keith seems to relax slightly. We are like an emotional see-saw. Has Steve gone, I wonder, or is he still there and taking a moment to talk to Pete? Pete doesn’t like confrontation. Pete is probably trying to get Steve to consider coming back in the morning. Maybe he already has convinced him. Maybe they’re walking away right now. I’m up here, I silently scream. Norman fucking Bates is getting ready to rape me.

  They must have seen the light on in the bedroom window. They’ll have guessed that I’m awake and infer that I am ignoring them. Pete will have said something along the lines of, come on mate; we’ll come back in the morning, yes? The silence, probably mere minutes if not seconds, already feels an age. Keith obviously feels so too, because he has relaxed even more. His hand is still over my mouth, but it is no longer clamping tight. Steve is not the type to give up so easily. I know he isn’t. He might take Pete’s advice and begin to walk away, but then he’ll change his mind and storm back. I’m sure of it. If he is there still, I’m going to be ready.

  “SAL,” shouts Steve. “Sal, just listen to me and then I’ll go. If you want me to.”

  On the first ‘Sal’, I snapped my teeth onto Keith’s finger. I bit down hard. So hard I felt gristle and bone giving way to the pressure. I can taste his blood on my tongue. Keith screams out. Actually screams. I squirm from his grasp and head toward the window, screaming myself, screaming as loud as I can, screaming for all my lungs are worth. To my ears though, it does not sound loud enough to be heard beyond the confines of this room. It feels like a dream, the kind of dream where I am running from something unknown. It’s always something unknown. I am running for all I’m worth, but my feet won’t move quickly enough. I’m screaming but no sound escapes my mouth. I keep running, and the pavement turns to glue, it holds me back, slows me down. In such a dream, the victim’s voice never works; my voice doesn’t work and gives out a croak, nothing more.

  I launch a fist at the curtains. If my hand goes through the glass, if I cut my arm to shreds I don’t care. At least with the glass broken Steve will hear me scream. Even if he doesn’t, the glass will alert him that all is not well. I hear a grunt of pain behind me. My knuckles brush the curtain as Keith’s arm curls around my gut, shifting my momentum to the left. Together we fall heavily to the floor. His hand clamps over my mouth, muffling my cries for help. Blood is oozing from his finger. The iron tang of it rubs against my lips, invades my mouth. The metallic scent infiltrates my nostrils making my gag.

  “It’s okay,” he’s saying as he drags me back to the bed. “He’s upset you. I know that. Things were going fine until he called out. He’ll go soon. We won’t let him in.”

  Keith’s left foot leaves crimson prints on the cream carpet. A shard of glass protrudes from the side of his heel. He seems oblivious to it, doesn’t even pause to pull it out as he drags us both under the quilt. The glass cuts into my calf as he draws me into a tight embrace, his leg closing over my thighs. It stings and immediately I feel the blood trickling over my skin. I figure it must be deep. One arm around my head holding his hand over my mouth, Keith worms his other hand between us, forcefully over my stomach and on up to my breast. He squeezes it hard. He moans as he slips his hand inside my bra, takes a nipple and pinches it, pinches it hard.

  Please have heard me Steve, I’m saying in my head, over and over like a mantra. Break the bloody door down. Break in and break this fucker’s neck. I feel a sticky wetness on my thigh, dribbling down onto the sheet. Blood, dribbling, I think, like the blood from my calf. The way I’m thrashing about, the way he’s struggling to hold me, I could by now be cut elsewhere too. It could be pee. Fear can make you empty your bladder. Then I smell it in the air. Semen. Ejaculate. Initially I’m disgusted, but then pleased. Maybe he won’t be able to take me straight away. His still hard erection, pressing against my belly, tells me this is a false hope. His sexual desire is driven with adolescent-like excitement. Keith’s hand slides down to my legs and squeezes between my thighs.

  “Shut up,” he shouts. “No, this is different.” His voice sounds childlike again, and with a chill of fear I realise that the younger version has taken control. “Heather Unwin was an evil bitch! She told lies, and that’s why Mother punished us... No we won’t get punished this time… I do know... Because Sally’s different, that’s why. You said so. She won’t tell lies… I don’t care if you don’t want to do this, I do. No, stop it; leave her alone. I won’t, and you can’t make me.”

  I try to stop listening to Keith’s duelling voices and focus on the sound of banging. “That’s a strong door,” I hear Steve complain.

  “It’s not as strong as you, Steve. Kick it,” Pete answers. Pete, who’s so passive; even he’s worried.

  Pete must have joined Steve, now, in kicking the door. Alternate blows hammer against it.

  “It’s giving,” Pete shouts.

