The council finally got round to evicting the junkies above Frank Wallace’s flat on a bitterly cold January morning. Men wearing masks came and went with black plastic bags and metal cases filled with chemical cleaners. There were rumoured to be needles in every room and inside the kitchen cupboards. Two were found in a cot without a baby inside. It took weeks for the flat to be made habitable again, and once the cleaners had done their job, the council tore down the boards and put in new windows. Mrs. Boyce, Frank’s next-door neighbour, went up to have a nosy. She told Frank that the walls had been whitewashed and the carpet fitters had been in. The flat was ready to welcome a new resident onto the estate.
Joan Carlyle moved in soon after carrying two suitcases, one for her, the other for her fourteen-year-old son, Eric. Mrs Boyce was the first, the only, person to welcome Joan to her new life while she seized the opportunity to pry into her old one. Frank listened through the ceiling to their muffled exchanges. Noticed how the boy’s voice, louder than the others, kept interrupting. Later, Mrs Boyce told Frank that Joan seemed nice and that the poor thing had been rehoused after the boy’s father, an alcoholic and a bastard, had become physically abusive towards her. Naturally, the authorities had become concerned for her safety and found her a flat on an estate in a different city. Frank asked after the boy, and Mrs. Boyce shrugged. He seemed a bit funny. Clingy. But then, if the talk about his father was to be believed, he would be, wouldn’t he?
#
Frank lived alone in Flat 39 on the eighth floor of Grace Manor. There was nothing graceful about the twelve-storey block, and to call it a manor would be like calling beans on toast a gourmet meal. But it had been his home for over forty years now, and up in his flat he felt secure. From the safety of his balcony, he could watch the residents on the estate coming and going, his piercing blue eyes paying attention to the trouble spots. The row of shops. The park. The Crown. He’d watch for runners on BMXs palming baggies to no-marks while the elderly and respectable turned a blind eye and crossed the street.
Frank rarely ventured out anymore, his age and natural bulk confining him to his armchair. He passed the time absently watching people being humiliated on daytime shows while his past slumbered with one eye open. Occasionally he’d snap awake, listening for the bang or siren that woke him. But most times the alert had sounded from somewhere deep within. An image of a victim, the flash of a memory, the cut of a blade.
At times like these when the pictures flickered through his brain like deer bounding through a zoetrope, he’d take his drawing implements from the sideboard and sketch. A therapist had once advised him on the therapeutic benefits of art. Usually, Frank would have balked at the idea, but the doctor was honest, and in him Frank had detected a genuine concern for his patient’s well-being. True to the doctor’s word, the memories were crowded out as his drawings began to take shape, and for a little while Frank was permitted a moment’s calm. The drawings were crude attempts at portraiture and landscape, and he kept them hidden in a drawer in the sideboard. There were two sketches that he admitted to being quietly pleased with, though, and these he’d tacked to the fridge like a proud father displaying his kid’s art homework.
One was a self-portrait. He’d tried to recreate the deep lines in his face using a heavy lead pencil, and had almost succeeded in capturing the past sins that ran through his face like black ink veins. As an experiment, he’d added touches of blue here and there. His eyes, as bright and cold as ever, refused to drop as they stared back at him from the paper. To match them, he’d given his bald and scarred head a blueish tint, as though twilit.
The second drawing was Frank’s favourite: a rendition of the view from the balcony. A not-too-distant cityscape in greys and blacks and whites smudged with grime. And there, reaching up from between the warehouses and factories stood two chimneys, tall and defiant and flicking a two-fingered salute to gentrification and a city made of glass.
Frank didn’t have anybody to show them to and he was glad. Even if he did, he doubted he’d share them anyway. They were his alone. And besides, he’d shared enough of himself with the estate already.
#
For those old enough to know him, Frank was some kind of legend. A man to be feared whose past endeavours had become part of the fabric of the estate. Stories surrounding him echoed off the cladded walls of the high rises. They were told as something to pass the time between cycles in the laundrette. Something to go with your tea in the greasy spoon.
Long afternoons in The Crown were filled with drunken boasts of vague associations. Blurred reminiscences slurred and embellished about the time when this or that happened. Rumours still circled around the whereabouts of Larry O’Sullivan. Larry had given it verbal about how he’d kill anyone who threatened his son, Danny. Danny was a menace and made the lives of the estate’s residents a misery. Frank had warned Larry to take his son in hand before things went too far, but when Danny torched a car with a drunk inside, Larry still chose to defend him. Frank couldn’t blame the old man for that, he was his son after all, but then the drunk had been somebody’s son too. Frank stepped in like a black knight clad in scarred armour, and Danny left the estate the next day.
