Kathryn Fox: Without Consent

He buttoned his jacket and, shoulders hunched, opened the gate. No doubt the old busy-body deliberately left it rickety so she could hear every squeak it made.

With the porch light on, he knocked on the door, looking back to check his son. Ben waved and watched, suddenly curious.

The door opened a few inches, as if she didn’t know who was there.

“Hi, I’m Anya from next door’s ex-husband. I was wondering if you’d seen her this afternoon or tonight.”

The woman opened the door further and clutched her cardigan with knobbled arthritic fingers.

“I don’t like to spread gossip,” she said, peering toward his car. “Have you got the little fellow in there?”

“He’s here to spend the weekend with his mother, only she’s not here. But her car is out front.”

“You’d think she could have waited until her son wasn’t visiting.”

“Pardon?” Martin said. “Waited for what?”

She leaned forward and gave an exaggerated blink. Martin saw her yellowed teeth up close for the first time.

“To entertain. To entertain that man who went in there.”

The idea made Martin feel uncomfortable. He’d never imagined his ex-wife with another man, although he’d been with other women. Anya had always seemed married to her job. Except when that smarmy lawyer, Brody, had been sniffing around a while back.

His irritation turned to concern. This didn’t make sense. Anya wouldn’t do that to Ben, or him. One of the things he most respected about her was how she put her son’s emotional needs above her own. He began to feel queasy, like something wasn’t right.

“Are you sure she’s home?”

“As I said, I don’t like to spread gossip,” she replied, and closed the door.

He knocked again, and waited for her to return. She couldn’t have been more than a few feet from the door, but she made him wait for at least a minute. His right leg twitched, like it did when he was nervous about something.

“I’m sorry to disturb, but would you mind just keeping an eye on my son while I go next door?”

She seemed to consider the request. “I suppose he can sit out here on the porch. I don’t like kids in the house.”

Martin hurried back to the car and grabbed Ben. “Put your jumper on, it’s cold out here.”

“But Dad-” His arms disappeared, reappearing inside the jumper.

“It’s just for a minute. I’m going to see if the house is unlocked.”

“But Dad, she’s creepy.”

“Shhhh. Don’t say that. And I’ll only be a minute. Okay?”

Martin began to perspire as he led Ben up the path.

“I’m watching,” the woman said through the partially opened door.

Martin wasn’t sure whether that was threatening or reassuring, but he didn’t have any other options right now. At least if Ben was out the front, he could hear if his son called.

Martin hopped the fence into Anya’s yard, landing on a bed of violets. He listened and didn’t hear anything. Around the back, he noticed an open window and his stomach lurched.

Anya never left anything open. She was obsessive about locking everything, which was one of the things he disliked about her. Something was wrong, really wrong.

Instinct told him to bang on the back door, but if Anya were in trouble he could make it worse. What if something had already happened to her? How would he cope? She was such a good mother, Ben would never get over it.

What if she was having sex? Wiping sweaty hands on his trousers, he put the thought from his mind. He decided to break in the back door. Maybe he could kick it in. Shouldering it only worked in the movies. He looked around for something to use as a battering ram. Then it occurred. What if there was more than one man inside? How would he fight? He’d never been in a fight in his life. What if they had weapons?

Ben could lose both parents if he didn’t think this through properly. Heart speeding, he decided to get help before he went in. He ran back and jumped the fence again.

Mrs. Bugalugs was sitting on the porch next to Ben.

“That man who went in,” he said. “Did Anya let him in the front door?”

“No, he sneaked around the back. He’s probably married,” she added.

“Call the police,” he said. “Someone’s broken in. I’m going back to help.”

They heard a smash and Martin knew he didn’t have a choice.

“I knew that woman would bring trouble,” the old lady said as he hurried back over the fence.

Luke Platt’s pulse became erratic. Therate slowed with each breath. A few more gurgles and it was over. He exhaled and the noises stopped. Anya put down the hand and a scar reflected the light. The white patch. She almost vomited. He’d had the tattoo removed.

Desiree had hurled the phonebase at the television. The screen smashed, sending sparks flying. Anya turned her eyes away. Hopefully someone had heard the noise, she thought. Maybe the woman next door.

“Come on, Luke, that’s it, you’re going to sleep but you’ll still be able to hear us.” She kept pressing on the rug and pretending to feel the non-existent pulse. “You’re doing really well.”

She glanced up at Desiree, unable to see the woman’s face. Lights flashed across her retinas every time she blinked, thanks to the screen damage. She hoped like hell that Desiree couldn’t clearly see Luke’s face. Even without good vision, the knife back between her shoulder blades meant moving was too risky.

“Desiree, you should talk to him. Tell him how you feel. It’ll help.”

The pregnant woman started to cry, but the knife moved millimeters deeper. Anya arched her back to try to avoid the blade’s tip penetrating further and felt a warm ooze down her spine.

“I didn’t mean to do it, baby. I just wanted to protect you.”

Anya felt for the absent pulse again. “You’re doing well, Luke. Hang in there. I think we’ve stopped the bleeding.” She used part of the rug to hide the blood pooling around the body, seeping along the floor. “You’re in shock, I need to keep you warm.” She did not know how much longer she could keep up the charade. Pretty soon it would be obvious that Luke was dead.

A noise near the kitchen caught her attention. Desiree didn’t seem to notice.

Then she heard it again. Someone else was in the house. God, she hoped Desiree hadn’t brought anyone with her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a shadow. It stayed still. She spoke to let whoever it was know where they were.

“I can’t help Luke with you sticking the knife in my back. I can’t get away. You know that.”

“Shut up. Just fix him.”

The shadow was close, then moved quickly.

Anya turned her head too late. Something solid whipped her head back. She fell to the right, clutching her face as the thud landed.

“Annie, get the knife.” Martin’s voice was breathless. “Hurry! I’ve got her down.”

Relief pulsing through her, Anya crawled, feeling her way on the floor. The knife had to be up the hallway. Grasping and groping, she couldn’t find it in the dark. It could have been anywhere. The sound of a siren approached. She’d never heard anything sound so good, except Martin’s voice a moment before.

The lights were out, but the appliances weren’t. She crawled back behind the lounge and around to the lamp. She flicked the switch, trying to catch her breath.

Martin lay on top of Desiree, who was trying to buck free. It was like seeing a turtle on its back.

“Use your knees to pin her arms,” Anya urged.

Martin held her wrists down and crept up, avoiding her abdomen, and sat straddled over her, knees trapping her elbows. The woman hissed and spat like a trapped animal.