The Return

The chill of a damp early Winter whipped up through Eleanor’s coat as she stepped out of the corner shop on a November evening. She shivered, wrapping it tight around her, and as she closed the door a resounding lonely jingle echoed through the empty streets. She glanced up at the sky quickly, noticing dank heavy clouds draping across the tops of the buildings, a milky moon peeking through the cracks in the stratus. Sighing, she reached into her coat pocket and brought out the fresh pack of cigarettes, lighting it behind the shelter of her cupped hand, and took a moment to lean against the dirty wet brownstone. She breathed in and watched the acrid smoke float heavily in the still air around her, taking in the scents of the grimy streets. After too long a pause in both thoughts and actions, she brought her other hand from her pocket to check her watch. 

Five thirty-seven.

Shit.

Where had the day gone?

Stuffing her hand back in her pocket, she took a final drag and stubbed out her cigarette with her boot. With a sinking feeling, she knew there was not going to be a chance she would finish the article today. She was already a week behind and it was all her fault. The week just seemed to have blurred into one; time was moving at uncomfortable speed. Some hours felt a lifetime, seconds ticking by at half-pace, and most just drained away like the lukewarm dregs at the end of a bathtub.

She walked in the road, the clomping of her boots echoing of the wet buildings and splashing in the puddles lining the pavement. For all she knew, this street was completely derelict, the only sign of life she saw often was the homeless man that resided in various sheltered archways to empty flats. She regularly offered to buy him a sandwich and a coffee but he always gruffly refused - she couldn’t help notice each time she came across him he looked a little paler, a little thinner. Winter wasn’t kind, and neither was life. The least she could do was offer him a smile, which he hardly ever returned. She didn’t blame him.

It was just beginning to rain as Eleanor reached her block of flats. Fumbling with the keys, she took one last glance at the milky moon in the nest of ugly clouds swirling over the flat tops of the streets, and entered.

She untied her shoes, hung her wet coat up on the broken hook and plonked her bag down in the hallway with another sigh. Despite only being caught in the rain for a short amount of time, her bag was damp; water had soaked onto her loose notes, notes which had been sitting in there for a week straight. Fuck.

As she pulled out the crumpled paper, dread leaked into her veins. The ink had run all over the pages and had stuck them together. The messy jottings were now smudged and the words were unreadable. It had been too long to even remember what she wrote, and now those five hours of effort in a manic caffeine-filled frenzy were reduced to nothing.

Eleanor crouched there for a good few minutes, staring at the paper and the ultimate nothingness her life had amounted to. All she had left was her, an empty flat, the rain pattering on the windows and a handful of ruined paper which held her livelihood in. Her head dropped and she ran her hands through her unkempt, dirty blonde locks. If she could have cried she would have but the ultimate truth was she was far too numb and had been for a long time. 

Darling, I hate to intrude, but you just don’t seem yourself anymore. We have a place here for you. 

El, it’s worrying me seeing you like this. You’ve not been the same since. You don’t eat, you look so tired.

He’s not coming back. 

Dad and I love you very much, ok? Please know that, no matter how old you are you are still our little girl.

He’s not coming back.

Maybe it’s worth getting in contact with a counsellor to help you through this? I have a bunch of numbers, it’s nothing to be ashamed of you know? 

I know you don’t want me worrying but like, I’m gonna. I’m your oldest friend.

He’s not coming back.

Please, I can’t lose another mate. I am concerned for you right now. He’s not coming back hun. I’m so sorry.

He’s not coming back.

A long breath, and she stuffed the failure notes straight back into the damp bag. No point in seeing them, they were only going to torment her. What’s done cannot be undone.

She stood up, the blood rushing from her head - had she even eaten today? - and reached into her pocket for her phone and keys. On pulling her phone from her pocket, she immediately noticed something wrong. Her card was missing from its usual place in her phone case. Once again, her heart sank. 

Could anything else go wrong today?

*

It was now raining hard, and the chilled wind was moaning down the alleyways. The only noise apart from the silence that was the backstreets of the old town was the clomping of her boots on the pavement. 

