Matt Wilven

The front door slammed and Patricia’s spine straightened with a spasm. She put down her magazine and got up to investigate. Her fourteen year old son was bending over in the hallway with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Steven? Why aren’t you at school? Where’s your uniform?”

He glanced up at his mother and looked back down at the floor. He took a couple more breaths and stood up straight.

“You’ve got blood on you.”

Steven looked down at his T-shirt.

“It’s fine, Mum.”

“How’s that fine?”

“It just is.”

As he brushed past her there was an aggressive knock on the front door. Steven ran upstairs.

“Don’t let him in,” he called. “I’m not here.”

“Let who in?”

Steven rushed into his bedroom. There was a clatter downstairs as the front door swung back and knocked the vase off the hallway table.

“Get out of my house,” Patricia cried. “He’s not here!”

Steven climbed up onto his desk. He could hear scurrying around in the kitchen and then heavy footsteps on the stairs. He pushed the wooden panel in the ceiling up and aside and pulled himself up into the attic. As he went to put the wooden panel back in its place he saw the top of a black hat with a silver badge on it. A policeman looked up, red-faced and sweating.

“Oi!”

Steven slammed the wooden panel down and quickly grabbed an old box of vinyl records and dumped them on top of it. There was a scratching sound, then a thud. The panel and the box of vinyl jerked and lifted an inch. The policeman released a muffled grunt of pain from below. Steven dragged more things over: a plastic Christmas tree, a mouldy suitcase full of old clothes, a box of old magazines. The policeman had another attempt at barging in but the wooden panel didn’t budge.

“You have to come down at some point,” he called.

“What the hell have you gone and done now?” his mother cried.

Steven wasn’t listening. He knew something they didn’t: the attics in this terrace weren’t completely sealed off from one another. A skinny lad like him could climb the frame of the roof, slip between the dividing wall and the roof beam and get into the next house’s attic. Number sixteen and number thirty both had loft conversations and those houses were properly sealed off but he could move freely between those two points. He had been doing it for years.

He climbed up and over and snuck through Mrs Croft’s attic. There was no floor in this one and no light, just beams of wood and clumps of insulation between. A stale, ashy smell tainted the air; she was a chain smoker. Steven had crept down into her house and stolen cigarettes on a number of occasions. He crawled forward in the dark with his hands down, grabbing beam after beam. He got a thick splinter in his palm but soon made it to the other side.

The next attic was the Patel’s, whose chocolate biscuits he was fond of. Their attic was neat and orderly. The light switches and electrical sockets were in good condition. The floor was panelled and there were boxes neatly stacked to one side. There was an old crib and a pram in one corner, and some furniture dismantled and stacked against the wall. One of the boxes was full of embroidered silk shawls from when Mrs Patel used to wear a head scarf. Steven knew the path was clear. He stooped over, with his hand out in front of him and shuffled through the dark to the far wall.

Mr Gouthwaite’s attic was musty. There was a small hole in the roof that he didn’t know about. Pigeons and rain had got in. Just enough light came through for Steven to see. Mr Gouthwaite was an old man who had a nurse who came to see him twice a day. One time Steven had gone down and stolen a half-bottle of whiskey and £2.34 off the mantelpiece but after a couple of times he stopped going back. The old man’s house smelt of urine and mould. Things that came out of there seemed tainted with it.

The next attic was Steven’s final destination, Ms McCullers’ house; once his primary school teacher and now the proprietor of his favourite underwear drawer. Her attic was almost bare. There were a few boxes of files, old curriculums and lesson plans, and a small box of Christmas decorations, all clustered around the hatch; nothing else.

Steven lifted her panel, lowered himself onto the landing and walked through to the bedroom, as he always did. He peered out of the window. A police car was pulling up outside his house. Out of habit, he walked over and opened the underwear drawer. He fingered a silky two-toned bra, beige and red, and then the matching French knickers. He brought them up to his face and took a sniff – floral washing powder, gardenia, but also a faint sour tang; woman.

There was a cough behind him.

“Who’s there?” a sleepy voice asked.

Steven froze. He had not even glanced at the bed on his way to the window. If he turned she would know his face. He could bolt out of the house but he knew his chances of evading the police were better if he stayed indoors. He put the knickers back and slowly closed the drawer.

“Who is that? Steven? Is that you?”

Steven turned around and put his hand in his pocket, resting the weight of his penknife on his loose fingers.

“Alright, Miss. What you doing home?”

Ms McCullers had a coughing fit and sat up. Her hair was a mess. Her nose was red. She reached for a glass of water on her bedside table and took a sip.

“Steven? What are you doing here?”

“Nothing. Really. It would be best if you just went back to sleep.”

Steven stared at the skin of her arms and shoulders, and the frilly little straps on her peach nightie.

“Is that blood?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

He took a step towards her and gripped his penknife firmly. The splinter in his palm edged deeper into his skin. Ms McCullers put her glass of water down, lifted the duvet higher, over her shoulders, and coughed again.

