Meeting Margery Mercer
by Matthew Richardson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: An agoraphobic man ventures out. He soon wishes that he hadn't!
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: An agoraphobic man ventures out. He soon wishes that he hadn't!
The venetian blinds were tilted just so, squinting out onto the street. Behind them were puffy eyes, pupils sliding along the slats. Slide left, and he could see along to the corner of Blackheath Road. Slide right, and the spire of St Thomas’s church loomed into view. Straight ahead, over the footbridge, was the playpark. Not much more than a slide and a couple of rusty swings, but enough to attract the weans. Duncan perched on the edge of his chair, waiting. He kept his coffee mug away from the window; condensation on the glass might give him away.
Down on the row of shops Mr. Singh was opening his convenience store. Put the lottery billboard out on the street; sweep up the shattered glass and fag ends. Same old, same old; Duncan couldn’t remember him ever having a day off. Chantelle the hairdresser exited the salon, already sucking on a Lambert and Butler. Trotting after the bottle blonde was her little girl, Jessica. Duncan smiled. Whereas her mother was only ever a heartbeat away from giving a gob-full of abuse to a customer, the wee one seemed shy. Duncan would watch for her each evening as she skipped home from the playpark along the shadowed footbridge. He wasn’t looking for Jessica though. Not today. Even big Biff McLean wasn’t of interest. A bear of a man, Biff was already pacing outside the bookies, glancing at his watch. Bloodshot eyes. Tar-stained fingers. In his pockets blue bookie pens and crushed betting slips. He had no morals, that one. Buying a bottle of vodka for the local neds from Mr. Singh’s? Nae bother. Selling fags for fifty pence a pop to the weans? No probs.
No. Duncan was waiting for someone else.
Margery Mercer hadn’t been to church in three weeks. Every Sunday, Margery would totter down Levernside Road after service. She would grumble at Biff for throwing cigarette butts on the pavement and berate the kids drinking Buckfast, but she was up against it. She was frail, brittle, her white hair blowing wispy in the wind. Three weeks. Perhaps she had fallen ill. Had a fall. A stroke. It was the not knowing that gnawed at him.
Duncan knew everyone and yet was unknown. A silent watcher; an unseen voyeur, no one had ever picked his window out of the dozens of blank, glassy panes on the flats. At least, no one had yet, and for that he was profoundly grateful. If, one day, some idler chanced to look up, what would they see? A balding, middle-aged, bespectacled man sitting at his window. Disconcerting, yes, but hopefully not cause for alarm. Should the worst happen, Duncan had eleven deadbolts securing his front door. There were usually twelve, but three-from-the-top had started to come loose. That would have to be remedied.
The problem with replacing the bolt was that Duncan didn’t get out much. In fact, he didn’t get out at all.
Mr. Singh, Chantelle, Jessica, Biff. All aliases. All pseudonyms. The tops of the heads seen from his window didn’t have names. They didn’t have backstories. That’s why he had to create them.
Duncan’s affliction had started in primary school, asking the t-t-teacher if he could go to the t-t-toilet. Of course he had been mocked and of course he had withdrawn, sending back invitations to birthday parties, spending his lunches in the I.T. classroom, only coming out from his bedroom for mealtimes, and then not even for those. Speech exercises, breathing routines, he had tried them all; nothing could tempt his fat, cowardly slug of a tongue into dexterity.
After his parents had died, Duncan discovered that he didn’t really need to leave his flat at all. Admittedly, there remained the weekly ordeal of having his shopping delivered. The driver never tired of peering past him into the hallway where, in a tottering Manhattan of literature, books were stacked against the walls in unwieldy towers. Duncan would hammer out staccato thanks, all the time just dying to get inside and slam shut all twelve of those deadbolts. Eleven now.
Business beneath him was now well underway. A steady stream of early risers were snaking in and out of the newsagents, Chantelle was presumably running cigarette ash through someone’s hair, and the bookies had finally relented and given Biff a home for the day.
