Stuart James - Apartment 6

Her mother attempted to sit up, wincing in pain. ‘I’m all right, sweetheart. What have you been doing?’

Meagan dismissed the question. She looked towards her mother’s dresser. ‘Shall I comb your hair?’

Tricia smiled. ‘That would be nice.’

As Meagan reached for the brush, she quizzed her mother. ‘Why do you want to die, Mummy?’

‘Oh, baby, I don’t want to die. Don’t ever think that. How could I leave you?’

‘Does Daddy make you want to die?’

Tricia waited, attempting to speak, unsure how to answer, then changed the subject. ‘Come up onto the bed and sort my hair out. Have you seen Sarah today?’

‘I’ve been watching telly. I think I’ll go see her later. She has a guinea pig, you know.’

‘A guinea pig, huh. Well, you’ll have to go and see.’

As Meagan combed her mother’s hair, Tricia fought back the tears, struggling to stem the lump in her throat. She thought how difficult it must be for her daughter, having to witness the cruelty inflicted on her. She knew how a child’s life is mapped out from early memories and how so often her daughter observed Sean’s behaviour.

As Meagan gently ran the brush through her mother’s hair, she told her about school, who her close friends were, the kids she disliked, the teachers that always seemed cross and how Jimmy Mertock always tried to kiss her.

Tricia laughed as Meagan scrunched her face when she said his name. ‘I think that maybe you like Jimmy Mertock?’

‘Yuk. I do not. He’s creepy, that’s what Sarah says.’

‘Well, Sarah is wrong to say that about Jimmy. He’s just struggling to contain his emotions. Now, what do you say we go downstairs and eat?’

‘But I haven’t finished making you look beautiful, Mummy.’

‘Meagan, it will take a lot more than combing my hair to make me look beautiful. Come on.’

Tricia edged her way to the kitchen, and proceeded to make poached eggs on toast. Suddenly she heard Sean stomp down the stairs, shouting from the hallway. ‘I’ll be home this evening.’

He shut the front door, and Tricia listened to the car pulling off the drive, breathing a sigh of relief, finally able to relax.

After they had eaten Tricia asked Meagan to clear her plate and wash up. ‘You can visit Sarah and see her guinea pig.’

Meagan sighed. ‘Can’t Daddy do the washing-up?’

‘No arguments, Meagan, come on. I’ll have a quick freshen up, and I want it done by the time I come down.’

‘Fine.’ Meagan moved her plate to the sink. ‘I hate Daddy.’

‘Meagan, please. We’ve been through this.’

Twenty minutes later, Meagan was holding Arthur the rabbit in her hands, while she and Sarah chased the guinea pig around the garden.

The adults were inside, drinking coffee.

‘I want a pet. My daddy always says no. My daddy hit mummy this morning.’

Sarah looked up. ‘Why does your mummy allow him to hit her?’

‘I don’t know. I think he hates her. He called her a horrible word too.’

‘My daddy loves us,’ replied Sarah.

Meagan thought about what Sarah had just said. ‘Well, Daddy loves me. Just not Mummy.’

‘He can’t love you if he hits your mummy.’

‘He does love me. Don’t say things like that, Sarah.’

‘He hates your mummy, and he hates you too.’

‘He does not hate me.’

‘Yes, he does. My dad says he’s a pig, just like Arthur.’

‘Arthur’s a guinea pig; they’re tinier. And you copied me. My toy rabbit is called Arthur. I thought of the name first.’ Meagan moved away from her friend and went inside. She didn’t like how Sarah teased her. Usually, they got along well, but Sarah seemed to enjoy goading Meagan about her dad, which always upset her.

Tricia and Meagan spent another couple of hours with the Tunneys.

Suddenly Tricia’s face turned scarlet. Mr Tunney spoke, but Tricia couldn’t register the words. As she looked through the living room window across the road to her house, she watched Sean’s car pull up on the drive.

Oliver walked out onto the street, the cold air slapping him hard. He was breathless, struggling to compose himself. All of a sudden, it dawned on him what he’d done and he was already wrestling with his conscience. Oliver questioned how Meagan had such a hold over him.

I’ve just killed somebody. I poisoned him, watched him draw his last breath. I did that. Maybe he deserved it for the things he’d done, but killing him, that makes me just as bad.

Oliver struggled to push the thoughts from his head. He needed to get out of there and home before someone spotted him.

He fought with his paranoia, images flashing in his mind of someone seeing what he did and calling the police; vans turning up with dogs sniffing his scent, racing after him down the quiet street; the police finding him in his bed and cuffing him, leading him out of his apartment, past his concerned neighbours. He heard the whispers. Yeah, Oliver is his name, a right bloody nutter that one. He was always a weird sort of guy. Never mixed with people. A total oddball if you ask me.

Oliver assembled his thoughts, going through the last few minutes, recalling the incident. He’d got inside apartment six, gone upstairs and poisoned the guy. Had he been seen entering the building or on the second floor? Could anyone have heard?

He stood still, composing himself. He needed to call a taxi, but there’d be records, a file kept by the controller, who would be happy to help. Oh yes, he did call. It was late. I thought something was up, you know, he sounded odd. He was breathless and struggling to get his words out. I knew straight away he was a bad one. I told the driver, I warned him, ‘don’t pick this weirdo up’.

He started walking along the street, conscious not to look out of place, taking it slow. He couldn’t look conspicuous and draw attention to himself. He slowed, easing to a stroll, looking over his shoulder.

God, what have I done? He thought about Meagan, trying to ease his conscience, tackling the guilt. Everything was for her, for the shit she goes through each day. He pictured her face, her beautiful features, the cuts, bruises, the beating her partner gave her outside the apartment block. It ran through his mind like a recording.

Oliver imagined being sat in the cinema watching the show, rows of people drinking Coke and stuffing their faces with oversized tubs of popcorn. Rob putting the boot in, Meagan wincing, the watching crowd booing, throwing rolled up paper napkins at the screen.

Suddenly, Oliver rides in on a huge white horse, somersaults onto the street. He races up the stairs to apartment six and rescues Meagan.

Everyone is cheering, queuing to shake his hand after the short production. Rows of people lined up in the cinema aisles are clapping, whistling, patting him on the back.

He thought about calling Meagan. It’s too risky. Maybe just a text to tell her it’s done? No, it’s time to lie low, under the radar. If anyone finds out what’s happened, the first thing the police check is phone records.

Oliver tried to remember who had been at the pub the night he met Meagan. Panic set in. The barmaid? No, she was more interested in the guy at the end of the counter buying her drinks and flirting.

The group of youths knocking back whisky chasers? They wouldn’t have noticed if a bulldozer had rammed through the front door. Besides, they left a little after Oliver arrived, probably landing in a nearby ditch. He recalled a couple who were playing pool, sharing peanuts and a bottle of red wine. Oliver was sure they hadn’t looked over.

He needed to pull himself together, gain control, get home.