Gordon Reece - Mice

But slowly his eyelids unglued themselves, his grey irises with their pencil-point pupils dropped back into place, and he stared directly at me. He smiled vacantly and smacked his chops like someone waking from a deep sleep with a foul taste in their mouth. His grip tightened on the knife. He brought it up to his face and used the back of his hand to wipe away some bubbly dribble that was running down his chin.

I was too late. I was too late again.

‘Yeah,’ he said slowly, beginning to remember where he was. ‘Yeah — we’re gonna play musical chairs.’

He groped around in his pocket and pulled out a ragged jumble of rope.

‘You don’t have to tie us up,’ Mum said, trying to sound as calm and reasonable as she could. But I could hear the fear in her voice. If he tied us up, we’d be completely at his mercy; we couldn’t even run away if he started to use his knife. We’d be as helpless as the turkeys I’d seen in the market at Christmas, trussed up in a squalid corner, pathetically awaiting the butcher’s hatchet.

‘It’s really not necessary,’ Mum went on. ‘We’re not going to do anything. Take whatever you want — there’s jewellery in the red box in my bedroom, and there’s cash under my mattress — take it. We won’t call the police. I promise.’

The youth stood stock still, his face strangely distracted. Perhaps he was considering what she’d said; perhaps his trip was taking him through a particularly scary loop the loop at nauseating speed.

Then he laughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand again and began to tie Mum’s wrists together. ‘I gotta tie you up,’ he said. ‘That’s why I brought the rope.’

He knelt on the floor and tied her legs together, and then crawled over on his hands and knees to me. He tied my legs over and over again, lost in the action of taking the rope round and round my ankles. I watched his greasy head bobbing around me and tried not to breathe in his fetid stink. When he finished my legs he found he’d used up nearly all the rope. He grabbed my wrists and pulled them roughly towards him and bound them tightly in the raggedy end that was all he had left. There was just enough to tie a tiny knot.

‘There,’ he said, ‘that’ll stop you going anywhere!’

He got up slowly from his knees, breathing heavily. He held his stomach and grimaced as if he were about to be sick. He cracked a loud sour belch.

‘Sorry, ladies,’ he said. ‘Sorry, madam. Sorry, madame . I shouldn’t have had them eggs. Them eggs was off.’

There was a long silence. An unbearably long silence. I couldn’t see him, but I sensed he was standing in front of Mum. I tried to look over my shoulder, but he was in the blind spot directly behind me and I couldn’t catch even a glimpse of him. He’s going to stab her , I thought. The killing’s going to start right now. He’s going to kill her and then he’s going to kill me. He’s not interested in stealing anything. He’s come here to kill us. He’s going to slit our throats in our own lounge. This disgusting pig is going to slit our throats .

I tugged at the rope tying my hands but it was tied too tightly and wouldn’t give. There was nothing I could do. I slumped back in my chair and waited for it to begin.

‘I need a bag,’ he said. ‘I didn’t bring a bag.’

‘There are — there are some bags under the stairs,’ Mum suggested tentatively. I was relieved to hear her voice again.

‘I brought the rope, but I forgot a bag,’ he said, like a little boy apologizing to the teacher for not coming to school properly prepared.

‘Under the stairs,’ Mum repeated gently. ‘There’s a sports bag there. You can have the sports bag.’

‘I’m going upstairs now. I’m getting the money and all them jewels. And if you try anything while I’m gone, I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna kill both of you. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ Mum said.

‘You understand?’ he brayed.

‘Yes, we understand completely,’ Mum repeated in a voice that was as compliant as she could possibly make it.

There was another long, uneasy silence.

‘You want the sports bag under the stairs,’ Mum prompted. ‘It’s red.’

‘I know what I want, lady! I know what I want!’ he shouted petulantly. ‘Don’t you tell me what I want! Don’t you tell me what I want!’

For a moment he seemed to hesitate, as though he was tempted to work this spark of anger up into a real blaze, but when he spoke again his voice was more subdued than angry. ‘I know what I want, lady. I know what I’m doing. Don’t you worry about that. .’

Then he was gone. I heard him rummaging under the stairs and dragging out the sports bag, then his heavy sleepwalker’s footsteps clomping up the stairs.

‘Mum?’ I whispered. ‘What are we going to do ?’

‘Just keep calm, Shelley. If we panic, then he’ll panic as well. We have to stay calm.’

‘But he’s going to kill us!’

‘No, he’s not. He just wants money. When he thinks he’s got all there is, he’ll go — that’s all he’s interested in.’

She was wrong. I was sure she was wrong, but there was no point in arguing. We were both tied up. There was nothing we could do now but wait. Something heavy thumped to the floor in the room above us. A little later we heard him flush the toilet in the bathroom.

I stared at the piano, its lid still open, Russian Folk Songs still turned to ‘The Gypsy Wedding’ from the night before. There was my flute, still balanced on the velvet seat of the piano stool where I’d left it. It was impossible to believe that just a few hours earlier Mum and I had been playing a duet in that very room, that we’d been laughing and giggling as I struggled to keep up with the frenetic pace of the music. Now we sat trussed up and terrified, waiting to see if a drug-addled burglar was going to kill us or let us live.

With a sick smile, I remembered that it was officially my birthday. Happy birthday to me! How many people, I wondered, had died on their birthday? Now there was irony for you. I was going to say something to Mum, but thought better of it. My morbid observations weren’t going to help the situation.

I surveyed the bookshelves on either side of the craggy vertebral column of the chimney breast. There they all were — The Complete Works of Shakespeare, War and Peace, Madame Bovary, Crime and Punishment, Pride and Prejudice, Don Quixote, Oliver Twist, Les Miserables — a worthy selection of the classics of Western literature packed tightly onto those walnut shelves. Above them were our books on art and artists — enormous illustrated volumes on the Renaissance, the Impressionists, Modernism, Degas and Vermeer, Michelangelo, Turner and Botticelli. Just below these in our ‘music section’ was the thirty-volume Lives of the Great Composers that we’d ordered from the Music Lover’s Book Club, neatly arranged in alphabetical order from Bach to Wagner.

Yes, there they all were, all the gods and goddesses of art, literature and music. All the deities of middle-class culture. But for the first time in my life as I looked up and down their ranks, instead of feeling awe and admiration for them, I only felt loathing. More than loathing, in fact — disgust . They made me want to be sick.

It was all lies. It was all one gigantic fraud. They pretended to be about life — real life — but they weren’t connected with real life at all. Real life had nothing to do with novels or poems, it had nothing to do with landscapes in oils or abstract paintings of red and yellow squares, it had nothing to do with the organization of sounds into the formal harmony of music.