And, thank God, doddering her way along from St. Thomas’s was a stooped, frail little figure with white hair. Margery was alive! Duncan celebrated with a mouthful of coffee. She seemed thinner than usual underneath her big coat, and perhaps walked a little slower, but she was okay. He drew back from the window. No need to draw attention to himself amidst all the excitement.
Duncan scanned the shopfronts, fingernails worrying at the coffee stains inside his mug. Margery didn’t look up to an argument with Biff today, and she could probably do without breathing in a cloud of Chantelle’s second-hand smoke. Jessica on the other hand…Duncan smiled as he imagined Margery slipping her a sweetie, only too aware that it would be the only attention the child received that day.
It looked good; the pavement was clear. The old woman would soon be home, tartan blanket wrapped around her legs and cup of tea in her hand.
A door slammed and a low curse made its way up to the flats. Biff had clattered out of the bookmakers and by the look of things his horse had not come in. Coughing, he hawked a golf ball sized lump of phlegm onto the pavement where it lay glistening like a washed-up jellyfish.
Duncan recoiled from the window and looked down at his coffee, suddenly having lost his taste for it. He was about to go and wash his mug when he saw Mrs. Mercer stop. She was a hundred paces away, looking from the oozing mass on the pavement to Biff, and then back again.
No. Not today. Not with her this frail. Just walk on, please.
Duncan knew better though. He saw, at least in his mind’s eye, Margery’s jaw clench as she began walking towards Biff. He stood up, breathing hard as he parted the blinds, aware that if anyone glanced up they would see parted slats at the window.
Mrs. Mercer shouted something at Biff, but the wind snatched her voice away. Perhaps she would leave it at that. She would walk past Biff and shake her head, disgusted. She would mutter that it hadn’t been like this back in the sixties when the scheme was newly built, when it had been a way out of the tenements of Govan and Maryhill. A fresh start. Suburban bliss. Of course, it hadn’t turned out that way; the junkies and the alkies had migrated, bringing their mess and their violence and their…
No. Typical Mrs. Mercer, she was going over to give Biff a piece of her mind. Before he had even glanced up, she was upon him, a long coat full of stick-like limbs, beating this bear of a man. Duncan held onto the windowsill to stop from throwing himself back from the spectacle. What if someone, their attention caught, looked up and saw him? What if he was told to mind his own business, to wind his fuckin’ neck in?
The melee had moved closer to the building. Worse still, Biff had started barking back at the woman, yellowed teeth gnashing and wild eyes popping. Margery suddenly looked all her years and more, leaning back from what looked like a tirade of bad language. Duncan realised that his fingers were hurting, pressed white against the blinds.
Biff was jabbing at the old woman’s shoulders now. Margery staggered back, reaching for the man’s jacket to stay upright. With a roar that carried up to Duncan’s window, Biff seized the old woman’s wrists, and suddenly there was a fight, an actual fight beneath the window.
Duncan moaned. Mrs. Mercer was being steered around the broken paving, her stockinged legs tottering to keep up. There would be fractured bones here, of that Duncan was sure. He opened the blinds with trembling hands. Surely someone, sassy Chantelle, or quiet-but-noble Mr. Singh, would intervene.
Movement caught his eye. It was the hairdresser, taking the time to flick her latest cigarette butt out onto the roadway before calmly ushering little Jessica into the barbers and shutting the door. How could she?! Where was that mouth? That attitude?!
Mr. Singh then. Surely he wouldn’t stand for this kind of nonsense outside his business; the same staid presence that scared away the schoolkids would do for Biff. There was nothing though. A hand pulled the newspaper stand in from the pavement and the shop bell jangled as the door closed, bringing in another round of the fight outside. He could see in his mind’s eye the open sign being turned around and the shopkeeper retreating into the darkness of the stockroom.
Duncan could feel sweat on his upper lip and knew that his ears would be bright red. A little old lady was having the crap knocked out of her below him, and there was no one else. He looked around his flat. The phone? No. By the time the police got here Mrs. Mercer would have broken a hip. What else? What else?