There were other stories too, like of the time Frank had hit a man so hard his eyeball had popped out of its socket. Some said Frank had yanked it clear, the sight of it dangling there making him feel sick. Then there was the time Samson, a business acquaintance, fell six storeys from the roof of a disused office block. At first it looked like an unlikely suicide, until someone mentioned how they’d seen Sam arguing with Frank the night before. Over what, they couldn’t be sure. The estate filled in the details, and in less than a week the story was rewritten. They built his reputation, story by story, brick by brick, mutating the man into a monster, so that by the time he reached old age, his name was synonymous with death and pain and fear.
He’d never asked for this. Nor had he ever tried to deny it. Frank knew that when age weakened his body and mind, his reputation alone would be more effective than any weapon. If most stories of him were half-truths, then the truth held enough weight to confirm one thing: Frank Wallace was a man to be feared.
#
From time to time, Frank would see Joan Carlyle at the shop where he bought his morning newspaper. They exchanged curt greetings and nothing more, though if either of them had the inclination, they could have opened a conversation. Since she’d moved in two months previous, Joan seemed to spend a lot of time at the shop, and she was always buying sweets with everything. Sometimes Eric was with her, sometimes she was alone, but still, she’d buy sweets with everything.
Frank heard about Joan and Eric from Mrs Boyce, who gladly shared whatever titbits she’d found. She told him how Mrs Carlyle seemed troubled and evasive whenever she asked after her son. Frank, never harbouring paternal feelings, or even the need for a partner for fear of retribution against his family, was surprised then when he found himself taking a passing interest in Eric’s well-being. The boy didn’t look healthy. He was overweight and never seemed to hang out with the other kids. Nor did he attend school as much as he should have. He was always coming down with some kind of bug or sickness to keep him indoors.
Eric was big for his age. Big in voice, height, and girth, and as the weeks turned to months and the months passed by, he grew heavier and his voice grew deeper. When he was having one of the frequent tantrums that defied his teenage years, his footfalls would pound through Frank’s ceiling, causing the old man’s head to prickle. Sometimes he’d hear Joan crying. Sometimes Eric. Sometimes both together. The tower blocks were built for maximum capacity, not privacy, and when Frank heard the things Eric called Joan, he struggled to maintain control. Certain words should never be spoken aloud with a woman present and to address your own mother in such a way was unthinkable. But Frank remained steadfast, reminding himself that to get involved would be to be involved until things changed. He didn’t trust himself to go up there. Best to leave well enough alone.
#
Twice a week, Frank took the bus into the city to sit and feed the pigeons in Piccadilly Gardens. It was a routine he kept since Joan had moved in. He sat on an iron bench and carefully unwrapped the sandwiches he’d prepared earlier. He ate slowly as the pigeons gathered boldly at his feet. He talked to them, crumbling bread crumbs on the ground.
‘Eric seems to be getting worse,’ he said. ‘The boy needs taking in hand.’
He bit into his sandwich, his jaw moving in languid circular motions as he chewed over what he was about to say next.
‘I’d rather see to it myself. No drama, mind. Just a quiet word or two.’
A flock of sparrows alighted a tree, the bright morning sun casting their shadows across the ground.
‘No drama, fellas,’ he told the pigeons. ‘I promise.’
Promises. What did pigeons know about promises. All they did was coo.
#
Frank caught a bus back to the estate and walked into his block to see that the lift, broken down for weeks now, had finally been repaired. He stepped inside, noticing a dark line of piss running down to a puddle beneath the buttons. Some of the buttons, including the one for his floor, were wet. He spat into the water and climbed the stairs.
In the kitchen, he brewed a pot of tea, collected his drawing things from the sideboard and took them out onto the balcony. He took his place at a small fold-out table and laid out his station. The drawing pad, the wooden cigar box with the sharpener and eraser inside, and the pencils in their tin. The gilt lettering of the manufacturer’s logo caught the light from the sun. He poured a cup and added milk and sugar, enjoying the ritual.
