Season’s Greetings and all that hippy shit. As my gift to you, please enjoy this tiny ‘lil shocker taken from my collection X: Omnibus.
You’re welcome. And it’s okay that you didn’t get me anything. Your love is more than I need. 🙂
Rosie turned on the lamp and slid into bed, glancing at the clock on the bedside table as she did so. 23:57. Mark would be home soon. He was such a good, reliable son, and was never late. It really was a wonder that no woman had snapped him up yet.
But he drinks too much!
Chimed her resentful side.
Or was it the voice of reason?
Things had been hard on him since his father died six years ago, and he’d taken to spending virtually every spare moment down the pub.
Rosie understood.
When tragedy strikes, after recovering from the initial flurry of shock and crawling on your belly through that grey wasteland of grief, you learn to cope the best way you can. It’s a transition of sorts. You just have to get on with it. Her way of coping was Xanex and early nights, Mark’s way of coping was drinking beer and staying out until midnight.
Each to their own.
Slowly, the two of them had fallen into a routine. Rosie kept the front door firmly locked, only unlocking it just before she went to bed. Mark had a spare key once, but lost it when in one of his drunken stupors. Since then, Rosie decided he just couldn’t be trusted. Not mature enough, not by a long chalk.
The front door opened and closed softly and a key turned, returning the door to its locked state. The ghost of a smile played on Rosie’s lips.
There he was. Right on time.
Now she could drift off to sleep.
The downstairs toilet flushed.
Oh dear.
Rosie hoped he hadn’t drank too much and made himself sick. She tried not to smother him with a mother’s love, but it was hard. Mark was all she had left now. Luckily for him, she’d left the porch and living room lights on. That should at least stop him bumping into things.
She listened intently, body rigid, wrinkled mouth pulled taught. If she listened carefully, she could hear him move through the house. She cringed as heavy footsteps trumped across the hard wood floor of the kitchen.
Rosie sighed.
Damn you Neil! How many times do I have to remind you to take your shoes off when you come in the house?
The refrigerator door opened and something rustled faintly. That would be tin foil.
Found the left-over turkey, then?
There was the soft clink of a glass, the cutlery drawer opening, a cupboard, and finally the sound of a kitchen knife being pulled from a scabbard. Then, the sound the footsteps retreating from the kitchen and making their way across the living room.
She lost track of them for a split second, that damn shag pile carpet, then there was a soft rustle as a coat sleeve brushed against the door frame.
He must be deciding what to do.
Watch TV or go straight to bed.
Rosie pictured her son standing at the foot of the stairs, swaying on his feet and a bemused expression contorting his face. It was a look she had come to know so well. She smiled when the landing light finally snapped on and the footsteps began making their way slowly but purposefully up the stairs.
One, two, three, four…
Wouldn’t be long now and he’ll be in bed. Only thirteen steps in these old houses. Then she could stop her worrying for another night.
Suddenly, there was a new noise. A metallic clunk coming from outside.
What was that?
It sounded like the garden gate opening.
But who could be paying a visit at this time of night? Mark was already home.
She wondered if he had heard the gate opening. It didn’t sound like. There was no urgency in its steps.
Probably too drunk.
Five, six, seven…
Her bedroom window overlooked the garden. Rosie scooted over to the edge of the bed as quickly as her tired old legs would allow and opened the curtain a crack. She peered through, into the darkness beyond.
Somebody was coming down the path.
A man.
Oh my, who’s that?
She was dimly aware of the footsteps still climbing the stairs.
Eight, nine…
She wanted to call out, warn Mark that an intruder was, at this very minute, making his way down the garden path!
Ten, eleven…
But she found that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight below.
A little voice inside was telling her that she couldn’t turn away. Not now.
Twelve, thirteen…
In a way, she was glad she listened to that little voice. It softened the blow somewhat. She was also glad that she was already sitting down, too, albeit on the edge of her bed. Because as she watched through the bedroom window, the intruder in the garden looked up and for the briefest moment their eyes met.
It was Mark’s face gazing up at her.
She saw him reach for the front door handle and try to turn it, unaware that it was locked from the inside already.
At that same moment, her bedroom door opened.
NB:
Intruder previously appeared in X2 and Shadows in Ink back in 2012.
cmsaunders 