Into the Darkest Corner Read Online Free
know for sure who I’m traveling with.
Tonight I took a while to decide which way to go home. Every day I take different routes on the Tube, getting off a stop later or a stop earlier, walking a mile or so, then onto a bus, or back onto the Tube.
Usually I walk the last mile, taking different streets. It’s been two years since I moved here from Lancaster, and already I know the London Transport system as well as a native. It takes a long time and it wears me out, but it’s not as though I have to rush home. And it’s safer.
Once I got off the bus at Steward Gardens my walk home was punctuated by fireworks, the smell of them sour in the cold, damp air. I walked across High Street, skirting the edge of the park. Doubled back down Lorimer Road. Through the alleyway—I hate the alleyway, but at least it’s well lit—and back behind the garages. I checked over the wall—the light was on in my dining room, the curtains half-closed. I counted the sixteen panes, eight on each door, which showed up as yellow rectangles, with neat edges where the curtains fell straight down on either side. No extra bits of light showed through. No one had touched the curtains while I’d been away from the flat. I repeated this over and over again as I kept on walking. The flat is safe, nobody has been in there.
At the end of the alleyway, a sharp turn left and I was nearly home—Talbot Street. I resisted the urge to walk to the end of the street at least once before turning back; tonight I managed to get inside at the first attempt. I looked back while turning the key, which had been held ready in my hand since I got off the bus. The front door locked behind me. I felt around the edges of the door, checking it was flush against the doorframe, careful not to miss any bump that might indicate that the door wasn’t properly shut. I checked it six times, counting each time: one, two, three, four, five, six. I turned the doorknob, six times.
Right on cue, Mrs. Mackenzie opened the door of the downstairs flat, Flat 1.
“Coo-ee, Cathy! How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, giving her my best smile. “You?”
She nodded and regarded me, her head to one side, for a moment as she usually does and then went back inside. I could hear her television turned up to full volume the way it always is. The evening news. She does this every evening. She’s never once asked me what I’m doing.
I went back to the checking, wondering if she does it on purpose, to interrupt me, knowing I’ll have to start again from scratch. I’m all right as long as I don’t get stuck. Sometimes I do. So—the doorframe, the doorknob—do it properly, Cathy. Don’t fuck it up or we’ll be here all goddamn night.
At last I finished checking the front door. Then up the stairs. Checked to the top of the staircase. Listened to the stillness in the house, the noise of a siren a few streets away, the television on in the flat downstairs. More fireworks, going off a long way away. A scream from somewhere out in the street made me catch my breath, but then soon after a man’s voice, a female laughing, reproachful.
I unlocked my front door, looked behind me at the staircase again, then took one step inside, closed the door, locked it. Bolt at the bottom, chain in the middle, deadlock at the top. Listened at the door. Nothing at all from the other side. Looked through the peephole. Nobody there; just the stairs, the landing, the light overhead. I ran my fingers around the doorframe, turned the door handle six times one way, six times the other way. One, two, three, four, five, six. The bolts held the door shut. I turned the Yale lock six times. I slid each bolt six times and back again, each time turning the doorknob six times. When I’d done all that, I could start on the rest of the flat.
The first thing I did was to check all the windows, and close the curtains, going around the flat in the same order. First the front window onto the street. All the
Tonight I took a while to decide which way to go home. Every day I take different routes on the Tube, getting off a stop later or a stop earlier, walking a mile or so, then onto a bus, or back onto the Tube.
Usually I walk the last mile, taking different streets. It’s been two years since I moved here from Lancaster, and already I know the London Transport system as well as a native. It takes a long time and it wears me out, but it’s not as though I have to rush home. And it’s safer.
Once I got off the bus at Steward Gardens my walk home was punctuated by fireworks, the smell of them sour in the cold, damp air. I walked across High Street, skirting the edge of the park. Doubled back down Lorimer Road. Through the alleyway—I hate the alleyway, but at least it’s well lit—and back behind the garages. I checked over the wall—the light was on in my dining room, the curtains half-closed. I counted the sixteen panes, eight on each door, which showed up as yellow rectangles, with neat edges where the curtains fell straight down on either side. No extra bits of light showed through. No one had touched the curtains while I’d been away from the flat. I repeated this over and over again as I kept on walking. The flat is safe, nobody has been in there.
At the end of the alleyway, a sharp turn left and I was nearly home—Talbot Street. I resisted the urge to walk to the end of the street at least once before turning back; tonight I managed to get inside at the first attempt. I looked back while turning the key, which had been held ready in my hand since I got off the bus. The front door locked behind me. I felt around the edges of the door, checking it was flush against the doorframe, careful not to miss any bump that might indicate that the door wasn’t properly shut. I checked it six times, counting each time: one, two, three, four, five, six. I turned the doorknob, six times.
Right on cue, Mrs. Mackenzie opened the door of the downstairs flat, Flat 1.
“Coo-ee, Cathy! How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, giving her my best smile. “You?”
She nodded and regarded me, her head to one side, for a moment as she usually does and then went back inside. I could hear her television turned up to full volume the way it always is. The evening news. She does this every evening. She’s never once asked me what I’m doing.
I went back to the checking, wondering if she does it on purpose, to interrupt me, knowing I’ll have to start again from scratch. I’m all right as long as I don’t get stuck. Sometimes I do. So—the doorframe, the doorknob—do it properly, Cathy. Don’t fuck it up or we’ll be here all goddamn night.
At last I finished checking the front door. Then up the stairs. Checked to the top of the staircase. Listened to the stillness in the house, the noise of a siren a few streets away, the television on in the flat downstairs. More fireworks, going off a long way away. A scream from somewhere out in the street made me catch my breath, but then soon after a man’s voice, a female laughing, reproachful.
I unlocked my front door, looked behind me at the staircase again, then took one step inside, closed the door, locked it. Bolt at the bottom, chain in the middle, deadlock at the top. Listened at the door. Nothing at all from the other side. Looked through the peephole. Nobody there; just the stairs, the landing, the light overhead. I ran my fingers around the doorframe, turned the door handle six times one way, six times the other way. One, two, three, four, five, six. The bolts held the door shut. I turned the Yale lock six times. I slid each bolt six times and back again, each time turning the doorknob six times. When I’d done all that, I could start on the rest of the flat.
The first thing I did was to check all the windows, and close the curtains, going around the flat in the same order. First the front window onto the street. All the
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