The view was so familiar he barely needed to look up to see his subject. The two opposing towers, mockingly named Eden House and The Gardens, framed the estate like sentinels, guarding the park and the square below and keeping the residents in check. He sketched the finer details of plane trees, Peugeots and flat-bed vans. The city beyond hummed and, from this distance at least, appeared still. A light rain began to mist the view and he chose a lighter pencil to draw lines slanting across the foreground. He didn’t stop drawing until he heard Joan and Eric talking from the landing above. They’d arrived home and he heard Eric say he was hungry. Joan said she’d prepare him something straight away, and Eric said she’d better.
Frank moved inside to sit and watch TV. He added the sketch he made to the others in the drawer. They were all one and the same, the estate stuck in a time capsule and left to be while the cranes went about improving the city for the commuters.
It didn’t take long for the drama to start.
First, Joan’s voice calling Eric to lunch. Then a door slamming, the footfalls and the swearing. Eric swore at his mother and the world, stomping around and spreading himself over every inch of Frank’s ceiling. When Joan pleaded for her son to calm down, something broke in Frank and his restraint snapped like a tendon. He heaved himself out of the chair and left the flat. When he reached the Carlyle’s door, he drew a breath and gave three short raps on the frosted glass. His signet ring made a sharp cracking sound. He stepped back, hands balled into fists at his sides. He noticed a small chip in the glass. He hadn’t meant to knock so hard.
He waited for an answer, but none came. Only the silence he’d demanded without uttering a word. He thought he might’ve seen a shadow pass on the other side of the glass. Whether Joan or Eric, he wasn’t sure, but whoever it was chose to stay inside.
Back in his flat, Frank listened to the soft sounds of feet moving and the occasional murmured aside. He found a western on Channel 5 and watched Randolph Scott do his thing. Silently, he dared the boy to interrupt his peace. For all Eric’s faults, he at least appeared to have the good sense to heed Frank’s warning.
#
Over the ensuing months, Eric’s good sense fell away by degrees. Seasons out of joint brought a cold snap when least expected, followed by rising heat to thaw the frost and tempers of men. Meanwhile, Eric stayed busy stamping out his claim on his mother’s floor and Frank’s ceiling. He had grown and ballooned, and by the age of fifteen he could’ve been mistaken for an adult, though his temperament remained as childish as an infant’s.
Whenever Frank saw Eric walking ahead of his mum in the street, he nodded to the boy and said hello to Joan. If Joan returned the greeting, Eric turned and told her to hurry. He needed to get back home to use the toilet. Frank always thought it would be better if Joan bought him nappies instead of the sweets he was always eating. Frank wondered about E numbers, about lack of a father-figure, about mothering, and smothering.
Smother him.
He shook the thoughts loose from his head. Allowed them to sprinkle like fragments of broken glass, ready to be swallowed.
#
What Frank detested most about old age were the reminders of his own mortality. He’d become light-headed whenever he pushed himself out of his armchair. He needed to steady himself on the furniture more than he used to. On the odd occasion when he’d frequent The Crown, his stride wasn’t as assured as it once was. Nevertheless, his regular spot at the bar always remained vacant for him, and if there was somebody sitting there, they’d move without him having to say a word.
In The Crown, lads gathered around the pool table. Between shots they boasted about who they were going to kill or fuck or both. They made frequent trips to the toilet and came back looking edgier than before. Their language became coarser as their boasts got louder.
One of the lads kept looking over at Frank. Frank knew his face and he knew his name was Mark. He’d always made a point of being able to put a name to a face. That way, if anybody did come for him, he’d know who was going to pay. Mark was related in some way to the O’Sullivan family. He was too young to be a first cousin to Danny, maybe a second or third. Ongoing generations tended to stick around on the estate, their bloodlines running through the concrete and the iron, the graffiti on the stairwells and the washing hung out to dry.
Frank left The Crown early. Before age caught up with him, he’d stay until gone dark, but lately he’d begun to feel uneasy if he stayed out too late.
He sensed that some of the lads had followed him out of the pub before he saw them. He trained his ears to hear two other voices along with Mark’s, and reckoned there were three of them. Maybe four if there was a quiet one, which there usually was. The one who lacked the confidence and experience and so had more to prove. After the leader of the pack, they were the ones to watch out for.
As Frank stepped into the lift, he turned to see them. Four, as he had guessed. As the doors slid closed, three moved towards the stairs, while Mark headed towards the lift.
