Stuart James - Apartment 6

‘Now look, go and get some kitchen wipes and mop it up. You have the mind of a small child. I’ve never met anyone so fucking thick. Honestly, what is your problem?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied.

‘Sorry, sorry, that’s all I ever hear. It’s so tiresome, Meagan, so very fucking boring all the time.’

Meagan returned a second later with a handful of kitchen roll, kneeling at Rob’s side, wiping the floor. He placed out his foot, which had a coffee splash, and Meagan wiped it.

‘Good girl. Now that’s better, isn’t it?’

As Meagan stood, drops of hot coffee splashed onto Rob’s legs, causing him to wince.

‘Well, that’s just plain fucking stupidity.’ Rob stood, watching his wife and her mortified expression.

‘I’m sorry, Rob. Here, let me get some cold water. I’m sorry.’

As Meagan turned to the sink, Rob grabbed her hair, pulling it back, ripping downwards like he was trying to remove her head from her body. He reached for the steaming hot coffee, throwing the contents into her face.

Meagan lay on the floor, writhing in pain, holding her face, the heat raging across her skin.

Rob stood calmly. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Be sure to have my shirt and trousers ready when I come down.’

Oliver raced along the King’s Road, trying to get a glimpse of the guy who had exited the front door of Albuquerque House.

The road was still busy with cameras clicking, teenagers arranging selfies, holding phones on the end of poles and smiling like they’d never visited a city before.

Oliver ran next to the pavement, avoiding crowds of people who were oblivious to his desperation. As he ran, he scouted the side streets, desperately trying to catch up with the guy, unsure what he’d say, how he’d play it out. He had to find him, tackle him, try his best to convince this lunatic that he had nothing to do with his partner’s death. The problem was, the guy had Oliver’s address and a picture of him.

He reached his apartment block. He stopped across the street and waited in a doorway.

The sky opened and heavy rain pelted down onto the streets. People were running for shelter and car headlamps lit the darkened road.

Oliver backed up, keeping low, watching for anyone acting suspiciously or loitering. Oliver lifted his hand to divert the water from his face. He eyed the car park across the road. The doors at the front of the building remained motionless.

The rain eased to a drizzle and Oliver stood in the doorway for a few minutes, certain that the guy who had come out of Albuquerque House had gone somewhere else. Perhaps it wasn’t him. But if it was him, I’m in trouble. Give it more time; I need to make sure it’s safe to get inside, then I’ll lock the door, stay put and let all this blow over.

Oliver gave it another ten minutes, then slowly crossed the street, heading to his apartment. He reached the communal doors, glancing behind, darting his gaze along the street, looking into the distance, trying to study people, checking and rechecking.

The vibration of his phone in his back pocket made him jump. Jeez, calm down. Get it together and take the call. He eyed the screen.

‘Hello. Oliver, it’s me.’

Instantly recognising the voice, he tried to keep calm, steering his emotions elsewhere. ‘Claire, hey. You okay?’

‘Yes, look, I’ve finished early. What do you say I come over in an hour or so?’

Oliver looked at the phone, feeling calm for the briefest of moments. ‘Sounds like a plan. Looking forward to seeing you. Oh, Claire, call me when you’re outside.’

She paused for a second. ‘What, you don’t think I’m capable of climbing the stairs by myself? Will do. See you in an hour.’ She hung up.

Oliver’s mind raced with the consequences of Claire coming to his apartment. He craved normality. He needed her now more than ever. He fished the key from his jeans pocket, pulled the heavy door towards him and entered the building.

Oliver stood for a few seconds at the bottom of the stairs, listening for movement. The building was quiet. Most residents were at work, leading busy lives. He’d been here for over a year, but no one had ever knocked on his door. There had been no welcome from the neighbours when he and Claire moved in, no baked pies or bottles of champagne or flowers to say how close the small community were and how they appreciated another career-minded normal young couple taking residency.

Oliver thought, If only they knew.

Inside his apartment, Oliver went to the window and lifted the blind so he could look out over London. How he wanted to be away from here, in a hut on a warm sandy beach, a barge on the Norfolk Broads, a cold drink as he watched the sunset, anywhere but his apartment.

He closed the blind, letting it drop roughly to the floor, then stepped back, scouting the room. Something felt out of place. He eyed the shelf to the right-hand side, his junk collection, the breakfast bar, the kettle resting by the fridge, the Banksy pictures on display over his head.

He peered at his phone, flicking through his recent messages, still shocked by what Meagan had sent. She had pinned to the door of apartment seven the A4 image of Oliver tossing the trunk containing gloved-man into the reservoir. What was she thinking? How desperate must she be to do something like this?

He wanted to go over to apartment six and have it out with her, take her phone and dump it as he had the trunk. He could get rid of the evidence and cut the noose from around his neck.

Oliver placed the phone in the back pocket of his jeans and turned off the kitchen light. He needed a quick nap before Claire arrived. His body was exhausted, and he needed to rest.

The door to his bedroom was open, with a slight gap so he could see inside. He pushed the door and removed his T-shirt, placing it neatly over the end of the bed. I’m sure I shut the bedroom door when I left this morning.

Oliver took off his jeans, pulled the sheet back and lay down, enjoying the sensation of clean bedding, the soft pillow. A breeze from outside seeped through the small gap in the window above.

He lay still, his eyes staring, struggling to settle his racing mind. He listened intently. There were sounds he’d never noticed before: water circulating through the pipes; the humming of the fridge; a clock ticking from the kitchen, the second hand pounding like a hammer on a wooden stake. Oliver pictured himself lying on the floor, and gloved-man escaping from the lake, hunting him down.

Tick, tick, tick.

Oliver woke a little after 4pm. Opening his eyes, he peered around the bedroom, across to the door. It was slightly open, allowing him to see into the hallway. He listened for anything unusual. Something had woken him; a noise from outside the bedroom. Suddenly the buzzer sounded, a deep drone bellowing through the apartment.

‘Shit, Claire.’

He leapt out of bed, moving to the hallway, picking up the intercom phone, balancing it on his left shoulder, while peering into the kitchen.

‘Hello.’

‘Oliver, shit, I’ve been out here ages. Did you forget about me or what?’

‘Sorry, Claire, I’ll be right down.’

‘Hurry up, it’s freezing.’

Oliver pulled a pair of jeans from the drawer nearby, threw on a clean T-shirt and headed downstairs to the communal front door.

Through the glass he could see Claire stamping her feet, wrapping her arms around herself to keep warm. Her smile grew as he approached until she was beaming, obviously glad to see him.

‘Claire, I’m sorry, I must have drifted off. It’s been a little hectic the last few days. Come in, hun, you must be freezing.’

She leant forward, kissing him on the cheek. Oliver found himself wanting more.