Page 33 of The World Outside My Window

‘Promise.’

‘And remember. Breathe. Don’t panic. Nothing bad is going to happen. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

And so she is going to do it alone. At least, she’s going to try.

* * *

The rain isn’t showing any signs of easing, and all the procrastination in the world won’t change the fact that she’s dreading this. It’s now or never.

She pulls on her trainers and yanks on the squeaky arms of her raincoat, which hangs by the front door despite the fact she hasn’t worn it once since they’ve lived in this house. Jim obviously hung it here in the hope that she’d need it one day, and the thought makes her both happy and sad at the same time.

She opens the door and the wind almost knocks her over, bringing a blast of cold air and pellet-like raindrops with it. She pulls her hood up and holds it on with one hand, then takes her first tentative steps onto the front step. Whenever she’s been outside before she’s taken it slowly, one step at a time, looking round at everything before taking another step forward. And even that has been a struggle. But today the weather is so vile she doesn’t have the luxury of taking it slowly. It’s head-down-and-run-for-it kind of weather, and she isn’t sure if she’s up to it. But then she thinks again of Jim, and knows she has to try, so, taking one last glance round, she slams the door behind her and sprints to the front gate. All she can see is the path beneath her feet, grey and stony and soaking wet. She ignores her peripheral vision, trying to pretend it isn’t there, that it’s just her feet on the concrete and nothing else. She quickly pulls open the gate, her heart beating so fast it bruises the inside of her ribcage, and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, over and over, black foot on grey concrete time and time again until she risks glancing up and realises she’s reached number four without even noticing. Without stopping to wait at the gate she runs to the front door and steps underneath the overhanging porch with relief. Her feet are soaked through and water drips from her coat, down her legs and soaks into her jeans. After a grand total of ninety seconds she resembles a drowned rat. Not the ideal scenario for meeting one of her new(ish) neighbours. But she is here now, and she is going to see this through if it kills her.

She presses on the doorbell before she loses her nerve and hears it ring somewhere inside the house. A glance at her watch shows her it’s only eight o’clock in the morning and she feels a pang of guilt at disturbing someone so early, but she wanted to get it over and done with. Besides, it’s too late to worry about that now.

Through the bevelled glass panel in the door she sees a figure approach, then the door is open and she’s staring into the piercing blue eyes of a man about the same age as her.

‘Hello?’

She raises her head and pushes her hood down and sticks her hand out. ‘Hello, I’m Laura. Jim’s wife.’

His face smooths and his eyes widen as he takes her hand and shakes it warmly. ‘Oh, Laura, hello!’ He glances outside. ‘God, come in, it’s bloody awful out there. You must be drenched.’ Then he moves aside and she steps inside his house, the second stranger’s house in just a few days. She’s done it.

* * *

When the doorbell goes, Ben is irritated. He’s only just got out of bed and is about to go for a run. What idiot rings at people’s doors this early in the morning?

He drains the dregs of his coffee, switches off the dulcet tones of Gary Davies’ breakfast show, gives his still-sleeping golden retriever, Rocky, a quick tickle on the head as he passes, eliciting a half-hearted woof and a tail-thump, and goes to answer it, hoping to get rid of whoever it is quickly.

He doesn’t recognise the figure hunched on the doorstep, dripping wet, even when she pulls her hood down to reveal a pinched, worried face and a head full of dark curls. He’s preparing for his ‘no thank you I’m not interested in anything you have to say’ speech when she speaks first, and he wouldn’t have been more surprised to hear her say she was Jim’s wife than if she’d been wearing Mickey Mouse ears and doing a tap dance on his doorstep. She’s at least fifteen years younger than he’d expected her to be, and much prettier, despite the bedraggled look.

‘Oh, Laura, hello!’ He glances outside. The weather is getting worse, perhaps now isn’t such a good time for a run after all. Then he notices just how wet she is and pulls the door right open. ‘God, come in, it’s bloody awful out there you must be drenched.’

Now here she is, dripping all over the carpet in his hallway, looking lost and scared. He isn’t quite sure what to say or do.

He holds out his hand. ‘Here, give me your coat, I’ll hang it up to dry.’ She shrugs out of her jacket and hands it to him and he stands for a moment, unsure what to do with it. Drops of rain splash onto the carpet as Laura continues to stand there, arms clasped tight against her waist, shivering. The poor woman looks terrified.

‘Right, er, shall we go into the kitchen? Perhaps I can make you a coffee, warm you up a bit?’ Ben says, finally hanging the sopping wet coat over the bottom rung of the banister.

Laura gives a small nod and follows him into the kitchen where she carries on dripping all over the floor, her shoes squeaking across the tiles. ‘Sorry.’ Her face is blotchy and red as she bends down to pull her trainers off with shaking hands. Ben frowns. He’s got to know Jim pretty well over the last seven months since he and Laura moved to Willow Crescent, but he’s never met Laura. He knows she exists, of course, but he’s only ever seen shadowy images of her through darkened windows, a silhouette on a dark night, a face at the window. He isn’t the most observant of people but even he knew something wasn’t right there, but it was equally obvious that Jim didn’t want to talk about it, so he didn’t push it. He assumed though that there was something seriously wrong, some dark, sinister secret his wife must have been hiding, otherwise why else would he have kept her a secret? Watching her now, though, a small, huddled figure with a stricken look on her face, staring at an invisible spot on the floor between them, hands clenched so tightly in front of her that her knuckles have turned white, it’s almost impossible to believe.

He is, however, terrified he is about to find out whatiswrong with her, because he doesn’t handle emotion and feelings very well these days. He’s had enough of them to last a lifetime.

Aware he should probably speak, he says, ‘So, coffee?’

‘Only if you’re making one.’ Her voice is quiet, tremulous, and she coughs to clear her throat. It seems strange that someone as confident as Jim would be married to someone as quiet and mouse-like as this woman in front of him.

‘Instant okay?’

Laura nods.

Relieved to have something to do, Ben fills the kettle and spoons coffee into mugs. ‘I won’t be a minute and we can go and sit down. I should probably get some more stools in here but – well, there’s only me, really.’ God, get a grip, Ben, you sound like a fool, waffling on.

Laura’s eyes pass briefly over the single stool that sits at the breakfast bar. The kitchen is the same size as hers but where hers is homely, old-fashioned – not her taste, but not offensive either – this one is stark, hardly a sign that anyone even lives here. If it weren’t for a few crumbs scattered round the toaster and the kettle on the side, it would look abandoned.

She shuffles her feet on the tiles beneath her wet socks. She’s starting to get cold. She knew Ben lives alone – at least she always assumed so. But other than the fact that he plays poker and went out with Jim for a few drinks from time to time she knows very little else about this man, and she suddenly feels nervous. Only Debbie knows she’s here, and she’s busy with the kids all day. An image shoots into her mind again: a hidden alley, dark grey eyes, being unable to breathe… Oh God, she can’t do this. She’s made a terrible mistake coming here. She has to leave, now.

---