Creepers and Keys

It's so dark I can't even see my own feet. Two-thirty a.m. and I'm
coming out of the bathroom, feeling weary. Stillness and blackness fill
the house.

There's something warm and relaxing about the landing carpet beneath my
bare feet. The pile pushes up between my toes. It's a comforting
feeling, homely and secure, much nicer than the hard tiles in the
bathroom. I look back there and see the wooden blind fluttering by the
open window. A chill breeze breathes through the space. I think about
going to close it, but don't want to go back across that cold
floor.
With the half-asleep urgency of one who should really be in bed, I make
my way slowly across the landing. One foot pads before the other until
I hear it.

When the sound comes I'm suddenly still, eyes wide, not drowsy any
more. I'm even holding my breath.
It's unmistakable.
Noise caused by movement. Shuffling footsteps, a door being
closed.

There's somebody downstairs.

I stop dead by the top of the staircase, take a quiet breath and then
hold it. At first I don't want to believe it. But the sound comes again
and I know the truth. Part of me accepts that being a man means facing
danger, protecting what's yours. The rest of me just wants to hide, to
hope that it all goes away. My inner bravery speaks with a louder voice
than my cowardice and I consciously accept that denial is pointless.
Through the fog in my mind I know that I have to face up to this. If I
don't, all that I've worked for could be lost.

I hear it again. A cupboard door is opened and closed. It sounds like
its coming from the kitchen. I allow myself to breathe, the air
whispers in and out of me. Focussing is next to impossible and my mind
wanders. I try to stop it, but it's so hard. Panic makes thoughts light
and fluttering, like butterflies. Inevitably they skitter into memory,
alighting at a predictable place.

**

I was a small kid, 6 years old. My dad hadn't left us for his 9-year
stay in Pentonville yet. We were living in the 1-up, 1-down on Green
Lanes where I was born. We used to sleep all in the same room, my mum,
my dad, my sister and me. We cooked and ate downstairs. It was the
middle of the night and my mother was sitting up, the whites of her
eyes shining through the gloom. She had one hand on the back of my
dad's neck, shaking him awake.

"Malcolm!" she had said, her voice hushed but panicky.
"Malcolm! There's someone downstairs!"

My dad rolled over and pulled the corner of the blanket back, revealing
the upper third of his chest, which was deep and strong, with little
twists of black hair here and there. His eyes opened halfway and he
bent his neck, raising his head off the pillow.

"Stay here" he said, his voice a low rumble.
"I'll go and take a look."

He stood slowly, only wearing a pair of white boxers. The large muscles
in his upper leg bunched. His knees cracked a little. He saw me looking
at him and frowned.

"Go to sleep" he said. I was too frightened and excited to obey him,
but I closed my eyes anyway, not wishing to make him angry.

I counted to three before I opened them again, just in time to see his
broad, diamond shaped back moving soundlessly through the doorway.
Without thinking what I was doing I got up and followed, taking great
care with my movements. My mother waved me back. I ignored her and left
her stroking my sister's head.

"Shhhh" she was saying, "Sshhh, its gonna be ok&;#8230;sshhh."

I reached the top of the stairs and looked down. My father was near the
bottom, moving soundlessly, placing one foot gently and silently before
the other, like a cat stalking a sparrow. He reached the lowest step
and stopped. There was something in his right hand. I peered through
the dimness. My eyes were straining. A bottle.

Suddenly he leapt forward. I was startled and let out a little scream.
I heard my father say,
"You picked the wrong house to break into pal!"
and then the sound of splintering glass.
Crying, I ran down the stairs to see my dad with the dead burglar by
the throat. He looked pale and shocked. His shoulders shook. Blood was
spreading on the floor around him.
"Fucking thieving bastard!" He was saying. He sounded like he was
crying. "Fucking thieving bastard!"
I was small and wide-eyed, tears welled against my lashes, but I loved
my dad so much just then. The feeling engulfed me.

**

There's little reassurance in the memory. My Father was a large, hard
man, years of labouring had strengthened his body. I'm not like that at
all. I've inherited his height, but not his build. My lifestyle has
kept me thin. I stretch out a skeletal arm and put my hand up in front
of my face. It's fluttering like a flag in the wind.