Level with his eyeline, about three-quarters of the way up a pile of books, was the answer: Agoraphobia - From Panic to Peace, all four-hundred and fifty odd pages of it. He eased the tome out, fingers smearing sweat onto the hardback cover. Edging closer to the window like a man looking over Erskine Bridge on a windy day, he peered down. Mrs. Mercer was no longer visible, pinned to the wall by Biff’s pringle-tube fingers. Duncan felt in his pocket and found what he was looking for - a keyring packed tight with copper, brass, and aluminium. Door keys, all twelve of them. Cupboard keys, cabinet keys, a key to the padlock on his loft, and, one through eight, window keys.
His trembling hands caused the aluminium to dance around the keyhole before it reluctantly slid home. Two turns anti-clockwise and he was ready.
Cold air came screaming in. And the noise. Traffic, exhaust pipes, kids at the park, a car radio, and beneath it all the muffled grunts of Biff and Margery, still dancing their grim tango. Duncan took in air. Shallow breaths, even breaths. The pavement seemed to sway towards him. Leaning back, away from the open window, his fingers found the heavy book. He edged it over the precipice where it wobbled on the rim of the sill. One more nudge and Agoraphobia was airborne.
Thump.
Duncan peeked over, unable to resist. He would ensure that Margery was all right and then shut the window. Locks turned. Blinds drawn. Lights turned off. He would have done his part.
His heart leapt. There she stood, thin chest heaving and still unsteady on her feet, but standing. She was looking down at Biff, who was laid out like a rug on the pavement.
He had done it! Biff was down! Down like a sack of spuds! Downtown! Down and oot!
Duncan leaned a little further out of the window. Doors were beginning to reopen. Chantelle’s dirty-blonde top-knot was poking out of the barbers and Mr. Singh’s bell rang once more as he peeked out.
Of course! The fair-weather friends were appearing now that the storm had passed! Margery would know, though. She would remember who had deserted her and who had stood their ground. She would look up, any minute now, and see the face of her saviour. Perhaps he would leave it at that, proffering a small smile before retreating inside once more.
Then again, maybe not! The window was open now, after all. Perhaps he would motion to her, raise an imaginary cup to his lips. She could come up! They could chat, drink coffee. Maybe she would invite him to church with her every Sunday! He would become the mysterious man at service, the quiet hero who had saved a pensioner from a violent robbery.
Chantelle and Mr Singh were approaching Biff’s prone form, and Duncan felt a strange sort of frustration. Why weren’t they looking up? Weren’t they curious as to who had saved Margery?
‘I did it.’
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. They were quiet and high pitched, but they had made it out of his mouth. Whole words. His breathing was heavy now, sending out plumes of dragon smoke into the morning air.
It was Chantelle who looked up first, squinting into the light with her nose crinkled and jaw slack. Her hands were in the small of her back as she scanned the windows before landing on his. Mr Singh was next, his expression unreadable as he found Duncan.
‘It was me. I did it,’ repeated Duncan, louder this time. He looked at each face, hoping for dawning comprehension and the inevitable cheers.
Instead, the first response was from Margery. Stepping back from Biff, who had started to stir, she turned and raised her face.
Duncan took a step back. Gone was the twinkly-eyed old woman of his imagination. In her place was a haggard old crone. Yellowed, pasty skin was stretched taught over her face. Her heavy eyes seemed to peek out from darkened caves, eager to avoid any natural light. What teeth were left in her wound of a mouth were jumbled stumps scattered about her gums. This woman didn’t need Duncan’s protection and she certainly didn’t make small talk after Sunday service.
‘Thasma fuckin’ boy!’ she shouted. ‘Thasma fuckin’ boy yeev jus’ near kilt!’
The faces on the street were no longer curious. Eyes were narrowed, lips drawn. Biff was slowly getting to his knees, his dirty fingers going back and forth from his head, checking for blood. Duncan tried to explain, but knew what would happen even before he began. The base of his tongue seemed thick in his mouth, unresponsive like a steak in a freezer.
