by Daniel Hurst
I’m just here to check his CCTV footage with my husband to see if we can spot the woman who came to our door last night.
I see movement through the frosted glass window of our neighbour’s front door before hearing the sound of a key turning in a lock. Then the door swings open, and I’m suddenly face to face with Steve, the man who once tutted at my husband because he was carrying the shopping bags in from our car instead of making me do it.
‘Hello?’ Steve says with intonation in his voice as if he’s unsure why we are here.
‘Hi mate. How’s it going?’ Sam replies chirpily with a very generous use of the word “mate”. These two men are definitely not mates, and their relationship doesn’t extend to more than a few grunts about football results over the garden fence whenever they’re both in their back gardens. But my husband needs something from Steve today, so I guess “mate” is the right word for this occasion.
‘I’m fine,’ Steve replies, and I notice him looking me up and down as if I’m on a TV screen and not standing right here looking back at him.
‘Great. Sorry to bother you, but we were just wondering if you could help us. We had a visitor last night. Or it could have been a few people. Kids, most likely. But they made a bit of a nuisance, only I didn’t get a good look at them, and I was wondering if your camera might have picked them up.’
Sam nods in the direction of the small black camera that is fixed to the wall above the door to Steve’s garage. It looks out across his driveway where he has a couple of BMWs parked, but from what Sam has said, it also covers the pavement and some of the road too. Apparently, Steve was bragging about it over the garden fence a while back and saying how good it was for home security.
‘You want to look at my camera?’ Steve asks, taking a few seconds to catch up with what was a rather basic suggestion.
‘That’s right,’ Sam says. ‘If that would be okay? We might be able to stop these kids if they come around again. Who knows, they might come to your place next time.’
I notice how easily Sam is fibbing to our neighbour, and while it is serving its purpose here, it does concern me a little because I never thought of him as being a good liar, yet here he is spouting out a false story as if it’s the most casual thing in the world.
If he can do this then what else could he have lied about?
‘I can have a look and let you know if I see anything,’ Steve suggests, which is rather helpful but might take some time, which doesn’t really suit us because we need answers faster than that.
‘Is there any chance we could just come in and have a look with you? It’s just we know what time it all happened, and it’ll probably be a lot quicker if we help. We don’t want to waste too much of your time.’
Sam is being very persuasive.
‘Err, I dunno. The missus has just got out of the shower. I’ll have to check if she’s decent.’
‘That’s okay. We can wait a minute,’ Sam tells him, and Steve shrugs before disappearing inside his house and leaving us waiting by his open front door.
I look at my husband, and he gives me a smile as if to say that everything will be fine and we’ll be inside checking the camera footage in a moment. I notice that he does seem relaxed, and that makes me feel a little better because I feel like if he had anything to hide about this woman then he wouldn’t be behaving like this. He’d most likely be trying to get me to forget all about her.
Thirty seconds later and Steve comes back, looking a little annoyed about things but surprisingly polite enough to not tell us to get lost.
‘Come in,’ he mumbles in our general direction, and we do as he says, stepping into his home and closing the door.
This is the first time that I have ever been in my next-door neighbours’ house, although I’m hardly going to pop round for a cup of tea when the guy who lives here hates women and thinks they exist purely to serve the needs of men. As if on cue to remind me of his personality, Steve tells us both that his wife will be down in a moment if we would like a cup of tea before he leads us through his living room towards the back room where I assume the CCTV footage is stored.
As I walk through the home, I realise that it is exactly the same layout as mine, except everything is in the opposite place. Instead of being on the left, it’s on the right. The staircase. The fireplace. The archway into the dining room. It’s like a mirror image of my own home, although not as tastefully decorated, I might add. Of course, I’m not going to say that to Steve or his wife, who incidentally has now joined us and obeyed her husband’s command to “get the kettle on, love.”
As the kettle boils, Steve logs on to the laptop in the room which I guess passes for his study, although there are more car magazines than leather-bound books, and I’m pretty sure I can see a large pair of breasts on a calendar hanging on the wall in the far corner. We use this same room in our home as a den, and there is a TV and sofa in there, but we don’t use it as much as we should.
‘So what time was it?’ Steve asks when he has brought up the software that allows him to look at the footage that his outdoor camera recorded.
‘Just after eight,’ Sam replies, and Steve does the necessary manoeuvres on his mousepad to get the time on the screen to where we need it to be.
When he does, he clicks the play button, and the screen is suddenly filled with a surprisingly clear recording of Steve’s driveway and the road beyond. I can see his two cars sitting on the drive as well as the streetlamp at the end of it. Because I know that the mystery woman walked past Steve’s house after she dropped her bombshell in my lap, I’d say there is a good chance that his camera will have captured her.
A few minutes go by as the three of us stare at the screen and watch the seconds ticking away on the counter at the bottom, and Steve’s wife interrupts us with her arrival to give us all a cup of tea. I thank her and am just about to take a sip when I see her.