“You ill?”

“It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one who goes through my things.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I thought I was going mad.”

Ms McCullers glanced down at her mobile phone on the bedside table. Steven followed her eyes, took a quick step forward and swiftly grabbed the phone.

“What are you doing?” she asked, startled by his sudden movement.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“I live here. It’s my home.”

Steven put her phone in his pocket and walked over to the window. There were two police cars parked up outside his house now. He turned back towards the bed.

“Why aren’t you at school?” he asked.

“I don’t understand. What's going on? Why are you here?”

Steven pulled his hands out of his pockets.

“You’re supposed to be at school.”

"So are you," she said.

Steven sat down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. He could smell menthol and eucalyptus – the vapour rub on Ms McCullers' chest.

“I always liked you. You were always nice to us.”

“What is it, Steven? What’s going on?”

She put her hand on his back. Steven released a deep, sad sigh. His shoulders began juddering. The warmth from her palm spread through his chest. All of a sudden, he turned, wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her bosom and started crying. Ms McCullers thought about it for a moment and then put her arms gently around him. His tears mixed with the vapour rub on her chest, forming a sticky film between his cheek and her breast. The wetness reinvigorated the smell. His arms were tight around her. His hands were on her bare upper back.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay.”

Steven cried himself out. When he settled down he remained where he was, still, staring down at a scrunched up tissue by the pillow. He could hear Ms McCullers’ heart beating behind her skin and ribcage. He could feel the warmth of her fever on his face. His left arm held on to her tightly, his right hand began to roam.

“Steven. What are you doing? Get off. Steven.”

She pushed him away. He landed on the floor on his side but sprung back to his feet in an instant, his knife unfolded in his hand, poised.

“What are you doing?”

He could not hear her. He took a step forward.

“Steven? I don’t know what’s happening with you today but you’re about to make things a whole lot worse. Do you hear me?”

His eyes were piercing her flesh. The blade stood erect, protruding from in his fist. He edged closer.

“Put that knife away this instant.”

Steven’s ferocity cowered, empathy came back into his eyes. He stopped, folded his knife away and put it back in his pocket. The force Ms McCullers had put into her voice made her have another coughing fit. Steven waited, his bottom lip twitching. He wiped the sticky film from his cheek with the back of his wrist.

“Please,” she said, regaining her ability to speak. “Let me help you. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I wasn’t going to stab you, Miss.”

“I know you weren’t.”

“I swear. I just don’t know what I’m doing today.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“I can’t.”

“Just try.”

“I can’t.”

“Okay, Steven. That’s okay.”

Steven began picking at the splinter in his hand, looking down, occasionally sniffing up through his nose.

“Tell me, why do you come here, to my house?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can tell me. You won’t get in any trouble.”

“I like it here.”

His picking at the splinter smarted. He breathed in through his teeth.

“What is it? Let me see.”

He showed her the palm of his hand.

“A splinter?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a big one. Come here. Sit down.”

He did as he was told.

“Give me your hand.”

Ms McCullers grabbed the boy’s hand. Her chest was trembling but she kept the fear out of her fingers. She nudged the end of the splinter this way and that between her thumbnails, trying to make it pop up. His hand was cold and bony. The slither of wood was stubborn. She wasn’t even sure she was nudging the right end. It seemed to be disappearing deeper into his skin.

“Fetch me my tweezers,” she said.

Steven stood up and walked over to her dressing table. She was about to instruct him as to their whereabouts but he knew exactly where they were. She repressed a shudder and attempted a smile as he walked back towards her. He passed her them and sat down again.

“Hand,” she instructed.

He passed her his hand. She plucked at the skin of his palm, trying to make a tiny break. As nerve endings snapped in his skin, Steven bared his lower teeth and looked away. A clear liquid began to ooze out, then a crimson one. Ms McCullers grabbed her used tissue, dabbed the spot of blood and carried on. She widened the tiny wound and the tip of the splinter popped up. She tweezed it out, slowly, with care, and dabbed the spot of blood again.

“There. All done.”

Steven looked at the palm of his hand.

“Thanks.”

“Here. Have a look.”

She passed him the tweezers with the splinter clutched between its tiny pincers. He took it from her, making sure the pincers remained shut, and brought it up to his face.

“Is that it?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“I’m sorry, Miss, about before.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’ll go soon.”

“You can stay as long as you need to.”

Steven remained sitting there for hours. The sun set and the amber street lights came on. He checked the window a number of times; whenever a car drove by. The street became increasingly quiet and still. Ms McCullers began to doze. The boy was there, sitting on the edge of her bed, contemplating something; a figure, a silhouette; less of a real thing each time she stirred. Then, finally, he was gone. Her mobile phone was back on the bedside table. The house was empty. Shivering with fever, she pulled the duvet tight around her; trying to lose herself, trying to forget that cold, bony hand.