  Keith’s hand, the one over my mouth, has shifted slightly, and is now partly covering my nose. What with that and my nostrils being constricted with the drying blood from his wounded finger I’m finding it hard to breathe. The whole world seems to be a tumultuous confusion of noise. The sound of pounding fills the air: the door and my heart seemingly in harmony. Keith is moaning and grunting one moment, and arguing with the imaginary little Keith the next. It’s the little Keith that wants to rape, not the actual Keith. Strange to think of one person as two, but that’s the way it seems to be. The bed is creaking. All sound merges into one as I begin to feel faint. Maybe it’s the panic, the fear of passing out that gives me strength. Maybe my right leg just calls for all the reserve my body has to offer, but I force it up, hard, into his crotch. He feels it; I can see he does. I can see the look of pain in his eyes, but it doesn’t make him stop. It has caused a pause in his action, though. His grip over my mouth has shifted. I can now breathe at least.

  The pounding noise rises above everything else a
s my consciousness manages to draw a focus beyond the panic of fainting. I can hear wood splintering: a jarring, ripping sound. At some point in the struggle, Keith removed his boxers. His semi-hard, wet cock is jammed against my thigh. The flimsy nightdress is up above my chest. The quilt is on the floor. Again the sound of splintering wood rips into my mind as if wrenching me from a potential flap of hysteria. Steve is trying to get to me. My ultimate goal is not to get raped before he does so, not to have Keith inside of me. Steve is trying to get here. He must have heard the scream. I just need to hold out, I need to try and get through to the actual Keith, get him to act reasonably, to take charge of himself.

  Keith rips my knickers away, forces his hand between my legs, worms his fingers inside me. I try to clamp my legs tighter together, but his knee is in the way, trapped between my own. The glass protruding from his foot strikes against the roof of my foot as he shifts his weight. I know he is positioning himself to get on top. The pounding on the door continues to sound. The splintering of wood, strong wood, screams like a monster fighting back, an echo almost of the silent scream in my head.

  Then I hear it: the door crashing in. I hear it bang against the internal wall. I hear the reverberation run through the building. I relax, only momentarily, but it’s enough for Keith to act. He’s on top of me, positioned between my open legs. Both my hands are free now as Keith uses both of his to support his weight, to adjust his position. I recall then that Steve is not yet able to get to me. The door at the bottom of the stairs is also locked, heavy bolts, one at the top and one in the middle. I claw at Keith’s face as my panic reaches a new height. It’s a panic that shows me a vision of Steve not making it to me in time. I find Keith’s eye socket with my thumb and push. His eye is closed, but I feel the delicate skin of his eyelid under my nail. It’s enough to give him pause. Keith pulls back rising to his knees above me. His fist crashes into my face. I didn’t even see it coming. Stars fill my vision. I hear the downstairs door break. It obviously wasn’t as strong as the outer door. I hear footsteps pounding, ascending the stairs. The room is spinning and I’m uncertain. Maybe the pounding is still on the outer door.

  I hope I heard correctly, because as stars begin to swirl through the spin of the room, I can sense that I’m going to pass out at any moment.

  CHAPTER

  38

  I’ve never been punched in the face before, and what surprises me more than anything is the lack of pain. I’m light headed, though, and feel as if I might pass out any moment. My limbs feel light yet heavy, as if weary from exercise, as if I’m not totally in control, like I’ve been treading water for hours. I may as well be out at sea. I’m drowning and about to be picked off by sharks. To add to the torment, I imagine I hear Steve’s voice in the distance, muffled as if by water, while the wooziness floats me to the edge of unconsciousness. A stomping sound, like someone is rushing up the stairs. A door crashes against a wall, sounding distant and yet close; it’s come from the bathroom maybe, or the spare bedroom.

  “SAL!”

  Steve’s here! He’s here, in the house. The realisation shakes me back to reality.

  He sounds angry, angrier than I’ve ever heard him sound before. Keith’s sitting on top of me and I feel the tension in his body. He leaps off, and with the weight gone its like I’ve been plucked from the water. Suddenly, I feel alert: first my hearing and then my vision come back to some sort of useable capacity. The door crashes open. Keith bends, stretching for the champagne bottle on the carpet, his eyes fixed on me. He smashes the bottle against the wall. Instinctively I shield my face as the bottle’s base and a myriad of tiny shards, are propelled to the ceiling in a rush of foam. Champagne rains back to the pillow, by the side of my head, its load of fizzing glass peppering my arms. Steve’s standing in the doorway, his face a picture of fury. Thank god, I think, but then Keith jumps back onto the bed, his hand gripping the neck of the bottle. His free hand slides behind my head, curls under my neck and settles on my throat, his finger and thumb threatening to close around my windpipe.

  I had thought Steve standing there was the end of it; that Keith would back down.

  “Go away,” Keith orders. “Sally’s happy here.” There’s a tone of uncertainty in his voice that implies he does not fully believe the statement himself. As he speaks, Keith jabs in Steve’s direction with the broken neck; cuts the air between them, the ragged edges grabbing the pink light of the room and forming from them highlights of cutting menace. I’ve always considered life to be like a vine climbing a wall. It can either struggle to climb, or quit its struggle and stay still. Occasionally it may find a ledge where it can rest, comfortably content with where it is. Stay too long though and the vine begins to decay. Ultimately, it has no choice. It has to climb or die. Breaking away from Steve had been somewhat like finding a ledge on which to rest.