‘There she is!’ I say, pointing at the screen, although it’s not really necessary. She’s the only person in the footage, so we could hardly miss her.
‘I thought you said it was kids,’ Steve says, but Sam and I ignore him and move in closer to the screen to get a better look.
‘Can you zoom in?’ Sam asks hopefully, but Steve shakes his head as he takes a swig of his tea.
‘Nope. That’s as good as it gets.’
But that’s okay because the footage is sharp and as Steve hits the pause button, Sam and I are able to see the woman clearly.
‘Do you recognise her?’ I ask my husband, and he takes a few seconds to answer me before shaking his head.
‘No. I don’t.’
That’s disappointing because, without a name to put to the face, I have no idea how we could find out any more about this woman.
‘Is that all you need?’ Steve asks us, clearly having had enough of the pair of us already and presumably wanting his home back to himself. I imagine he has got something else for his wife to run around and do for him now.
‘Yeah,’ Sam says before letting out a sigh. ‘I guess that’s it.’
9
SAM
We’ve just got back from our neighbour’s house, but while I went there in hope, I have returned home in disappointment.
That’s because I didn’t recognise the woman in the CCTV footage.
It was a stroke of genius on my behalf to think of Steve’s camera and check out the recording, but it amounted to little because while we did spot the woman leaving, I have no idea who she is. So I guess that’s it then. I might never know her name, and more importantly, I might never know why she decided to come to my house and tell my wife that she slept with me.
Rebecca hasn’t said too much since we got back from Steve’s, and I guess she is feeling as flat as I am about all of this. There’s not much else we can do now but try and move on. That would be easy enough to do if it wasn’t for the fact that the mystery woman has given my wife a reason to doubt me where no reason used to exist. As much as Rebecca tells me th
at she is okay and that she believes me when I say I didn’t stray, I can’t read her mind and see what she is thinking. I hate the idea that she is now consumed with paranoid thoughts about our time together, wondering if I have been as honest as she used to think I was. I also hate the fact that there may be doubt in her mind whenever I stay out late with friends one night or work away from home on business on those rare occasions that I need to.
Rebecca would never have worried about me hurting her before. But I bet she is now, and that makes me furious because it’s not fair on her, and it’s definitely not fair on me.
I’ve done nothing wrong. Neither has Rebecca.
The only person in the wrong here is that woman.
But she has got away scot-free.
So far, this Sunday has been a little different to our usual ones. Instead of newspapers and coffee over the kitchen table, we’ve been round at Steve’s house, which looked a lot like ours although not as tastefully decorated. I’m sure Rebecca noticed that too, but I can’t chat to her about it because she has been upstairs ever since we got back, locked away in the bathroom, and I’m not entirely sure what she is doing in there. I did knock a few minutes ago to check that she was okay, and she told me that she was fine, so I left her to it, but I’ll feel better when she has come out and I can see for myself.
When she does, I’m going to suggest that we go for a walk and stretch our legs. It will do us good to get out of the house, considering we’ve been cooped up in it for most of the weekend. It will also do us good to have a break from this place after what happened here last night.
I know it’s going to drive me mad not knowing who that woman was and why she did what she did, but I’m going to have to learn to deal with it somehow because there’s little chance of her ever coming back and enlightening us further about her thought process. What might have been a silly game for her could have potentially ruined my marriage and seen me kicked out of the house, so I hope she is having a good laugh, wherever she is. She better hope that I never bump into her because now I know what she looks like, I could very easily spot her and make a scene.
But there is something still bugging me as I sit down on the sofa and wait for Rebecca to come downstairs so we can get on with our Sunday. It’s the fact that the woman knew our names. That must mean that she knows us both somehow. But from where? I could drive myself mad trying to think of all the ways that someone might get mine and my wife’s name, so I don’t want to go down that rabbit hole because it’s likely that I’ll never figure it out. But it’s still bugging me.
I need a drink.
I take out my phone and look up the number for the pub around the corner from here. I know they do a cracking Sunday Roast, and I wonder if I could book a table for us this afternoon. It’s short notice, but they might be able to squeeze us in. A good chunk of beef and gravy should cheer us both up and go a little way to helping us put this weekend behind us. I hope in time that this becomes one of those things we both laugh about and maybe even bring up at a dinner party or two.
“Remember that night when a strange woman came to the house, dear?”
“How can I forget? What a weird thing that was!’
I’m sure our friends will be interested to hear about it. They all think we’re the perfect couple and that nothing exciting ever happens to us, so I imagine they will get a kick out of the story of the woman at the door. The problem is that while Rebecca and I might laugh at the story one day, there will always be that lingering doubt in our minds about what it was really about.
It’s a question that might never be answered.
At least that’s not the case for plenty of other questions I could ask.
‘Hey, I was wondering if you had a table free this afternoon for food? We can do any time if you can fit us in.’
