Ursula shoves the last piece of toast into her mouth then washes up her plate and puts it back in the cupboard. She sniffs the air. The musky smell she noticed the first time Edward showed her the kitchen has grown stronger. It’s at its most pungent by the basement door. She tries the handle again. Still locked. She hasn’t once seen Edward go down there since she moved in. Not that they’re in the house together very often – other than when they ran into each other the other lunchtime it’s only first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening. They’re like ships that pass in the night.
‘What are you up to, Edward?’ she mutters as she drifts from room to room, opening drawers and lifting sofa cushions before dropping down to her knees to peer under pieces of furniture. She’s on a later shift today and Edward has already left for work. She was already awake when he got up, and listened from the safety of her bed, the chain drawn across her bedroom door, as the floorboard on the landing creaked then the bathroom door clicked shut. She wasn’t going to confront him about the newspaper clipping he stole back because she knew he’d only lie. Who was it? A relative? An ex-lover? She’s pretty sure Edward isn’t gay. When she moved her things in he was so taken by an attractive blonde walking past the house that Ursula had to ask him three times to move out of the doorway so she could bring in her suitcase.
Besides, what gay man would have a dartboard on the wall of his living room? She runs a hand along the top of the sideboard, the wood cool and smooth under her fingertips until she reaches the neat line of three darts. She taps at the flight, flipping it to the left, then the right then, completely without thinking, closes her hand around it and puts it in the pocket of her coat and glances at her watch. The van’s loaded with parcels but if she doesn’t get a move on she’ll be late.
There’s no light on in the window of number six, no baby sitting on the carpet in a sea of plastic toys, and no television flickering in the corner of the room. The window – the one she normally passes parcels through – is closed and the curtains in the bedroom above are still pulled. Has the owner gone out, Ursula wonders, her agoraphobia magically cured? She crouches down and peers through the letter box. There’s a buggy, propped up against the hallway wall, and a pair of small, blue children’s shoes beneath a tiny jacket on a coat rack. They’re in. She feels sure of it.
‘Hello!’ she shouts. ‘Courier!’
She listens for a response – for the wail of a child or a female voice – but the house is completely silent.
‘Helloooo!’ She shouts louder this time. ‘Is there anyone home?’
There’s a startled yelp in response and a pair of bare female feet appear at the top of the stairs. As the woman gets closer Ursula sees that she’s carrying the toddler, who is naked apart from the towel around her waist. As the woman reaches the last step her gaze flicks from the mottled glass panel of the front door to the letter box and her eyes meet Ursula’s. She makes a strange strangled sound and her whole body jolts. Her heel slips on the edge of the step and she falls, landing with a thump, half on the bottom stair, half on the floor, the child tipped sideways in her arms.
‘Oh my God!’ Ursula grabs at the door handle. She turns it and pulls. Locked.
She crouches back down and peers through the letter box. The woman’s still on her bum. She groans loudly as she awkwardly sets the wailing child onto her feet.
‘Are you all right?’ Ursula asks. The child has started crying, plucking at her mother, trying to get back into her arms. ‘I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have shouted. I gave you a shock.’
The woman doesn’t reply. Instead she closes her eyes as the child scrambles around her legs, her pudgy little hands grabbing at her mother’s shirt, her chest and her hair.
‘Have you hurt your back? Can you move?’ Ursula whips her mobile phone out of her pouch. ‘I’m going to call an ambulance.’
‘No!’ The woman’s eyes fly open and she winces as she uses her arms to push herself back into a sitting position. ‘No, don’t!’
‘You might have broken something.’
‘I’m fine.’ Her voice breaks on the last word and tears spill down her cheeks.
The fear and guilt Ursula feels is unbearable. She clutches the door handle again, as though her desperation might magically have released it, but it’s still locked. She glances around the cramped hallway. There’s a set of keys hanging on a hook to the right of the child’s coat. ‘Can you unlock the door? I could … I could …’ She tails off. She has no idea what she could do but she feels completely useless stuck on the other side of the door.
‘No.’ The woman grasps the banister and slowly, agonisingly drags herself to her feet, bent double like an old lady. When she tries to right herself she yelps with pain, one hand clutching her back, and sinks down to the floor.
‘What’s your husband’s number?’ Ursula asks desperately as the child throws herself at the curled shape of her mother. ‘He needs to come home and look after you.’
The woman stares at her for the longest time – a raw, desperate look in her eyes.
‘Let me help,’ Ursula says. ‘Please, just tell me how.’
‘No.’ Her face hardens. ‘Fuck off. Just fuck off and leave us alone.’