Pausing on the doorstep, breath held, keys jangling, bold as brass in the afternoon sun, she’s here. The woman too stupid not to be. The woman who isn’t Doreen. Her natural inclination is to slide the key in silently, palming its brothers to prevent their chattering announcement. Pipe down. Shush. Calm it. Take it easy. She even thinks in your voice, now. She longs to tease the handle slowly, crack the door inch by inch. Fear. She can smell it on herself. Taste it. She’s forgotten what it’s like to exist without it coiled around her.
But every thief knows a show of stealth is a dead giveaway. See that guy loitering in the doorway, collar turned up, hat pulled down? Look at me, his body language screams. Look at me.
Please, please, don’t look at me. Hide in plain sight. It’s the only way.
You’ve already searched her hiding places, her private places. Invaded them. Taken ownership of. She’s yours.
She swallows the jarring tinkle, grimaces at the clunk of the handle, flings the door open and strides down the hall. Bold. Brazen heels clicking on ceramic floor tiles—three of them chipped. Four-inch heels, just as you like them. Red. She prefers trainers, but you’ve trained her better than that. Trainers are for running; she’s learned to totter, learned to like it, too.
‘Lots of women wear them. Just for me.’How did you learn to inject the perfect degree of malice into your wheedling?
Never mind that she preferred cotton socks to fishnet stockings. Never mind that she preferred dungarees to pencil skirts. ‘Never.’ ‘Mind.’
Your favourite song is playing quietly from the den, on a loop. As always. She pauses. Risks a breath. Counts to twenty. Inches the door open. You’re not home. Her gaze sweeps the room; she listens, listens some more, pulls in a slow, steady, quiet breath, millilitre by millilitre, looks some more. Nothing amiss.
Checks her watch. 4:32. Kicks off her shoes and runs upstairs. Holdall found. Grabbed. She forces herself to empty it piece by piece. Not yet, soon, soon it’ll be for real. But right now, these clothes must go back. Just. Right. The clothes you chose. The ones you like her to wear when—
She flinches at the froth of fabric that makes her so glad you love to thrust her face aside, love to lean over her unguarded neck and growl into her ear, that you’re unaware she nearly dies with gratitude at not having to look at you and you won’t see in her eyes how much she wants to crawl away, crawl out from under you.
4:33. She grabs the other clothes now, unable to slow her shaking hands. These promise warmth, protection, anonymity—not dressings for the meat. Three outfits. One to wear, one to wash, one to dry: Jeans and jumpers that she wears for cleaning days. Knickers —large, cotton, plain, for women’s days. Those you allow. After all, you don’t like mess. You couldn’t imagine how much she loves women’s days.
4:35. She longs to finger the cash. Just this once, so she can time it to the minute, but there’s no time; that’s a step too far; she’s pushed this as far as she dares. Time to put everything back as it was, as it always is. Quickly.
You came in at 4:47 yesterday. She wonders if you noticed as she repacks the holdall. Perfectly. You like to take your time choosing, running your fingers through the satin and lace you selected, savour her tension as you decide. Take your time, note her expressions while you compare.
She must be faster—seconds are being eaten up, but slower— all must be just right.
4:38 Everything checked. Three times. Keep the luck, she thinks, keep the luck.
4:41. Back downstairs, heels on.
4:42. Into the kitchen. A woman’s place—the kitchen. And the bedroom. And the laundrette. ‘The wages are good, Love, and it’s cash in hand. We won’t have to declare it. Won’t cost us anything in work gear either, what with the uniform. Just remember to put the good shoes on before you leave. Don’t want you walking the streets in those horrible clogs.’
The money itches at the back of her mind. She won’t scratch it. Not yet.
The large hexagonal jar is still in the cupboard. You wouldn’t suspect anything could be hidden in clear glass, would you? Full to the brim, of course. You despise mung beans.
‘Ming beans for Minging Monday. You can keep your meat-free nonsense. A real man needs real meat. He needs to feel the texture on his knife, savour the resistance.’
