Stuart James - Apartment 6

He tried both numbers a couple more times as he reached the A3. At last, he could put his foot down and sort out this mess.

Oliver pulled into his apartment on the Kings Road at just gone 1.30pm. He struggled to recall the journey, remembering only vaguely waiting in the forecourt of the lodge after speaking with Meagan, the heavy traffic as he joined the M25 and the last couple of minutes in central London.

He needed sleep, wanting nothing more than rest, a hot bath and to sink as many cans of beer that his body would tolerate.

He jabbed the fob on his key ring, locking the car and moving up to his apartment.

As Oliver entered his front door on the fourth floor, his phone rang. He quickly ripped it from the back pocket of his jeans, glimpsing Claire’s name. She was returning the call from earlier.

He needed to speak with her. How much he’d tell her was debatable, but Oliver had to talk to someone. ‘Hi, Claire. You okay?’

‘I’m good. Just returning your call. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. What’s up? You sounded worried earlier. Is everything okay?’

Oliver took a deep breath, then paused for a few seconds, contemplating his response. ‘No. Look, can you come over this evening? I need a chat. It’s urgent.’

He listened for a gap in the conversation, a telling sign, an indication it was too much trouble for her. He didn’t notice anything.

‘Yeah, sure. Say around six. I have a couple of hours left. Paperwork, don’t you love it? Then I’ll call over. I’ll bring wine. We can make a night of it.’

‘Sounds good, Claire. Thanks. See you then.’

He pressed the end button. Then he waited, hesitating, knowing what he had to do.

Oliver had taken twenty minutes to walk to Albuquerque House, keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact, steering in and out of pedestrians and evading families staring at maps.

He stood outside, looking up at the old brick building, struggling to see straight. His eyes were watering from stress and his face was reddened and numbed by the cold breeze.

As Oliver approached the communal door, he looked at the buzzers to his left. He contemplated jabbing the button for apartment six, then racing up the stairs and carrying Meagan out in his arms and away from her troubled life. She’s not a bad person, just desperate to escape.

Oliver waited. He stamped his feet with the cold, struggling to warm himself. He tried to see inside, pushing his face to the glass doors, cupping his hands, his cold breath condensing on the glass.

Finally, a figure moved inside. He watched as the person appeared on the stairs and walked along the corridor.

Oliver pushed himself to the side so he was concealed behind bushes and listened to the front doors opening. Oliver glanced at the man as he passed. He was sure he had seen him before. Was he the guy who had threatened him and Meagan? He could only see the back of the guy’s head as he walked down the path and out onto the street. He wore a black jacket, grubby blue jeans and his hair was short, greying and cut tightly. He had something in his hand which he folded and placed inside his jacket pocket, then he turned right, heading in the direction Oliver had come from.

Next to come to the door was the old lady from the fourth floor, slowly making her way down the hall with her trolley bouncing behind as she struggled to pull it along the carpet. She fought to push the main doors, and Oliver stepped forward to help.

‘Oh, thank you, dear. My bones aren’t as strong anymore; it’s old age you see, gets us all in the end.’

‘It’s no trouble. Here, let me get the trolley.’

‘Oh, you are kind, dear. Bless you. My husband Ken was a gentleman, held the door for me, pulled out a chair, not many of you left, I’m afraid.’

‘He sounds like the perfect man.’

‘Oh, don’t get me wrong; he was an arsehole at times. But you must always try and see the good in people, dear. My Ken had a great heart; he always spoke to people, that was his charm, you see, he made time for everyone.’

As she edged down the steps, Oliver placed the trolley beside her. She leant into him. ‘Not like that ignoramus who’s just come down here.’

Oliver looked behind. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, let me tell you. I know everyone here, all of them, I’ve seen people come and go. 1967 I moved in, they’ll have to carry me out in a box.’

‘What ignoramus?’

‘Oh, let me tell you, dear. I was coming down the stairs, blasted lifts, on the second floor it was. A big guy, ripping something off the door of number seven. He barged past me, all manner of profanities, nearly knocked me flying. I tell you, if I was fifty years younger…’

Oliver turned and raced off down the street.

Meagan had known that once she sent the image of the A4 page she had pinned to the door of apartment seven to Oliver, he’d have to act. He’d have to take her seriously.

The buzzer sounded again. She lifted the handset and heard a neighbour talking, asking who was there. Meagan heard the clunk as the front door to Albuquerque House opened. She quickly replaced the handset. Moments later, she heard footsteps coming up to the second floor. Heavy boots, walking in her direction, pausing, turning back along the communal hall.

Suddenly there were voices; she listened as trolley-lady from upstairs fired questions, her curiosity taking charge. She was the longest-staying resident here and didn’t like intruders. After a few seconds, it went quiet. Meagan wanted to open her door to find out what had happened. Instead, she placed the chain across the front door and moved back from the hallway.

As she sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, sipping on her lukewarm coffee, she heard Rob stirring from the room above.

Her heart sank. Her body was numb with the pain he’d put her through.

A few seconds later, he appeared in the doorway, still dressed in his shirt and pants. His hair was unkempt, and his eyes had the usual menacing glare she’d never get used to seeing. ‘Afternoon. Wow, what a late one last night. What’s for lunch?’

Meagan sipped her coffee, looking across to her husband. ‘I can make you eggs; there’s not much as I haven’t had a chance to shop. Here, take my seat, and I’ll rustle up something.’

Rob was snorting and croaking like a farmyard animal. ‘What’s your plan for today?’ He asked the question more sarcastically than inquisitively.

Meagan thought. Oh, you know? I’ve taken a lover, and we’re plotting your death. I wanted to hit you over the head with a club, bash you until your head exploded over the kitchen floor, but he has other ideas. Just wait, you bastard, time is running out fast.

‘I’m going to attempt to sort out the paperwork from the club; there are unpaid bills, the VAT’s due soon, the usual. I’ll get it all up to date,’ Meagan said.

‘Great. Can you get me a glass of water? There’s a box of headache tablets in the drawer, pass them over. I’m heading to a meeting in a little while so I’ll need a clean shirt ironed and a fresh pair of trousers.’

Meagan flushed as she realised she’d put on a wash last night and forgot to remove the items from the machine.

As she placed the coffee beside Rob, he looked up. ‘Meagan, Meagan, how many times? You don’t learn, do you? You’ll mark the table. Honestly, it’s like dealing with a fucking imbecile.’

She froze halfway between the table and the fridge, waiting for the next order.

‘Come back here and place the cup on a saucer.’

Meagan reached into the cupboard above her head, her hand shaking. She took the saucer, lifted Rob’s cup and placed it down, spilling a small drop onto the floor.