I listen to the young girl at the other end of the line as she tells me that she will check, and I can just about hear her voice over the din in the background. The pub sounds busy, and I’m not holding out much hope that she will be giving me good news in a few seconds’ time. But after the misfortune of last night, it seems like my luck is changing because she tells me that she can fit us in at three o’clock, so I quickly give her my name and number and tell her that we will see her later.
Hanging up the phone, I feel good about what I have just done and not only because I’m starving. It’s because Rebecca will appreciate the gesture.
I just need her to hurry up and come down so I can tell her about it.
I hear the toilet flush upstairs and a few floorboards creaking, so I know she is on the move again, which is a relief because I was starting to worry that she was in the bathroom crying her eyes out or something. But then I see her come down the stairs, and while she has obviously done her best to hide it, her eyes are tear-stained.
She has been crying.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, getting up from the sofa and rushing to meet my wife at the bottom of the stairs.
‘It’s okay. I’m just being silly,’ she replies, but I’m not buying it.
‘What is it? Is it about last night?’
Rebecca shakes her head as if to say no, but she can’t control the emotions that overwhelm her, and she starts crying again. As I pull her in for a hug and try to soothe her, I feel the anger rising up inside me at that damn woman and what she has reduced my darling Rebecca to. She’s never been a crier, yet here she is now blubbing away on the bottom step of the staircase. So much for a fun weekend before we go back to work.
Thanks to that bitch at the door last night, this has turned into the weekend from hell.
As I stand there with my arms wrapped around my sobbing wife, I make a vow to myself then and there that I am going to find the woman at the door and make her explain herself to me. Better yet, I will make her apologise to Rebecca for causing her so much distress. She can’t be allowed to get away with that behaviour. What if my wife had been more fragile? She could have harmed herself after hearing something like that. Nobody expects to open the front door and be told that their partner has cheated on them, yet that’s what happened here. If it was true, I would have no one to blame but myself, but it isn’t so I’m seething, and I’m only getting more wound up by the minute.
I’m going to find that woman. I don’t know how, but I will find her.
Then she will wish that she never came knocking at my door.
10
THE WOMAN
I can see Rebecca and Sam’s front door again, but I’m not planning on knocking on it this time. Why bother? I know they’re not in.
Besides, I’m more interested in the back door.
Walking fast because it’s best not to be seen loitering around outside somebody’s house, I go down the couple’s driveway and around the side of the property, in the direction of the back garden. I see the gate ahead of me that I knew would be here and I reach over and fiddle for the latch on the other side, just like I did when I completed my trial run earlier in the week.
The gate opens easily, and now I’m in the garden.
It’s hardly the most secure gate, but like most things in people’s homes, it’s just for show. It looks secure, but it’s actually not. Its existence can deter most people but not those who know how easy it is to open. I’m constantly amused by how little attention people pay to their home security. Accessing inner-city homes can be a nightmare, but out here in suburbia, it’s a doddle. It’s as if people see the news and watch all the reports of the terrible things happening in London or Birmingham or Manchester and shake their heads but feel safe because they’re not there. They’re in some commuter-belt town like Reading or Coventry or Bury, where they feel like nothing bad ever happens.
They think they are safe.
They are wrong.
Rebecca and Sam’s back garden is small but pleasant and offers just the right amount of space for what they need. There is a table and chair set on the patio, which I imagine they use to sit out and eat whenever the weather is
nice. There is a tiny patch of grass in the middle, which I imagine Sam cuts every few weeks in the summer or whenever Rebecca tells him that it needs doing. And there is a small shed at the bottom of the garden, which I imagine is filled with all sorts of items that never get used but never seem to get thrown away either. But most importantly, there is no camera back here, which means I’m not going to be seen illegally entering this house in a moment’s time.
It’s irritating how many people have installed cameras outside their homes over recent years, but I was glad to see that Rebecca and Sam were not amongst them when I inspected the exterior of their home before I knocked on their front door. That tells me that they aren’t as paranoid as some other members of society, or at least not about crime anyway. But I imagine they are paranoid about other things right now, mainly who I am and if I’ll ever come calling at their house again.
But like I said, while I am calling again today, I know that neither of them are in. It’s a Monday morning, and both homeowners are at work. Rebecca will be in the site offices at the construction company where she is employed as an engineer while Sam will be in his office in the centre of London where he works as a consultant. Neither of them will be back home until tonight, but I don’t need anywhere near as much time as that to get in and get out of their house.
I will only be here for a short time.
But I will plant something here that will cause problems for a long time.
Reaching the back door, I take out the key that I use for door locks just like this one and slide it into the lock. This process is called ‘bumping’ and all it requires to make happen is purchasing a special modified key online and using a screwdriver to gently bump it when it is in the lock. An amateur might leave evidence behind in the form of damage to the lock, but I’m not an amateur. I’ve done this enough times to get it right because it’s not just about getting in.
