The Wakeup Call

TW: Alcohol abuse, familial harm

Someone hammering on the front door at this time of night could hardly bring good news. I catch sight of my dishevelled reflection as I drag my arms through my dressing gown, feeling embarrassed for a moment at the prospect of someone seeing me in such a tatty robe. I run my hands through my hair as if that will make a difference to my unkemptness, and shiver in the wintery cold. The heat of my body still lingers on my mattress, whispering for me to return, to pull the duvet over my head and ignore the reality waiting for me on the porch.

I hover at the top of the stairs, pausing to watch their fluorescent jackets shining through the mottled glass of our front door. A strobe of blue light illuminates the street outside, and I can just about hear their low murmur of discussion as they shift from foot to foot on the icy doorstep. Ironic, I think, that they would be troubled to lower their voices when their fists and lights have announced their arrival to the rest of the estate.

I take one step, my slippered foot balancing on the top stair. For a second I’m reminded of being a teenager sneaking out, creeping slowly down towards the front door, deliberately avoiding the third traitorous step with its creaking floorboard – it used to groan through the darkness, announcing my escape and rousing my father from his slumber to pull me back into the boring life I abhorred. Oh how I wish I’d known back then that life offered more than stolen cigarettes and cider hidden in soda bottles. How I wish I’d spent more time with him, safe in my home, before one day he was suddenly gone.

I flick the light on, a polite signal that their knocking has been acknowledged, and I’m on the way. My hand is slick and sweaty with nerves on the wooden bannister and my heart races. 

Perhaps it’s Ryan. My son is often full of bravado delivered in shot glasses, usually picking the wrong fight with the wrong person. Belligerent under the influence, just like his father. A cruel family trait. I can see them in my mind, under the glow of streetlamps, with their chests puffed and knuckles bared as they circle their urban boxing ring. No ropes or referees, just unforgiving concrete, and even more unforgiving spectators. Perhaps he took a blow, slipping across the icy tarmac and landing too hard to move again. Maybe he issued the last blow, and another man lies in the cold. Both ways deliver a life sentence, and I’m not sure which one I’d choose for him.

Perhaps it’s Sophia. Finishing work late, waiting for a bus in the dark with her jacket pulled around her waist and her tinny music rattling in her ears, oblivious to the shadows around her and the monsters that lurk within them. I bought her that jacket two birthdays ago, and those earphones the birthday after. I delivered them in tissue paper and ribbons, with lectures on safety and being aware. She returned my kisses and worry with rolled eyes and indifference. Teenagers. 

Perhaps it’s Mum, who has a habit of slipping past the night porter, all frail bones and powdery skin, an aroma of lavender and antiseptic following her through the night. Maybe, like last time, she’s been caught skipping through the busy city traffic, singing war tunes, and calling out for my dead father as the rain hammers against her curls. She won’t have remembered her coat. She can’t even remember her name.

Perhaps it’s the young couple next door. Their small grumbles over pizzas and chores have escalated over the past month, into huge wars over money and marriage. I sit at night with the hum of their rage rippling through the walls and turn up the television to give them their space. Sharp tongues and sharp knives, hard words and hard fists. I turn the volume up even higher when they make up after their fights with their tongues and hands working in different ways. My loneliness climbs as I glance at my husband, who clears his throat and sips his drink, both of us pretending we don’t hear the rise and fall of bodies next door. Both of us pretending I don’t know that’s his fourth drink.

Perhaps it’s him. I watched his taillights fade away earlier this evening as he drove his car into the night, his breath sour with beer and angry words. Maybe his arrogance paid him his dues this time, and his mangled body lies with his mangled car, having taken the corner too quickly to regain control on the frosty road. Maybe I’ve already been a widow for a little while, as they searched the wreckage for his ID and drew straws to decide who will tell the family. I’ve felt alone for much longer than that.

Or perhaps it’s simply the wrong house. I’ll answer the door with my smudged mascara and messy hair, and my skin creased with sleep. They’ll say the wrong name, and then back away; awkward and apologetic, hats placed back on their heads and their hands in the air. It’ll be a funny story to tell the girls in my office tomorrow. Juliet will be outraged for me. She’ll squawk at their disturbance and declare their incompetence, and we’ll titter over the chocolate biscuits Diana brings in on a Friday. No doubt Bernie will want to write a letter. The girls do enjoy a fun story on a dull workday.

I reach the bottom of the staircase and take another step to the door. Close enough now to hear their radios crackle and their coughs reverberate through the cold air. I open the door and they both look up. 

“Mrs Crawley?”, they ask, and I nod. That’s me. 

“Can we come in?”

Their hats stay in their hands. Shame, I think, as I step aside and let them pass. The girls at work will have to wait.