A burglar would run away now, but the stranger doesn’t do that, and something inside me has already figured out that the man hasn’t broken in here to rob me. No thief wears a suit when he’s breaking into a house. But that means there’s another reason, that the stranger has a different intention … and this thought awakens a completely new kind of fear within me. I take another step back; the floor lamp is right behind me now; I feel it tipping over, almost lose my balance.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please don’t hurt me.”
He is five steps away at most. He doesn’t shift his gaze from me, not for a second.
“For heaven’s sake,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
Another step toward me. I duck down a little, as if it could help, as if I could hide inside myself.
“I don’t have much money in the house, but I’ll give you everything I’ve got, OK? Take whatever you want. But please … don’t hurt me.”
“Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?” He lifts his hands, baring his palms. They’re empty. “Are you feeling sick? Should I call a doctor?”
He’s stopped advancing toward me. That’s all that matters. I slowly straighten up again. The paperweight. Maybe this would be a good moment to throw it.
“Just go, please. I promise I won’t call the police.”
He blinks, takes a few deep breaths in and out. “What’s going on? Why are you talking to me like this?”
If those were signs of uncertainty, then I have a chance. I’ll engage him in conversation. Yes. And grab the first opportunity that presents itself to flee.
“Because … I’m scared, OK?”
“Of me?”
“Yes. You’ve given me a real shock.”
He spread out his arms, coming toward me again. “Joanna…”
My name. I flinch again. He knows my name; maybe he’s a stalker … or maybe he just saw the address details on the envelopes that were lying in the hallway.
I take a closer look at him. Blue eyes beneath thick brows. Prominent features, which I would remember if I’d met him before. He doesn’t look aggressive, nor dangerous, but the sight of him still fills me with a horror I couldn’t explain even to myself.
Now I have the wall behind me. There’s no way out; I’m trapped. My pulse is racing; I lift the paperweight. “Go. Right now.”
His gaze flits back and forth between my face and the glass cube. Then it slips a little lower, making me realize my robe is gaping open more than I would have liked.
“Joanna, I don’t know what you’re doing, but please, stop it.”
“You stop it!” I meant my words to sound authoritative, but in actual fact they sound pathetic. “Stop acting like we know each other and just go, please.”
Something about my fear must be enticing to him; he comes yet another step closer. I edge along the wall to the left, toward the door.
“Will you give it a rest already? Of course we know each other.” His tone is one of impatience, not anger, but that could easily change. Another seven feet to the door. I can make it; I have to make it.
“You’re wrong. Really.” With every sentence I say, I’m winning myself time. “Where are we supposed to know each other from?”
He slowly shakes his head. “Either you’re playing some kind of twisted game with me, or maybe I should get you to a hospital.” He runs his hand through his hair. “We’re engaged, Jo. We live together.”
I stare at him, speechless. What he said was so far from what I’d expected that I need a few seconds to get my head around it.
We’re engaged.
So not a stalker, then. Something much worse. A lunatic. Someone who’s living in his own made-up world. Someone who’s suffering from delusions.
But why, of all the people in the world, am I the one he’s directing them at?
That’s irrelevant, I tell myself. You can’t reason with someone who’s mentally ill, nor convince them with logic. His mood could change at any moment—he seemed peaceful so far, but who knows, a single ill-judged word could be enough to make him aggressive. After all, he used force to break his way into a stranger’s house.
I can think of only one way out of this, and I make the decision quickly.
The paperweight traces a shimmering blue flight path through the air as I hurl it at the man. My aim is good, but he twists to the side and I only catch his shoulder, not his head. But it’s enough. I run out of the living room, through the hallway, up the steps into the bedroom. I slam the door behind me, turning the key twice.
Then I sink down to the floor, back against the door, staring at my bed. One pillow, one blanket. Nothing more. The bed of a woman who lives alone. But if he really is ill, then his brain will come up with some reason for that. That he’s been sleeping on the couch recently, for example.
Everything seems to have gone silent downstairs. I close my eyes for a moment. Safety at last. I hope.
Of course we know each other, the stranger had said, with an almost eerie matter-of-factness. I search my memory, but in vain. Had he come into the studio once? Was he a client?
No, that’s impossible. I never forget a face that I’ve photographed.
A noise makes me jump. A dull thud, like a door being slammed.
I press my ear against the wood of the bedroom door. Nothing. Maybe the paperweight hit the man hard enough to scare him away.
I listen with my eyes closed, holding my breath. My hope lasts for just one minute, then I hear footsteps on the stairs, slow and heavy.
He’s coming after me. Now he won’t be staying calm anymore.
And I still don’t have a phone to call for help.
2
The cockatoo’s gone.
I notice as soon as I get out of the car at the house, as the exterior lights go on. It was a present for Joanna’s birthday, a welded thing, thirty inches high. A symbolic piece of home. She told me once that Melbourne was full of cockatoos.
As I walk past the now empty spot next to the rhododendrons, I ask myself where it could be. I unlock the door and enter the house. It’s dark in the hall, but I can hear a muffled whirring noise coming from upstairs. The hair dryer. Joanna. A warm feeling pushes away my bewilderment about the missing cockatoo.
I walk through the hall. The light from the streetlamps casts a diffused glow through the slim glass pane next to the main door. Just enough for me to be able to make out where I’m going. I open the door to the living room. It’s bathed in bright light, as is the kitchen. I can’t help but smile. My Joanna. The house is usually lit up like a Christmas tree whenever she’s at home by herself. Much to the delight of the power company.
I drop my keys onto the kitchen worktop; they miss it by a hairbreadth and land on the tiled floor, jangling sharply. Tiredness is taking its toll, as is this strange, shitty day I’ve had. Today it seemed like everyone in the company wanted a piece of me.
I sigh, pick up the keys, and put them in their place.
The opened bottle of Pinot Blanc from yesterday evening is still in the refrigerator. I don’t feel like having wine, not yet anyway. Maybe later, together with Joanna, once we’ve snuggled up on the sofa.
I reach for the carton of orange juice next to it. It’s almost empty. I pour the meager amount that’s left into a tumbler.