Ethnic Cleansing

She was always in. Confirmation leaked through by way of the dull, whiny hum of the stretching hoover, the dizzying spin of the washing machine or the clinking as she squeaked the duster around again. It was always again; every day a new batch of cleaning revealed some minute corner gathering of dust she'd missed on one of the days before. It was her job as a homeworker. Rewarded with a rationed sole biscuit and economy coffee when she finished her first shift around 11.

He was always out. They felt lucky that this was the case, work was hard to come by. There was routine to his daily leaving too. The intrusion of the alarm clock buzzing, the stumble in the half light to cover himself, a few groggy bangs as he made his way through the house and the heavy sounding tools being dragged to the van before it was coaxed into reluctant use.

After this departure she knew little of his day, just saw the tiredness he brought back with him each evening. Some of it was washed away in the bath he took while she gathered his clothes with their smell of keen sweat for tomorrows pile. She'd become used to his missing praise for her efforts but knew any variation would bring disorientation, fears that would quickly escalate concerns and accusations involving wider issues. She would never complain, just avoid. Knowing her job was to keep the highway into their new life clear of upset through routine.

The alleyway, where she would air the rugs after beating them in the afternoon, was always littered with youths keen to avoid an education. Down it was the quickest route to the supermarket, where she knew the unwanted food was reduced after 4. It would mean cutting it fine, but she always took the longer route, aware this was also where whoever sprayed the words she could not understand onto the house one night had made their getaway. Looking out on the alleyway was the window cracked with a stone she had tried to hide with net curtains and a nervous smile.

Now clean, the house remained tiny. Small enough to laugh away any lingering thoughts of starting a family they once shared as a dream. When she thought the mood was right she would argue how she would cope, aware of a countdown existing however busy she kept herself. When she'd judged it right it would end with the closeness of a coming together, a rejoining of their dream. Judging it wrong soured their meal and usually the next days into silence, whatever the ingredients. Being forced to flee her home had questioned all her beliefs, but she still found herself secretly asking what was once her God to bless by delivering.

The minutes before he arrived were always the longest. Though she knew everything was ready there was constant checking. Fingers were rubbed along awkward unseeable places. She was proud they always came back clean. The food was tasted and harshly judged by its cook and some minor adjustments made. It was worth it to see his silent satisfaction.

He was late. She was fretting the food wouldn't keep warm much longer without spoiling. Any noise from the road suggested his arrival, but was never followed by the reassurance of a key in the door. Another round of checks was interrupted by a firm knock on the door. Maybe he had left his keys today.

Stood in his place when the door was opened were two policemen who asked to come in. How would she stop his meal from spoiling with this intrusion? They asked if she understood English. She answered yes in an accent that displayed her limited grasp of the language. She heard the word interpreter but shook her head not knowing what it meant. After this the only word that she understood was dead, a word she had left her own country to avoid hearing.