Stuart James - Apartment 6

Oliver dragged his left arm along the sharp wall, rough stones cutting the tips of his fingers. Finally, he touched a door handle towards the end of the corridor. He pulled it downwards, opening the heavy door. He removed his phone from his pocket and switched on the torch. Then he closed the door behind him.

He welcomed the light, adjusting his eyes, sweeping it across the room.

The storeroom was barren. Thick pipes clipped to the bottom of the wall gave off an uncomfortable heat.

Straight in front of him was a wooden shelf, with a bulging envelope in the middle.

Oliver picked it up, took a deep breath and made his way back out of the dark basement.

On the second floor the communal area was dimly lit and empty. He could hear water dripping in the distance. A light bulb flickered towards the end of the hall. Behind him, the lift bell rang continuously, the doors opening, bouncing awkwardly and closing unevenly, like they’d become disjointed.

He moved along the communal hall, edging the fire door open, scanning the apartments from the roof space outside. He watched the windows, seeing a couple towards the end of the block. Oliver moved closer, making sure Rob was asleep; it didn’t bear thinking about if he was up, walking about. Then he went back inside.

Oliver had to be quick. He listened intently, scanning the area, knowing he had to move fast, in and out. He couldn’t be seen – that would jeopardise everything.

He felt for the envelope in his pocket, making sure not to open it until he was inside apartment six.

Again, Oliver drew the phone from his pocket, moving the light towards the front doors. He was pleased to see they looked flimsy and he thought he wouldn’t have a problem getting inside. Apartment six. It’s got to be one of these. He recalled what Meagan had said, the clear instructions. Suddenly, his head was cloudy. He stumbled backwards, struggling to see, the building spinning like a carousel out of control. Oliver knelt, pressing his forehead to the ground. Come on, you can do this. Be strong. He urged himself to finish the task, pushing himself upwards. He was dazed, confused, struggling to understand his surroundings, a temporary mind-block.

He pictured Meagan’s face, her disconcerted appearance, the fear in her eyes, her blank, empty expression. The telling signs of how she suffered at the hands of her husband. He needed to do this, for her, for them.

He’d become doubtful. He struggled to hold the light, his hands trembling. He was overwhelmed with nausea. His lips were dry, a cold chill rising through his body.

He moved back towards the stairs, shining the light at the door in front of him. A brass shape was hanging on a screw. He squinted his eyes, his vision again became blurry, but he was positive it said number six. He was certain.

‘Yes, you beauty. Let’s do this.’

He made sure the stairs were empty, waiting to see if he could hear anyone. Silence. No one coming down from above, no one coming up from below.

He peered towards the back of the building, watching the flickering light dance, seeing it suddenly go out, causing the hall to go into darkness.

Oliver held the torch in front of the door, aware of his heavy breathing. There was a dull noise ringing in his ears probably due to his stress, fear and anxiety. He took a step back, removing a bank card from his wallet, inhaled and jimmied the card in the lock. Too much noise! Get a grip, Oliver, you can do this. It sounded like scratching, nails being drawn down a chalkboard, then a heavy clunk like a hammer against steel. The lock loosened, the door flung open and suddenly Oliver was inside apartment six.

He found himself in a narrow hall. A soft light came from the kitchen towards the back, allowing him to see a little.

He held his breath for a moment, waiting.

Firstly, Oliver needed to find Rob. Meagan had said he’d be upstairs.

He shut the front door gently, moved along the hall and reached the stairs.

Great, I’m inside, he thought. Find Rob, keep calm and as silent as possible.

Oliver crept into the kitchen. He stood in the silence, listening for a sound, anything, a telltale sign that Rob was awake; a shift, footsteps, heavy breathing. It was quiet, so very quiet.

He backed out slowly, opening the door to his right; a closet filled with boxes and household cleaning materials, a pack of yellow J-cloths, a mop and bucket and a heavy-looking yard brush.

He closed the cupboard door gently, satisfied that no one was down here, then slowly went upstairs.

As he reached the top, Oliver found the bedroom to the left.

He listened outside, pushing his head closer to the bedroom door, again waiting, trying to be patient, understanding the need to rush, but he had to be careful, prioritise, make sure it was safe.

He placed his elbow on the large door handle, pushing it downwards, and the door budged slightly.

Oliver peered through the gap, gazing inside. A figure was lying on the bed, dressed in jeans and a shirt. The guy looked out of it, possibly drunk, or unconscious, maybe both.

Oliver stood by the bed, listening for any movement. He watched the chest moving slowly; light breaths in and out.

As Oliver stood motionless, fighting with the dread and panic that had suddenly taken over, he pulled the envelope from his jacket, removed the autoinjector and jabbed it into the guy’s arm.

Oliver watched as the large figure suddenly jolted, his body beginning to spasm, kicking out, and a few seconds later he went completely limp. Oliver stood over him for another few minutes until mucous spilt from the guy’s mouth, foam covering his lips. Then Oliver turned and left apartment six.

Meagan stood outside her mum’s bedroom, her ear placed against the door.

She was listening to her father, shouting, calling her mother a lazy bitch.

Of all the words she’d heard, that was the one her father used the most. She knew it was a cruel word. She saw it on her mother’s face so many times; the embarrassed look whenever her husband had said it to her while Meagan was present.

Meagan hated that word, it rhymed with other horrible words; that’s how Meagan worked out if a word was good or not. Bitch rhymed with itch. Something Meagan hated. Her friend Molly had a cat that was riddled with fleas, and Meagan had heard Molly’s mother mention it, hence that was why Meagan had stopped visiting the house. She couldn’t stand the bites.

Bitch also rhymed with titch . Jimmy Mertock, the school creep who persistently tried to kiss Meagan, had called her that word many times. It also rhymed with snitch , another word Jimmy called the girls when they told the teacher on him.

Meagan listened, her mouth open with shock. Her father was moving around the bed. ‘You’re a lazy bitch, good for nothing. I do everything for you, do you hear me? Without me, you’d be worthless. You understand what I’m saying?’

‘Sean, please,’ her mother begged.

Meagan heard a loud slap. She knew it was her father’s hand across her mother’s face.

Tricia was crying, then another slap. Meagan was shaking as she pulled the handle of the door and entered the room.

‘I can’t do this anymore, I can’t. I don’t want to live.’ Her mother was sobbing, hugging a soft pillow, shaking desperately.

The words rang out. Meagan stood in shock as her father again lifted his hand and slapped his wife. He spun round, a look of shock on his face, then hurried past his daughter and across the landing to his room.

Meagan moved towards her mother, eyeing the bandage that was tightly wrapped around her hand. ‘Are you okay, Mummy?’