Page 72 of Avenging Devil: Part 1

I wonder what sex would be like with Niran?I’ll never know, and am not even sure if given the chance, I’d want to find out.

Something died within me that day I lost my baby.

I go through the motions of life—going to work, coming home, doing laundry, eating only to keep myself going. I’ve no pleasure in anything anymore.

Call Niran. What does it matter that he’s a biker?

No, the devil on my shoulder replies,he’s Duke in disguise, or if not him, one of his brothers will be.Women are property.Nothing more.

Today is just like any other. I sleep late as I’ve nothing to get up for. I tidy the apartment though it barely needs it, wincing as a cockroach runs across the floor. Perhaps I should look for somewhere better, there’s nothing to save my money for now. The thought brings those never far away tears to my eyes. Just a few short weeks ago, I had a future to look forward to, me and my child. Now there’s nothing, and no one.

Not that I deserve anyone to make my life easier, not after what I’ve done.

Duke’s fault, not mine,I try to tell myself. But I can’t absolve myself of all the responsibility. If I’d been wiser, and never been with Duke at all, any baby of mine would have had a different father.

When I’ve done all that I can to the apartment, which is only the equivalent of polishing a turd, I slump on the couch, and once again my mind relives my history. The ever-present question in the fore of my mind,how was I ever sucked in by Duke?Quickly followed by,will I ever be free of him, or is he still searching for me?

About mid-afternoon, a knock on the door startles me. My heart rate speeds up. I’ve no family and have made no friends who would visit me. Although it’s almost been a month since I last saw him, I’m certain Niran would call, and wouldn’t just turn up at my door.

Or would he?

I’m surprised my heart beats faster, and not just in fear.Could it really be him?

He’d certainly be the least of all evils.

No one knows my address. I didn’t tell work that I’d moved, and I’ve been so terrified in case Duke was tracking me down, I haven’t wanted to get close to anybody for fear that they would learn enough of my story to inadvertently sell me out.

No one brings up my mail, not that I really have any, no one pops in to ask for a cup of sugar or see whether I have spare eggs. In the few months that I’ve lived here, there’s never been anyone knocking—except for that one occasion when the addict came to the wrong floor, something that’s luckily never been repeated.

Except, maybe up to now.It could be a drug dealer out there.

At least it wouldn’t be Duke. He wouldn’t wait to be let in; he’d kick the door down. But he could have sent someone else to check up on me. My recurring nightmare is that it’s only a matter of time before he finds me. I’d be naïve to think he’d give up. I’m still his property, and his wife in the eyes of the law.

When the rapping comes again, overly cautious and silently, not giving away that there’s someone home, I tiptoe toward the door and use the peephole to look out.

It’s a woman. The lines on her face suggest she’s older than me, but attractive in a mature looking way. Her face looks open and friendly. She’s wearing subtly applied makeup, a flowery blouse, and a light jacket over a pair of well-fitting jeans. I’d put her down as someone who might be collecting for charity, but if so, she’s come to the wrong apartment block.

She doesn’t look dangerous in any way, but she’s a complete stranger to me. I’m not in the mood for company and she’ll have nothing I would either want or need.

But as she stands there, alone and vulnerable, I know she’s in danger just by being there and wonder how the hell she doesn’t know. That she’s made it to the fourth floor without being robbed is a miracle. If she knocked on a wrong door, she might get more than she bargained for. I start feeling sorry for her and think I should warn her to get out of here fast. Even a do-gooder should be given a chance.

Another glance out and she’s still there, staring at the door expectantly. While I watch, her expression turns into a frown.

I take a breath. I can tell her to go away politely enough, and if I’m right about her purpose, explain she won’t get any response from my neighbours. Checking the chain is on, I open the door a crack.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she says, as soon as I give her the chance. “But did you lose your purse? Because I’ve just found one with nine dollars in it.”

The password.And she’s got it right. The last contact is etched on my memory, and the amount was eight dollars at that point.

Smothering my gasp, I drop my voice. “Why are you here?”

Equally quiet, she responds, “It’s just a routine check to make sure you’re alright, and no one’s been bothering you. You moved from your original accommodation.”

I suppose it’s not surprising they’d kept tabs on me and found out where I’d gone though I’ve no idea how. I suppose I should have questioned it more, but that password only known by the Freedom Trail literally opened the door.

I do think, clearly, I’m low priority, as my move was more than three months back, so why bother checking up now?

“I’m fine,” I manage to get out without choking on the lie.

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