I returned home, finally, to my apartment, and didn’t it just look beautiful. Shame that this would be the last time that I would be seeing it. I shant bore you with the details of how I got home. I did a lot of walking and getting lost. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?
It was of course my intention to forego sleep even longer and head straight into packing mode, the essentials all in one large bag, a big old army sack I bought one time and then regretted because there’s nothing that smacks of pretentiousness as a civilian who buys combat gear. But I had to sit down, I just had to, I was shattered. And of course the moment I slunk down in my armchair I was out for the count. In fact so shattered I was and so easily into sleep I fell that I don’t recall slinking down into my armchair. I remember returning to the apartment and then I remember hearing a loud banging on the apartment door.
BANG BANG BANG!
That banging.
My body froze. I found myself unable to move. Who the hell is that? The police is my first, indeed my only, thought. It was of course a mistake to sleep but in that I had no choice in the matter. There was nothing for it, I had to hide. And there was but one place to hide. It was not a good hiding place. In fact as hiding places go you’d be pushed to find one worse. But, unlike falling asleep I did have a choice. I could of course open the door and embark on a lot of explaining and hope that, in time at least, and a time that does not drag out into years, that I’m believed. With hindsight that is what I should have done. But I was convinced that I could speak truth until I was blue in the face and would never be believed. I had convinced myself that I had no choice. That the only thing I could do was hide, then disappear and recreate a new life for myself elsewhere. So I went to my crappy hiding place, which was out through the bathroom window and lowering myself over the window ledge, where I hung by my fingertips, my feet pressed against a drain-pipe (fortunately at the place where it can take a man’s weight, which is to say where it is bolted to the wall). There was no question of dropping down. Not unless I wished to break my neck. As heights go I wasn’t that high up, but high enough to do myself an injury should I fall. Besides which, the landing was neither soft nor unimpeded. Concrete, dustbins and various household junk, including a supermarket trolley, which still seem to turn up in the oddest of places and despite the added precautions supermarkets now take to prevent their theft.
I was guilty of this particular supermarket trolley theft. The memory of it returned to me now. A silly little memory and I won’t bore you with the details. It’s just one of those private happy memories back when my relationship with Linda was still young and fresh. Before we labelled ourselves a couple and it went rapidely downhill after that.
I was hauled back into the present by the sound of my apartment door being forced open. And then nothing, no further sounds. Apart from the ambient ones all around me of street and traffic noise.
But from the apartment: no sound.
What was going on inside there? Who was inside? Only one person or several? My fingers were aching, beginning to feel the strain, despite my placing as much of my weight as I could on me feet pressed against the drain-pipe and wall. It really was a stupid hiding place. And, I realized, zero chance of being believed now. An innocent man simply doesn’t hide. Except of course they do. When they’re scared.
I was aware also that if anyone looked out of the bathroom window they would see my fingers. And this, in fact, is what happened. A man’s face suddenly appeared over the edge and looked down at me. It was not smiling. But neither did it look particularly mean. But somehow I knew it was.
“What are you doing there?” It said.
“Oh, just hanging around,” I said. I always attempt humour when I’m nervous.
“When you’re finished you and me need to have a chat,” it said, and disappeared.
Well, that was odd. On the other hand perfectly in keeping with the theme of the past night. Now it seemed I was presented with a choice again. Not much of one. I could continue to hang around out here, until I fell to certain injury. Or I could pull myself up and climb back into my apartment and see what this individual wants to chat with me about. I wasn’t entirely certain that the latter option was to be preferred, but on the other hand, where there’s mystery there’s also hope.
So I plumped for the latter option, and found myself continuing to hang around.
Huh.
A problem.
I had insufficient grip of the ledge in which to pull myself up with. It looked like I would be going with the first option after all. And then, as if he had read my mind, the face appeared.
“It occures to me that you might need a hand,” it said. “Or possibly two.”
“If it’s no trouble,” I said.
“No trouble,” it said. And two hands, attached, naturally you might say, to arms, appeared and hauled me inside. Once inside, he extended a hand to me, freed from its’ previous task, smiled and said, “Peter. Peter James”.
“Huh,” I said, shaking his hand.
“And you are – ?” Peter said.
I hadn’t wanted to give my name. But then I’m the sort of person who shuts the stable door after the horse has bolted.
“Stahl. Jack Stahl,” I said.
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