I check each lock, tugging hard at the door. It rattles against the frame but it seems secure. Satisfied, I start moving around the house, testing each window. During the day, I’m not too stressed about the windows because most of them don’t open widely so it would take anyone larger than a child a long time to squeeze through. As long as I’m conscious, it would be impossible for an intruder to get in without me noticing. I avoid having them open, of course. Right now, they’re all tightly closed. Finally, I go into the kitchen and let the tap run until it’s icy cold. I splash water on my face and dab my wrists. I strain my ears but beyond the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark from the Labrador at number twenty-five, everything sounds normal. Normal. A man just collapsed in my house and died in front of me. How normal is that?
I sit down at my desk, my eyes following the screensaver as it bounces from edge to edge. It seems crazy to go back to work after what’s just happened but I don’t know what else to do and it might distract me. I wish for a moment that I knew the man’s name; it would give him more dignity if I could stop thinking of him as ‘the old man who died in my hallway’. I wonder about his tartan slippers and his harsh whisper of caution about the mysterious department. Maybe he was suffering from Alzheimer’s. He could have been confused and wandered away from his carer and ended up at my door. If that were true, maybe his passing is a relief to him and those who loved him. And the police will close the book on the case without dragging me away for interrogation. I shudder. No, work will definitely help.
Several hours later, my neck and back are aching. My soul still feels heavy but my earlier panic has all but subsided. I send Jerry a quick email, informing him that I’ve finished ahead of schedule. He’ll have left the office already – it’s been dark outside for some time – but, like many people these days, he’ll still read the email and respond.
I massage my weary muscles, realising that I’m very hungry. Not surprisingly, I’d skipped lunch and the last thing I’d had through the afternoon was an appetite. I guess normal service is resuming.
I walk into the hall and stare down at the patch of carpet where the old man breathed his last. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly. I’m not sure whether I’m talking to myself or to the old man’s departed spirit and my voice echoes emptily as if to emphasise how paltry my offering is. I blink away tears and head to the kitchen to prepare some food.
I sit in my usual spot at the table, my ankles curled around the chair legs. I carefully chew each mouthful of my omelette. The large clock on the wall ticks away. I clear my plate before carefully washing it, along with my knife and fork and the frying pan. Once I’m done, I allow myself to turn on the radio. I want to hear the local news in case the old man is mentioned. I endure the DJ gabbling about an upcoming dance festival that’s going to attract ‘hundreds of people of all ages and from all walks of life’. I sigh although in the past I’ve not been beyond turning up the music and dancing around the living room on my own as if to recreate the same effect.
When the news finally comes on, there’s no mention of the man. I give up and move to the living room, settling back into the plump cushions with a book. At some point the Chairman joins me, deigning for once to settle on my lap with a deep, throaty purr. The pages blur and I find it difficult to concentrate. After reading the same paragraph five times, I set the book aside and close my eyes. Enough already.
*
It’s the prickle along the top of my ears that alerts me to the fact that something is different. I snap open my eyes. What on earth...?
I’m on a cobbled street, streaks of orange light bouncing off the puddles. There’s a steady stream of drizzle and, without consciously doing it, I lift my face, enjoying the damp splashes on my skin. I wait for the screaming panic to start but there’s nothing. Curious. I don’t feel afraid; neither do I feel cold.
There’s not a breath of wind. In fact, there’s no sound whatsoever, which makes as little sense as my lack of fear. It doesn’t matter where you are, whether it’s in the country or the city or at the top of Mount Everest, there are always sounds. Even soundproofed rooms have a certain quality to them that suggests, well, sound. Here, there’s nothing. The effect isn’t frightening. It’s not even unnatural. It’s just ... weird.
I look over my shoulder, starting in surprise. There’s a wall of black, deep impenetrable black of the sort I never achieved on the walls of my teenage bedroom. I reach out towards it, feeling an odd tingle as my fingertips brush against it. It has a spongy quality. I press harder, keeping the rest of my body well back from it. It doesn’t matter how much effort I make, I can’t penetrate it by more than an inch or two.
I withdraw my hand and look at it, wiggling each finger in turn. I half-expect some strange sticky substance to linger there but my skin is clean. I frown then shrug. In the absence of anything better to do, I leave the strange wall behind and start walking. My feet don’t make a sound.