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Extended Work
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| The Key - 4 | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||
| 30 January 2007 | ||||||||
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I can't begin to say how unhappy I am with this chapter. The next (in my head) is not that much better. Maybe the 6th will lift it. “Oh, hello”, he said, as though I had invited him over for a cup of tea and some cucumber sandwiches. “I did ring the bell. Look!” and he held up a bunch of keys. My keys. “I found them. I didn’t want to, you know, just drop them through the letterbox. Burglars use fishing lines to hook keys through the letterbox, you know. Hmm?” You’d know, I thought. You crossword thief. But out loud I said cautiously, “Right, thanks.” I started down the stairs, favouring my good foot. He started up them, and we met halfway. I took the keys proffered “Wait!” I said, as a thought struck me. “How did you know where I lived?” “Ah.” He looked a little embarrassed. “The collar gives one a little familiarity with people, and they tend to let down their guard. I’m afraid I asked the nurse on your ward, and she told me. I do hope you’re not going to cause a fuss. I wouldn’t want her to get into trouble for helping us out. Hmm? And when I saw that you lived on my way to Canterbury, well, I thought I’d drop them off.” I nodded. He looked up at me with a worried smile, willing me to say it was alright. “Well, thanks. I appreciate it.” I frowned. “But hang on a minute. How did you know these were my keys? I mean, my name’s not on it or any…” I faltered to a stop. Over the priest’s shoulder through the frosted glass I could make out a figure approaching the front door. As he put his hand up to the glass and peered in I could make out a white hoody with a navy stripe down the middle. The figure rapped on the glass and called “Father!” The priest turned to see what I was looking at, then turned back to me. I started to back up the stairs. “Mr Fisher, this is not what it seems.” The priest took a step up. “Not what it seems? You hire some thug to mug me, you break into my house, and there’s some innocent explanation? Fuck off! Fuck off out my house, or I’ll call the police.” He winced at my words. Oh, burglary and robbery are fine, but swearing you disapprove of? At my shouted words the figure outside started to bang on the door. “Please let me explain”, the priest asked, stepping forward once more. “You can explain to the police.” I turned and hurried up the stairs. At the top I turned. The priest had descended the stairs. I waited to see him leave. Instead, he opened the door and told the hoody-wearer, “He’s calling the police. Stop him.” I darted into the kitchen and grabbed the carving knife from the knife block. I assumed that the carving knife was the correct knife for defending yourself from an attacker. The bread knife was totally inappropriate. I wondered what the socially acceptable grip on the knife handle was as I ran into the bedroom. I could hear his feet thundering on the stairs. I grabbed my mobile phone from the bedside table, and dialled 999, moving to the bedroom doorway as I did so. There was Hoody at the top of the stairs. “Police” I shouted into the phone. Hoody started to run towards me. I held my knife out at arm’s length, and he slowed to a cautious walk. “22B, Ajax Avenue. I have intruders in my house. Send help.” I know, but all the houses on the estate are named after Royal Navy ships. Don’t ask me why. Hoody glared at me and stopped a yard short of me, poised. What would I do if he attacked? Could I stab him? I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out. The priest appeared at the top of the stairs. “Is there a safe place you can barricade yourself in?” asked the operator on the other end of the phone. “No, they’re both here now.” “Mr Fisher” called the priest, with a disappointed tone to his voice, as though I had not put enough into the collection plate. “We just want the key, Mr Fisher.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about” I responded. Stuff him. What was one lie against the catalogue of his crimes against me? “Just leave. The police are on their way.” “He’s got a knife”, called Hoody, not once taking his eyes off mine. “Mr Fisher. I know there was a key. There was an imprint of it in the book. It’s church property. All I want is the key, and you’ll never hear from me again.” “Two men”, I said into the phone. “One, early twenties, dark gelled hair, gold earring, white and blue hoody…” Hoody looked as though he was about to jump me, but his angry look was more worried now. “I can’t get caught by the gavvas, Father”, he shouted, still staring at me. “The other’s dressed as a priest, late forties of fifties…” If this was the end of me, at least I might have the satisfaction