Stuart James - Apartment 6

Oliver was distracted by a sharp pinging beep from the bedroom. His mobile. He chose to ignore it, not wanting to distract himself, now he was enjoying his own company.

The phone pinged twice more; three messages in total. It must be urgent. Maybe it’s work. He took the device from the drawer. He screwed up his eyes, half closing them, thinking he may need glasses. He could just about read the blurry writing – twelve words.

You know what you have to do so we can be together.

The other two messages were exactly the same.

Oliver yelled out, louder than he’d intended, covering his mouth, banging his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Fuck you, Meagan. What the hell is wrong with you?’ He felt faint. He wanted to throw the phone to the ground and crush it into a hundred pieces.

He was struggling to comprehend her words, her thoughts. Why would she do this? Calling me? Asking me to finish a fucking job I shouldn’t have started in the first place? I helped her, goddammit. I fucking helped her. Well now it’s her mess, she can deal with it. She can leave her husband. It’s not my problem anymore.

As Oliver stared at the message, he was sure someone was in the apartment. He had that intense feeling you get when you’re not alone. He stood, motionless, aware of his breathing, listening intently. He froze. Something moved in the hall, I’m sure. There was a bang, like a knock against the wall.

He eased his way to the door, slowly opening it, firstly pushing his head out, then the rest of his body, stepping into the hallway. ‘Hello.’

He didn’t expect anyone to answer back.

‘Is someone here? Hello.’

He opened the door of the bathroom, found it empty and looked over his shoulder. He worried that the guy who showed up last night at apartment six, Albuquerque House, could have followed him, found where he’d lived. He was being paranoid, surely. Oliver was certain no one had tailed him. He remembered the café, sitting alone, coming back home. He’d been dizzy, unaware of his surroundings, but he’d know if someone followed him. Wouldn’t he?

He pulled the shower curtain sideways, with images of Psycho (mad Norman and the crazed mother) filling his head. He looked at the small window above. It was slightly ajar, held open on a rod, and impossible for someone to squeeze through. Get it together, Oliver.

Back in the hallway he peered through the spyhole in the front door and assembled the security chain, before going along the hall to the kitchen.

He glanced at the large clock, the window towards the back with the blind down, the shelf on the wall containing boy’s toys, old comics, pictures, memories. Once he’d composed himself, he tapped a message back to Meagan, not wanting to get too heavy.

So do you, Meagan. Leave him before he kills you. I’m not doing this anymore. Please don’t contact me again. Goodbye.

Rob placed his key into the front door of apartment six, lifting his small sports bag over his shoulder, shouting his wife’s name. He stood in the hall, closing the door and listening. ‘Meagan. Where are you?’

He was instantly agitated, in need of sleep, hungry and frustrated.

He’d met with complete idiots in Madrid, builders who promised the world but knew sod all. He had spent so much time going over drawings, plans and ideas for his new gentlemen’s club. The building he’d looked at buying was in dire need of upgrading. Plumbing, air conditioning, decorating, and the roof needed a complete refurbishment.

Rob had made up for it, though, meeting with the owner of another club, moonlighting, pretending he was there for a couple of beers and a private show and taking the hottest dancer in the club back to his hotel with the promise of making her extremely rich when his seedy joint opened.

Now he reached into his jacket pocket, screwed up the piece of paper with her details into a tiny ball before dumping it into the kitchen bin.

Rob called Meagan’s number a couple of times, refusing to leave a message. He decided to go and have a rest. He could wait for his dinner until she returned.

Rob woke a couple of hours later. The bedroom was pitch black. He was confused and disorientated. He reached to the other side of the bed, pawing for his wife, circling his arm and calling her name. When she didn’t answer, he grabbed his phone, switching on the torch.

‘Meagan.’ He scanned the room, gliding the torch through the darkness. ‘Where the fuck is she?’ Rob was shouting, his voice loud, echoing through the walls. He knew something was wrong; she’d never leave him to sleep without bringing him coffee, food, checking he was okay, making her presence known.

He phoned her again, waiting, listening. It went straight to voicemail.

He left a brief message. ‘Meagan. Don’t make me come looking for you, do you understand? Call me.’

He hung up, groaning with tiredness. ‘Worthless piece of shit.’ Rob lay back down in the bed, turning off the torch, shaking with anger.

Meagan is going to get it this time. No excuses. She’s going to get hurt.

The door to apartment six was closed, the communal hall empty. Down the corridor, the lift doors kept trying to close, the bell sounding every time they attempted to meet. The light at the back of the hall had begun flickering again. Now it was buzzing. It sounded like an electric chair ready to fry its next culprit.

Even from his bedroom Rob heard the impatient fist landing on his apartment door.

As Rob reached the bottom of the stairs, the thumping continued. ‘All right. For Christ’s sake, I’m coming.’ He opened the door. ‘Meagan. Where the fu–?’

Rob was pulled by his jumper out to the corridor, then hoisted against the communal wall. He was struggling to catch his breath, watching the menacing figure in front of him, the smirk on the guy’s face.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ the guy asked, looking along the communal hall. He was agitated.

Rob was on tiptoes; the guy had lifted him partially off the ground, squeezing his neck. He tried to answer, but it felt like his head was going to burst. ‘I live here,’ Rob spluttered. ‘What’s this about?’

The guy let go of Rob, watching him drop to the floor. ‘I’ll just ask this once. Where’s Tony?’

Rob was disorientated, trying to push himself off the floor, crawling like a baby to escape along the corridor. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. I swear. I’ve been away. Tony who?’ He watched as the guy removed a large machete from the back of his jeans. The tip was glistening and razor sharp. He slashed Rob across the face, causing blood to spill onto the carpet.

‘Wrong answer, you prick.’

Then he lifted the weapon and continued slicing.

Soft music played in the background, the lights were dim, and the blinds were still drawn. A single plate lay on the table, empty metallic cartons were stacked on top of each other, and three beer cans with the contents finished.

Oliver lay on the sofa with his feet up, enjoying his own company. This is how life would be from now on; plain and simple. It was less aggravation, less complicated.

He stood, went to the fridge, took out another beer, cracked it open, slugged half of it and returned to the sofa.

There was a knock at the door. Not just a tap, a pounding, someone’s fist thumping in agitation.

He sat motionless, wondering who could be calling so late. He flicked a look at his watch – almost 10pm. That was too late for a visitor. His mind raced, trying to figure out who was at the door. He didn’t want to budge from the sofa, not now, not ever. He was content, comfortable.

The door banged again, louder this time. Oliver stood slowly, moving to the kitchen, past the breakfast bar, the electric oven, the American-style fridge. He reached forward to turn off the radio. He was breathing faster, panic was setting in, his body aching and his head fuzzy from the alcohol.