Frank stepped out on the eighth floor and walked the landing towards his flat. The three lads emerged from the stairwell at the opposite end. Looking out of breath, they reached his flat before him and leaned with their backs on the balustrade outside his door. He heard the grinding of the lift’s mechanisms at his back. The leader, Mark, had chosen to make his entrance alone. Frank knew he’d done this for effect. It was the kind of thing he would’ve done himself at that age.
As Frank approached the three, one of them moved and leaned against the wall beside Frank’s door, attempting to scare him. Frank slowed his pace deliberately so Mark could catch up. He heard the lift doors open and turned to meet him half-way.
He’d already decided not to say anything.
Mark opened his arms out wide.
‘Frank fucking Wallace,’ he said, a grin spreading across his face.
The mention of his name, both mocking and revered, spurred something inside of Frank. He gripped the prick by the throat with his right hand. With his left he held Mark’s right arm down by his side, felt a dull thump at the side of his head, but little pain. The lad had managed to get a shot in. Frank couldn’t allow him another. He swung Mark’s weight to the right, holding him high enough so that the small of his back connected with the top of the rail. Mark’s upper body weight threw him over and Frank let go. Before he could fall, Frank gripped him by the legs and pulled Mark towards him. Mark was now bent at the knees on the railing, his shins either side of Frank’s body, the rest of him upside down in space.
The other three started to run towards Frank.
‘Take one more step and I drop him,’ Frank said.
They stopped to listen while Frank told them what to do next. Once he’d seen them leave the tower block, he told them, he’d let their friend live. They did as they were told.
In the minute it took them to tumble down the stairs and outside, a small group had gathered below. The three lads, gone from accomplices to spectators without even knowing how it had happened, became nothing more than faces in a crowd.
Frank pulled Mark back over the railing and refastened his grip on his throat. The lad didn’t look scared as Frank expected him to. He didn’t drop his stare and his breathing came in long, even breaths. After what seemed like a long time, Frank released his grip and stepped back, giving him free passage.
Mark spat at Frank’s feet, said, ‘Okay, then,’ and took his time walking back to the lift. He pushed the button and waited, whistling a tune. Frank watched him enter the lift and leave the building. Below, Mark walked through the small crowd, head held high, before disappearing into the estate with the other three following at a safe distance.
Inside his flat, Frank locked the door with shaking hands and walked into the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and sat on the edge of the bath. He thought about how he might do to Mark some of the things they said he did to Danny O’Sullivan. Might even do some of the things he actually did.
The bathroom light exposed the memories, reflecting them back at him from the tiles and porcelain. He reached a clumsy hand toward the light chord and pulled down hard.
#
Now the estate had another Frank Wallace story to tell. Another lump of clay to add to the mass. Yet the story that Jim Duncan delivered to Frank was different to how they used to tell them.
Jim was as old as Frank, but leaner and with a face that held its youth. He’d spent most his life working out, toning his wiry body in the hope that his hard work would one day pay off and he’d be able to match Frank’s muscle. When that failed, he resigned himself to the fact that some men are stronger than others, and compensated for it by instilling fear through ever inventive ways of torturing people.
Frank didn’t invite him in fully. Instead, they stood in the hall while Eric made his presence felt above their heads in a series of shouts and thumps.
‘That Mark cunt’s been mouthing off,’ Jim said. ‘Saying you got lucky.’
Thump.
‘That you were scared.’
Thump.
Frank shrugged. He didn’t need to justify himself to anybody.
Thump. Thump.
Jim looked up at the ceiling. ‘What’s all that fucking banging about?’
‘Just the kid upstairs,’ Frank said. ‘He’s always like that.’
‘Well, you ought to sort him out then,’ Jim said.
He eyed Frank, probably wondering why he hadn’t done it already. When Frank didn’t say anything, Jim coughed into his fist.
‘Right. Maybe steer clear of The Crown for a bit, Frank. And sort that fucking kid out. That’d do my head in.’
Jim offered his hand and Frank shook it.
He watched his old friend walk down the landing and disappear around the corner, taking the past with him.