of looking down from a cloud and seeing the two of them arrested. The priest was staring at me stony-faced. I got the impression he didn’t like me much. “Come on” he said, and disappeared down the stairs again. Hoody backed up, kicking at my coffee table for spite, then followed the priest. “They’ve gone” I told the operator. Suddenly my legs seemed to be made of jelly. I sat on the edge of the bed. She told me that a car was on the way, to stay put and wait. I heard a car start up outside, but by the time I got to the window, the Rev had revved away. Was he a real priest? Did real priests go around breaking into people’s houses and hiring muggers? But then again Hoody had called him ‘Father’. I took my wallet from the bedside table and took out the key. There was nothing special about it, and nothing identifying where it might fit. Perhaps the answer was in the crossword book. Well, he could go whistle for it. There was a stubborn streak in me that had got me into trouble before. I didn’t care if it really was church property, or the key to the crown jewels. I would be damned if I was going to let the priest have it, or anyone else that might give it to him. Perhaps I really was damned already. What was God’s opinion of those that defied His representatives? Ten minutes later a couple of policemen appeared at the door. I explained the sequence of events, starting from the hospital bed through to their exit from my home. The only detail I left out was the key. If it really did turn out to be church property, the violent vicar was not going to profit from it. One of the officers (young, male, presumably too young to be let out on his own) explained the way of the world to me, laying out exactly why I could expect no help from them. He was apologetic about it, but the law was the law. I sensed that behind his words there was the thought that they had rapists to catch, and drivers to pursue, and what was I doing wasting their time? Theft, it seemed, involved the intention of permanently depriving the owner of something. My keys had not technically been stolen, as I had got them back. The mugging therefore was a straight assault, and as I had not been injured then it was a civil matter. The home invasion was trespass, another civil offence. They could take action on the theft of the second-hand crossword book, but frankly… They sympathised, they wrote something down, and then they left. Forever. I was pretty shook up. My life had been pretty boring up till then. Not in a bad way. It was ordered. Predictable. It was mine, and I was content. The last two days had been a chaotic nightmare from which I desperately wanted to wake. I wrote a list. Lists are good. They give order where there is chaos. They give a direction. I understood lists, whether they were lists of numbers, actions or things. This list was a to-do list. Phone work (things they need to know) (when I can return) Phone insurance company about bike Replace locks I was tempted to add ‘Move house’ to the list. My home was not much, but now it felt sullied, invaded. If I worked hard, maybe I could ignore the feeling. Work was straight forward. They had found my to-do list on my desk, my diary was up to date. The handover to several of my colleagues was smooth. I dreaded the handover back. I doubted that they would be as good at documenting their actions. Dave was adamant that I should not return to work before I was good and ready. The hospital had advised a week of rest. Dave pressed me to use up the leave I had left over from last year to take another week as well. Surely I’d need that to sort out the bike and such. So I acquiesced, not sure of how I would fill the days. I phoned the insurance company and gave them the details of the accident, the garage that had taken it, etc. They took all the details over the phone, not requiring a paper claim, and would get back to me with what was going to happen. If the frame was twisted I felt sure that it would be a write off. Which left the locks. I didn’t think that the priest would have had time to get copies of my keys cut, but you never knew. I didn’t want to risk it. So a quick visit to the hardware shop was in order. There was one in the High Street, a ten minute bus ride away. It was four o’clock. I couldn’t spend a night here, not knowing if my front door was safe or not. I caught the bus into town, bought my nice new, secure locks and returned about five. When I reached the top of the stairs I knew something was wrong. The living room was not right. Things had been moved. There was a noise, and I turned towards my bedroom door. The bulk of a large man filled the doorway. He was the large, surly ‘son’ who had asked about Carpenter. We both looked at each other’s face for a moment, then as recognition dawned, we said in unison, “You!”
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