Scuttle

Meanwhile: Allen goes home and has a perfectly normal evening.

Pavement slabs rolling down before me, one after the other, a blank movie of pavement—grey, cracked, a patch of moss, another grey, dog shit, broken brick, a step up, down, slab after slab after slab—just keep moving, don’t stop, don’t look up, don’t let them see your face. Cross now, wait for the light, is that him? The porter? Fuck. Green. Go. Turn. That bastard. Would’ve loved to smash his teeth in. Did they call the fucking police? Christ. Slab, slab, slab. And Crunchet, that bloated bitch, poisoning her, turning her against me. Makes me sick. Wait—keys. Where? Did I drop them when I fell? There they are, thank God. Grab them. Hurry. Door. Unlock. They’re coming, I know it. Up the stairs, first flight, second, third—don’t breathe too loud. Neighbours can’t see me like this, shirt filthy, trousers worse. Inside. Now. Lock it. One. Two. Three. Four. The whole door. Fuck. Fuck. I could weep. Fuck.

He pressed his body against the door, fingers twitching. The three deadbolts glinted dully in the dim light, and below them, a padlock. The flat smelled of stale coffee and something sour—his own sweat probably. The bunch of keys hit the table. A laugh erupted in his throat. Her aunt! The whole thing, a family business. Ha! What a joke. Gwen, how could she be kin to that monster? He stumbled to the kitchen, yanked open the fridge. Half a carton of milk, a pot of yoghurt. His hands shook as he poured the milk into his mouth. The cold hit his teeth. Ugh. Brain freeze. He spat into the sink. It was clogged, the water reflecting the dim overhead bulb. He looked into the black cyclops in the middle.

If I died here, right now, he thought, no one would even notice, no one would care. Not really. Not the way that mattered. Not Gwen. She wouldn’t even know. She’d just carry on, stacking books, smiling at customers, unaware that the man who had spent months worshipping her from afar had rotted into the carpet of his own flat. Not even the fucking postman! Well, at least it would take a while… A week? Two? The flat would fill with hints of milk turning in the fridge, yoghurt curdling, my own body beginning to ripen in the heat. Olfactory clues would seep under the door first. The neighbours would complain—something smells off, blah blah—and then the landlord would come, and then the police, and then the door would be forced open, and there I’d be, sprawled on the bed or the floor, my skin already bloating, my mouth open like a fish. Look, they’d say. Look at how he lived. Look at how he died. Here lies Allen. The fish that locked itself inside its fish tank and never came out… All things considered, he found the whole scenario mildly amusing.

He staggered into the bedroom and grabbed the pillow from the bed. The fabric smelled faintly—when had he last changed the sheets? He pressed it to his face and forced a sound out, a muffled howl that vibrated against his teeth but went nowhere. The pillow absorbed it all, swallowing his rage like it was a fart. The thought of the neighbours hearing him—that Frederick next door, judging him—made his skin prickle with shame. They heard the muffled scream. They know. They always know. They’ll give me that insinuating smile next time I cross paths with them on my way out.

Meanwhile, her face wouldn’t leave him—those sharp, knowing eyes, the way her hair caught the light, the faint curl of her lips, as if she’d guessed what he was thinking. You feel it too, don’t you? That’s what those eyes were saying. Where had she learned that look? No, she didn’t love him… She didn’t hate him… She just didn’t care. And why should she? It’s all pretty trite and useless. Should I go back and apologise? Why should I give in? Guilt’s their weapon. Oh, but no, don’t be naive, be ruthless. I don’t need to play the tame little pet, the docile, well-behaved mommy’s boy. What good are these platitudes, eh? Tell me if you can. Platitudes and babbles, that’s what’s in it for me! Nothing more. Yes, that’s the situation I’m dealing with. Oh! Distance—that’s the answer. Keep clear, stay solid, let them choke on their own shit.

And he went on like this for a while, unable to focus on anything else, until exhaustion dragged him onto his bed with his clothes on. He collapsed onto his side, his body curling into a ball, knees drawn up to his chest. Then came the dreams: he was rescuing a female hostage from a swimming pool full of zombies. The hostage, half-dressed, kept crying out for someone to save her, something like, Oh please, save me from these zombies; I don’t want to become a zombie sex toy, they smell so bad, or something to that effect, until he finally decided to shoot all the horny zombies bouncing around the pool. One of them—a bloated figure—slammed a sphinx-shaped paperweight onto his hand… a bit like Mrs Crunchet… or like the porter, Allen thought, leering up from the water and trying to make sense of it all in the hazy state of a semi-sleep while the nightmare whirled down the drain.

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. The pillow was damp, the sheets twisted into ropes around one of his legs. He noticed a hairline crack spreading from the corner and traced it with his eyes, following it to the dangling bulb above his bed, and further to the framed picture by the door. Near the threshold, a single sock lay abandoned, its mate lost somewhere in the shadow. The wardrobe door hung ajar, revealing a tangle of wire hangers and the sagging shape of a coat he hadn’t worn in months—not since he had been fired. A sun ray from the shutters ran diagonally across the room, revealing dancing dust motes in the air, tiny, insistent. His gaze snagged on the bedside table—on its surface, a stack of unopened letters, a notebook, and a pen, its cap turned into chewing gum. The back of his right hand bore a faint bruise where the porter had twisted his wrist. The skin was tender, aching when he flexed his fingers.

From the kitchen came the dull hum of the fridge and the occasional drip from the sink, where the tap leaked its slow, steady rhythm, plink… plink… His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification. He sat up. The room tilted. He didn’t check it. Didn’t need to. It would be nothing—another spam email. The buzzing stopped. Must be the nursing home...

The kettle hissed. He poured the water over a teabag, watched the brown bleed into the cup. Her aunt. Ridiculous. Of course, it was a lie. They’d drilled it into her, that’s all. Say this. Say you’re happy. Say you don’t need saving. He took a sip. Too hot. The laptop sat open on the kitchen table, screen glowing. He typed—just two words:

Plan B.