Went upstairs, had a quick check around. We’re secure. Okay. Excellenta.
Back in the kitchen the woman is pushing herself to her feet. As I come in she skitters away from me and slips (nice clean floors), ends up on her bum again. She makes a strange little noise and her eyes are darting all over the place.
“Now listen,” I said. “Listen carefully. This is not what you think. I am not going to hurt you unless I have to.”
“Get out,” she screamed.
“No, I’m not going to do that,” I said. “I’m going to stay here. Do you understand?”
She just stared at me, breathing hard, building up to scream again. She was cowering over by the microwave (matt silver again, nice consistent look throughout the whole kitchen area, there’s some thought gone into all this).
“Screaming really isn’t going to help,” I said. It’s not that I mind the sound, particularly, but there’s a lot of glass out the back and one of the neighbours might hear. “It’s just going to piss me off, and I can’t see why you’d want to do that. Just not in your best interests, to be honest. Not at this stage.”
Then I saw what she was doing, and had to go quickly over there. She had her mobile phone in her hand, hidden behind the microwave, and was trying to activate a speed-dial number.
I grabbed it off her. “I like that,” I said. “Really. I do. I like the idea, I like the execution. Nearly worked. Like I said, I admire it. But don’t ever fucking do anything like that again.”
And then I hit her. Properly, this time.
It’s a funny old thing, hitting women. Frowned upon, these days. And, so like everything else you’re not supposed to do, it feels like a big old step when you do it. Like you’re opening a door most people don’t have the courage to go through. You don’t know what’s on the other side of this door. There’s a chance, admittedly, that it won’t be anything good. But it’s a door, see? There must be something on the other side. It stands to reason. Otherwise it wouldn’t be there. And if you don’t open some of those doors, you’re never going to know whatyou missed.
She fell over and I left her there. I went around the house, collecting up the normal phones. Don’t want to break them, but I put there somewhere she’s not going to find them.
I feel both good and bad by this stage. Everything’s gone fine, would be according to plan if there’d ever been one. Everything’s cool, and I’m quietly confident and excited. I love it. But something tells me something’s not right yet. I don’t know what it is. Can’t put my finger on it.
So I ignore it. That’s what I do. I just think about something else. I made a cup of tea, stepping over her where she’s lying on the floor, and I put a big old couple of spoonfuls of sugar in it. It’s much nicer that way, if the truth be told. I checked the woman was still breathing – she was – and then went into the front room.
Then I sat on the sofa, and got busy with her phone.
I looked through the address book on it, and found a few obvious ones. “Mum Mobile”, not hard to work out who that is, is it. Few girls’ nicknames, obviously good friends. And one that is a single letter, “N”. I’m guessing that’s her boyfriend (no wedding ring but everything about this house says two people live here) and I also go out on a limb and opt for “Nick”. She doesn’t look like she’d be going out with a Nigel or Nathaniel or Norman (got nothing against those names, you understand, just she isn’t the type). So first I send a quick text message to “N”.
Then I dial “Mum Mobile”.
It rings for a few seconds and then a middle-aged woman’s voice says “Hello, darling”. I didn’t say anything, obviously. I just listen to this woman’s voice. She says hello a few times, sounding a bit confused, irritable, worried. Then she puts the phone down.
It’s enough. I’ve heard enough to get an idea of what she’s like, which is all I want. After all, it wouldn’t be realistic for a boyfriend never to have heard his mother-in-law’s voice. So then I send her a quick text, saying the number got dialled by accident, everything’s fine, and I (or of course, she, so far as her Mum knows) will call her properly later.
A minute later a text comes back saying OKAY, LOVE. Sorted.
Fifteen minutes later, “N” arrives at the front door, blowing hard. He lets himself in with his key. He runs towards the living room, expecting to see his girlfriend lying there naked and waiting. That, after all, is the impression I/she gave in the text.
He never even saw me behind the door. She did, unfortunately. I saw her wake up as I was straddled over him, and I know she saw the brick come down with the blow that did for him. Shame, for any number of reasons. Transition should be much smoother than that, and she’s just going to feel alienated.
But at least I’ve got his wallet now, which will come in handy. Credit cards, driving licence, the lot. And guess what? He was a Nick. Just goes to show.
I know what I’m doing.
She’s up on the second floor now. Her name’s Karen, I know now. Which is a nice name. I’ve been practising saying it, in lots of ways. Happy ways, mainly; plus a few stern ways, just in case. Not sure where she is just at this second, but I’m guessing the bathroom. A door that can be locked. She’s likely to start screaming again, in a while, so I’m going to have to work out what to do about that. Not all double-glazed up there. Last bout I covered with turning the television up loud. Limit to how many times I’m going to be able to do that. Butwho knows what the limits are? They’re not as tight as you’d think. You can hit people, it turns out. You can listen to music you’ve never heard of, and learn to like it. You can choose not to give a shit what dead Mr Atkins said: you actually can eat potatoes if you feel like it – just like we’re going to a little later on, when Karen calms down and we can sit like proper mates and have our supper.
For the time being I’m just going to sit on this nice sofa and smoke all I want and watch TV programmes I’ve never seen before. Judging by all the videos, Karen and Nick like documentaries. Better get used to that. Never been one for that kind of thing myself, but it’s nice to have a change. For it all to be different. For it to be someone else’s life, and not the same old shit of mine, the same old faces, the same old everything. I see later there’s one of those home video programmes on, too. I love those. They’re my favourite. I love seeing all the houses, the gardens, the wives and dogs. All of the different lives. Superb. If I get bored, I’ll just text a few of her friends.
I was worried earlier, but I’m not now. What I felt was just a little niggle of doubt. Gone now. If you’ve got what it takes, everything’s possible. I have high hopes, to be honest. I’m going to like being Nick. The woman’s nice-looking. Much better than the last. From what I can make out, Nick was an estate agent. Piece of piss. I could do that – whereas, if I’m honest, I was crap at repairing televisions. Couldn’t pick it up in two days, that was for sure. Wouldn’t have been long before people started ringing me up, coming round, wanting their televisions back and spotting I wasn’t the bloke they left them with and that they weren’t fixed. Wasn’t a stable life. Just as today, ten minutes after I left the house, a car will have come around expecting to pick up the woman, to take her out to a wonderful lunch with champagne and laughs. I knew about that. It was on their calendar, on the side of that retro fridge. Kind of forced my hand. Two days is a very short life and I didn’t want to leave so soon, but I couldn’t have talked my way out of that.