Breathe! In through the mouth, out through the nose. Ay, Ee, Eye, Oh, Yoo.
‘What the fuck are yoo all aboot, ya fuckin’ freak?’ shouted Margery, helping her son up from the ground, seemingly forgetful that they had been locked in mortal combat moments ago. Biff allowed himself to be levered up.
‘Am gonna come up there an’ kick your heid in, wee man,’ he said, clenching his hands into ham-sized fists.
Calm down. Pro-NUN-ciate. Sing it if you can’t speak it.
No. There was nothing. If he could just explain, just say to them. It was no use, though. Biff shook himself and lumbered towards the close door, shoulders hunched and eyebrows knit together.
‘Hold on.’ A small voice. ‘Hang on.’
It was Jessica. She had come out of the barbers to see what all the shouting was about, bless her. Duncan felt a rush of warmth towards the girl. Was she possibly here to defend him? Perhaps she had seen him keeping watch as she made her way home in the evenings; perhaps his sitting room light had made her feel just that little bit braver, a beacon in the gloom. For a moment the girl looked up at him. He could see in her face all the innocence, all the goodness, that was missing from everyone else down there on the pavement.
‘There he is,’ she said, pointing up at him at the window, and Duncan knew that he was saved. ‘There’s that there fucker who’s always watchin’ me, ma! That’s him!’
Her little face, previously angelic, was drawn into a tiny, feral snarl. Razor sharp milk teeth glistened.
Margery. Mr. Singh. Chantelle. Bleary-eyed Biff. They all turned to him, watching for an explanation. And…it wouldn’t come. Duncan’s throat seemed to tighten. It was all he could do to squeeze little gasps of breath through.
‘He’s a paedo,’ muttered Chantelle. Duncan tried again to tell them. Tell them that he had only been watching her, only been seeing her home to her mum, but all that came out was a dry wheeze, whipped away by the wind. ‘He isnae even denying it. He’s a PAEDO!’
Duncan summoned the strength to reach out and bring the window shut. Keys turned in the lock. Blinds drawn. Back from the window. It wouldn’t be enough though. Voices echoed through the close, quiet, and then louder.
Twelve bolts might have been enough to hold them.
Down on the row of shops Mr. Singh was opening his convenience store. Put the lottery billboard out on the street; sweep up the shattered glass and fag ends. Same old, same old; Duncan couldn’t remember him ever having a day off. Chantelle the hairdresser exited the salon, already sucking on a Lambert and Butler. Trotting after the bottle blonde was her little girl, Jessica. Duncan smiled. Whereas her mother was only ever a heartbeat away from giving a gob-full of abuse to a customer, the wee one seemed shy. Duncan would watch for her each evening as she skipped home from the playpark along the shadowed footbridge. He wasn’t looking for Jessica though. Not today. Even big Biff McLean wasn’t of interest. A bear of a man, Biff was already pacing outside the bookies, glancing at his watch. Bloodshot eyes. Tar-stained fingers. In his pockets blue bookie pens and crushed betting slips. He had no morals, that one. Buying a bottle of vodka for the local neds from Mr. Singh’s? Nae bother. Selling fags for fifty pence a pop to the weans? No probs.
No. Duncan was waiting for someone else.
Margery Mercer hadn’t been to church in three weeks. Every Sunday, Margery would totter down Levernside Road after service. She would grumble at Biff for throwing cigarette butts on the pavement and berate the kids drinking Buckfast, but she was up against it. She was frail, brittle, her white hair blowing wispy in the wind. Three weeks. Perhaps she had fallen ill. Had a fall. A stroke. It was the not knowing that gnawed at him.
Duncan knew everyone and yet was unknown. A silent watcher; an unseen voyeur, no one had ever picked his window out of the dozens of blank, glassy panes on the flats. At least, no one had yet, and for that he was profoundly grateful. If, one day, some idler chanced to look up, what would they see? A balding, middle-aged, bespectacled man sitting at his window. Disconcerting, yes, but hopefully not cause for alarm. Should the worst happen, Duncan had eleven deadbolts securing his front door. There were usually twelve, but three-from-the-top had started to come loose. That would have to be remedied.
