Stuart James - Apartment 6

By the time he reached Exeter station, the bus had already pulled out and was halfway to Adlington.

Oliver stood in the kitchen, holding his mobile phone at arm’s length like it had suddenly become boiling hot, poisoned with radiation and could burn a hole through his head.

He was unable to believe the question Meagan had just asked. He ran it over and over in his head.

There is another way. Finish what you started.

How could she think I’d do it again? What the fuck is wrong with her?

He was panicking, realising he had to cut loose from this predicament. He’d have to tell her. He ran the conversation through his mind, rehearsing what he’d say. Meagan. I’ve fallen for you much harder than I could ever have imagined. What you see is what you get, but I’ve got to be honest, you’re the first partner I’ve had who asked me to kill their husband.

His phone rang again. No caller ID showed on the screen. Oliver flipped it, sending it to voicemail. He waited a few seconds to see if a message had been left. No alert. No beeping sound. He decided to switch the phone off and get some air.

Outside, the streets were crowded, people with their heads down, banging against him, standing in his way like skittles lined up on a bowling alley just waiting to be knocked over.

To his left was a group of teenage girls standing in line. A passer-by had been persuaded to take their photo as they lifted their arms and loudly shouted how much they loved London. The passer-by then handed the phone back to one of the girls and was struggling to push past them, clearly agitated that his time had been taken up. There were small crowds of people lining the pavement, families mostly. And youngsters were stepping out in front of cars so drivers sounded their horns and swerved.

Oliver stood for a moment, composing himself, imagining a beach, the rolling waves, soft sand and a large beer. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, fighting the dread which engulfed his body like flames rising in the pit of his stomach.

Oliver was struggling to deal with the chaos. He needed to get away, to move from where he stood. He stepped onto the road, narrowly avoiding a car himself. Edging along the path, he spotted a café and decided to go for a much-needed caffeine fix.

Oliver walked inside and as far from the front window as possible. He couldn’t face seeing anyone he knew. Conversation seemed like the hardest thing in the world at the moment.

He called his order to a guy behind the counter, asking for the largest cup of coffee possible. Then he turned on his phone and waited anxiously. There were no new messages, no emails. No one wanted him.

A figure appeared at the table, causing Oliver to jolt. ‘Coffee, mate? You look like you need it.’

Oliver thanked him, ignoring the sarcasm.

The morning dragged, as if he had taken the wrong train, one that stopped at every station. Oliver settled down; his breathing going back to a steadier pace. Oliver felt comfortable here; hidden, obscure, oblivious to the damaging world outside.

While on his third cup of coffee and feeling the buzz of the caffeine, his phone beeped loudly. A message had come through. He lifted it from the table, squinting, then read the words.

You know what you have to do so we can be together. I’m counting on you, Oliver.

He dropped the phone on the table, his arm suddenly losing strength. The shock left him unable to hold the device. A pain ran through his chest and his heart started racing. Oliver needed to go home, get into bed and brush all this under the carpet, hoping time would help him forget about the trunk, gloved-man, Meagan, his life.

He stood, holding the back of his chair, edging towards the counter.

‘You okay, mate? You don’t look so good.’

‘I’m fine, it’s just the coffee. It’s strong, you know.’

The guy finished wiping the shelf behind him then removed a piece of paper that had been pinned above him and handed it to Oliver, who paid with cash.

In the street the cars were louder. It seemed like there were even more people, spewing out from every corner. The streets were hectic, too busy for Oliver. He felt crammed in, compressed with no escape. His heart pounded, racing under his T-shirt, palpitations off the scale. He needed two hearts to deal with the sudden rush.

Oliver edged past the blurry stationary figures that were wavering in front of his vision, shouting for people to move out of his way.

Once inside his apartment, he locked the door. He removed his T-shirt and jeans and in the bathroom doused his hot face, letting the cold water relieve the stress he was feeling.

He had to cut all contact with Meagan. It was no good; she was asking too much. They’d already fucked up, killing a man, taking his life, dumping him in the reservoir. Yeah, the guy was a piece of shit, the lowest of the low, but it didn’t ease the feeling. He’d killed someone. He couldn’t and wouldn’t do it again, no matter how many times Meagan asked.

He drew the curtains, turned off the light and got into bed, lying in silence. Now he had a migraine. Karma. It was his turn. He was lying to his boss, pretending he was ill, and now he really was sick. His head was pounding, his heartbeat resounding through his ears. His forehead ached. His eyes were heavy, his mouth dry.

Oliver lay on the bed and tried to relax. Breathe in for five, then out. Controlled long breaths. He jolted, the type of spasm you make when your body switches off, and you’re almost at the point when you’re out, unconscious, drifting, but not quite there yet.

He glanced at the alarm clock next to him. 1.52pm. His colleagues would be returning from their lunch break. His boss would be placing a pile of paperwork on the table, asking for the new client’s details to be logged, contacted, added to the database and emailed relentlessly with any old shit about the company’s plans for the future. ‘Come with us on our journey. We are so glad you’re on board. We value your custom more than you could ever imagine. Blah, blah, bloody blah. We’re with you for the journey… Travel with us… We’ll help you finish what you started’

Oliver woke in a cold sweat, his body aching. He was shocked to see the alarm clock showing 6.02pm. Shit, I slept – just over four hours. This is good – rest is what I need. He lifted himself, propping a pillow behind his back for support and reaching for his phone, pleased to find no one had contacted him for a while.

Oliver stepped out of bed, running a hand through his hair, focusing on his surroundings. He pulled on a clean pair of tracksuit bottoms and a fresh T-shirt.

God, I could get used to this.

In the kitchen he drew the blinds, unable to display himself to the outside world. He’d stay here forever, hidden, protected by the four walls; he could do this, fuck the world out there.

He thought about food, how great a takeaway would be now – pizza or Indian. He and Claire had usually saved the junk nights for Saturday, but he was sick, unwell and needed a stodge fix.

He stood in the kitchen, enjoying the silence. I’ll take Monday off, too. They’ll understand. Who gets sick for just a day? I can draw it out; it will give me time to get myself together, re-group as they say. Maybe I’ll never go back. I have savings, enough to last for a year or two, maybe more. I need to deal with this shit, let it all blow over, then I’ll feel better and I can move on. Oliver penny-pinched. He liked to compare prices; he’d saved drastically over the years and watched his bank account grow. He knew he wasn’t in a position where he’d end up penniless. He was wealthy, comfortable.