#
When Frank wasn’t switching channels on the TV, he’d tune the radio into a classical music station. The music served as a soothing accompaniment to his sketching. Of late, he’d realised a talent for portraiture. They were in no way perfect, but that’s what made them unique. He liked to copy faces from magazines. They looked unnatural to him. Too clean, too flawless. He put back the flaws they’d worked so hard to keep hidden, and whenever he came across a picture of a face scarred and weathered with age, he returned the gift of a life of hard work by removing the flaws and breathing new life into them. He relished the control he had over who he wanted them to be.
These were the moments of calm when he didn’t notice the passage of time. When he hardly heard the noise from above, only the scratch of pencil on paper, the ticking of the clock, and the music playing softly in the background.
When his eyes grew tired and the lines began to jump on the page, he put the materials away. He boiled the kettle, blocking out the music on the radio but not the thumping from above. He poured the water into the cup and observed the water darkening as the teabag stewed. He poured the milk and sugar, stirred, and dropped the teabag onto the empty food cartons in the bin. It made a soft wet splat.
Taking his tea into the living-room, he steadily lowered himself into the armchair. The noise from above had quietened down to the occasional slam of a cupboard door. Frank knew Eric was looking for food to take back to his room. He could trace the boy’s patterns by his movements.
Then, there was the sound of something breaking. Joan’s footsteps, so much lighter than her son’s, scurried along the ceiling. There followed a tirade from Eric wherein he blamed his mother for his own clumsiness. As he shouted and swore not a word of response was given in return. There was a second smash followed by the slamming of another cupboard door.
As Eric began a second onslaught, Frank let go a sound that came from somewhere deep inside his gut. It sounded like the past resurfacing, a half-scream spewing out something akin to a swear word but not fully formed. It was louder than anything the boy could compete with.
‘Shutdafuuaaaack!’
The noise above ceased as if muted by remote control.
In the aftermath, Frank could hear the music on the radio from somewhere under water. The ticking of the clock, however, was sharp, as though issuing from somewhere inside his skull. The seconds struggled to keep time with Frank’s heart. Fragments of a broken cup were scattered along the skirting board, though he couldn’t remember throwing it, and there was a tea stain on the wall.
He drew a long breath. When he let it out again, it came out jerky and ragged, several shorter breaths instead of one. He sat immobile until the light faded from outside and shadows crept along the walls. He reached over and clicked off the radio. There had already been too much noise for one night.
#
The police eventually did what Frank couldn’t trust himself to. They answered a call from Mrs Boyce and checked on the Carlyle home. Frank stood outside his front door to better hear what was being said. The policeman spoke with authoritative concern. Joan answered his questions softly, politely. Eric’s was there too, interjecting with remarks that Frank couldn’t hear but which made the policeman laugh. Soon, all three were laughing together, and the policeman went away satisfied.
#
The lift in Grace Manor had broken down again. A sign taped to the doors said it was undergoing maintenance, but Frank hadn’t seen anyone trying to fix it since the sign had appeared four days ago.
The stairs weren’t getting any easier to climb. By the fifth floor, Frank had to stop to catch his breath. That was when he saw Joan coming down the other way.
He felt a need to say something more than his usual hello, but she averted her eyes and held her head at a peculiar angle, saying hello without fully facing him or breaking stride. Frank caught a glimpse of a bruise beneath her left eye. At the corner of her mouth a scab had formed where her lip had split.
He looked over the railing and watched as she descended the floors.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Gone.
#
The week that followed brought a bright spell, and Frank spent more of his time sitting on his balcony. Every morning he’d observe Joan leaving Grace Manor at 8am and returning, on the dot, at 3pm. He didn’t know what it was she did for a living, but he imagined a job that offered a little respite from her home-life. Maybe a cleaning job or a stint working in a café, or both combined. He couldn’t, however, imagine her mixing with her co-workers after work or engaging with customers. He couldn’t imagine her doing anything but cowering from the world.
Frank had a good memory for faces. While his other faculties seemed to be failing him, his mind remained as sharp as a knife. He sketched a portrait of Joan, relying on his memory to aid him. Having never seen her smile, he had to reimagine her the way she might have looked if life had been kinder to her. He tried to give her back the grace and integrity that Eric had so cruelly taken away.
Frank held the sketch at arm’s length. He rarely applied colour to his sketches, but here he chose a light yellow, with darker shades of red and orange to give the bone structure definition, her face a sun rising from the shadows which threatened to engulf her from the edges of the page.
