Frederick Hamilton - Spare Key

Don’t… His mind barely had time to protest before Ben ran with the thought, picturing how it would play out . He wouldn’t even have to do it right away… He could come and go as he pleased… Watch her while she slept… Drag it out… Enjoy that delicious feeling of power, knowing that the new meathook was awaiting her in the Red Room whenever he wanted…

Even as his mind screamed no, no, no, Ben was freeing his erect penis from his pants and wrapping the sodden panties around it again.

A smile split his face as he stroked and even though he knew it wasn’t right, the thought formed.

Yes, it would be so nice…

* * * * *

Ben was still sitting, staring at the key when the pounding started on the door. He just couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of it and the question played over and over in his mind . What was it for? It was similar in design to the key for his flat but he’d tried every lock on every door and window and it hadn’t opened any of them.

He ignored the pounding as he pondered, running it over in his mind. It would just be so perfect if it was the key to the flat next door but he knew how improbable that was. It was far more likely the key to some forgotten tenant’s parents’ house – probably miles away in the country or something.

‘IF YOU DON’T OPEN THE DOOR, I’LL KICK IT IN!’ the voice boomed and Ben looked from the key to the door. A second later it shuddered in its frame and he heard a muffled curse from the other side. Well you wanted a distraction, he thought. He took a swig from the bottle of bourbon then walked over and opened the door.

An Italian man who looked about twenty was crouching outside, prodding experimentally at one of his boots. When he heard the door creak, he quickly stood up, puffed out his chest and affected a menacing stance… but not before Ben caught the slight wince as he put his weight down on his foot.

Ben took in the leather jacket, the slicked back hair, thick with oil and the clipboard tucked under one arm. Debt collector. The thought was instantaneous. He had to stifle a grin as he enquired whether the man’s foot was alright.

‘It’s fine,’ the man snapped in a nasal whine and locked eyes with Ben, trying to stare him down. Ben stared back impassively.

‘Can I help you?’

The man looked immensely irritated at Ben’s unwillingness to lower his eyes and darted a quick glance at the clipboard.

‘Are you Stephen Jacobs?’ he challenged. His demeanour and body language had Ben stifling another laugh. The man was clearly gagging for a fight but that didn’t really bother him. Despite the fact he was fairly bulky and clearly spent a lot of time in the gym, Ben wasn’t impressed. There was something about the man that just suggested he was trying too hard. Ben toyed with the idea of showing him in; maybe showing him the contents of his duffel bag; see how tough he really was.

‘Are you, mate?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No I’m not,’ Ben paused and savoured the moment before asking the question that he knew from experience all collectors hated. ‘Why?’

‘Well if you’re not him, I hardly think it’s any of your concern buddy. Who are you?’

Ben couldn’t resist the smile this time. ‘Why do you want to know?’

The collector’s eyes blazed anger. ‘You think you’re smart do ya? Huh? How do I know you’re not him? You got ID.’

‘No. Don’t you believe me?’

Ben heard the creak of the next flat’s door and saw the lady walk out carrying an empty bottle of wine. She kept glancing across at them as she walked and Ben felt the collector’s presence just drifting away as he watched her body shift beneath her flannelette pyjamas.

‘Look buddy,’ the collector took a step forward and jabbed a finger in Ben’s chest, ‘stop fucking about. Are you Stephen Jacobs?’ The man’s nasal whine was rising in volume and Ben looked back at him with sudden anger blazing in his eyes. For a moment he’d nearly forgotten the man was present. ‘What, you think you’re a tough guy, huh? You looking for a fight? Answer the fucking question.’

In his mind, Ben could see himself just backing down: apologising, saying he’d had a bad day, inviting the man in; I just have to get my ID; it’s in the duffel bag over here…

A slight smile began to twitch at the corner of Ben’s lips.

‘Are you Stephen Jacobs?’

‘No he’s not.’

Ben snapped out of it and saw the lady from next door standing just a few feet away. God, she was so beautiful and so hideous all at once, he thought as the meat hook glinted seductively in his mind.

The debt collector was scowling at the lady, clearly irritated by her interference.

‘He only moved in a day ago. Stephen Jacobs left nearly three months ago now. This is close to the fucking tenth time I’ve told you wankers this.’ There was a pulse in her temple, just the slightest hint of a bulging vein and Ben’s breath caught in his throat as he watched it. Suddenly he was transported back, the vague resemblance transforming through the one gesture into a spitting image of her. The same pulse that would jump at her temple as she approached with the hand hidden behind her back. That low gravelly voice emerging from the clouds of smoke, so removed from her normal one as she rasped, who’s been a naughty boy…

‘Who are you?’ The collector seemed edgy and off-guard and was half-turned as though undecided on who he should focus on.

‘Who I am is none of your business.’ Her face was getting red now and Ben felt like he was falling headlong into blackness, spiralling down into the loop of: who’s been a naughty boy, who’s been a naughty boy, who’s been a naughty boy… He felt like he could cry. You shouldn’t do that to Mummy…

He wanted to hurt her; to cause her pain but he couldn’t because she was raging and when she raged, she was a sight to behold; a force of nature and he was so young and small there was nothing he could do…

‘Who are you? What right do you have to be bothering people who haven’t done anything, huh? Do you have ID on you? I wonder if your company would be interested in knowing the tactics you use? What do you think?’

Ben was clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides. It’s not her, it’s not her… he thought desperately but it wasn’t working. Everything was beginning to be suffused with a red glow.

For a second it looked as though the collector was going to jump across and throttle her. His face flushed bright red and a judder of repressed rage shimmered through his frame. If she noticed it, Rachel – it’s Rachel, it’s not her, it’s Rachel – didn’t seem to care and Ben was enthralled watching her.

Although her anger wasn’t quite as overt as the collector’s, the gleam in her eye suggested that if the man did try and attack her, he would receive a quick knee to the nads for his troubles.

‘Look lady, this is none of your business…’ the collector began through clenched teeth.

‘None of my business? Do you know what time it is? And you’re out here yelling away. People are trying to sleep you know. Maybe I should call the police. See if they think it is any of my business. The man told you he’s not who you’re looking for. I told you Stephan Jacobs is long gone. Are you a fucking moron?’

The collector sputtered in outrage and took a step toward her just as a cab turned into the driveway, bathing them both in its headlights.

With a muttered, ‘Fuck this shit,’ the collector turned and stalked off, shooting a glare at the Indian man behind the wheel as though it was all his fault.