Time to Pay

Everyone stares as I walk in - as though they were expecting me. Apart from six, wine-coloured leather armchairs the room is devoid of furniture. Another door, directly across from the one I had entered through, draws my gaze, holds my attention. The door’s chrome-like surface appears to ripple and swirl confusingly, dizzying the senses, its garishness clashing violently with the plainness of the room and those large, overstuffed chairs.

My glance moves around the half-circle of faces. I make brief eye contact with each of the room’s five occupants - three of them hurriedly jerk their gaze away, pretend sudden interest in floor or ceiling. The other two, a man and woman in their mid twenties, meet my look with cold, aloof stares - as though they are the only ones who know what is going down ... and were enjoying the sweet taste of their knowledge.

Uncomfortably aware of my own awkwardness I sidle toward the one empty chair. As I ease myself into its spongy embrace leather squeaks loudly, crudely.

The warm odour of fear, of my terror, rises up to invade eyes and nostrils. The urge to leap from the chair and run, grows stronger with every dragging minute - but I know I won’t ... can’t. The others seem relaxed, displaying no outward signs of physical or mental discomfort. I wonder if they can see my nervousness, wonder if they really are as calm as they appear. I know three of them, but they studiously avoid looking at me and stare down at the floor as though busy watching ants or something. We used to like doing that, watching insects and things, when we were younger ... Mick Campbell, Gazzer Rodgers, Barry Marlow ... and me. We are all in our mid-teens now. We grew up together, lived on the same housing estate, and went to the same schools - on those rare occasions that we actually attended school, that is.

Barry and I had a thing going once. Nothing serious ... never could have been. Sometimes I wonder if the others ever actually noticed I was different from them, noticed that I was a girl. Then again, I guess they could say the same about me because, to me, they were neither male nor female - we were just our gang. We were hardly ever apart. The four of us were together when - my brain leaps away from the memory, tries to block-out details; but images force their way through - invade my head in a rush like some mental dam has just given way. The reality, the horror of that moment, cannot be avoided. The images sear themselves across the interior of my mind.

Something makes me look up. The man and woman are staring at me, the man drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair as though impatient to get this done and finished with. The movement, though slight, irritates me. Then the woman shifts awkwardly in her chair, one hand going to her belly, pressing on the swollen bulk of it as she tries to get comfortable.

She is Pregnant!

I hadn’t realised. My gaze jerks upwards - collides with her bitter, accusative glare.

Time passes. I wonder if the others have noticed the woman’s condition. I want to look at them, but can’t. I know she is still glaring ... I can feel it. My thoughts swing to the child she is carrying - how will she ... he, be affected by all this?

A buzzer sounds.

We lift our heads, look at the door ... then shoot uncertain glances each other.

Seconds drag by.

Five pairs of eyes fix on Mickey.

He stands up.

There is no argument about Mickey being first. We all know the buzzer is meant for him, and so does he. He looks around, meets each gaze in turn.

Mickey has always been the leader of our little gang. He is not that much bigger than the rest of us, but when he gives orders you just naturally obey. It is fear, of course ... we all know that. I mean, Mickey can go real crazy when he doesn’t get his own way, and we learned, a long time ago, that it was healthier to simply back off and let him do his own thing.

Mickey goes toward the silver door, hesitates in front of it. Somehow he seems smaller, frailer. A shock of surprise hits me as our gazes meet and hold. This is not the Mickey I am used to; the familiar sneer, the front of uncaring insolence with which he normally faces all things authoritarian, is no longer present. His bottom lip trembles. He bites on it, but is too late - he knows we have seen his fear. Narrow shoulders hunch forward as though battling against a strong wind. We all watch, our own muscles tightening in nervous apprehension as he reaches out to touch the door. Before his fingers can make contact the door swings open. It makes a soft swishing sound ... like the ones in big supermarkets, worked by hidden pneumatics, do.

We all lean forward, try to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond - but Mickey is through and the door has closed behind him before we can see a thing.

Just five of us left.

The man and woman smile at each other.

Gazzer and Barry finally look directly at me ... we exchange nervous grins of mute acknowledgement - then hurriedly look away. No point speaking - there is nothing to say.

I try hard to avoid looking at the door, but my gaze is constantly, inexorably drawn to it.

The buzzer’s harsh clamour fills the room.

Gazzer, eyes fixed resolutely on the floor, gets up and goes through. I barely notice; I am too busy cursing myself for my stupidity ... for getting in that damn car when I’d known it was stupid to do so. But I know it is too late for curses and self-recrimination, because I had gotten into it, and nothing can change that... not now. If only...

Getting in the car had been an impulsive, petulance-prompted reaction to the telling off my dad had given me for staying out so late the night before. In my mind, I see Mickey screech up in this new Escort; see him do one of his tyre shredding handbrake turns. I had known it was stolen, but when he’d yelled for me to "Move it!" I’d not hesitated and all the should I’s and shouldn’t I’s had been quickly forgotten as we collected Gazzer and Barry and raced off for a high-speed tour of the estate. Things started to get hairy when the cops tagged us and gave chase. If only we’d... Something makes me look up. Barry is on his feet, already headed for the door. The buzzer must have sounded and I’d not heard it. The door closes behind him and suddenly I know loneliness ... real loneliness. In my mind I am praying, praying for the next buzzer to sound so I can escape the woman’s bitter stare.

There is no secret, now, about what lies behind the door. The knowledge should have had me screaming-crazy with terror, but it didn’t - things don’t work that way, not here.

The buzzer sounds.

My head comes up - a final act of defiance.

The man and woman give me pitying looks.

My defiance crumbles.

The buzzer sounds again ... impatiently.

The man stares, eyebrows twitching upward questioningly.

I don’t want to move - am not sure if I can. Then, amazingly, I am up on my feet and moving toward the door. Same as Mickey had done, I pause to glance back. The man and woman are leaning forward in their chairs, watching. There is something disturbingly familiar about the way they sit there, side-by-side, eyes staring-wide, faces startlingly pale.

Memory floods in. This was how they had looked the first time I’d seen them ... when they’d appeared so suddenly in the headlights of our car, the one Mickey had stolen, and I’d caught that fractional glimpse of their features behind the windscreen of their car - split seconds before we smashed into them.

A whispering hiss tells me the door has opened. I turn and step through ... but can’t resist taking one last glance back.

The man and woman are leaving through the other door, the man’s arm is around his wife’s waist. They smile at each other ... and don’t bother to look back.

^

Biography

Harry J. Green is secretary to THE INKLINGS, Merseyside's premier (well, we think so) writers group. http://www.mersinet.co.uk/harry Visit WRITING4U our forum for writers: http://www.delphi.com/inklings