Apton Road

It had been gruelling the past sixty years and Agnes wasn’t shy in admitting it to Sid. She did it as often as she could manage. Guilt was a wonderful thing. They would sit at the foldout table, eating a grey dinner, blue light emanating from the corner of the room, a dull buzz from the newsreader. Then Agnes would start in on the old routine and Sid would pretend to listen, staring at her round, wrinkled face, and the downy grey hairs on her chin glowing in the light from the television. Her eyes would brighten, as the tirade of abuse continued and Sid’s lids began to lower, a slow blink.

Apton Road had been their home for the past fifty years, the first ten being spent in a tiny flat in South London. The terraced blocks of four houses suited them nicely. Childless and bored, they stayed together out of routine and politeness more than anything else. Sid had dreaded the day when retirement would come, meaning day and night spent with Agnes and the constant chat, and the moaning and the stifling oppression he felt under her.

In a way, he had become accustomed to it now, blocking her out most of the time. She talked and talked about anything and everything, the only time she was quiet was whilst she was asleep and that was only for the shortest time possible. The latest topic was the neighbours. They had moved in a few months back, and Sid hadn’t heard the end of it. Scandal. Outrage. Indignity. She was appalled. Ben and Julian had seemed like a nice pair of young fellows to him. They kept themselves to themselves, were always very polite and well turned out and Sid couldn’t see what her problem was. Each to their own, he thought, they didn’t bother him. She did.

Ben turned to Julian at the breakfast table, cluttered with a basket of croissants, jams and marmalade, a cafetiere of coffee, a jug of orange juice. Polaroid’s charting their life together were held on the fridge by magnets.
“ The woman next door gave me more abuse when I went to get the paper darling.” Ben poured the coffee into a stainless steel cup.” I didn’t want to bother you with it, but I’m so angry at her, we’re none of her business….” He trailed off, dismay dragging his face down to an unattractive pout. Julian reached for his hand.

“ Remember, this is temporary, we agreed. We don’t want to be stuck in this dump for the long-term. Once I get this promotion we’ll be out of here, living in London, just like we’ve talked about.”

He smiled and Ben’s face lifted into a smile. Their eyes met for a long moment. Then a shout reverberating through the wall broke the moment, and they both turned to look as the clock shuddered.

Sharon had been living with Dave for a year in his mum’s old house. They had decided to try for a child and really settle in, despite Dave’s hatred for the two ‘poofs’ next door. Things hadn’t been going well though, and when Sharon had woken up to find her period had started, Dave had lost his temper. The swelling bruise across her left temple throbbed, as she bent down to pick up the broken breakfast plates.

The engagement ring that had first been slipped on her finger six years ago caught the morning sun, and she stared at it in disgust. Marriage. A child. She was living with a bastard and she knew it, she was a one-woman show and she really had nothing. Desperation and loneliness were all she felt, love had faded like her strength, and all that remained was weakness. Dave had stormed out, he should have been at work by nine and the foreman wouldn’t be happy. The doorbell rang and Sharon jumped. Peeping through the frosted glass, she saw the familiar outline of Agnes, the old woman from two doors down. She opened the door cautiously.

“ Hello dear, sorry to bother you, but I really want to get something done about that pair next door. I’ve drawn up a petition here, campaigning for them to relocate, if you could just….”

Sharon listened to her drone on, with little interest. She liked the men next door and felt reassured that there was someone close by, who looked out for her. She took the petition and slowly closed the door, shutting out the street, the town and everything beyond.

Next door, Faith and Jack were sharing a champagne breakfast in bed. Strawberries lay caressed in sugar in a cut-glass crystal dish. Bubbles soared upwards in the pair of flutes as the froth swirled down their young throats. The sheets lay crumpled and in disarray. Sunlight streamed in through the un-curtained window, dust particles salsa-ing down to the ground.

The room was empty except for the bed and one photo of the two of them, on their wedding day, three weeks back, in a pine frame, laying on the floor. Conversation flowed between them like water, their laughter bouncing around the room. Youth and beauty was on their side. Faith finally rose from the bed and headed to the bathroom. Steam rising and droplets falling she worked the shower gel into a lather, relaxing in the heat. Jack flicked through yesterday’s paper and the ink rubbed off onto his fingers, smudging on his forehead as he ran his hand through brown hair. Finishing the last of the champagne he lay back on the sheets and released a sigh.

Agnes had returned back to the house, defeated. She opened the door slowly and wandered through to the kitchen, leaving it half-ajar. The young woman, Sharon, wouldn’t sign the petition, she knew it and the new couple hadn’t even answered the door. Placing the kettle on the hob she began to hum. The curtains billowed in a breeze and the house grew silent.

“Sid?” she called but there was no reply. Ignoring me as usual she thought. He was probably still in bed. Her mind flicked back to the beginning.

A handsome young man, a summer day, a picnic, happiness was so distant from her life now and the feeling flooded through her, making her shiver.
“Sid!” she shouted louder and began to ascend the stairs. She could hear his bedside radio in his room. The door was partly open and she could see the corner of his single bed. A faint waft of his aftershave tickled her nostrils. She pushed the door open and breathed in. The room was bare, literally bare.

The pictures were no longer on the walls, the wardrobe doors were gaping open like a shocked mouth and two or three coathangers remained. His clothes were all gone; all those grey, brown, black, blue garments were gone. All the heavy leather shoes and ghastly ties. She hurried down the stairs into the lounge, and sat down heavily in the faded armchair. A tight pain had gripped her chest. It was like an anvil pushing down on her lungs. She clawed at her blouse collar, gasping. The pain increased, her heart felt constricted, two bolts of pain shot down her back as she wheezed. And then her hand fell away from her throat and she lay limp in the chair, eyes bulging.

It was late evening when Ben and Julian returned back to the house. They had been for a meal to celebrate Julian’s promotion. Finally they had what they both wanted. London was waiting for them. Escape from Ben’s parents would also be welcome. Happiness was hard to suppress and they were both buzzing as they got out of the cab.

“I’m going to tell that bitch next door that she’s finally got what she wanted, that we’re leaving and we’ll be glad to see the back of her!”

Ben was slurring his words slightly and Julian's eyes were wide with the drunken look of utter belief. They knocked on the door and it swung open. The house was in complete darkness and they heard the tinny sound of a radio far off. Sobriety hit the couple as dread crept over their shoulders and they exchanged a worried glance. They slowly walked through to the lounge and saw her sitting there.

“Agnes?”

There was no reply. The whites of her eyes caught the orange streetlight. Ben reached for her hand and it was cold. A slight smell of fustiness rose as her clothing moved under his touch. An hour later the house was locked and Agnes’ body was gone. Ben and Julian lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, not talking, just staring. The next day they were leaving for London.

Sharon had been alone in the house all day and anger had slowly been building inside of her. It was a power she had never known, to sink so low that she no longer cared. Pain or death almost seemed welcome. She had nothing left to lose and knowing this pleased her. She felt that her mind may have twisted slightly. Six years of torment will do that to you. She was staring at her own reflection in the hall mirror, charting every scar on her worn face. A smile was smeared across the reflection; she hardly recognised it. He was due back in a few minutes. These were the last minutes that she would feel this way. She ran over their time together and found it hard to recall more than two or three happy moments in that whole time.

His hand on the gate. His fist across her face.
Boots on the path. A kick to her head.
A soft whistle. Those ugly lips venturing closer, closer.
His fingers closing around his keys. His fingers closing around her throat.
The door opening. His eyes closing in pleasure.

The knife is behind her back. He moves closer, leather jacket crackling, grubby hands outstretched, permanent black beneath the nails. The smile is still blighting her face. A frown appears across his forehead and then a look of surprise as the knife sinks in. In and out, in and out, over and over again.

The carpet, once blue, is now stained a deep red.

Faith and Jack are enjoying their twenty-fifth day of marriage.