Stephen pulled into the small block of flats and sat still in the driver’s seat. Gareth got out, slamming the door, and went through the communal doors to his one bed flat.
Stephen watched as his friend disappeared into the building. He looked behind, then edged out onto the road. Guilt was now crippling him. His head was confused, cloudy. He struggled to concentrate on the road in front of him. He drove slowly, watching the traffic lights, red, green, his leg automatically pumping the accelerator or stabbing the brakes. He reached the end of a quiet road, eyeing the houses either side. It was almost midnight.
He imagined life inside these houses: couples kissing goodnight, cuddling, reading, a dim light on a bedside table, sleeping masks, pyjamas, nightdresses. He thought about the woman in the woods in her blood-drenched nightdress. She wasn’t going home tonight. She wouldn’t be lying in her comfy bed, listening to music.
Stephen swung the steering wheel to the left and pulled over, his front tyre bumping against the kerb. He dropped his head on the dashboard, gripping his hair. Then he screamed. ‘Fuuuuuuccccccccckkk.’ He stayed still with the engine off, the locked doors between him and the outside world.
He sobbed uncontrollably, unable to deal with what he’d done. Questions catapulted to his brain. What if she’s dead? What if the police turn up at my door? What if they realise I’d been drinking? Learn that I left the scene? Hit-and-run. Cowardly Stephen. Stephen the coward. Killing the woman in the woods. Leaving her to die… Die in the fucking woods. People will talk.
He imagined the headlines all across the papers.
Can you believe Steve? Steve leaves. He was driving, you know. Hit that old woman. It’s hard to conceive Steve weaves and leaves.
Stephen lifted his head, rubbing the knot developing towards the front of his brow. It ached now, spreading across his face like an egg splattered against the wall, its yolk smearing the brickwork. Stephen jolted, his trance interrupted. He kept his head still, his heart raced, pumping through his jumper, pressing like a commuter during rush hour, pushing to get on a packed train.
Suddenly, he gasped. Stephen was sat alone, locked inside his vehicle, in a desolate street. But he had the feeling he wasn’t on his own. He reached for the car door, making sure it was locked. In the corner of his eye, he saw a hand pressed against the glass of the passenger door.
He spun his head.
The woman from the woods, the long black hair, her white nightdress, her face contorted, twisted. She was closer now, pushing her face to the glass, her tongue lapping the window.
‘No, no, no,’ he moaned. ‘You’re dead. How did you get here? How did you find me?’ Stephen shook his head, then unlocked the car door and gently opened it. He wanted to run; cowardly Stephen wanted to leave her again.
He stood on the side road. The lights of the houses were off either side; he was alone.
He moved around the car to where he’d seen the woman. She was there, real, right where he sat. He stood by the passenger door, waiting, observing. Behind him, the road was empty.
You’re seeing things. This is the guilt, catching up, manifesting. Get a grip.
Ten minutes later, he turned the key in the front door of the building where he lived, walked along the communal hall and entered his apartment.
Inside, he looked along the hallway. The lights were out, the place still. Stephen stood for a moment, making certain the flat was empty. He was shaken, his legs were weak and struggling to hold him. He moved towards the kitchen, reaching for the light on the wall to his left.
The brightness caused an instant discomfort. He looked across at the fridge, contemplating another drink to calm his nerves, help him sleep better. Then he decided against it. He flicked the light off and went to his bedroom.
He looked over the room, reaching forward to open the curtains. Stephen pressed his face against the glass, looking out over the communal garden, which was lit by the glow of a small security bulb. There was the bowl with cigarette butts floating in water on a round wooden table. There were the cracked pavement slabs, and the barbecue which hadn’t been operated for months.
He moved from the window, quickly swiping the curtains closed.
Stephen undressed, removing his boots, digging the tip of his left boot into the back of his right, kicking them both away. He threw his jeans and jumper over the back of the chair.
The blanket on the bed was curled over in one corner and he tugged it away, appreciating the look of the cool sheet underneath, the welcoming pillow which he couldn’t wait to sink his head into. He opened the bedroom door slightly, enough to see into the hallway, then jabbed the light switch, feeling in front of him to climb into bed.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, adjusting to the room. Gareth’s face came into his mind: his best friend, soulmate. They’d known each other all their lives. Stephen hoped he could keep this secret. Was it too much to ask? Gareth knew he’d knocked an old woman over, probably killed her. Could he keep it under wraps, knowing what his best mate had done? How far would their friendship stretch?
A creak came from the hall. A low whine, then it stopped. Stephen sat up, pushing to hear, listening intently. Again, a creak, longer this time. The bathroom was more or less opposite, a little to the right.
Gently, he lay down, pulling the blanket up to his chin. The creaking had stopped. The flat was silent. He closed his eyes, fighting not to think about what had happened earlier. Think of a blank screen. A clean white mattress. A wiped chalkboard. Don’t think of a pink elephant.
Suddenly there was a bang, like a broom toppling over, the handle bouncing on the wooden floor. Stephen debated whether to pull the blankets over his head, a shield from the monster. It couldn’t work, could it? He had to get a grip. He’d shut and locked the front door, the flimsy security chain hanging in its holder across the thin wood. The window and curtains were closed in his bedroom. The back door at the far side of the kitchen was closed and locked, the key hanging on the rack beside the cupboard.
The bedroom door moved, he was certain, only slightly but it opened. No creak, no groan, it just opened.
He sat up. ‘Hello.’ He gripped the corner of the blanket, heaving it away, then swung his legs together, standing on the cold floor. ‘Hello. I have a bat. I’ll use it.’ He couldn’t move, his body was stuck to the floor, jammed to the spot under his feet. He felt paralysed with fear. After a couple of tries, he summoned the strength, forcing his legs to respond. To align with his brain and obey the instructions it sent. In his mind, he’d already raced out to the hall and was opening the door, screaming for help. He reached his arm forward, now able to command his body.
Stephen pulled the door slowly, edging it towards him. Then he stepped out into the hallway, debating whether to go back to bed, push something against the door, sit up all night and keep watch. Too late now. The noise was inside the flat. He tiptoed to the kitchen, switching the light on. Nothing was different and it was exactly how he’d left it a few minutes ago.
As he turned, pushing out a sigh to quash the stress, a shadow crossed the glass on the front door. It wasn’t someone passing, making their way to their flat or going out and heading towards the communal doors. It was almost against the glass, like someone standing by the front door, moving to the side, trying to look in to where he stood.
He stared, flicking off the light in the kitchen, waiting. The glass was frosted, translucent, but he could make out the brightness from the communal hall. Stephen moved to the door, opened the lock, flicked back the chain and stood outside his flat. To his right, the communal doors were closed, to his left, the door to the flat opposite was shut. The occupiers were a mother and small child; he assumed they’d have been asleep hours ago. The stairs, further along, were empty.