  Keith drags me further up the bed, turning the broken end to my face, closing his hand tighter on my throat. A serration of green glass fills my vision, beyond it, through the shards, I see Steve halt his advance. Pete appears behind him.

  A stalemate of silence has filled the room; through it, I hear a third pair of feet clambering up the stairs. The footsteps are softer, lighter and in less of a rush than Steve and Pete’s had been. Kerry, is my first thought. What effect will she have on Keith? The glass glints in my vision as Keith plays it in a twisting motion.

  “Keith?”

  It’s not Kerry’s voice. The owner of the voice is still climbing the stairs, not yet in view. It is a woman, an elderly voice, sounding as though only two-thirds of the way up stairs and climbing slowly. “Is everything alright, Keith?”

  “Don’t do anything daft,” Steve says, his vision locked on the bottle and my face, his eyes switching momentarily to Kieth.

  “Yeh, keep calm,” Pete adds.

  I look beyond Steve, to the landing and over the top of the white-painted balustrade, as the head of an elderly woman, tightly bound in curlers, looks into the room. Her eyes look huge behind large framed glasses. Little red riding hood, pops into my head: all the better to see you with my dear, I expect her to say. With a slight internal chuckle, I realise what a horror most children’s nursery stories actually are.

  “Everything’s fine Mother.” Keith sounds unsure of himself, frightened even, as the elderly woman continues to climb. His grip on me tightens. For a moment, as the stairs take her to the far end of the landing, she goes out of view. His grip on me relaxes, though not enough for me to break free. He immediately tenses again, as she appears in the doorway.

  “You his mum?” Pete enquires, turning to face her, his voice held low, as if too much volume might push this thing over the edge, as if his voice could be the final flake that starts an avalanche of destruction, or the spark to a box of tinder, or the knife to the weakened sucker of a vine tendril.

  I hear the subtleties in Pete’s words too: the implied: if you are then do something about the crazy bastard you’ve spawned.

  The old woman – another lie, if it is his mum – moves past Pete as if she’s not even heard him speak. “No. I’m Mrs Sewell,” she finally answers, as she comes to a pause between Pete and Steve, as if she hasn’t the energy for speech and simultaneous movement. “His mum passed on three years back.”

  Mrs Sewell places a hand on Steve’s forearm as she takes another tentative step forward. Is it to support herself or to push Steve back? Whatever, Keith tightens his grip and everything goes green as he moves the broken glass closer to my face. I can feel the tension in his body, a tremble in his muscles. I feel pressure against my cheek, the hard, sharp edge of the glass. I hold my breath, desperately trying to suck myself inwards, my eye fixed on the cutting shards. Sharp edges. Disfiguring edges. Sharp life-ending edges.

  “Why don’t you let that girl go, Keith?”

  I’m too focussed on the glass to see if Mrs Sewell is still approaching, but I can feel Keith squeezing me tighter, and I know that whatever it is that she’s doing, Keith d
oesn’t like it. I try to control my breathing and my movement, not wanting to so much as flinch in case it causes a cut. Keith drags me across the pillow and I feel the chill of heat against my cheekbone. It stings. I feel blood trickling like a tear down my face.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong Mummy,” Keith whimpers, his voice sounding to be on the verge of crying. “She said I could touch. Please don’t tie my hands.”

  His grip on me has relaxed slightly, and I feel almost that I could, if I acted quickly enough, get away from him, but then he draws me tight again with such aggression that it’s like he’s read my mind. His voice turns aggressive also. “FUCK OFF, BITCH!” he yells. “I already killed you, once, mother. I’ll kill you again if I have too.”

  He’s totally lost it. Oh, fuck. He’s going to kill me, I just know it.

  “Come on, now, Keith.” My eyes flick to the voice of Mrs Sewell. The old woman hasn’t come any closer. Her hand is still rested on Steve’s forearm. She looks down to the floor slightly behind herself. “Look now, see, you’re upsetting Mrs Seaton.”

  I let my eye fall to the spot Mrs Sewell seemed to be looking at and hear the cat mew. The bed blocks my view, but I expect it to leap onto the bed any moment, at least I hope it will. With sudden clarity of mind, I begin formulating plans, thinking of likely scenarios. Maybe Keith will turn his attention to the cat. If so, I’ll break free, roll off of the bed. I might get cut as he lashes out, but it’ll be my arm or my back. It’ll give Steve the moments he needs to lunge forward. I could kick out at the cat. No. That might anger him.

  Steve beats me to it. He reaches down and scoops the cat from the floor. Pete takes a quick step forward, his forward thinking only just quick enough to stop the old woman from falling.