Stuart James - Apartment 6

‘Where did you get these?’

‘Mummy has a nut problem. You’ve both told me before. I remember you said if she eats them, it could make her sleep, like Mary’s dad.’

Sean struggled to compose himself; he was deep in shock, panic racing through his body like a charging bull struggling to overbear a matador.

‘You fed her nuts? You know they can kill her. What the fuck have you done? You know she can’t go anywhere near them. She has an allergy, Meagan. A fucking life-threatening allergy. Why?’ He was shouting, running back and forth over the living room floor. Sean panicked, dragging Tricia’s body to the bottom of the stairs. His daughter followed.

Meagan calmly looked up towards her father. ‘It’s what she wanted, Daddy.’

Sean stood in the downstairs hallway, watching his wife’s limp body, needing to get her into the car and to a hospital, he had to get help. In a panic, he turned and raced upstairs, needing to douse water on his face, to calm himself. He shouted at his daughter to call 999. He was unable to process what had happened, and his mind had shut down. Outside his bedroom door, Sean dropped to his knees.

Meagan picked up her mother’s phone, doing as her father had asked.

‘999, what’s your emergency? Hello, 999, what’s your–?’

‘Hello.’

‘Hello. What’s your emergency?’

‘It’s my mummy.’

‘What can I get you? The usual, or shall I read the specials?’ The waiter stood beside Oliver.

It was too early in the day for anything fancy. ‘I’ll just have the number two breakfast, extra sausage.’

‘Very good, sir. Tea, coffee?’

‘Er, tea is good.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Then the waiter turned to another table, welcoming the family that had just arrived.

Oliver suddenly felt alone, vacant. He found himself thinking about Claire. God, it had been great while it lasted. We had fun. We were good together. A sudden rush of anger raced through his body, followed by panic. Oliver had no friends because he mostly kept himself to himself. His family were up in the north of England, his parents separated. He hadn’t spoken to either his parents or sister for months. They got on with their lives, he with his.

A large mug of tea was placed in front of him, causing Oliver to retreat from his thoughts. ‘Thanks.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Wow, the guy’s polite. He sounds like a butler serving a large mansion. As Oliver gripped the mug, blowing on its contents, his phone on the table in front of him beeped. Opening the screen and tapping the message icon, he read the contents.

Can we speak?

It was Meagan. A whirl of emotions surged through his body. Repeating the words in his head, he felt excitement, fear and dread all at once.

He looked around the café. The family had ordered and were deep in conversation. He watched the couple to his right. The guy leaned forward, removed his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and tapped the card machine. Then he stood and pulled the seat out for his partner. God, how Oliver wanted this. It shouldn’t be this difficult. Maybe he was attracted to the wrong women.

He brushed a hand through his hair, pushing his neck backwards, stretching his throat out, thinking what he should do. He wanted to ignore the message, block Meagan’s number, disregard her plea.

He placed the phone in front of him to the left, straightening it out, touching it nervously.

‘Okay, sir, here’s your order.’

Oliver looked at the waiter; he was short, middle-aged and wore a stained white apron. A thick moustache ran along the length of his top lip and curled upwards at each end.

Bloody hell, just take it off already, it doesn’t become you, mate.

It resembled a giant caterpillar that had been hit with a mallet. Oliver kept the sarcasm to himself.

He glanced at the food, choosing to push it to the side. Picking up the phone, he reread the message. Meagan would know he’d seen it, and would be waiting for a response. He pictured her, pacing up and down the hallway, the phone held at arm’s length, waiting for a reply.

Shit, what am I doing? Be strong, Oliver, brave it up, lad. He started tapping.

It’s not a good idea.

He clicked send, then watched the phone, waiting for a reply. The word delivered appeared in the bottom right corner of the screen.

He pictured her, broken-hearted, placing the phone in her handbag, dejected, crushed. The last thing Oliver wanted to do was upset Meagan. However hard he tried, he couldn’t get her out of his head.

He kept the phone in front of his face. His food was getting cold and the steam had ceased rising from the mug of tea. He waited. Part of him wanted another message, another part hoped this was the end.

Suddenly, jumping bubbles appeared on his phone screen, letting him know that Meagan had started writing. Oliver waited; it looked like a long one. Then it stopped. He waited a few minutes, apprehensive, looking for a sign of her response. He closed the phone, then opened it, swiping upwards on the screen to refresh the app, just in case something had been sent and got caught in the cogs of the virtual world.

After another couple of minutes, he placed the phone back on the table. His heart rate had slowed to a more reasonable speed, and the anxious knot in his stomach dispersed.

He tucked into his food, sipping his cold tea, beckoning to moustache-man for a refill.

The phone beeped and vibrated slightly. Oliver’s eyes instantly directed to it.

It was Meagan. Oliver placed the cutlery down in front of him, holding the phone six inches from his face, wondering when the messages would stop, if she’d ever quit.

You need to finish what you started.

He stared at the message, trying to make sense of it all, wondering why she kept asking the same question, making demands. He needed to be strong, polite, but forceful. He needed to show authority, let her know he wouldn’t give in to her sick demands. He’d done it once, a stupid mistake, and he was determined not to go back down that path. He started typing.

Meagan, we’re done. I’m sorry. Please stop with the messages. I’ve moved on. You need to do the same.

He reread the message a couple of times, then tapped the send button.

He watched the phone, balancing in his left hand, imagining how she’d feel when opening the message. He pictured her hanging from the rafter outside his apartment a week ago. Oliver fought to shed the image from his mind. He thought it was goodbye, a final farewell when he kissed her on the cheek outside Albuquerque House and told her not to contact him. Now this, out of the blue. He suddenly felt suffocated, like he would never be released from her claws.

The phone beeped almost instantly. He was losing patience. As he opened the message, he read the one-line sentence across the screen.

I need to show you something.

Show me something. What’s she talking about? Has her husband beaten her again? Maybe it’s a picture of her, slit wrists, lying in the bath, about to drown and she wants me to be the last person to see her alive.

He tapped, just a quick one-line response, trying to stop the intrusion into his new-found happiness and contentment.

Show me what? I don’t want you to keep messaging.

He hit the send button and waited impatiently, aching to know what she wanted.

After a minute or so, Oliver placed the phone down, but it beeped when he reached for his knife and fork. Again, he opened the message; it was the same as before.

You need to finish what you started.

This is fucking ridiculous. That’s it, I’ve had enough of this bullshit, thought Oliver. He tapped back: