Strangers: A Novel(3)

I can think of only one way out of this, and I make the decision quickly.

The paperweight traces a shimmering blue flight path through the air as I hurl it at the man. My aim is good, but he twists to the side and I only catch his shoulder, not his head. But it’s enough. I run out of the living room, through the hallway, up the steps into the bedroom. I slam the door behind me, turning the key twice.

Then I sink down to the floor, back against the door, staring at my bed. One pillow, one blanket. Nothing more. The bed of a woman who lives alone. But if he really is ill, then his brain will come up with some reason for that. That he’s been sleeping on the couch recently, for example.

Everything seems to have gone silent downstairs. I close my eyes for a moment. Safety at last. I hope.

Of course we know each other, the stranger had said, with an almost eerie matter-of-factness. I search my memory, but in vain. Had he come into the studio once? Was he a client?

No, that’s impossible. I never forget a face that I’ve photographed.

A noise makes me jump. A dull thud, like a door being slammed.

I press my ear against the wood of the bedroom door. Nothing. Maybe the paperweight hit the man hard enough to scare him away.

I listen with my eyes closed, holding my breath. My hope lasts for just one minute, then I hear footsteps on the stairs, slow and heavy.

He’s coming after me. Now he won’t be staying calm anymore.

And I still don’t have a phone to call for help.





2

The cockatoo’s gone.

I notice as soon as I get out of the car at the house, as the exterior lights go on. It was a present for Joanna’s birthday, a welded thing, thirty inches high. A symbolic piece of home. She told me once that Melbourne was full of cockatoos.

As I walk past the now empty spot next to the rhododendrons, I ask myself where it could be. I unlock the door and enter the house. It’s dark in the hall, but I can hear a muffled whirring noise coming from upstairs. The hair dryer. Joanna. A warm feeling pushes away my bewilderment about the missing cockatoo.

I walk through the hall. The light from the streetlamps casts a diffused glow through the slim glass pane next to the main door. Just enough for me to be able to make out where I’m going. I open the door to the living room. It’s bathed in bright light, as is the kitchen. I can’t help but smile. My Joanna. The house is usually lit up like a Christmas tree whenever she’s at home by herself. Much to the delight of the power company.

I drop my keys onto the kitchen worktop; they miss it by a hairbreadth and land on the tiled floor, jangling sharply. Tiredness is taking its toll, as is this strange, shitty day I’ve had. Today it seemed like everyone in the company wanted a piece of me.

I sigh, pick up the keys, and put them in their place.

The opened bottle of Pinot Blanc from yesterday evening is still in the refrigerator. I don’t feel like having wine, not yet anyway. Maybe later, together with Joanna, once we’ve snuggled up on the sofa.

I reach for the carton of orange juice next to it. It’s almost empty. I pour the meager amount that’s left into a tumbler.

The drawer containing the bags for waste packaging is stuck, and makes a grinding noise when I open and close it. One of the screws holding up the guide rail has probably come loose. I’ll take a look at it over the weekend.

After turning off the kitchen lights at the entrance to the living room, I remember that my phone battery is almost empty. So I go back and attach the device to the cable lying on the waist-high cabinet just inside the kitchen. I turn around and jump, startled. Joanna is standing right in the middle of the living room. I didn’t hear her come in. But at the sight of her, I get that warm, pleasant feeling again, and from one second to the next my tiredness and irritation are forgotten.

It looks like she hasn’t seen me yet. I use the brief moment to take a look at her from the darkness of the kitchen. She’s only wearing her bathrobe. It’s tied only loosely and is hanging open a bit, revealing the swell of her small, firm breasts. Another sensation, a different one, joins the pleasant feeling, and all of a sudden I feel like a peeping tom who’s been caught in the act.

I step out of the darkness and approach her. She hears my footsteps, turns toward me and … freezes. The cheerful hello I was about to say sticks in my throat.

I search for a possible explanation for the horror I can read on her face. “Hi, darling,” I say carefully. “What’s the matter? Are you unwell? Did something happen?”

Joanna doesn’t react; she just stands there and looks at me like I’d spoken to her in a foreign language. I’ve never seen her like this. My God, it looks like she’s having a panic attack. Now I feel scared too. Something terrible must have happened.

“Darling,” I try again, as gently as I can. I take one careful step toward her; now we’re only an arm’s length apart. Then she jolts out of her paralyzed stance, her eyes fly open, and she shrinks back from me. One step, then another.

“Darling, please…” I whisper involuntarily. As cautiously as I possibly can, I edge forward, trying to reduce the distance between us. The expression on her face suddenly changes; her features contort. “Get out,” she screams at me, with such force that I stop in my tracks. “Get out or I’ll call the police.”

Get out? What the hell’s wrong with her? It seems like she’s completely lost her senses. A million different things shoot through my mind all at once, and I struggle to put them into something even halfway resembling order.