The problem with replacing the bolt was that Duncan didn’t get out much. In fact, he didn’t get out at all.
Mr. Singh, Chantelle, Jessica, Biff. All aliases. All pseudonyms. The tops of the heads seen from his window didn’t have names. They didn’t have backstories. That’s why he had to create them.
Duncan’s affliction had started in primary school, asking the t-t-teacher if he could go to the t-t-toilet. Of course he had been mocked and of course he had withdrawn, sending back invitations to birthday parties, spending his lunches in the I.T. classroom, only coming out from his bedroom for mealtimes, and then not even for those. Speech exercises, breathing routines, he had tried them all; nothing could tempt his fat, cowardly slug of a tongue into dexterity.
After his parents had died, Duncan discovered that he didn’t really need to leave his flat at all. Admittedly, there remained the weekly ordeal of having his shopping delivered. The driver never tired of peering past him into the hallway where, in a tottering Manhattan of literature, books were stacked against the walls in unwieldy towers. Duncan would hammer out staccato thanks, all the time just dying to get inside and slam shut all twelve of those deadbolts. Eleven now.
Business beneath him was now well underway. A steady stream of early risers were snaking in and out of the newsagents, Chantelle was presumably running cigarette ash through someone’s hair, and the bookies had finally relented and given Biff a home for the day.
And, thank God, doddering her way along from St. Thomas’s was a stooped, frail little figure with white hair. Margery was alive! Duncan celebrated with a mouthful of coffee. She seemed thinner than usual underneath her big coat, and perhaps walked a little slower, but she was okay. He drew back from the window. No need to draw attention to himself amidst all the excitement.
Duncan scanned the shopfronts, fingernails worrying at the coffee stains inside his mug. Margery didn’t look up to an argument with Biff today, and she could probably do without breathing in a cloud of Chantelle’s second-hand smoke. Jessica on the other hand…Duncan smiled as he imagined Margery slipping her a sweetie, only too aware that it would be the only attention the child received that day.
It looked good; the pavement was clear. The old woman would soon be home, tartan blanket wrapped around her legs and cup of tea in her hand.
A door slammed and a low curse made its way up to the flats. Biff had clattered out of the bookmakers and by the look of things his horse had not come in. Coughing, he hawked a golf ball sized lump of phlegm onto the pavement where it lay glistening like a washed-up jellyfish.
Duncan recoiled from the window and looked down at his coffee, suddenly having lost his taste for it. He was about to go and wash his mug when he saw Mrs. Mercer stop. She was a hundred paces away, looking from the oozing mass on the pavement to Biff, and then back again.
No. Not today. Not with her this frail. Just walk on, please.
Duncan knew better though. He saw, at least in his mind’s eye, Margery’s jaw clench as she began walking towards Biff. He stood up, breathing hard as he parted the blinds, aware that if anyone glanced up they would see parted slats at the window.
Mrs. Mercer shouted something at Biff, but the wind snatched her voice away. Perhaps she would leave it at that. She would walk past Biff and shake her head, disgusted. She would mutter that it hadn’t been like this back in the sixties when the scheme was newly built, when it had been a way out of the tenements of Govan and Maryhill. A fresh start. Suburban bliss. Of course, it hadn’t turned out that way; the junkies and the alkies had migrated, bringing their mess and their violence and their…
No. Typical Mrs. Mercer, she was going over to give Biff a piece of her mind. Before he had even glanced up, she was upon him, a long coat full of stick-like limbs, beating this bear of a man. Duncan held onto the windowsill to stop from throwing himself back from the spectacle. What if someone, their attention caught, looked up and saw him? What if he was told to mind his own business, to wind his fuckin’ neck in?
The melee had moved closer to the building. Worse still, Biff had started barking back at the woman, yellowed teeth gnashing and wild eyes popping. Margery suddenly looked all her years and more, leaning back from what looked like a tirade of bad language. Duncan realised that his fingers were hurting, pressed white against the blinds.