More noises from downstairs force me to refocus.
'Dad's not here.' I think. 'He's gone. I'm on my own.'
I hear more noise downstairs. Footsteps and more cupboards.
'Am I man enough?' I'm not sure. Not with my bare hands anyway. But I
want to be. It would have made Dad proud. I look around frantically for
something that I can use. There's nothing convenient.

I begin to descend, taking the stairs one at a time. There's a light on
down there, at the far end of the house, near the back yard.
I stop halfway down the staircase and sit down silently. From this
position I can peer into the lower floor of the house through the space
underneath the banister. The light is definitely coming from the other
end, the kitchen probably. The door to the lounge is open and the
illumination highlights objects here and there, glinting shyly off the
television and the mirror on the wall.

I raise myself up and advance a few more steps, placing my naked feet
so carefully onto the carpeted stairs. By now I'm three quarters of the
way down. Again I hear movement. This time it sounds like it's a little
closer. Not in the kitchen anymore, perhaps in the dining room or even
the other side of the lounge.

They're coming my way.

I start to move more quickly, more carelessly. I'm buzzing and I'm at
the bottom of the stairs. I know that I have to keep the element of
surprise on my side. Dad taught me that. If he sees me first, he's got
the advantage. I pick a vase off the shelf in the hallway and wait by
the open door.

The light at the other end of the house is extinguished and I'm plunged
back into darkness. Breath starts to rattle in and out of me, faster
and hotter. My heart pounds against my ribs. I feel like I might faint.
Maybe I want to.

The footsteps are clearer and nearer now, echoing slightly off the wood
floor of the lounge. I know that soon me and this other, this bringer
of destiny, will be face to face. It's going to happen in
seconds.

When the shadowy silhouette appears in the doorway I'm ready, at least
as ready as I can be. He obviously wasn't expecting to find anyone in
the house and hasn't seen me. My hands are shaking so hard that I
almost drop the vase. Almost, but not quite. Before he even knows I'm
there I've raised it and brought it crashing down on his head. It
shatters and he makes a little sound.
"Hmmmpphh."

He goes straight down, hitting the deck solidly and lying still.
Somehow I just know he's dead, but it doesn't bother me. It feels as if
this was meant to happen. I've been waiting for it for 20 years.

'It's his fault for being here.' I think, breathing hard and
fast.

I drag him into the lounge by his feet and switch on the small desk
lamp on the coffee table. It's only the second time in my life that
I've seen a dead man. The side of his head where I hit him has gone a
bit shapeless. I think I must have smashed some bones.

The sight of blood makes me giddy but I am composed enough to check his
clothes. The Mercedes keys are in his trouser pocket, as I thought they
would be. 60 grand's worth of brand new, luxury car. That helps to
settle it in my mind. I had to kill the bastard. I had no choice.

The wound is seeping onto the floor. Red spreads on the laminate,
running in the grooves between the boards. Nausea washes over me like a
wave and suddenly I just have to get out of the house, away from the
body. I rush out into the hallway and open the front door. The night
air is cold and sharp and I haven't even stopped to get my shoes and
socks.

I beep the Mercedes and climb in. There is something reassuring about
the vinyl of the steering wheel. The engine starts smoothly and I pull
out of the driveway, into the suburb.

It takes me half an hour to drive to Simon's. He's waiting for me when
I get there, a big, welcoming grin on his face. I get out of the car
and he approaches me.

"Well Done!" he says, his hand on my shoulder. "Gimme the keys."

I do as I'm told and look at him desperately.

"All smooth?" He asks.

I shake my head.

"The owner was there." I say. "I think I killed him."

Simon shakes his head. Breath escapes through his teeth with a soft
whistle. He pushes a small bundle of notes into my hand.

"Go buy some rocks" he says. "You better keep your head down for a
while."

There's a look on his face that I don't much like. He seems
disappointed.

But the money feels good and I hold it tight.

I creep into the night.

The road is cold beneath my feet.