Stuart James - Apartment 6

Meagan left the shed, looking towards the miniature pond that contained a small collection of goldfish and a ceramic fish spilling water from its mouth. Behind was a small patch of woodland that had large oak trees. Meagan recalled hiding there with Sarah a couple of times.

‘Mummy, I’m coming to find you.’ She crept on tiptoes, moving towards the trees. After a couple of minutes looking, she gave up. ‘Umm, you’re too good at this, Mummy.’

Back in the house, Meagan checked the rooms downstairs, all the places where she and her mother had hidden before.

As she went to go back upstairs, her father came out of his room.

‘Where’s Mummy? I can’t find her anywhere. Have you seen her, Daddy?’

Her father moved to the stairs as Meagan climbed the steps. She had the usual knot in her stomach anytime she was alone with him.

‘Go and wash your face, young lady. You look awful.’

‘I-I’ve been looking for Mummy. Can you help me?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I have adult things to deal with. I don’t have time to mess around.’

Meagan knew better than to answer back. She went into the bathroom to throw cold water on her face, annoyed that her father dismissed her so casually.

At dinner, they sat in silence. Meagan was unable to lift her head and look at her father. She felt scared. Her mother had never left the house without bringing Meagan or at least letting her know where she was going.

Meagan twirled the pasta with her fork, staring at the food. ‘I’ve had enough now. Can I go and play for a little bit?’

‘Eat everything. You know the rules, young lady.’

She looked up briefly, watching her father stare into the distance, his cold impassive glare, his dark eyes. Meagan was certain she saw a smirk appear on his face.

At bedtime, Meagan found her father in his bedroom. She often wondered why he slept in a separate room. Sarah’s parents slept together. She pictured Mr and Mrs Tunney, cuddled together in the bed. Yuk.

As she knocked and entered, her father was talking quietly on his phone.

‘Is Mummy coming back tonight? She reads me a story. We’re at the good part of The Gingerbread Man. I know how the story ends.’

Her father turned off the phone. He crouched, reaching out. Meagan edged towards him and held her father around the waist, her arms only managing to slide a quarter way around his frame.

‘Brush your teeth and then bed. Do you hear me, young lady?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

As she left the room, her father called out, ‘Love you, Meggy.’

A queasiness formed in Meagan’s stomach and she struggled to control her breathing. Her father never called her Meggy.

Meagan lay in bed, listening to the rain pelting against her window. She eyed the copy of The Gingerbread Man lying on her bedside cabinet. She could hear her mother’s soft voice reading the story. Meagan remembered how she’d glance at her over her reading glasses and push a hand through her daughter’s hair at the scary parts, watching her daughter’s wild expressions. Her mother would finish the story, then lie on the bed with her arm wrapped tightly around her daughter, making Meagan feel safe. Her mother would place the book to the side, instructing Meagan to turn the side lamp off after ten minutes.

Then Meagan would listen as her father entered the room next door, saying bad words while her mother cried. Meagan listened to the pitiful sobs, wishing she could go in and comfort her mother.

Tears filled Meagan’s eyes as she stepped onto the floor of her bedroom.

Looking out of her window, she watched the rain lashing outside, small droplets of water running down the glass as if the window was crying, hoping her mummy was going to be all right.

That night, Meagan had a dream. She was running through a field, her father just in front, pounding the ground in his bare feet, effortlessly sweeping through the long grass in his path.

Meagan looked over her shoulder; her mother was behind and floating through the air. Her mother’s dress was colourful with bright spots, and she wore ballet shoes.

Her father was beckoning them to hurry, Meagan reached out a hand and her mother grabbed hold of it. Suddenly they were side by side.

Her father stopped just in front, turning towards his wife and daughter. He crouched, holding his arms out, pulling them both into his embrace, the three of them were so happy, content. Meagan was laughing, a childish giggle as her mother and father danced to soft, old-style music. Her father led, her mother was spinning, then he tucked her under his arms and flipped her over. They were graceful, like swans gliding across the water.

Meagan sat on a nearby haystack, the sky clear, and the air warm.

Her parents held each other tight; she watched them kiss, then her father extended his arm, with her mother rolling outwards, spinning. She stopped, then carried out the same move in reverse until they held each other again.

Sarah had joined them and was sitting beside Meagan. The girls were laughing and excited at the amazing spectacle.

Her father once again extended his arm, Meagan’s mother was on tiptoes, lifting her leg outwards, then twisting and whirling like a spinning top.

Meagan stood, suddenly her mother was gone and her father’s arms were empty.

Sarah screamed as Meagan leapt off the haystack. Her mother had disappeared.

Meagan opened her eyes. The rain was still pelting against the window, the stream of water dripping down the glass. She cuddled into Arthur and went back to sleep.

Meagan took a deep breath as she removed the front door key from her handbag, placed it in the lock and went inside to the communal hall.

She’d never been more nervous, struggling to contain the anticipation.

But the excitement edged her fear, something a dozen coffees couldn’t simulate. She walked past the table by the front door; today’s post was scattered untidily across the top.

Meagan crossed the communal hall on the ground floor. The lift was still out of service. She listened to her heavy breathing. It was as if she was wearing a mask that emphasised her laboured breaths.

Meagan went up the stairs, watching, listening intently, her mind racing.

She pictured Oliver here earlier. How brave he’d been, doing all this for her. She imagined the emotions racing through his body.

As Meagan reached the second floor, she stood still. Okay, you can do this. Get a grip and face what you have to face. It’s what needed to happen. Remember that. This needed to happen.

Meagan opened the door of apartment six. Her stomach was somersaulting, spinning in all directions. Sharp pains pulsed through her arms. She felt as if her body would give way any second, and she’d drop in a heap to the floor.

She crouched, then sat in the hall, controlling her breathing, drawing a prolonged, deep intake, then out slowly. Once she regained her composure, Meagan stood, and placed her coat and handbag on the rail.

Meagan called out, ‘Rob, are you home?’ She had to be sure.

No answer.

Meagan checked the rooms off the hall. They were all empty.

The kitchen was also vacant. She moved to the bathroom. She needed the toilet; she’d had too much coffee, and her nerves were gradually taking over.

After a minute, she flushed the loo, washed her hands and left the room, checking the floor behind for any drops of water.

She made her way slowly along the hall. Now she was at the foot of the stairs, glancing upwards. She went up, one step at a time.

Her heart was racing. She could feel the early stages of a migraine, with the left side of her head pulsating. Her body throbbed. She was weak. She struggled to fight the fatigue that was slowly creeping over her, emanating from her legs.