It took her three weeks to find the perfect picture of mung beans. And three attempts to print them off so the size matched perfectly. Luck comes in threes. The tiny parcel nestled amongst those beautiful minging beans. Just a quick check. But. 4:46. Just—
She shudders at the click of the front door.
You take eleven paces. She takes one breath.
‘Get the kettle on, I’m parched.’
She measures the coffee out with the little plastic scoop. Levels it off with a knife. Your favourite mug. Hot water: one and a half centimetres from the top. She doesn’t need the ruler anymore. Half a centimetre of milk. No sugar. You’re sweet enough.
Two chocolate digestives. The right brand, on your favourite side plate. The replacement she spent two hours scouring the shops for. How fast can time pass? How fast can a heart beat? Her luck held, catapulting her home before you, with just enough time to hide the chipped one in the space beneath the tea towel drawer. No, don’t look; it’s gone now.
She held her breath for three days. You were at the bookies when the dustcart trundled up the road. You’d been gone thirty-four minutes. The chipped plate sat in the dustbin for thirteen minutes. Then it was whisked to safety. Crushed, shattered into a thousand pieces, but making its tortuous journey, away. Thirteen minutes.
Unlucky thirteen. You returned scowling. Your horses had lost. She watched you run the tip of one finger around the rim of the new plate. You always lick an index finger to dab up the stray crumbs. Every scrap of evidence eliminated. ‘Self-control,’ you say. ‘Only slobs fail to clean their mess away.’
Slobs like Doreen. Doreen never cleaned your home properly. Doreen was useless in bed. Doreen let herself go to seed, stopped looking after her weight. Your woman must not be like Doreen.
It was a Wednesday morning when Sarah realised she was losing the competition with Doreen. You long since stopped awarding her points for the things she got right. You no longer felt the need to pet her, toss her a bone, or tickle her belly. She rolled over anyway.
Wednesday’s market day was her treat. Her time. She always watched the pennies so she wouldn’t be a spendthrift like Doreen. She’d learned the brands you liked so she wouldn’t be a useless bitch like Doreen, and she learned to only buy herself the things you’d like her to have. Don’t be a selfish cunt like Doreen. She spotted the notebook on the clearance stall. She needed a new one and could call it a gift to herself.
‘What’s with the fancy book?’ Your grin reeked of contempt.
‘It was half the price of the plain ones. You know I love a bargain.’ When did she start loving a bargain?
‘I don’t like it.’ You wanted her to ask why.
Your expectation pulled on her like a leash. She resisted and unpacked your favourite shampoo. The leash tugged harder. She put the cleaning products in the under-sink cupboard.
The silence grew. You moved closer. You allowed your frown to slip into a look of hurt, pain like she’d whipped you.
‘What’s the problem?’ She hated herself for asking.
You pointed to the name on the front of the notebook.
‘It honestly was cheaper.’ She pulled her purse from her cardigan pocket and placed it on the table.
You knew how much was in it when she left. You always know. ‘It’s not the money. It’s the name.’
‘Sarah? My name?’
‘It won’t do.’
‘Pardon?’
‘It doesn’t suit you.’
‘I don’t know if it does or not, but … it’s my name.’
‘Doreen would suit you better.’
‘Doreen?’ She couldn’t think of a single rational response.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you hated Doreen.’
‘You mean Emily.’
‘Emily? Doreen was called Emily?’ The twilight zone was closing in. You were dragging her down into a place that made no sense, a place from which she might never return.
You sensed this and it made you feel strong. ‘Yes. Emily changed her name to Doreen. To make me happy. She knew it meant a lot.’
Sarah’s mind was racing, her guts churning, the chains of your craziness throttling her.
You knew this too. ‘Think about it.’