Biff was jabbing at the old woman’s shoulders now. Margery staggered back, reaching for the man’s jacket to stay upright. With a roar that carried up to Duncan’s window, Biff seized the old woman’s wrists, and suddenly there was a fight, an actual fight beneath the window.
Duncan moaned. Mrs. Mercer was being steered around the broken paving, her stockinged legs tottering to keep up. There would be fractured bones here, of that Duncan was sure. He opened the blinds with trembling hands. Surely someone, sassy Chantelle, or quiet-but-noble Mr. Singh, would intervene.
Movement caught his eye. It was the hairdresser, taking the time to flick her latest cigarette butt out onto the roadway before calmly ushering little Jessica into the barbers and shutting the door. How could she?! Where was that mouth? That attitude?!
Mr. Singh then. Surely he wouldn’t stand for this kind of nonsense outside his business; the same staid presence that scared away the schoolkids would do for Biff. There was nothing though. A hand pulled the newspaper stand in from the pavement and the shop bell jangled as the door closed, bringing in another round of the fight outside. He could see in his mind’s eye the open sign being turned around and the shopkeeper retreating into the darkness of the stockroom.
Duncan could feel sweat on his upper lip and knew that his ears would be bright red. A little old lady was having the crap knocked out of her below him, and there was no one else. He looked around his flat. The phone? No. By the time the police got here Mrs. Mercer would have broken a hip. What else? What else?
Level with his eyeline, about three-quarters of the way up a pile of books, was the answer: Agoraphobia - From Panic to Peace, all four-hundred and fifty odd pages of it. He eased the tome out, fingers smearing sweat onto the hardback cover. Edging closer to the window like a man looking over Erskine Bridge on a windy day, he peered down. Mrs. Mercer was no longer visible, pinned to the wall by Biff’s pringle-tube fingers. Duncan felt in his pocket and found what he was looking for - a keyring packed tight with copper, brass, and aluminium. Door keys, all twelve of them. Cupboard keys, cabinet keys, a key to the padlock on his loft, and, one through eight, window keys.
His trembling hands caused the aluminium to dance around the keyhole before it reluctantly slid home. Two turns anti-clockwise and he was ready.
Cold air came screaming in. And the noise. Traffic, exhaust pipes, kids at the park, a car radio, and beneath it all the muffled grunts of Biff and Margery, still dancing their grim tango. Duncan took in air. Shallow breaths, even breaths. The pavement seemed to sway towards him. Leaning back, away from the open window, his fingers found the heavy book. He edged it over the precipice where it wobbled on the rim of the sill. One more nudge and Agoraphobia was airborne.
Thump.
Duncan peeked over, unable to resist. He would ensure that Margery was all right and then shut the window. Locks turned. Blinds drawn. Lights turned off. He would have done his part.
His heart leapt. There she stood, thin chest heaving and still unsteady on her feet, but standing. She was looking down at Biff, who was laid out like a rug on the pavement.
He had done it! Biff was down! Down like a sack of spuds! Downtown! Down and oot!
Duncan leaned a little further out of the window. Doors were beginning to reopen. Chantelle’s dirty-blonde top-knot was poking out of the barbers and Mr. Singh’s bell rang once more as he peeked out.
Of course! The fair-weather friends were appearing now that the storm had passed! Margery would know, though. She would remember who had deserted her and who had stood their ground. She would look up, any minute now, and see the face of her saviour. Perhaps he would leave it at that, proffering a small smile before retreating inside once more.
Then again, maybe not! The window was open now, after all. Perhaps he would motion to her, raise an imaginary cup to his lips. She could come up! They could chat, drink coffee. Maybe she would invite him to church with her every Sunday! He would become the mysterious man at service, the quiet hero who had saved a pensioner from a violent robbery.
Chantelle and Mr Singh were approaching Biff’s prone form, and Duncan felt a strange sort of frustration. Why weren’t they looking up? Weren’t they curious as to who had saved Margery?
‘I did it.’
