Chapter Four
The curtains are pulled shut to avoid the stares of onlookers, shrouding the small room in a murky darkness. Against one of the walls is an old, worn sofa, upon which a devastated woman sits; one hand covering her teary eyes, the other picking subconsciously at the cigarette burns on the cushions. Kneeling on the floor in front of the woman is a Policeman: he places his hand over the woman's, preventing her from ripping a hole in the cushion, and attempts to comfort her. By the doorway stands another Policeman, his hat under his arm, and a doctor, nervously clutching his medical bag: both men bow their heads in respect.
'Mrs Taylor' says the kneeling Policeman quietly, 'unfortunately we'll need to move the body to the mortuary.' The woman's sobs become louder and her breathing heavier. 'But... for now at least, it'll have to stay here. Another ambulance is on its way.' The Policeman stands and slowly manoeuvres his way around the cluttered coffee table to the doorway. Speaking in a whisper, he addresses the anxious doctor: 'thank you for coming at such short notice Frank, I know it hasn't been pleasant. We won't be needing your services any longer.' The doctor nods his thanks and hastily disappears from the room. 'Mrs Taylor' continues the Policeman, 'if you need anything, we'll be right outside.' He pats his colleague on the shoulder, and the pair creep silently out of the room.
'Well that was grim' mumbles the second Policeman, barely out of earshot of the woman.
'Jackson!' hisses the first Policeman in anger. He prods his partner and motions towards the door. 'Come on, get in the car.'
From within the darkened room, the woman lets out a cry, followed by stifled sobs and whimpers. The woman attempts to wipe the wetness from her face, wiping make-up onto the back of her hands. Upon noticing the smeared mess, the woman buries her face in her hands and begins to wail.
In her distraught and exasperation, the grieving woman is oblivious to the sound of a door being unlatched further down the passageway, leading to the rear of the narrow house. The click of the latch is soon followed by the creak of rusty door hinges. Still the sobbing woman is unaware as the sound of slow footsteps on the exposed floorboards echo in the passageway outside the darkened room. Nor does the patting sound on the staircase, climbing higher through the house, rouse the woman from her state of distress. Only when the slow footsteps reach the top of the staircase – when the top wooden step groans under the weight of a foot – does the distressed woman sense a foreign presence in her house.
The woman raises her face from her shaking hands and turns her head towards the doorway. 'Sergeant Gray?' she says, her voice barely above a whisper. 'Is anybody there?' the woman asks, slightly louder than before. She places her hands beside her on the worn cushions, braces herself, and slowly lifts her body from the sunken sofa. As she attempts to stand, the woman encounters just how physically weak the ordeal has made her: she stumbles, but manages to steady herself on the small wooden mantelpiece above the electric fireplace, scattering tiny plastic and china ornament from their rightful places in the process. The woman carefully inches her way towards the doorway and tentatively looks out into the passageway. 'Sergeant Gray?' There is no reply.
The woman shuffles slowly down the passageway towards the front door of the house and the foot of the staircase. Through the small pane of frosted glass in the door she can make out blurry figures: a few Policeman perhaps, but mostly onlookers – neighbours, friends, or curious passers-by. As the woman arrives at the foot of the staircase, a sense of fear washes over her; she cranes her neck to peer up the staircase, not knowing what she expects to find. The staircase is empty.
Unable to determine whether her actions are out of fear or curiosity, the woman clutches the wooden banister rail and lifts her foot onto the first step of the staircase. The frayed, dusty, floral-pattern carpet is rough under her step; she takes extra caution not to trip on the exposed patches that have been worn down through years of use. At first the woman must concentrate on the strength in her legs and arms in order to conquer each step. After slowly climbing the first few steps, however, she finds renewed strength and energy as her body begins to recover from her fragile state. She climbs slowly but steadily, ensuring her footing on each step is solid before continuing to the next.
As the woman nears the top of the staircase she stops. Suddenly she senses her heightened position and grabs the banister rail and hunches her body forwards to avoid falling. She strains her ears, trying desperately to forget the sound that she heard, but too fearful to do anything to prevent herself from hearing it again. A faint sound of scratching, of tapping, of movement is coming from one of the rooms. Almost against her own will, the woman slowly lifts her foot onto the top step of the staircase: by the time she remembers the loose floorboard it is too late. She lifts herself onto the landing, putting pressure on the top step: the wood groans under her weight. She stands motionless, perched at the top of the staircase, not daring to breath. The scratching, the tapping, the movement continues, unaware of her presence. The woman tracks the direction of the sound, despite knowing already exactly where it is going to lead her.
The woman silently moves along the cluttered landing, navigating past clothes, boxes, and tin soldiers. The sound directs her to the door that she least wants to open. Stopping in front of it, she stands silently for a moment, listening to the sound of movement coming from within the room. Finding the courage to raise her arm, the woman places her hand on the painted name-plate on the wooden door: she caresses it for a moment, feeling the worn paint peel beneath her fingertips, before pushing the door open.
Standing in the centre of the room, next to the bed, with its back to the door, is a child. On the bed are a collection of items: plastic figures, crayons, items of clothing. One at a time, the child is slowly placing each item into a leather-strapped satchel.
The woman, almost paralysed with a mixture of joy and fear, slowly shuffles forwards towards the boy. As she nears him, she becomes suddenly aware of the sound of her own breathing: fast and inconsistent. The woman inches towards to the centre of the room, closer to the boy. She slowly raises her arm, and stretches out a shaky hand towards the boy's pale, rounded cheek that is barely visible from behind. Only inches away from the boy's face, she stops. There is the sound of breathing again: fast, inconsistent, alone – the only sound of breathing in the room.
'Billy?' she whispers. Her hand creeps forwards and brushes the boy's cheek: it is coarse, unnatural, and cold.
The boy slowly turns his head, looking upwards at the woman, who quickly retracts her hand. She goes to scream, but no sound comes. The boy's eyes, which at first she had thought had lost all colour, are rolled upwards in their sockets: only the bloodshot whites of the eyes stare back at her.