The Visitor

This used to be a good neighbourhood. People knew each other and helped each other out. But now I look over my shoulder every time I put my key in the door, afraid there’s someone behind me. Where’s my purse? My hand reaches into my handbag and checks. Still there. It’s crazy having to live like this.

I push open the door. A young couple rush past me on their way out. They hardly notice me. They’re only concerned about themselves and their own plans. They jump into a bashed old car which screeches as it pulls off, leaving a smell of burning rubber.

Only two flights to go. These stairs get steeper every time. They haven’t been cleaned in years, not since Mrs Benton died. She used to clean them every Saturday; now nobody bothers. And it’s too much for me, with my back the way it is.

The front door slams below. Then heavy footsteps in the passage. People are always coming and going but I couldn’t tell you who they are.

At last I reach the door to my apartment. I put the small key in the Yale lock, turn it once to the right, then unlock the top and bottom mortise locks. I’m in.

It’s funny – I think to myself, as I push the door closed behind me – I always dreamed I would live in a pretty cottage in the country, just like my grandmother’s, with clematis growing round the door and a garden that stretches as far as you can see. But here I am in a dirty tenement in a dirty city with dirty streets and a beggar on every corner. Why did it have to happen like this?

I put down my shopping bags and throw my coat over a chair. Through the window I can see storm clouds gathering.

Suddenly I hear footsteps on the landing and I remember I haven’t locked the door. I quickly pull the bolt across and the footsteps stop. I look in terror as my door handle slowly turns. I grab my bunch of keys from the worktop and swiftly turn them in the two mortise locks: first the top, then the bottom. The locks clunk reassuringly. I hold my breath and pick up the phone, my heart pounding. He’s here again.