Cold seeped with the damp into her coat but she was past the point of caring. 

She checked her watch in the dim light of the sodium streetlamp. Eight-thirty. 

Just get to the shop, ask for the card and come home. Is wasn’t like she was going to get any writing done tonight, if not ever. 

As she continued down the dead street, a sudden tingle ran up her spine and a strange feeling pooled into the base of her stomach. She glanced round on instinct. The wind greeted her and blew a wave of cold, damp air down her front. Nothing untoward. She pulled her coat tight around her and turned back.

By now the moon was covered, just a faint ghostly light behind the murky sky.

Time was doing that thing again, going too fast - either that or she was walking very slow. On turning the corner, she expected to see the welcoming glow of the corner shop lights, but instead she was met with an empty street. 

“Shit.” Eleanor muttered under her breath. She must have taken a wrong turn somewhere - unusual for her but it wasn’t like the streets really looked much different from each other so not unheard of. 

Turning back, the strange feeling hit her again. This time anxiety bubbled throughout her veins and a strange prickly feeling overcame her. Something was wrong. Her vision sharpening, she scanned the streets in front of her for anything untoward, a flicker of a shadow under the light of the sodium lamps, a figure at the opening of the dark back alleys, a graffiti mark or a tossed can. Nothing. Just the noise of the rain pattering on the concrete.

Her pace quickened and her breathing grew shallow.

Just get to the store, get your card and get the fuck outta here. She thought as her boots splashed through the puddles of the curbs. Left turn, she missed the left turn and all she needed to do was turn right up at the next junction. She pictured the familiar cold neon of the store sign and the comforting halogen lights beaming thought the shop window. 

Another check of the watch. Three minutes past nine. Surprise struck her. It takes her usually fifteen minutes to get there, twenty at a push. She fumbled in her coat pocket for her keys.

It was already too late by the time she had looked up. A scuff of a boot behind her and suddenly a blow to the knees and she buckled helplessly, the keys clattering onto the concrete in front of her. An iron grip was suddenly over her mouth and another seizing her midsection, pulling her backwards as her legs flailed uselessly in the air. It was all happening so fast, so fast it took a few seconds for blind panic to pulse into her veins and her whole body to respond. Her mouth tasted of leather and dirt as she tried to scream, yet all she could do was whine behind the thick black glove that stifled her voice. She attempted feebly to reach up and paw at the figure’s face, but met the fabric of a hood and a balaclava. 

Helplessness overcame here almost immediately. It’s fucking over Eleanor. Stop fighting. Yet adrenaline pulsed through her veins and willed her body to continue to struggle.

She felt hot breath in her ear suddenly, stunning her momentarily. 

“You’re that fucking journalist, right?”

Above the animalistic fight-flight thoughts racing through her brain, her mind flickered with a hint of confusion. Her relevance was close to none, none of her published articles were relevant enough to make news coverage or gain traction, she was obsolete in the failing company, just waiting to lose her job. How could this man know anything about her? She kicked out again, her body instinctively fighting despite having no chance of breaking from this huge figure’s grasp. There was no light in this alley, just her, the darkness and imminent death holding her in a firm grip.

His voice rumbled in his huge chest pressed firmly against her back. “Look, woman, I don’t want nothin’ from ya, I just want to know this one thing,” he growled, “you give me what I want and I let ya go and ain’t bother you again, ye understand?”

Eleanor’s mind whirled, a commotion of blind panic and bewilderment. 

“Listen to me, shut the fuck up and just listen for a second otherwise I will have to kill you before you attract the whole fuckin’ neighbourhood,” the grip tightened almost to the point of crushing her ribs, forcing Eleanor to stop struggling. Her heart hammered under his massive forearms. She had never felt so powerless.

“I’m gonna give you a chance to shut the fuck up or -” momentarily he switched arms to reach into his tracksuit pocket, and there was a click, and then something cold and sharp pressed against her exposed skin, “I’m gonna have to do it.”

Eleanor swallowed, feeling the blade trace her jugular as her sweat mixed with the rainwater. Her whole body became still, paralysed with fear.

