Page 100 of Cuts Like An Angel: Part 3

Chapter Forty

William

The house wasn’t supposed to be this empty. In fact, it wasn’t meant to be like this at all. William stood in the downstairs hallway of the house, keeping himself between the space where the door to his mother’s room was, and the way to the lounge he had shared with Rosie.

Closing his eyes, he couldn’t even pretend either presence was in the house with him. The ticking of the clock in the kitchen was almost a deafening sound now. Something he’d probably never noticed before. His mother’s television remained off.

The tree stood in the corner of the room in the back lounge where he and Rosie had put it, in what felt like another life. He hadn’t unpacked it from the mesh net that kept its branches firmly in place, and the few decorations they had bought still sat on the floor, with their receipt resting on top.

William wiped dust from his hand. It made him sneeze. But as he hobbled through the house that held so many odd memories, he reconciled himself with the fact that now was the time to face old demons. To give them the eviction they so desperately needed.

The phone on the kitchen wall rang with a shrill invasion to William’s silent winter home and it made him stop. A chill ran along his back, not necessarily from the cold, although at this time of year, the temperatures were below zero, but from the knowledge of who would be on the other end of that call.

It could have been his mother? Her antagonistic cries on the other end ready to berate him for putting her in such a place. Maria Carter did not like Hardacre Residential, even though she had been given one of the self-sufficient dwellings, with a lounge, a kitchen and her own bedroom. His mother swore that he had shipped her off to some kind of prison she didn’t ever deserve.

Or the voice on the other end could be that of Rosie. For twenty-four hours of the day, he tried his best not to think about her. His heart couldn’t take it. Some days, the pain in his chest was so much, all he could do was lie in his bed, in the dark, and wish for sleep to take him.

He didn’t find out who was calling, though. Like the last few days, he stared at the phone and waited for the caller to hang up. Then, as if the machine might leap from the wall and attack him, he hobbled away from it and put as much distance from it as humanly possible.

He went to the front door. The morning’s post had been delivered. One card for him, another for his mother, all decorated in red and ready to give them the season’s greetings. He put those with the others in the tray. The other two letters were bills.

Two days ago, he had received a letter from Rosie. He hadn’t opened it, of course, but he knew her handwriting, the way she curled the W to his name, the way the end of his name went off in a kind of faint whispering. The corner of it stuck out from beneath the cards.

What was it she could say to him now?

William was just about to turn away from the door and make his struggle up the stairs to the front bedroom. He’d also decided now was the time to clear that out. And when he said clear out, he meant everything. Tomorrow, the for-sale sign would go up.

He could thank Rosie for that at least. For the courage to turn around and do what he needed with his life. Or perhaps it was Peter he should thank. Peter … the very thought of the name made William’s brain want to fry itself.

Someone knocked on the front door, and William turned, unsure if he wanted to answer it. He waited for perhaps something to come through the letterbox. Maybe he’d missed a delivery and it was the postman about to put a card through. He stared at the white door, almost as if he could see who was on the other side. How useful it would be to be able to see through things.

“William?” Another hammering. “I know you’re in there. Open the door.” Mark’s shouts carried through the plastic door and William ground his jaw, the utterance of dismissal on his lips ready to tell his friend to go away. He was fine.

It’d been nearly four weeks since Rosie had left, and in that time, he had seen Mark many times. It had been Mark who had arranged for Maria to be put into assisted living accommodation. Perhaps he owed him enough courtesy to open the door, but two days before Christmas. He didn’t want to see anyone.

The letterbox rattled. William tried to jump out of the line of sight, but his leg was still cast, and although his wounds were well on the way to healing, they liked to remind him they were still there.

“William, open this damn door now or I swear to God, I’m gonna break in,” Mark shouted through the letterbox, “William.”

“I’m busy,” William called back finally.

Mark knocked again. “Open the door.”

William blew out a breath.

“I’m not going away until you open this door, even if that takes all day.”

Part of William was a little annoyed they’d run into Mark that day on the picnic. They’d been fine without him. William had been fine without him, but Mark, to him it was like they’d never broken friendship, like all of those years not being in each other’s lives hadn’t been there. The Mark outside was a reminder of the Mark he’d been friends with.

The boy who’d once talked William out of running away.

“I’ll call you later,” William called back, hoping.

“Not a chance. Open the bloody door.”

When William stepped into range of the view from the letterbox, Mark’s bright eyes glared at him through the small slit of the door and when he caught sight of William, he snapped the letterbox closed.

William paused at the other side of the door. He didn’t have to answer it. Mark wouldn’t break in. He might complain a lot, but eventually he’d go away.

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