Fourteen Days(12)

Staring at the wooden fence in front of him, he couldn’t shake off the remorse in his stomach, despite his best efforts to convince himself otherwise.

He checked the time on his cell phone. 12:14 p.m.

Lunchtime.

Walking back into the house, he went straight to the freezer and pulled out a frozen lasagne, kicking the door shut as he walked through to the kitchen. He popped the ready-meal into the microwave and waited. God, I miss my computer. I’d be screwed on a desert island. Can’t cope with much more of this. Wonder where she’s hidden it. Probably not in the house. Maybe at her mum’s. Or at Julie’s.

After the microwave pinged, he removed the piping hot container and scooped its contents onto a plate. Filling a glass of water from the tap, he carried both outside.

He tucked into his food, trying to read his book at the same time, still with work on his mind. Page after page failed to sink in, so he found himself repeating sections just to keep up with the storyline, even though it wasn’t a difficult piece of fiction. It was one of Nicky’s thrillers that she had gone on about for the past six months, almost forcing him at gunpoint to read.

He closed the book just a quarter of the way through and sighed. Yawning, he massaged his eyes with his palms. “God, it’s warm.” He pulled off his tee shirt and threw it onto one of the other patio chairs. Leaning back, he set his feet up on the table. After just thirty seconds, he dropped them back down to the concrete floor. He had the urge to urinate.

He made his way back inside the house carrying his empty glass and plate.

In the utility room, the freezer door was hanging wide open. He stopped for a moment and frowned, trying to recall whether or not he had already closed it from earlier. Unable to remember, he shrugged off the doubt and pushed the door shut with his heel. Listening to it shut, he continued on through to the kitchen.

Still hungry. Maybe I’ll fry up some chicken nuggets. And some chips. Could even have a beer. Why not? I’m meant to be relaxing after all. Doctor’s orders.

As he entered the kitchen he saw a woman.

She was sitting on the far corner kitchen chair. Her dress was white, covered in stains, her face a mask of torture, and her brown, sweat-soaked hair in disarray.

“Fuck me!” he screamed, dropping both the plate and the glass, smashing them. Shards scattered across the tiled floor.

And then she was gone.

Almost hyperventilating, his skin crawling with goosebumps, Richard held a trembling hand over his pounding heart. Was it just a trick of the eyes, a flash of light from something outside? Or had he just seen a ghost in his kitchen? Impossible, his rational mind said, as he tried to slow his racing heartbeat. It was just the heat, and the boredom, and the light. Ghosts aren’t real. Don’t be so bloody stupid, Rich. What’s the matter with you?

But she seemed so real. So vivid to him.

No. It was just his imagination. He was certain of that. He didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really anyway.

So why did the empty kitchen chair fill him with such dread?

Calming down, still undecided of what he saw, he got a small dustpan and brush from the cupboard underneath the sink, and began to clear the broken pieces off the floor. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, still shaking as he gathered up the mess. “I’m losing it. I must be.”

He tipped the pieces into the bin and turned to look again at the table. A thin layer of sweat had formed on his brow, a combination of the heat and fright. He wiped it off with his wrist and shook his head, still not over the shock. What’s wrong with me? His eyes were still fixed on the chair.

Unable to think of anything other than the mysterious woman, he remained in the kitchen for several minutes—forgetting about the urge to urinate.



“I’ve tried dropping hints, but it’s no good,” Nicky said, sitting on the couch next to Richard. “Even Lucy’s started to notice.”

“Why doesn’t your boss say something to her?” Richard asked half-heartedly, his focus split between his wife’s office politics and the woman from his kitchen.

“Because everyone’s afraid of her. But I’m not. I came so close to telling her today.”

“And what stopped you?” he asked, trying to throw the woman’s tortured face to the back of his mind.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not worth it—especially when your boss doesn’t back you up. It’s all right for you, you’re a manager—people listen to you. But no one gives a crap about what I say.”