“I’m going to ask you a question and I’m gonna move my hand for you to speak, and if you dare fuckin’ try and play it’s lights out woman,” the hooded man spat through his teeth.

She nodded feebly, unable to do anything but comply as the fear of the blade against her neck overtook any fight she had in her left. 

His lips brushed her earlobe, and he whispered, “where the fuck is he then?”

She felt the glove move enough for her to speak. Her voice came out in a breathless huff. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.” 

“Yes you do, don’t motherfuckin’ play,” he responded instantly, pulling her tighter, caressing her neck once more with the blade. 

Tears welled uselessly in her eyes, adding to the rain on her face and her tangled hair under his grip. “I don’t!” she retorted. Her head was pounding, scraping for anything she thought relevant to this man's wishes. His gloved hand covered her mouth again.

“I know he is here somewhere near, hiding with you,” he took a quick glance around, “just tell me where and we will be done here.”

“I just don’t know,” Eleanor began to sniffle, her life draining with the tears flowing over her killer’s glove, knowing full well this was how it was going to end. Her vision dimmed as he squeezed her chest tight. This was how her useless life was going to end. 

She should have gone to therapy. She should have moved back with her parents. She should have taken her Sarah’s advice and left this city. It was nothing but trouble. The day he passed away was the day her life changed forever, the day he passed away was the day her life ended. This was simply confirming that, as she felt the blade warm against her own body heat.

“Nothin?” he jolted her again. “Fuckin’ lying bitch.”

She closed her eyes and prepared, feeling a jolt and a snap as he drew the knife back.

No blade plunged into her jugular. Instead, the killer’s body suddenly became limp, releasing its grip and stumbling forward onto her, his weight crushing her as they fell to the floor together. 

*

You thought he was dead, but there he was, right in front of you on the street, smoking gun in hand - the silencer dropping to the floor beside him - smiling at you.

You don’t dare move or speak. You don’t dare do anything, not even blink, in case he disappears. You feel the heavy body half on top of you as you prop yourself on the wet pavement, watching him walk over to you, your heart hammering in your ears and your stomach fluttering wildly, half from adrenaline from what just happened and half from shock and hope as you stared at his face, his face, the face you once caressed and the lips you once passionately kissed. The face that was your everything, the face that destroyed your life when it disappeared under the ground forever. 

At least, you thought, until it was here, its eyes staring into yours, crouched over your body.

Despite the fear of upsetting the apparition and causing it to fade away, you reach up instinctively to touch it, and are met with solid, warm wet skin. You let out a shuddering breath, and your eyes fill once more with tears. 

“Matt,” you exhale, your own voice sounding foreign in your own ears. “Am I dead?”

“Eleanor,” his voice ran like sweet nectar, the voice that woke you from your dreams only for you to turn and stare at the nothingness of an empty bed. But it was his voice, and it was real, not an echo in your mind of a memory you were no longer was going to relive. His green eyes stared into yours as he adjusted his hoodie string and shuffled to caress your face, his warm fingers wiping the wet of your rainy tears off. 

It had stopped raining now; you no longer heard the pitter-patter of the water on the concrete, and the moon once more peeked out from the clouds to highlight the empty street.

He inhaled deeply, and you watched his eyebrows crease. If this was death, then this was what you wanted. This is what you waited for. Life was not the same without, not worth living.

“Eleanor,” he began again, his voice once more symphonic in your ears. 

You must be dead. Surely. For the past few years you may as well have been. You hadn’t eaten properly or slept before four o’clock in the morning for as long as you can remember. Your career was down the drain. You cannot remember the last time you put makeup on or saw somebody who wasn’t expressing concern for you. Surely you must be dead. It was all leading up to this moment. Death through a knife in the throat; bleeding out on a cold damp pavement of an empty grimy street in the dead of night where nobody will find your lifeless body till dawn. Death finally came, and now you're reunited with your lost lover. Surely?

He took a long, deep breath, knocking you from your thoughts.

“Eleanor,” he repeated once more. Say your name one more time before you go. “I have some explaining to do.”