Stuart James - Apartment 6

‘Mummy. It’s Daddy. Wow, I knew he’d find us. He’s so good at this game, isn’t he? Can I open the door for him?’

Tricia sat in sheer terror. Her face was frozen, numb and expressionless. She watched as her husband became a distant figure, the train gathering speed, leaving the platform and station behind until it was surrounded by miles of fields and empty country lanes.

‘Get the fuck off me. That’s my wife and child, you arsehole.’

A security guard was holding Sean to the ground, asking him to calm down, telling him the train had already left and there was no way he was getting on. Sean was fighting to get the guy off him. A lady in a smart black uniform stood behind, saying something into the walkie-talkie that was clipped to her jacket.

As Sean cooled off, they let him stand, watching him brush himself down, wiping his shirt.

‘Where is the train going?’

The staff looked at each other, then the guy answered. ‘Exeter.’

Sean raced from the platform, out to the car park and into his car. He knew the roads to Exeter; it wouldn’t take long. Tricia will be so pleased to see me.

Meagan stood in the hall of apartment six. She reached into her handbag, removed her mobile phone, dialled Oliver’s number and waited.

A minute later, she heard his voice. ‘You’re through to Oliver. Leave a message, and I’ll return the call when I can.’ A long beep sounded.

‘It’s me, I know I’m not supposed to call you, Rob doesn’t know I have a spare phone so don’t worry, but I need to talk. Can you ring me back? Urgently.’ She hung up and went into the kitchen, placing the phone on the table, pacing up and down the floor like a caged animal.

A few seconds later, she picked up the phone and dialled the number again. After Oliver’s message, she spoke, desperation in her voice. ‘Oliver. You need to call. I have to talk to you. I need to know if you’re okay. Call me, please.’

She waited, thinking about the guy who’d been here, her husband Rob and the dumped trunk in the reservoir.

Suddenly she heard a hammering on the front door. Meagan froze, panic now setting in. She feared someone had seen them; her head started pounding. If the buzzer had rung, she’d feel safer, knowing whoever was calling was standing outside the building. Could it be a neighbour? No, it was too late for a friendly call, even for the old lady upstairs who never seemed to sleep.

In the hall Meagan listened for conversation, a voice she recognised. She deliberated on whether she should shout for the caller to go away and leave her alone. But they’d know she was inside, alone, a sitting duck. She waited in the hall of apartment six, isolated, frightened.

Meagan listened. Had they gone? She jumped at hearing another knock on the door, this time louder; three bangs. The person was getting more agitated and impatient.

‘Who is it?’ she called out, her voice breaking.

‘It’s Oliver. Open the door.’

Meagan raced to the door, her anxiety temporarily evaporating, removing the security chain, pulling it open. ‘Oliver. You frightened the shit out of me. Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been calling.’

‘I turned it off when I hid in the lift. Is he gone?’

‘For now. Yes.’

Oliver rubbed his chin, bringing his hand to his forehead and pulling it downwards along his face. ‘What are we going to do? We’re in the shit.’

Meagan opened the door wider. ‘You want to come inside?’

‘For a minute. I need to get home. It’s not safe.’

Oliver moved through to the kitchen, watching as Meagan made some coffee. ‘Where is Rob anyway?’

Meagan placed two cups on the breakfast bar. ‘He’s in Spain. Madrid. He owns a sleazy bar over here, someplace in the East End. Strippers and the likes. It’s how he gets his liberation. He has a poker room and gambles heavily. Calls it his release. He’s looking at opening another one over there. I hate him, Oliver. I hate him with every ounce of my being.’

Oliver stood, moving towards Meagan, placing his arms around her, comforting the lady he’d fallen in love with, the person he’d do anything for.

She stood, pulling him closer, removing the belt of her dressing gown, dropping it to the floor and lifting his T-shirt over his head.

They made love for a second time that evening.

It was gone midnight when Oliver finally left apartment six. He’d wanted to stay, but it was too risky. There was always the slight possibility that Rob could arrive home early.

He stood outside the building, looking up at the second floor from the street, his head racing with the events that had unfolded earlier. He was freezing, swinging his arms and gripping himself to get warm. He stood in the car park, digesting the events that had taken place.

After a minute he got into his car, aware of the possibility of being seen. He started the engine and pulled slowly out of the car park, watching, being attentive.

He realised he needed a coffee to keep him awake. He found an all-night garage with a coffee bar. The woman who served him attempted to make conversation.

‘You been working tonight?’ she asked.

‘You could say that, yeah.’

‘How was it?’

‘Murder,’ Oliver replied.

Oliver woke the following morning with a thumping headache and cold sweats. He hadn’t slept much, unable to push the thoughts out of his head; gloved-man, the body in the reservoir. He’d decided it was best to keep his distance from Meagan, lie low for a while in the hope it would blow over. He was frightened, unsure how things would pan out. The more he tried to forget, the more it ran through his head like a circling conveyor belt.

He peered at the alarm clock and realised he was late for work. He couldn’t go in feeling like this.

Oliver stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, staring hard at himself, his dishevelled reflection staring back. His hair was tousled and there were heavy bags under his eyes, deep lines across his forehead and his complexion was pale and deathly. How had he let this happen? He was a guy who was always on top of things, in control.

He turned on the shower, watching the steam from the hot water rise above the shower curtain. Removing his underwear, Oliver stepped inside. Standing naked, the stress seeped from his body, the water pelting against him, the strain of the last twenty-four hours momentarily leaving and disappearing down the plughole.

Once he’d finished and dried himself, he got dressed, putting on a fresh pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. He again eyed himself in the mirror. He was looking a little more alive and presentable.

He called the office, making out he had a migraine and needed rest. His boss told him to take it easy and come back when he was ready. That was all Oliver needed to hear. He didn’t like to take advantage, but he needed time out.

He filled the coffee machine with water and turned it on. Standing at the window he watched Chelsea Bridge and the Shard in the distance. He needed fresh air, to get out of this place. His apartment suddenly felt claustrophobic. The walls seemed like they were moving, edging towards him, closing in. He breathed deeply, trying to gain control. His head was aching and trickles of sweat were rolling down his forehead. Oliver caught the metal handle on the oven door, steadying himself because the room was suddenly spinning. He breathed deeper, forcing himself to slow down.

How had he let Meagan talk him into murder?

His phone rang, making him jump. Peering down, Oliver checked the screen. No caller ID. His hands were shaking as he sent the call to voicemail. The phone rang a second later.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ He hated impatience, but he realised it may be his boss. He answered aggressively, ‘Hello.’