He folded the drawing in two and slipped it inside an envelope and sealed it. On the envelope he wrote Joan Carlyle. He’d post the envelope once Joan had left for work the next morning. He hoped Eric didn’t get to it before she did, confident that the boy would only rise from his pit when he heard his mum getting home from work. Frank was ashamed of himself for having to sneak around the boy, and for a moment he knew how it must’ve felt to be the boy’s mother. Defiantly, he thought about going upstairs and handing it to her in person. Then he fought the urge to tear the drawing into pieces and forget the gesture altogether. But then if it made her happy, even for a moment, he could tell himself he wasn’t all bad. Hell, he might even have believed it.
He placed the envelope on the table, switched out the lights and retired to bed.
#
The next morning, Frank dressed early and waited for Joan to leave for work. He knew her routine and how quietly she carried it out, so as not to disturb Eric’s sleep. The water in the pipes told him she was washing, the sound of drawers sliding told him she was dressing. He never heard any sounds from above his kitchen, nor did he ever hear the front door close behind her. To make too much noise was risky. He supposed she must’ve eaten something once she was at work or not at all. He looked over the balcony rail and waited for her to appear. She fast walked across the estate and out onto the main road, where she boarded a bus.
Frank took the envelope and climbed the flight of stairs. He posted it through Joan’s door, holding the flap of the letterbox steady with a thumb and closing it carefully afterwards.
Back in his flat, he poured himself a bowl of Corn Flakes and ate while watching people on TV dashing around a supermarket for prizes. They used to show old films on TV in the morning, sometimes Laurel and Hardy shorts, and Frank tried to remember when they stopped showing them. He stared blankly at the screen and watched the clock. He wanted to be out of the flat before Joan arrived home from work.
At some point during the morning news, Frank must have drifted into sleep. This had become a habit recently, and not one he cared for. The morning was his favourite time of the day, when he’d catch a few hours peace before Eric hauled himself out of bed.
The sound of somebody gently flipping the letterbox woke him. At first, he thought it was the post arriving, but when he looked up at the clock, he saw that it was five-past-three in the afternoon. He’d slept too long. Damn his fatigue. Damn his body.
Then, he heard Joan’s voice, almost at a whisper.
‘Mr Wallace. Are you in there?’
It took Frank a moment to gather his senses. He switched off the TV.
‘Can you answer the door, Mr Wallace? It’s me, Mrs Carlyle from upstairs.’
Frank didn’t move from his spot on the couch. If he didn’t move, maybe she’d think he’d gone out and leave him alone.
There was a pause, and then Joan said, ‘I just wanted to thank you for the picture, Mr Wallace. That’s all.’
Frank listened as she carefully closed the letterbox. He listened to her footsteps receding down the landing and pictured her, stooping, light-footed on the balls of her feet, scurrying like a mouse, not wanting to alert attention to herself. A coward, but still braver than he was. A man who hid from a woman as well as himself and dared speak only to pigeons.
Once he was sure the coast was clear, he decided he could still make use of the day. He could take the bus into town and be home by dusk.
Standing at the kitchen counter, he made a sandwich and a flask of tea and listened to the sound of a radio from above. He thought he could hear Joan singing along, but he couldn’t be sure. Yet if she was, this new sunny side to her didn’t make him feel good that he’d played a part in it. Instead, he couldn’t help feeling a certain sense of dread. Dread at what might become of her. Dread at what might become of her daring to show happiness.
He shrugged into his overcoat and left the flat. If he’d waited a few moments longer, he would have heard the bedsprings creak as Eric rose from his slumber.
#
When Frank stepped off the bus at Piccadilly, a woman of indeterminate age asked him for some change. Her jaw was tight, her eyes sunk deep inside their sockets. She started to tell him how she needed train fare to get home. Before she got a chance to tell him her story, he handed her a pound coin and moved past her. She shouted her thanks and when he turned, he saw her approaching somebody else with the same rap.
In the gardens he told the pigeons about the drawing he’d made for Joan. While he spoke, he fed them from a plastic tray filled with six jam tarts. He took a bite of each before he scattered the remains over their feathers and between their toes. Three of the tarts were yellow and the other three were red, but they all tasted the same.
‘Fellas, I think I’ve made a mistake,’ he said. ‘I think I might have done a bad thing.’
The pigeons pecked and fought. Frank noticed that one of them had a foot missing. He dropped the last of the tarts onto the ground. The pigeons fell onto the food and over each other.
