The Family Across the Street by Nicole Trope

20

Katherine

When the bell rings again her heart lifts a little because it’s possible – because anything is possible – that someone has come to help.

‘This shit never stops,’ he complains.

He’s getting tired and she can see that. They all are, but he’s been holding that gun for hours now, hurting them all by degrees for hours now. George’s face still has his handprint vividly visible on his cheek. Sophie keeps rubbing her head where Katherine is sure he must have pulled out some hair. And the throb from what she is certain is a broken wrist is an agony that she feels right throughout her body.

When she first saw the gun, she hadn’t imagined that he would use it, because it felt impossible.

But now she knows that it’s not impossible. She believed that if he wanted to kill her or the children, he would have done it already, but perhaps his intention is to make them suffer for as long as possible, knowing that watching George and Sophie suffer is hurting her more than any bullet might.

She is trying to formulate a plan, any plan beyond the simple thought of throwing her own body at him, attempting to stab him with the scissors, forcing him to shoot her and hoping that the children get away before he has a chance to fire the gun again. She cannot guarantee that they will get away or that they will know to run, and she cannot think of how to indicate to them that this is what they should do.

‘I think it’s Gladys at the door,’ she says now, grasping at straws. ‘She’ll be concerned because I didn’t invite her in. You should let George talk to her – he can tell her we’re sick, I’m sick. I already told her that… I think I did, but maybe… She makes things for us. Maybe she’s brought over a cake.’

‘Yoo-hoo,’ Gladys calls, ‘just dropping off some of my famous chocolate chip muffins.’

Katherine shrugs her shoulders as if to say, ‘I told you so,’ but she doesn’t say anything else. If she pushes, he will refuse to let George open the door, but if George can open the door to Gladys, then maybe, just maybe…

He rubs his head, forcing his hair to stand up. He looks suddenly younger, less threatening, and she can see that he is losing focus now. It’s not easy to kill someone, even though it looks easy enough in the movies and on television, but he’s intelligent enough to realise that the taking of a life is a permanent thing. He lost his father too young and has suffered for it. He knows what death means for those left behind.

‘If you don’t let George talk to her, she’ll just keep returning,’ she says.

‘Fine,’ he says, ‘go tell the old bat that everyone in the house is sick. And I swear to God, George, that if you say one other thing, if you so much as even sigh, I will rip your sister’s head off the same way I ripped that stupid stuffed toy.’

George glances at her, his eyes wide, disbelieving. No one has ever spoken to him like this. He cannot understand what to do with these terrible threats of violence. And she senses that even though it would be easy enough for George to tell Gladys to call the police, now is not the time. She is not strong enough to fight him off if he goes for Sophie. The pain is making her weak.

The risk is too great. She gives her head an imperceptible shake. He blinks and she knows that means he understands. It’s a wonder to her, even through the fear and the pain and the simmering anger that is underneath it all, that she is able to speak to her child like this, that he understands. She closes her eyes and sends up a small prayer that she will get to see him grow up and become the extraordinary man she knows he will be.

George gets off the sofa and goes to the front door.

She hears him open it, struggling with the lock that is at shoulder height for him. She listens to the murmur of voices, Gladys and George, and she can hear her son’s hesitancy. He is considering what to do. Just tell her we’re sick, my darling. Now is not the time. Just tell her we’re sick.

‘Why’s he taking so long?’ he asks, and then he gets up and goes to the front door and she hears something but cannot make out any words. She assumes he’s warning George to keep his mouth shut. Adrenalin floods her body, fear for her little boy drowning out her own physical pain. Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him. Her muscles tense as she gets ready to run to the front door if she hears anything except the soft murmur of voices.

She turns to look at Sophie, who is subdued, watching her game rather than playing it. They are alone with access to the outside world.

‘Give me the iPad, sweetheart,’ she whispers, her eyes darting to the doorway, but her daughter is slow to respond.

Even though movement is agony she begins to reach for the iPad, hoping that she can access her email before he comes back into the room. But seconds later he returns with George, and she hurriedly shoves the iPad back at Sophie, who instantly finds her game again. Katherine feels the throbbing in her hand increase with the beating of her heart.

He is holding her son by one arm, almost dragging him. George is trying to carry a plate filled with chocolate muffins, and the care behind the gift makes Katherine want to cry. Gladys is probably worried that Katherine is angry with her because she was so abrupt this morning. She silently blesses the older woman who is dealing with so much herself, but who is still working to maintain neighbourly bonds.

‘Look, chocolate chip muffins,’ he says, grabbing the plate from George and shoving him back on the sofa. ‘Eat one,’ he commands and both children look at her.

‘Go on,’ she says, ‘you must be hungry.’

Usually when Gladys gives them a plate of muffins, she warms them up for the children, melting the chocolate and filling the house with the sweet cakey smell so she can almost pretend she baked them herself. The twins adore Gladys’s muffins, but now they reluctantly take one each. Sophie pinches off a small bite and puts it in her mouth.

‘What about you?’ he asks Katherine. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

‘No,’ she says weakly, and she lifts her hand a little, still wrapped in the ice pack that is now warm, hoping to reach some part of him that can feel something for her. He hasn’t looked at her wrist, at her really, and she convinces herself that this is because he doesn’t want to see how much pain he has caused her. Perhaps if she can get him to acknowledge it, he will come to his senses and realise what he’s doing.

But instead, he stands up and grabs a muffin from the plate, charging towards her. ‘Open up,’ he says, almost jovial.

She shakes her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Ah well,’ he sneers, ‘too bad,’ and he grabs her head while still holding the gun. With the other hand he shoves the muffin into her mouth, crumbling it and filling her mouth until she can’t breathe, even as she tries to chew.

She struggles, kicking her legs out at him.

‘Stop it!’ shouts George.

‘Mumma,’ cries Sophie, and they both begin hitting him with their small fists.

He starts laughing at their futile attempts and then he does let go, throwing the remains of the muffin at her as she chokes and coughs and spits out as much as she can. And then as she leans back against the sofa, her chest heaving, eyes watering as she struggles to breathe, George says, ‘I’m going to kill you.’ Her son’s voice is filled with an eerie menace, the sweet tones of childhood gone. He is a man in this moment, an angry man.

‘Not if I kill you first,’ he replies and then he grabs a muffin and shoves it into his own mouth. ‘Not if I kill you first,’ he repeats as he chews with his mouth open and swallows quickly.

And Katherine realises that she’s been asking herself the wrong question. She has been asking how someone who once loved her can hurt her this much, how he can watch all of them suffer and feel nothing, but what she should be thinking about is all this deep, vicious anger he is filled with. All this violence that he has been hiding from her. There is something that she doesn’t know, something that could provide a clue as to why he is doing this, and if she can just find out what it is, what has triggered him, then perhaps she can find a way out. There are things she does not know, things she hasn’t understood about him. She just needs to keep him talking.

‘You need to finish your story,’ she says quietly.

‘Yes,’ he agrees, ‘yes, I do.’ He looks at her, his green eyes meeting hers. ‘I wonder…’ he says.

‘You wonder,’ she prompts.

‘How it ends.’