Spare Key

any crevice he could find, searching for some remnant of the previous tenants. He rarely, if ever, found anything but occasionally he’d find something so bizarre, he’d just have to stop and wonder why anyone would have left it there.

Like the time in High St out in Preston, where he found a mattress, a collection of women’s magazines and a couple of candles laid out on the insulation of the roof or the time in Bent St out in Reservoir where there was a photo of a woman dressed in a santa suit tucked under the lino in the kitchen.

Usually he only found scraps of old newspapers or the odd pen or stray bit of cutlery and at first the search of his current flat had seemed like it was going to yield similar results. There were a couple of issues of The Age from 1993, inexplicably sitting directly on top of the manhole and a small ball of string down the crack between the bench and the side of the oven. He’d been surprised to find a false bottom in the bedroom cupboard but when he lifted it up, its only contents were a few dustballs in the corners.

He’d been about to roll back the carpet when the set of the drawers in the kitchen had piqued his interest. He’d removed them all and spotted it down the bottom, tucked into a corner like it had dropped down the back.

Now as he studied it, the same tantalising questions were floating through his mind as when he found it: What was it for? Why was it in the flat? And who was Thea?

His mind jumped briefly to the woman next door but he knew that it was just wishful thinking. She’d already introduced herself as Rachel at the tram stop but still the idea persisted. It would make things so much easier. Lower the risks immensely. If he could just quietly let himself in and wait for her. He wouldn’t have to worry about a nosey neighbour hearing him; wouldn’t have to worry about the thrilling tinkle of glass…

Don’t… His mind barely had time to protest before Ben ran with the thought, picturing how it would play out. He wouldn’t even have to do it right away… He could come and go as he pleased… Watch her while she slept… Drag it out… Enjoy that delicious feeling of power, knowing that the new meathook was awaiting her in the Red Room whenever he wanted…

Even as his mind screamed no, no, no, Ben was freeing his erect penis from his pants and wrapping the sodden panties around it again.

A smile split his face as he stroked and even though he knew it wasn’t right, the thought formed.

Yes, it would be so nice…

* * * * *

Ben was still sitting, staring at the key when the pounding started on the door. He just couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of it and the question played over and over in his mind. What was it for? It was similar in design to the key for his flat but he’d tried every lock on every door and window and it hadn’t opened any of them.

He ignored the pounding as he pondered, running it over in his mind. It would just be so perfect if it was the key to the flat next door but he knew how improbable that was. It was far more likely the key to some forgotten tenant’s parents’ house – probably miles away in the country or something.

‘IF YOU DON’T OPEN THE DOOR, I’LL KICK IT IN!’ the voice boomed and Ben looked from the key to the door. A second later it shuddered in its frame and he heard a muffled curse from the other side. Well you wanted a distraction, he thought. He took a swig from the bottle of bourbon then walked over and opened the door.

An Italian man who looked about twenty was crouching outside, prodding experimentally at one of his boots. When he heard the door creak, he quickly stood up, puffed out his chest and affected a menacing stance… but not before Ben caught the slight wince as he put his weight down on his foot.

Ben took in the leather jacket, the slicked back hair, thick with oil and the clipboard tucked under one arm. Debt collector. The thought was instantaneous. He had to stifle a grin as he enquired whether the man’s foot was alright.

‘It’s fine,’ the man snapped in a nasal whine and locked eyes with Ben, trying to stare him down. Ben stared back impassively.

‘Can I help you?’

The man looked immensely irritated at Ben’s unwillingness to lower his eyes and darted a quick glance at the clipboard.

‘Are you Stephen Jacobs?’ he challenged. His demeanour and body language had Ben stifling another laugh. The man was clearly gagging for a fight but that didn’t really bother him. Despite the fact he was fairly bulky and clearly spent a lot of time in the gym, Ben wasn’t impressed. There was something about the man that just suggested he was trying too hard. Ben toyed with the idea of showing him in; maybe showing him the contents of his duffel bag; see how tough he really was.

‘Are you, mate?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No I’m not,’ Ben paused and savoured the moment before asking the question that he knew from experience all collectors hated. ‘Why?’

‘Well if you’re not him, I hardly think it’s any of your concern buddy. Who are you?’

Ben couldn’t resist the smile this time. ‘Why do you want to know?’

The collector’s eyes blazed anger. ‘You think you’re smart do ya? Huh? How do I know you’re not him? You got ID.’

‘No. Don’t you believe me?’

Ben heard the creak of the next flat’s door and saw the lady walk out carrying an empty bottle of wine. She kept glancing across at them as she walked and Ben felt the collector’s presence just drifting away as he watched her body shift beneath her flannelette pyjamas.

‘Look buddy,’ the collector took a step forward and jabbed a finger in Ben’s chest, ‘stop fucking about. Are you Stephen Jacobs?’ The man’s nasal whine was rising in volume and Ben looked back at him with sudden anger blazing in his eyes. For a moment he’d nearly forgotten the man was present. ‘What, you think you’re a tough guy, huh? You looking for a fight? Answer the fucking question.’

In his mind, Ben could see himself just backing down: apologising, saying he’d had a bad day, inviting the man in; I just have to get my ID; it’s in the duffel bag over here…

A slight smile began to twitch at the corner of Ben’s lips.

‘Are you Stephen Jacobs?’

‘No he’s not.’

Ben snapped out of it and saw the lady from next door standing just a few feet away. God, she was so beautiful and so hideous all at once, he thought as the meat hook glinted seductively in his mind.

The debt collector was scowling at the lady, clearly irritated by her interference.

‘He only moved in a day ago. Stephen Jacobs left nearly three months ago now. This is close to the fucking tenth time I’ve told you wankers this.’ There was a pulse in her temple, just the slightest hint of a bulging vein and Ben’s breath caught in his throat as he watched it. Suddenly he was transported back, the vague resemblance transforming through the one gesture into a spitting image of her. The same pulse that would jump at her temple as she approached with the hand hidden behind her back. That low gravelly voice emerging from the clouds of smoke, so removed from her normal one as she rasped, who’s been a naughty boy…

‘Who are you?’ The collector seemed edgy and off-guard and was half-turned as though undecided on who he should focus on.

‘Who I am is none of your business.’ Her face was getting red now and Ben felt like he was falling headlong into blackness, spiralling down into the loop of: who’s been a naughty boy, who’s been a naughty boy, who’s been a naughty boy… He felt like he could cry. You shouldn’t do that to Mummy…

He wanted to hurt her; to cause her pain but he couldn’t because she was raging and when she raged, she was a sight to behold; a force of nature and he was so young and small there was nothing he could do…