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. They were quiet and high pitched, but they had made it out of his mouth. Whole words. His breathing was heavy now, sending out plumes of dragon smoke into the morning air.
It was Chantelle who looked up first, squinting into the light with her nose crinkled and jaw slack. Her hands were in the small of her back as she scanned the windows before landing on his. Mr Singh was next, his expression unreadable as he found Duncan.
‘It was me. I did it,’ repeated Duncan, louder this time. He looked at each face, hoping for dawning comprehension and the inevitable cheers.
Instead, the first response was from Margery. Stepping back from Biff, who had started to stir, she turned and raised her face.
Duncan took a step back. Gone was the twinkly-eyed old woman of his imagination. In her place was a haggard old crone. Yellowed, pasty skin was stretched taught over her face. Her heavy eyes seemed to peek out from darkened caves, eager to avoid any natural light. What teeth were left in her wound of a mouth were jumbled stumps scattered about her gums. This woman didn’t need Duncan’s protection and she certainly didn’t make small talk after Sunday service.
‘Thasma fuckin’ boy!’ she shouted. ‘Thasma fuckin’ boy yeev jus’ near kilt!’
The faces on the street were no longer curious. Eyes were narrowed, lips drawn. Biff was slowly getting to his knees, his dirty fingers going back and forth from his head, checking for blood. Duncan tried to explain, but knew what would happen even before he began. The base of his tongue seemed thick in his mouth, unresponsive like a steak in a freezer.
Breathe! In through the mouth, out through the nose. Ay, Ee, Eye, Oh, Yoo.
‘What the fuck are yoo all aboot, ya fuckin’ freak?’ shouted Margery, helping her son up from the ground, seemingly forgetful that they had been locked in mortal combat moments ago. Biff allowed himself to be levered up.
‘Am gonna come up there an’ kick your heid in, wee man,’ he said, clenching his hands into ham-sized fists.
Calm down. Pro-NUN-ciate. Sing it if you can’t speak it.
No. There was nothing. If he could just explain, just say to them. It was no use, though. Biff shook himself and lumbered towards the close door, shoulders hunched and eyebrows knit together.
‘Hold on.’ A small voice. ‘Hang on.’
It was Jessica. She had come out of the barbers to see what all the shouting was about, bless her. Duncan felt a rush of warmth towards the girl. Was she possibly here to defend him? Perhaps she had seen him keeping watch as she made her way home in the evenings; perhaps his sitting room light had made her feel just that little bit braver, a beacon in the gloom. For a moment the girl looked up at him. He could see in her face all the innocence, all the goodness, that was missing from everyone else down there on the pavement.
‘There he is,’ she said, pointing up at him at the window, and Duncan knew that he was saved. ‘There’s that there fucker who’s always watchin’ me, ma! That’s him!’
Her little face, previously angelic, was drawn into a tiny, feral snarl. Razor sharp milk teeth glistened.
Margery. Mr. Singh. Chantelle. Bleary-eyed Biff. They all turned to him, watching for an explanation. And…it wouldn’t come. Duncan’s throat seemed to tighten. It was all he could do to squeeze little gasps of breath through.
‘He’s a paedo,’ muttered Chantelle. Duncan tried again to tell them. Tell them that he had only been watching her, only been seeing her home to her mum, but all that came out was a dry wheeze, whipped away by the wind. ‘He isnae even denying it. He’s a PAEDO!’
Duncan summoned the strength to reach out and bring the window shut. Keys turned in the lock. Blinds drawn. Back from the window. It wouldn’t be enough though. Voices echoed through the close, quiet, and then louder.
Twelve bolts might have been enough to hold them.
About the Author
Matthew Richardson is a thirty-two year old who lives in Stewarton, Scotland. He has a Masters degree in Leadership and Innovation. A lucky husband and proud father, he has previously been published in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Near to the Knuckle, and McStorytellers. He is a member of the Glasgow Writers Group and has studied Creative writing at the University of Glasgow. Matthew’s blog can be found at www.matthewjrichardson.com.