Page 59 of One Step Behind

A man’s voice calls through the house. ‘I know you’re in there.’

Chapter 32

Jenna

For a heart-stopping moment I think it’s you at the door and the fear comes crashing back through my blood. Then I almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of it. It can’t be you. You’re in hospital. It has to be someone who saw me come in. A delivery driver or a neighbour. The thought does nothing to quell the fear. What was I thinking coming here?

‘Who’s there?’ the voice calls again.

I consider staying silent or trying to find a way out the back, but then the doorbell keeps ringing and the voice is shouting at me and I know it’s no use so I hurry downstairs to open the door. A short man with grey hair on the sides, bald on top, and a red face is standing outside your door.

‘Hello,’ I say, catching my breath and shutting your front door behind me so we’re both squeezed on the doorstep.

He narrows his eyes. ‘Are you a friend of Matthew’s? I’m his neighbour.’

‘Um mm,’ I reply, nodding slightly.

‘Oh, do you work together at the restaurant?’ The man’s demeanour softens.

I make another non-committal noise.

‘Is Matthew all right? I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since last Wednesday and he normally drops leftover food over to me at the weekend.’ The man stops to draw in a rasping breath and I take my chance to speak.

‘Matthew was in an accident. He’s in hospital. I … I thought I’d come and feed his cat,’ I stammer, realizing too late that I didn’t see any sign of a cat in your house.

Confusion darkens the man’s face and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. ‘Mr Barnaby isn’t Matthew’s cat, he’s mine. Was the accident at work? Is he OK?’

‘He was hit by a bus.’

‘Oh my! How terrible. Is he going to be OK?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m sorry.’

Your neighbour leans a shaking arm against the wall. His face has turned a deeper shade of red and suddenly I don’t like how he’s sweating, even in this heat.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

‘Bernie. Bernie Schwartz.’

‘How are you feeling right now, Bernie? Perhaps we ought to get you back home and have a sit down for a moment.’

‘It’s just this weather. At my age it’s a bloody nuisance.’

I take Bernie’s arm and we walk slowly down your garden path and up his. Bernie’s house is a replica of yours, with everything flipped the other way around – stairs on the left, living room on the right – and full of clutter. There are old photos in brown woodenframes covering every surface. A cuckoo clock hangs above a fireplace. Swallows have been carved into the wood and pinecone-like spindles dangle down.

Bernie is unsteady on his feet as he eases himself into an armchair by the window, which overlooks the street. No wonder he saw me.

‘Let me get you a glass of water.’ I move quickly to the kitchen and find a glass in the cabinet. ‘Have you been feeling unwell at all?’

‘Just the usual heat issues. A bit of dizziness, that’s all,’ he replies, taking the glass from me with a nod of thanks.

‘May I feel your pulse for a moment, please?’

If Bernie thinks it’s odd that a woman he doesn’t know wants to check his heart rate he doesn’t say anything. ‘Be my guest.’

His pulse is fast, like he’s been running up and down the stairs for twenty minutes instead of sitting in a chair watching the world go by.

‘Any shortness of breath?’ I ask.