Free The Woman Who Walked Into Doors by Roddy Doyle

it.
    —You have to lift it.
    I tried but it wouldn't shut for me. I thought I was going to piss.
    —Here.
    She shoved me out of the way, her elbow right into my side. She put her two hands under the knob and groaned and carried the door in the last half-inch. The latch clicked.
    —One of them lazy gets in there will fix it one of these days.
    I leaned where I'd landed when she'd shoved me and waited for Charlo to come back down and rescue me. She slapped slices of ham down onto the bread; I could hear the air escaping from under the meat. The kitchen was smaller than ours at home. The ceiling was lower and slanting down towards the back door. It was stuck on to the back of the house, not really a proper part of it; you had to go up two uneven cement steps to get into the house itself. There was the smell of dinners and teas. When she'd finished piling the sandwiches — they were like a block of flats — she held them down like they were trying to escape and sliced through them with one lunge of the bread knife. Then she picked up the plate and walked the few steps over to the wall opposite. She pulled back a curtain that I hadn't really noticed. There was a big window behind it. The sitting room was behind that and they were all in there watching the telly; I could see the backs of the tops of their heads and Charlo was in there too, the fucker. She knocked on the glass and an older version of Charlo stood up, opened the window and took the plate off her. He shut the window, leaned out to haul it back in.
    She closed the curtain. She was big. She reminded me of an Indian woman or a knacker, the same huge soundless way of moving. She knew exactly where everything was, even things that had no fixed place. A knife on the table — her hand went out and took it up by the handle while she was turning on the cold tap and facing the sink. Her shoulders were massive. There was no fat there under her dress; it was all strength. The dress was flowery but there were no real colours. Her hair was black and grey and long, the longest I'd ever seen on a middle-aged woman. It wasn't tied up or anything. It was loose. She'd shake her head to get it out of the way, and it obeyed. She was like a statue, big and solid; there was something magnificent about her. But I could see it as well — she was bad. She hated things.
    The kettle was colossal. She swung it and landed it on the gas. She turned and looked over at me. There was only a yard between us.
    —D'you drink tea?
    —Yes.
    I didn't know if I was going to get any. Charlo was a bollox for dumping me there; either he thought we'd be having a chat or he didn't give a shite. He knew his mother; she didn't chat — she wasn't interested.
    —D'you have a name?
    —Yes. — Paula.
    —That's right: he told me.
    Her name was Gert but I only found that out after. When I asked Charlo he wasn't sure; he had to think about it.
    She had the teapot now. She came towards me. For a second I thought she was going to skull me with it. She threw the lid on the table. She got the doorknob and choked it open. She threw what was left in the pot out the door into the yard. I heard water landing on cement. She stepped back and lifted the door shut.
    —One of them will fix it some day.
    —Where's the toilet?
    —Upstairs.
    —Thanks.
    I escaped, up the two steps into the house. It was brighter. The sound from the room to the right was a film — gunfire — and all the men talking about it. I went past to the stairs and up. I had everything I'd ever drunk crying to get out of me. I bent a bit to make it easier to carry. It was dark at the top, no lights on, no switch that I could see. I could make out doors. One of them looked open. I gave it a shove and hooshed my skirt up; it was dribbling out of me now. I got in, found the switch, turned on the light; it was a bedroom and there was a man lying on one of the beds. And my knickers were heading down over my knees before I realised.
    —Oh Jesus!
    He was