It was lunchtime, and John wasn’t in the station cafe having his usual BLT and Orange. The receptionist had seen him leave the station. That would form chapter two of today’s gossip. A sly smile crept over his face. The thought of the secretarial staff discussing possible scenarios between him and the mysterious Mary wasn’t an entirely unpleasant prospect. It wasn’t as if he ever gave anybody much cause to talk about his love life.
The streets in this part of town grew increasingly rundown the further he ventured. His eyes darting between the figures huddled in doorways and the sounds coming from the alleys. The older buildings of the city centre gave way to an outer ring of sixties-built council flats. The featureless grey slabs loomed above him as he neared the end of the council estate. A man in a scruffy overcoat ducked into a doorway as he walked past. John upped his pace as he walked down the long path, away from the estate.
It was already past lunchtime before he arrived at the suburban streets of the cities more affluent residents. The single row Victorian town houses looked better than the blocks of drab flats. These houses were in neat rows of two-floor semis. Although better than the inner-city blocks the area still held a certain foreboding greyness.
He removed the carefully folded paper from his pocket and looked at the address.
“Not far now,” he said to the world in general.
He had missed lunch and walked several miles now, his belly rumbled and feet ached so a nearby lamppost served as a way-station to rub his throbbing feet as he wondered why he hadn’t taken a taxi.
“Spare some change, Gove?”
John jumped. A man in a grubby overcoat sat on the curb, half covered by a dirty brown woollen blanket.
He rummaged in his pockets, pulling out a few pounds worth of change.
“It’s all I have on me,” he blurted.
The man looked at him. “Only askin, I’m not robbing ya, mate.” He winked.
“Sorry, I was in a daydream,” John replied.
“Were you now?” The old tramp laughed. “Could be dangerous that.”
The tramp took the money, thanked him and pulled the blanket tight up around his neck. All trace of glee drained from the tramp’s face before he closed his eyes and began to rock back and forth.
John walked on a few paces; the homeless man lurched round, peering at him through scrunched-up bloodshot eyes.
“Rabbit,” he yelled, pointing a finger at John.
He pulled the grimy wine-streaked blanket up tight to his chin, and curled into a foetal position.
“Rabbits always sees you before you sees them. You’re not all there, mate.” The tramp giggled a deep guttural gurgle. His whole body twitched, his lips trembled as he began mumbling an incoherent mantra.
John ran the next couple of streets, stopping as he recognised the street name from the photograph. Curtains twitched as he walked past the backwater residents. Some children on bicycles rode past several times, slowing down to see what he was doing there. The address on the back of the picture led John to an old cottage at the end of the suburban estate. It looked ordinary enough. The rough grey wall harling had fallen away in several places, revealing the bare brickwork beneath. The small front garden bloomed with weeds and assorted wild flowers. The heavy wooden gate slid open on well-lubricated hinges. John opened and closed the gate several times before going through. “What self-respecting mysterious house doesn’t have a gate that squeaks?” he said, and smiled. By the look of it he had expected a reasonably good squeak at the very least.
Once he passed through the gate the children rode away at full-pelt, taking no more interest in him.
The path to the door was full of broken slabs. Grass and weeds had forced their way up through the cracks. The paint peeled from the front door, it stood ajar.
John rapped on the open door. “Hello, anybody home?” No reply, he knocked again rapping harder this time, and the door swung fully open under his touch.
He stepped inside and called again, still no response. The hallway looked old-fashioned but neat. He walked a little way forwards, into the small hallway. It held fore doors, not counting the one he had just come through. Two were closed. The one to the rear of the hallway was boarder over. The other two stood opposite each other, and were open. One led to a small kitchen, the other to the front room. Everything was covered in a thick dust, although nothing looked disturbed. A small voice screamed for somewhere inside his head, an empty house with an open door doesn’t go unnoticed for that long, without good reason.
A blur of motion caught his eye. Just like at the station, shrieked the inner-voice. Something had moved behind the kitchen door. He ran forwards, attempting to follow the movement.
“This is not a house you see. This is a doorway.” The voice came from behind him. He spun around, expecting to be nose to nose with the owner of the voice, but the hall stood empty.
“I see you received my notes. I am pleased. The void has a way of losing things.” The voice boomed from the air directly in front of him.
“Am I here? Can you not see your imaginary friend?” The air laughed.
John swung his head from side to side, checking for hidden microphones. Well you won’t see them if there hidden, the head-voice mocked.
“Be careful,” boomed the air-voice.
His heart pounded. Beads of stinging sweat had run into his red eyes. He wiped it away with shaking hands to reveal a fuzzy, half imagined, figure. It wavered in the dim light that spilled through the open door before lunging towards him.