BEDFELLOWS
ISSUE SIX: December, 2020
BEDFELLOWS
A deconstructed bed would never fit in the boot of my Renault Clio. When I loaded the boxes onto the trolley, they looked smaller, manageable. A bundle of Tetris shapes to slot into a confined space. I hated that game. How would I get it home?
The boxes, scattered on the floor, were damp. The first raindrop had fallen as I’d edged out of the warehouse door, straining to steer under the weight. If the rain became heavier, I was in trouble.
I fumbled in my pocket for my phone and scrolled through my contacts. Who would be available at two on a Thursday afternoon to transport a bed from an industrial estate to my one-bedroom flat? Half of the names I failed to recognise, the other half would be chained to a desk in a beige office, one eye fixated on a ticking clock.
I panicked. Should I ask for a refund and drive, shame-faced and bedless, home? Do they give refunds if you bring back the boxes wet?
In my peripheral vision, a man stood watching me.
‘Do you need a hand?’ said a voice, as smooth as butter melting over pancakes.
I looked up, brought him into focus. The face didn’t fit the voice: a hairline toying with the idea of receding, two crooked front teeth. His hands were shoved into the pockets of paint-stained tracksuit bottoms.
‘A van might be better than a hand right now,’ I replied, failing not to sound sarcastic.
He shifted a pace to his left to reveal an off-white van with wheel arches framed by an orange tint. This rust bucket was the reason for the look of excruciating pride on his face.
‘Won’t take long to load this lot. I can follow you back to yours. If you’d like?’
He was no knight in shining armour but I had no other option. I accepted.
With burning muscles, I helped him heave the boxes into the van.
‘Do you do this often?’ I asked, pausing to catch my breath. ‘Not the moving boxes thing. I mean, the hanging round in car parks waiting to pounce on stupid women, who don’t know how big their car is?’
‘Don’t tell anyone, will you?’ he replied with a wink.
Assuming it was a joke, I forced a nervous laugh. An awkwardness clung to the air, like sour milk.
My brain told me this couldn’t end well. With the boxes stacked neatly inside my front door, he would attack. How could I flee the clutches of a blade-brandishing maniac in my pokey flat? Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
My heart tried to convince me of his innocent intentions to help someone in need. Kindness is a rarity in modern society. I should be grateful. But he’d been lying in wait, a predator stalking its prey, opportunistic, deadly.
He slammed the door of the van, making me jump.
‘That’s that done.’
‘Great. Shouldn’t be any traffic. Fifteen minutes, give or take.’
‘Lead the way, boss.’
I got in, reversed and waited for him before I assumed the reluctant role of convoy leader.
As I drove, I checked the rear-view mirror more often than an instructor would recommend. I couldn’t shake off the feeling he was going to kill me as soon as we were behind closed doors. The time to drop a text to my sister to let her know I’d accepted a stranger’s help had come and gone. A short, tapped-out description or his number plates would be a lead for the police to go on. The plates could be false. And I’d never seen eyes such a vibrant shade of green. They must be lenses. Take them out and he was a different man, slipping away undetected, leaving my body and the case to go icy cold.
I shouldn’t have been able to concentrate on the road. My murderer was following me home. My fate was sealed. Wasn’t I as guilty as him? I’d willingly invited him in. Had I even asked his name? The one saving grace was I wouldn’t have to put the bed together. I would be laid out on the hardwood floor, blood pooled around my body, Pollock-esque splatters beautifying bare walls.
I pulled into a space, turned off the engine and waited for him. A deep breath gave me the courage to meet him at the back of the van.
He unlatched the doors.
‘Which floor?’
‘Ground.’
‘Must be my lucky day. This’ll be a lot easier than I thought.’
We started to unload, working in tandem under an awkward silence. The cardboard had become spongey, hard to grip. I balanced the corner of a box on my knees as I fumbled for the keys and promptly smashed my back into the jamb as I crossed the threshold.
‘Nice place. Just moving in by the looks of things.’
My possessions were trapped in boxes marked with scrawled black lettering. The only unpacked and usable items were in the kitchen: a kettle, mugs, tea bags, two sachets of stolen sugar.
‘Got the keys on Tuesday. Had to work late yesterday. Today’s the first chance I’ve had to get things organised.’
‘One of the most stressful things you can do in life, isn’t it? Moving home. That and getting married. Your husband not around to help?’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Boyfriend?’
I shook my head.
‘Please don’t tell me you’re the sort who says “partner”?’
‘No, no partner either. Just me.’
What was I saying? I’d admitted no one came home to me. My vulnerability revealed as an open target. His face twisted, like he was calculating how long it would be before I was missed, before the new neighbours were alerted to the putrid stench of decomposing flesh seeping from the new girl’s flat? A couple of days? A few weeks?
I had to get rid of him.
‘That’s the last one. I’ve no idea how I would’ve managed without you. Let me give you something for your trouble.’
I reached for my handbag, hanging by its strap from the front door handle.
His hands raised in protest. ‘I can’t take anything. I offered to help. I didn’t do it to get anything in return.’
‘Please. Take this. It’s not much.’
‘I’m serious. I don’t want anything.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
I popped the tenner I’d fished out back into my purse.
