Sunday. That explains why the roads are so quiet. People are either sleeping in or at church. I can’t wait to see Gillian’s face when she gets home from church.
Now he was in more familiar surroundings, he could relax a little more. Anyone he saw would be a neighbour or at least someone that Arnold used to nod at in the street. A dog, spying Arnold’s approach, bounced towards him as if to welcome him back but changed its mind at the last minute and bared its teeth, snarling viciously. Arnold held his hand out to the animal.
Come on Tigger. You know me. We’ve played fetch loads of times in the park.
Tigger wasn’t having any of it. It was true that he did half recognise the figure offering him its hand, but all his senses told him that this was not Arnold Leadbetter. The dog turned and rushed back home to Number Twenty-Three, The Green. Arnold decided not to try to force the reunion with the spaniel but continued towards Number Eleven.
He knocked on the door, just in case he was wrong about his family being at church, but Gillian and Keira weren’t at home. Walking round to the side of the smart little cottage, he lifted up a flowerpot containing a re-potted geranium and helped himself to the spare key that lay underneath.
Turning the key in the lock of his front door, he was relieved when the door clicked open. He wasn’t really expecting it not to, but he hadn’t been inside his home for over six weeks. The door swung open and he entered the cottage, allowing the door to shut quietly behind him.
Ah… It’s good to be home at last.
Nothing much had changed since he’d been gone. The TV remote was there on the coffee table in the front room, just as it always had been. The golden cushions were fluffed up and arranged symmetrically on the black velour sofa. And his daughter Keira’s mobile phone was there on the mantelpiece. She was never allowed to take the phone with her to church – not since the strains of ‘Dance Monkey’ by Tones and I had suddenly and without warning destroyed the calm tranquillity of meditative prayer. Arnold looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Nearly midday – they’ll be back in about five minutes. They’ll be so pleased to see him back home.
Arnold picked up that day’s Sunday newspaper and tipped it on its side, to let the magazine fall out. He liked to read the Sunday papers but knew that there wasn’t time to get engrossed in any of the stories before his wife and daughter got home, so he just flicked through the glossy magazine.
He was looking through the photos of a society wedding when he heard a key turn in the lock. He was bursting with excitement.
We’re going to be a family again.
Keira skipped into the hallway, her mother not far behind her.
“I’m just gonna get my phone from the front room, mum. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Gillian had just put the kettle on for a refreshing cup of tea when the ear-splitting scream almost burst her eardrums. She dropped the carton of milk that she’d just taken out of the refrigerator, not caring that its contents were now spread over the kitchen floor. Her daughter had screamed and the only response required was for Gillian to rush to her aid.
Keira was rooted to the spot, pointing at the abhorrence before her.
“Mum! It’s a zombie! There’s a zombie in our house.”
Arnold was mortified.
Keira, honey. I’m not a zombie. It’s me. It’s your dad.
Keira hadn’t heard a word, for each one was trapped inside Arnold’s mind, unable to get out.
Gillian appeared at the doorway brandishing a kitchen knife and, in one swift movement, positioned herself between Arnold and her daughter.
“Get out of my house whoever you are.”
Gillian. Don’t you recognise me? It’s Arnold. Your husband.
Gillian waved the knife about, trying to give the intruder the impression that she knew how to use it. She was deft at carving a Sunday roast but had never yet had cause to use the kitchen utensil as a weapon before.
“I’m warning you. There’s nothing for you to steal. My husband will be back home in a minute. He’ll sort you out.”
But it’s me, Gill. I am your husband. Can’t you see that?
Keira couldn’t believe that her mum was trying to reason with the monster.
“It’s a zombie, mum.”
“No, it’s not. There’s no such thing as zombies. It’s just a man dressed up in a silly Halloween costume.”
“Halloween is months away.”
Gillian was in no mood to argue with her daughter about the existence or nonexistence of zombies, or the date of Halloween.
“Keira. I want you to back out of this room and then run to Mrs Brewster’s house as if your life depended upon it.”
Like any twelve-year-old, Keira didn’t want to miss out on any part of this adventure. It would give her loads of Brownie points in her circle of friends.
“But, mum…”
Gillian scowled at her daughter.
“Why are you still here? I said ‘go’. NOW!”
Arnold was confused. He thought that Gillian and Keira would have been pleased to see him. And now his wife was threatening him with a knife and his daughter had called him a zombie. That hurt. He knew he had a skin condition, but a trip to the doctors would sort that out. Calling him a zombie was a bit extreme.
Gillian. Put the knife down. Please. I need a hug.
Arnold moved forward towards his wife, with his arms outstretched, but she had no intention of returning his affectionate gesture. She threw the knife at him, missing him entirely, not waiting for it to fall to the floor before herself making a run for Mrs Brewster’s house.
Arnold had never felt so low and despondent in his life. He wanted to cry, but there was no liquid in his tear ducts. He looked around the room remembering the Christmas mornings, the birthdays, the laughs, the joy that the three of them had shared together. Tragic sadness engulfed him as he walked towards the front door and left his home for probably the last time.
Much calmer now, Gillian and Keira were drinking two cups of over-sugared tea. Mrs Brewster had insisted on going overboard with the sugar, saying that extra sweet tea would help them deal with the shock of what they had just experienced.
Constable Brian Pargeter, the local community police officer, was glad that he’d been able to dissuade Mrs Brewster from putting any more than his regular two spoonfuls of sugar in his tea. He needed to lose weight.
“Can you give me a description of the intruder, Mrs Leadbetter? Anything you remember will help. Was he black? White? Maybe of Asian appearance?”
“White, I think.”
Keira interrupted.
“He wasn’t white, mum. He was kind of greenish. And he smelt gross.”
Gillian shook her head at her daughter.
“People aren’t green.”
She smiled at the police officer.
“Forgive my daughter. She has a vivid imagination.”
Keira took exception to this slur on her memory.
“He wasn’t people. He was a zombie. He was green.”
Officer Pargeter wrote in his notebook that the intruder may have been green.
“Do either of you remember what he was wearing?”
Gillian shook her head.
“Not really. It all happened so fast.”
Keira knew she’d have to come to the rescue again.
“He had a red and white striped shirt – wide stripes, horizontal stripes. Blue Jeans. Brown boots. And a red and white striped bobble hat. Like his shirt.”
Officer Pargeter thanked Gillian and Keira for their help and assured them that he and his colleagues would do everything in their power to apprehend the intruder.