She thought about it. A lot. While you told her stories of Doreen. Emily. Emily tried to cook your favourite meals, but never got them just so. Sarah knew how to do them better. Just a fraction. Emily tried to please you, in the way a man needs to be pleased, but Sarah could do it better. Usually. But. Emily did the one thing that really made you happy. She let you call her Doreen.
‘Why Doreen? What does it mean to you? Who is Doreen anyway?’
That earned her a slap. She’d pressed your buttons. Triggered you. You’d loved Doreen. You had. But you have to be able to trust someone, right? Just trust. It’s only a little thing—a name.
‘I never need much, hate to ask. Don’t make me beg, babe. Never make me beg. Just trust me. Don’t wind me up, don’t nag and don’t make me wait. I hate waiting—it makes me tense. It makes me do things. Do this one thing for me. It’s only a name. A label. I’ll be listening to music, while you decide.’
You slammed into your den and cranked up the volume of your favourite song.
So. Doreen.
It made you happy. Very happy. Very carnal.
To her, it meant storms of pleasure, storms of anger, lulls of misery—misery that leeched joy from the atmosphere, then your need, your deep, deep need that evoked lust. And the cycle repeated.
To her, it meant: soon. Very soon.
#
‘Bout time you fed me, girl.’
She walked to the fridge. Not too fast.
‘What you up to?’
Not too slow.
‘Lazy bitch.’
Not too eager.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’
Not too reluctant.
‘Ungrateful cow.’
Sheheld up your favourite. ‘Bacon butty?’
You leaned against the door frame and hooked a thumb into a loop on the band of your jeans, rubbed your chin, then your crotch. ‘It’s Monday. Let’s have ming bean curry.’
The neutrality she’s cultivated slid down her face. She swallowed. ‘I thought you hated mung bean curry.’
‘Good for my health though, ain’t it? Time I learned to eat my ming beans up like a good big boy. Don’t you think?’ You lifted out the jar of beans and thrust your hand in. ‘What’s this?’
‘I was saving …’
You pulled out a mung bean print parcel. ‘What could this be?’ All too delicious. You unwrapped it and the roll of notes, girdled in an elastic band, fell out. ‘Now, why would you be hiding money? And how did you manage it?’
She reached out and carefully turned over the paper wrapper with her outstretched hand, allowing you to see the neat writing on the back. ‘I did a little overtime, put a bit away; I want your birthday to be special.’
Your eyes skimmed the list: Roku Gin, Silk socks, handcuffs. You paced. ‘You know I don’t like secrets … ‘ Paced some more. ‘ … but, you chose well. You can buy the handcuffs.’ She could shop for her own chastisement. A birthday to look forward to.
#
She hovers on the doorstep, just a moment, keys in hand, then enters briskly.
4.33. Wearing trainers, She runs upstairs. Holdall found. Grabbed. Emptied. Jeans, t-shirts, jumpers. Three. Underwear. Packed.
4.35. Dashes to the kitchen, rips the plinth off the bottom of the biggest cupboard, and grabs the cash. The backup stash.
4.37. Takes a breath.
4.42. At the bus stop. You never go home that way. She checked eleven times. Today is twelve. Not thirteen. Not thirteen.
4.44 Sitting on the number ninety-eight. Middle seat. The window is obscured by a large lady who is telling Sarah about what a fuss her poodle made having his nails clipped. Sarah’s trying to wear a smile that looks like neither a manic grin nor a rictus of terror.
4.48 She pictures you waiting, growing angrier, hurling a pair of red stilettos down the hall, turning the volume on your favourite song up full blast. I’ll be watching you.
She silently thanks you for the warning, for giving her the idea; she started watching too. For the first time in forever, she starts to remember who she was. Who she might be.
Doreen, she leaves to you.
Heather’s body is knackered and her brain runs intermittently on adrenaline, somewhere in Yorkshire, at three a.m.—when she does the only thing she can and spews words at the page in the hope of redemption.Her work has been published by:Reflex Press, Pure Slush, Mono, A Coup of Owls, Free Flash Fiction and others.
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