‘I don’t want to keep you. I’ve been enough of an inconvenience. Again, thank you so much.’
‘Really? That’s it, is it?’
‘You said you didn’t want money.’
‘I can’t believe this. Honestly, I can’t.’
He ran a hand through his hair before he continued. ‘I’ve driven your stuff here, unloaded everything. Yet you still won’t ask me?’
Without any hesitation, he bent down and produced a penknife from his sock. A blade flicked out menacingly. I inched away.
He smirked. ‘I’m not leaving. There’s something I have to do before I go.’
He stepped towards me. The blade glinted in the afternoon sun, streaming in through the naked window. I scrunched my eyes tight. With my heart bouncing in my chest, a horrifying slashing sound vibrated through the air.
I waited, blind, for pain to start throbbing through my veins like hot acid. Finally, I cracked open an eye, craned my neck to check my limbs for a gushing rainbow of scarlet. He stared at me from where he was kneeling next to a box; its flaps released, the contents exposed.
‘What sort of a man do you think I am? Can’t leave you to build a bed on your own. You need at least two people.’
He motioned towards the kitchen with the blade. ’You’d best put the kettle on while I open the rest of these.’
I couldn’t argue with his logic or his orders. Rudely, the knife remained pointed in my direction.
Water splashed into the kettle. My ear was trained to sounds coming from the adjacent room. Stillness indicated a double bluff. With my back turned, the cool edge of the knife could plunge uninterrupted between my shoulder blades. I glanced back; he was diligently sorting screws and timber into piles, deciphering a minimalist instruction booklet. My muscles loosened a fraction.
There was no way I would’ve been able to assemble it by myself. Individual pieces were too heavy to manoeuvre on my own. He directed me with clear instructions. Pass me that part by your right foot. Hold that firmly there while I attach this. Have you seen the screwdriver?
‘You must’ve done this before.’
‘My sister’s got the same one for the guest room. She roped me into building it last month. I quite enjoyed it but I don’t tell her that. She’d have me round there every weekend doing stuff.’
I handed him a panel. His hand brushed against mine as he collected it. His skin was rough, manly. A shot of electricity jumped between us. We held one another’s gaze for a slice of a second longer than intended. I lost myself in those green eyes. Green like petri dish patterns of lichen on dank bark. My heart swelled. Extremities, dormant for so long, tingled with excitement. Blood rushed to the top layer of my skin.
He coughed. The spell was broken.
‘Is it time for another cuppa?’
I shuffled to the kitchen, in warm embarrassment.
Another tea break later and the bed was assembled. He saw the time and said he should get going.
‘Are you absolutely sure I can’t give you something for your trouble?’
He massaged the back of his neck, refusing to make eye contact with me as he said, ‘There is one thing. I’m not sure you’ll agree to it though.’
‘Anything. Tell me.’
His eyes converged on a point behind me. I followed his stare to the ajar bedroom door. The new bed waited; a virgin mattress perched on top of our assembled work.
He looked at me, eyebrows raised. He’d felt it too, hadn’t he?
‘Shame not to christen it. Don’t you think?’
‘I don’t normally do this sort of thing.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Can’t remember the last time I did.’
‘Trust me. It’ll be fun.’
He flicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks in two swift motions and left them in a sloppy pile.
This was happening too fast. And it was only Thursday.
‘Race you!’ he shouted before running through the open door and leaping onto the bed. He jumped up and down, up and down. His arms twirled like windmills, keeping him steady and upright.
He beckoned me with outstretched arms, mid-bounce. ‘Come on. You’re missing out on the fun.’
I laughed at myself and ran to join him.
We giggled like birthday guests enjoying a bouncy castle. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so free. A mid-air collision threw me off balance. I tried to stay upright but I found my face hurtling towards the mattress. Softness cushioned my fall.
‘Are you alright?’ he said. He knelt next to me; his arm rested gently on my lower back.
My coquettish attempt at a titter manifested itself into a pig snort.
He flashed a wonky smile at me, so bright it could save ships from a jagged coastline. He laid on his back next to me, his arms crossed on his chest. My hand propped up my head as I looked over to him. Our breathing synchronised.
‘It’s a trick, isn’t it? Growing up, I mean. When did we stop doing the fun things we did when we were kids and become old and boring like our parents?’
I murmured my agreement.
He rolled his head to face me.
‘Can I ask you something? Might be a bit forward?’ asked the man who’d helped me test the elasticity of the springs in my bed.
‘Do’ya like reading? Loads of those boxes in the hall say “books” on them?’
‘My one guilty pleasure. The trashier, the better. Why’d you ask?’
‘A reader needs somewhere to put their books, right? It doesn’t look like you have any shelves.’
‘A bed was the higher priority today. Was a close call though.’
‘I can tell you now you won’t get shelves in that tiny car of yours.’
‘Fair point. What do you suggest?’
‘Fancy doing this again next week? I’ll bring the van.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘I’m Craig, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Craig. I’m Zoe.’
LYNDSAY LOMAX is a British writer, originally from North West England, who lives in Switzerland. She is an avid reader and passionate baker. Her website is www.lyndsaylomax.com and she tweets @lyndsaylomax