KATE
I go from sleep to waking in an instant, no slow swimming to consciousness, the way you do sometimes. Suddenly my eyes are open, and I’m alert.
I sigh. I’ve been doing so well, I haven’t had to take a pill for ages. I was going to tonight, I was so restless and cross, but in the end I forced myself to read, just a few chapters of Pride and Prejudice, my old comfort book. I poured my thoughts into its safer channels until, calmed, I could sleep.
But now I am wide awake, in the dead of the night. The room’s dark, no bright moonlight tonight. But the birds are yet to start their dawn chorus: it’s the quiet of the witching hour.
I must have kicked off the sheet in the night; I go to reach for it again. I always need something covering me, even when it’s hot.
And then I go still, freezing in place mid-turn, propped up on one arm.
I wait. A beat, and then another. It’s probably no more than fifteen seconds that pass in total, me straining so hard to catch the sound that I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, and I begin to relax just a little, realising that I am holding my breath.
I hear it again. A creak. Just a small moan from old wood, so slight you might ignore it, or decide it was just an old house settling around you, if you didn’t know what it was.
A slow pressure of weight on a floorboard, not so close, but not so far, either. Just outside my shut door, in the hallway. It’s a familiar sound. There’s a long runner of carpet there, but it doesn’t stop that one board creaking, it never has, however slowly you tread.
I am sliding out of my bed now, my feet on the floor, before I form another thought: I take a step towards the closed door, oh so carefully. The boards in my room are solid, I know. Even Mark, who was big, could get up and leave me sleeping, putter around, without disturbing me.
But I can’t make a sound. I take another step, moving with exaggerated slowness, and pause. In my white cotton nightie, like a statue in the air, I’m reminded of something so incongruous from childhood: playing Grandmother’s footsteps. Take a step, and freeze.
There’s not another sound from outside. I take another step, and then one more and I’m there, reaching for the door.
My hand is inches from the silver door knob now, reaching down, slow as a dream, then I stop. I could end this now, swing the door open and show my fears for the lie they are – the wild imaginings of someone under pressure, someone who’s too much alone. I know I could and yet, I can’t. I just wait.
At first I think it’s just a trick of the light, the burnished gleam of the metal. Then I realise: the door knob is turning, slowly, so slowly you could almost miss it. By fractions of an inch, it’s moving.
I hesitate, just for a beat. And then with a speed born of sheer instinct, something clicks into gear and I quickly turn the heavy iron key, the metal cold in my hand. The lock’s stiff, I never turn it, why would I, but it closes now, the metal sliding into place with a solid clunk.
The door knob jumps back round, like whoever’s turning it on the other side has let go.
Now I brace for the sound of footsteps, the panicked run of an intruder who’s been surprised, heavy steps thudding down the stairs, two at a time, a shout to someone further down the house: ‘Go! Go! Let’s go!’
Nothing. I keep listening, strangely calm, not thinking, just reacting.
‘What do you want?’ I say.
There’s no reply, but I can sense the presence, every instinct, every fibre of my body, telling me that it’s not just empty space behind the door. I put one hand on the wood, almost to steady myself. ‘What do you want?’ My voice is high. ‘My cash is in my handbag, in the kitchen.’ And so is my phone, I never sleep with it.
I’m on one side of the door. And someone is on the other.
I’m weighing up the door: It’s heavy, solid wood, the lock’s an old-fashioned one but sturdy. It’s the hinges I’m looking at, evaluating. It wouldn’t be so hard for someone to bust off, all it would take is a couple of steps back and a few good tries, perhaps not even that …
My hand on the door, I feel it more than hear it, the infinitesimal pressure of movement, a weight shifting outside.
I’m utterly still, waiting again. And then they come: footsteps, slow and unhurried, someone strolling down the corridor, avoiding that squeaking board – that lesson learned – and starting down the stairs, to the little landing by the window, and then down again, quickening slightly, as though a decision’s been made.
I hear the front door open and shut, no effort to be quiet now, as casual as someone leaving for work. Then silence again.
I slide down by the wall, my legs giving way now; my chest’s heaving, the tears about to come.
Once I got mugged, years ago; I know there’s a moment, when you’re torn between telling yourself that everything’s OK, don’t panic, and then oh, it’s happening, they’re actually following you, the whole gang of them, chatting between themselves, and now they’re catching up: ‘Give me your bag or I’ll break your fucking arm.’ I didn’t start to cry until I walked into the Chinese half a minute away and they gave me sweet milky tea and pushed their phone over to me, so I could call the police. Then, only when I was safe, I let myself react.
So I can’t lose it, not yet. I stay still, not daring to make a noise, though he knows I’m in here. What if it’s a trick? The front door closing and opening, but no one going anywhere, me walking down the stairs, the figure stepping out of the darkness, where he’s been waiting all this time. My voice wavering: ‘What do you want?’
In a burst of activity, I leap up and whirl round, I push my chest of drawers in front of the door, wedge my dressing-table chair on top too, my heart thudding. Then I open my window as wide as it will go. If I have to, I will climb outside; I will hang out by my arms and drop to the ground. I will push out my pillow and duvet, so I’m ready.
I listen; but I’m at the quiet side of the house, away from the road; all I can see is a sliver of garden and the trees between here and Lily’s.
Should I scream? Lily won’t hear. I can’t hear cars, at this time of night the traffic slows to nothing. I shiver, the sweat now cold on my skin in the night air.
And what if it brings him back? I can’t.
I’ll have to wait.