the door, this time accompanied by a voice. The pain in her knee hadnât quite registered.
âIs there anyone in there? Mrs Davenport, is that you? I know thereâs someone in there. You must help me. Iâm starving. Please.â
Alice stared at the blood running down her leg and then out past the kitchen towards the hallway. The thumping on the door boomed across the floor and pounded into her knee. She wasnât sure if it was the banging or just the pain from the glass isosceles in her leg.
âMrs Davenport, please .â The voice sounded desperate this time, whining almost. Alice bit down on her bottom lip and used two hands to pull the triangle out of her leg. Immediately, a red river gushed down her shin and, at the sight of the blood, she let out a scream.
âI can hear you,â said the voice at the door that had changed from desperate to pleading whimper. âI know youâre there. I heard you going up onto the roof. You have to help me, Mrs Davenport. Iâm an old man. I have a heart condition. Please. I know youâre a good woman underneath; I donât care what you are.â
Alice dragged herself to the kitchen using her hands, sliding on her backside, and grabbed a tea towel hanging on a nail near the sink. It had a few coffee stains on it but was almost clean. She tied it tightly around her knee until the fibres locked into the wound, stemming the flow of blood. The sweet, metallic taste lingered on her tongue and the inside of her mouth was tender to the touchâin steeling herself strong, Alice had taken a chunk out of the inside of her cheek.
âKeep your temper,â she said, but the banging continued.
âI donât want to break the door down, but I will,â came the cry from outside the front door. âI have a hammer. Iâll use it. I just want to talk. Just a conversation. Please.â
Alice steadied herself up against the counter. The voice sounded just like Mr Hutchinson. Exactly like Mr Hutchinson. She hobbled to the door, dragging her cut leg behind her, leaning against the walls for support. When she got to the door, she looked through the spyhole.
âMr Hutchinson?â she said. âIs that you?â Outside there was silence for a second and then the voice again.
âLet me in, kid. I need to talk to your mother.â
âSheâs not here,â said Alice. âItâs just me.â
âWhoâs looking after you?â
âNo one,â said Alice. âIâm looking after myself.â The blood-damp tea towel loosened around her leg and dropped to the linoleum. A squirt of red leaked onto the wall. She bent down to pick it up and wrapped it around again. The bandage wet-slapped against her leg.
âOpen the door, please,â said Mr Hutchinson. âWe need to talk. Now.â
Alice sat on the sofa and watched as Mr Hutchinson gulped greedy mouthfuls from a can of soup like a baby bird gobbling worms. When he had finished, he opened and closed his mouth. He rested back in the chair he had claimed as his own and rubbed his stomach. The chair used to belong to Aliceâs father.
âDo you have any more?â he asked, looking around. âHow much have you got?â
âNot much,â said Alice. âWhat day is it?â
âMonday,â said the old man, as if that meant something, and helped himself to a packet of biscuits. A dribble of tomato soup ran down his chin and he scraped it up with his fingers then licked them clean.
âPower went out about a week ago,â he said. âThereâs no one else left in the building. Whereâs your mother?â
Alice looked down at the floor.
âI donât know,â she said. âShe went out to work and she hasnât come home yet.â
A strange look came over Mr Hutchinsonâs face.
âHow long have you been all alone?â
âSince the Storms started.â
After he had eaten, Mr
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