#
By the time Frank arrived home, dusk had already settled over the estate. He didn’t like to admit to feeling vulnerable, but there it was all the same. Still, he refused to quicken his step as he walked towards his block.
A sign on the wall beside the lift informed him that the lift had been repaired. He pressed the button for his floor without looking for too long at what was smeared on the panel.
In the hall, he changed out of his shoes and into his slippers. His footsteps whispered along the carpet into the living-room where he sat down in his armchair and stared at the blank TV screen. A voice inside his head told him he needed to listen out for something, but he wasn’t sure what it was exactly he should be listening out for.
It was too quiet upstairs. Something wasn’t right.
The first sound from above was high pitched and mechanical. It sounded electric and urgent. The sound continued for too long for Frank not to ignore it. He followed the sound into the kitchen and looked up at the ceiling. If he looked hard enough, he might have been able to see what was making the sound. But all he could see was a moth batting at the light bulb and a crack in the plaster.
The sound slowly wound down before stopping altogether. Heavy footsteps moved along the ceiling and Frank followed them into the living-room. There followed two loud cracks then, the slap of flesh on flesh, bone on bone, then the footsteps moved back toward the kitchen where the high-pitched sound resumed its electric whine.
A force pulled Frank towards the door and out onto the landing. On the stairwell he took the stairs two at a time. At the door of the Carlyle’s flat, he tried the handle. It was locked. He aimed a blow at the chip he’d made in the glass. His signet ring connected, and the glass shattered. He reached inside to unlock the door.
Inside, the high-pitched whine was louder than he expected. It met him half-way as he walked up the hall and into the living-room.
He saw Joan first, sitting on the couch, her face bloodied. He couldn’t tell for sure if she had seen him enter the room. There was a flicker in her eyes, but that was all. She looked to be in a state of shock. In her lap was the drawing Frank had made. It had been torn in two.
From the other side of the kitchen door, the sound continued. Then, as before, it slowed to a stop.
Slowly, Frank pushed the door open. He saw Eric standing before a small table, on top of which sat a white plastic bowl. Eric was dressed only in green underpants. In his hand he held an electric whisk and was licking chocolate mix off the still blades.
Frank squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight. He hoped that in doing so he’d be able to block out the rage that was beginning to build inside of him. But the rage did the only thing it knew how. It grew and grew and in seconds it had consumed him.
He felt a clump of the boy’s thick hair in his fist, then he heard the whine of the blades as they commenced spinning. He felt the judder of the whisk in his hand as the blades connected with flesh, lacerating lips and severing tongue. He heard the clatter of metal on teeth and felt the spatter of blood and chocolate as it hit his face.
All these thoughts appeared as real as the memories from the past.
Frank opened his eyes. He saw a boy scared and shrinking back against the counter top. A dark stain had spread across the front of his underpants. Urine, yellow and acrid, ran down the insides of his thick thighs.
Eric said, ‘I’m sorry. Don’t.’
Frank said, ‘Heh.’
He left the kitchen and closed the door behind him. He helped Joan off the couch and escorted her from the flat. As they descended the stairs, her legs almost gave from under her, but Frank found the strength to hold her upright. He knocked on Mrs Boyce’s door, not saying anything when she answered, just handing over Joan like a parcel left on his doorstep.
Once inside his flat, Frank let his body succumb to the shakes that worked their way up from his legs and across his shoulders. When he turned to close the door, he realised that he’d left it ajar. Leaving the flat in his haste, he hadn’t closed it properly. He locked the door behind him and stood leaning with his back against it and waited for the shakes to subside. He regained his composure and walked slowly down the hall on unsteady legs.
In the living-room, he found Mark sitting in his armchair. He was smiling and holding a screwdriver in his lap. The screwdriver had a cross-tip filed to a point. The three other lads had spread themselves around the room. He knew they’d be back, but he hadn’t expected them so soon.
When they came for him, Frank did his best to fight them off, but his best wasn’t good enough anymore. The screwdriver entered his throat and he knew the fight was lost.
He folded into himself and down onto the floor. The lads stepped over his body, leaving him to die alone as the blood soaked into the carpet.
He thought about Joan Carlyle and hoped Eric realised how close he’d come.
Frank closed his eyes and let the sleep take hold.
THE END