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.
