Stuart James - Apartment 6

Meagan, you need to listen very closely. I fell for you hard; obsessed is maybe too strong a word, but from the first time I saw you on the train, you had a certain vulnerability about you. I reached out, offering a helping hand. But you chose to ignore my pleas to leave your husband, and it seems the only way you will ever abandon this selfish lowlife is when you’re carried out of your apartment in a box. I’ve tried, God knows how hard, but I can do no more. Please stop with the fucking messages. I will ignore anything else after this. You deserve so much happiness, which I doubt you will ever find with that prick. Leave him before it’s too late. Do it, Meagan, do it for yourself. Goodbye.

Oliver placed the phone on the table, satisfied he’d said what he needed without being rude.

He sipped his tea, leaning back in the chair, his body suddenly lighter, a weight lifting from his shoulders. He eyed the family in front of him, watching how they conversed, confident with each other. It’s what he needed: security, comfort, stability.

He leant forward, cutting one of the sausages in half, dipping it into the middle of his egg, watching the thick yolk spread across the plate.

The phone beeped, causing Oliver to jump. His eyes were wild with fear and trepidation, the excitement had gone.

As he brought the phone towards his face, he opened the message.

The word Meagan appeared on the front of the screen. He read the text, the same as before.

I need to show you something.

There was a video attached. Oliver clicked it with his thumb.

It was him in a field, trampling on long grass, dragging something, struggling with the weight of what he was hauling.

Oliver pinched the screen to zoom in. He had been unaware he was being filmed. It was a clear image; the water was so still behind him, silent. Oliver was talking, asking for help from the person taking the recording. When Oliver reached the water, he flipped the trunk over, dumping it in the reservoir.

‘Fuck.’ Oliver realised he’d said the words louder than expected. He dropped the phone, causing a loud crash. Now people were looking at him; he watched as a father cuddled his small child, holding him close as if offering protection. The guy’s partner was staring over at him, her face grimacing in disapproval.

Oliver lifted his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’ Suddenly feeling embarrassed, he dropped his head, waiting for the moment to pass.

Oliver’s appetite had suddenly diminished. As he glanced at the food, his stomach started swirling around like the drum of a washing machine. There was a painful throbbing in the side of his temple. He was hot, sweat appearing on his forehead and his face itching. His T-shirt was damp with perspiration.

He eyed moustache-man who was standing by the kitchen, looking out over the café. He appeared to be swaying and blurred. Oliver was sure he heard him laughing. He leant forward, squinting, trying to focus his eyes on the peculiar little figure.

‘Are you okay, sir? You don’t look well.’

Oliver peered upwards. ‘Huh?

‘The food. Is it no good, sir?’

‘I need to leave. I’m sorry.’ Oliver placed a twenty-pound note on the table in front of him, picked up his phone and left, welcoming the cold air outside.

He stood for a moment, watching the traffic as people rushing along the street weaved around him. He felt barricaded, like the walls of the buildings opposite were closing in on him. He had to run, get away from here, anywhere, just go. His mind raced. Panic was taking over his body and making him weak. How could she do this? Meagan, the person I trusted more than anyone.

He ran along Kensington High Street towards his apartment, fighting the fatigue that had developed in his legs as nausea moved quickly through his body.

He twisted his key in the lock and opened the main door, shoving it against the wall. Oliver raced along the ground floor and took the stairs two at a time, charging forward to his apartment. He slammed the door behind him.

He paused in the hall; the lights were out, the place silent. He listened to the stillness, unsure whether to go and lie down, or open a beer and slump on the sofa.

How could she do this to me? Meagan, the woman who was so afraid, frightened, vulnerable, detached from normality.

The video she had sent him ran through his head, the vision of him rolling the trunk into the reservoir. Caught, hook, line and fucking sinker. How could I let this happen? Shit, I’m usually so careful, distrusting even the most trustworthy. She’s got me; she’s got me good and proper. You’re fucked now, Oli, done up like a kipper.

He pulled out a chair that had been set neatly under the breakfast island, kicked off his shoes and removed his phone from the front pocket of his jeans. He opened the message Meagan had sent, clicking on the video in the hope he’d imagined the whole thing.

As he sat, watching the recording of him again, dragging the trunk through the grass, rolling it into the reservoir, he deliberated. Meagan was the only person who’d seen this, the only one who knew. Maybe he could go to the reservoir tonight to the same spot, remove the body himself, drag it back to the car, dump it in the boot and hide it somewhere. How would anyone be able to prove what he’d done if there wasn’t a body? It was her word against his. He’d deny everything if Meagan tried to blackmail him. After all, it’s what she’s doing; using something against me to get something she wants herself.

Oliver had to do it, there was no choice. He’d wait until tonight, go to the spot where they’d dumped gloved-man and get the body out. It’s my only option, he thought. And this time I’m on my own.

Oliver spent the day battling his anxiety, struggling to stem the sick feeling of dread in his stomach, which was churning like butterflies on speed. His mind raced, recalling Meagan and him returning to apartment six.

How was it only a week ago? He remembered the guy turning up, so aggressive, looking for his partner, making threats. What if he found out? What if he knows what I did? I’d be next, lying motionless at the bottom of the lake.

He had to get to the trunk.

These men were obviously involved in illegal activity. They were criminals, the lowest of the low, people who didn’t give a shit how things were done, who was hurt, or how they made a living and God help anyone who got in their way.

Oliver didn’t need to find out what they were capable of, what they’d do to him if they knew about the trunk in the reservoir. Aren’t I the same? What Meagan and I have done, what does that make us? We’re just as bad.

Oliver struggled to understand what had happened, reasoning with himself. The guy deserved it, he was a lowlife and if I didn’t do it, someone else would. It was just a matter of time.

But then he found himself arguing back. Wait, it doesn’t make it right. I broke into his apartment and poisoned him! It’s first-degree murder, and I’ll never get away with it, never. No matter how evil this fucker was, it’s still murder. I broke in, killed him in his bed and dumped his body.

Then later he found himself thinking that he had got away with it after all. Maybe it’ll blow over. We’ve heard nothing for a week, so I’ll continue to lie low, off the radar. No one knows.

Oliver fought to understand why Meagan would record him dumping the body and send it to him. What the fuck is she thinking? He wondered if she would leave him alone if he killed Rob. I could break into apartment six and end the life of another complete scum-bucket. But where would it stop? How many people would he have to kill? Would Meagan finish with the demands?