Free Departures by Jennifer Cornell

He’d not been a particularly friendly man, civil during working hours, yes, but hardly accommodating on weekends or after five. What his reaction to her present predicament might have been at a quarter to midnight on a Thursday she didn’t like to think. In any event it was irrelevant; he’d left the job three weeks before, and no replacement had yet been found. There was no one else to whom she could turn.
    It was her own fault, really, she thought darkly. She should have gotten to know her neighbours. As it was she didn’t know anyone else in the block; in fact, apart from the caretaker now departed, she didn’t know anyone in the estate at all. She’d tried to be friendly if she ran into others while doing laundry, but, like herself, they’d kept to themselves. She’d assumed they were busy, that their days were ordered much as hers were, with little opportunity to invite others in. Besides, she’d never expected to need their assistance; if there were repairs to be made or a problem to be sorted, it was the Council to whom the matter was properly referred.
    Given the late hour it was unlikely that the stairwell would be in use; still, it was worth a try. Proceeding with caution Eileen eased the man back against the wall then rose stiffly to her feet. He still slept, but fitfully. The hood of his jacket had fallen away from his face, and she stood for a moment, watching his lips and eyelids tremble like liquid carried from one place to another and thinking, It should be such an easy thing, to simply reach past him, unlock the door, climb over him, and go in. If he fell into the entry when it opened, he could stay there till morning. The flat’s inner door had been fitted with a pair of locks by a previous occupant; she’d be in no danger with those firmly in place.
    â€œIt should be easy,” she said aloud, and then sighed, and headed for the back door.
    She hadn’t expected it to be open; security on the estate was quite good, and such an oversight would have been unusual. But she had expected some response to her knocking; surely the sound of a shoe on an iron door would have alerted someone, somewhere? But fifteen minutes passed and a light, drizzling rain began to fall and still no one appeared. Damp and hoarse, with stockings torn, she was on her way back down the path towards the front of the block when the door opened. A young man in unbuttoned jeans and a worn dressing gown held it ajar with his foot and hurled a bag of rubbish some fifteen feet over the wall of the low, roofless enclosure opposite, into an unseen bin. Eileen heard the clatter as the bag made contact, knocking a lid onto the concrete floor behind the wall. The boy gave a quiet, self-appreciative cheer and turned to go back inside.
    â€œHey, wait a minute!” she called after him, squinting against the bright fluorescence of the hallway light. “Hold that door a minute, will you?”
    She stumbled up to the step, conscious of her disheveled appearance, but the boy did not seem to notice.
    â€œForget your key?” he asked cheerfully, shivering for effect as he pulled the door shut behind them. The query was rhetorical; she opened her mouth to answer but he’d already turned away. He was halfway up the stairs when she thought to call him back.
    â€œExcuse me, I don’t mean to pry, but have you been in all evening?”
    The boy stopped and looked down at her. He nodded shortly.
    â€œIt’s just that there’s a man at the side there,” Eileen explained, “I thought you might have noticed him—”
    Instantly the boy became solicitous.
    â€œWhy didn’t you say so? Where is the bastard?”
    â€œNo, no, it’s nothing like that. He’s just a man lying there on the ground.”
    â€œWhat, in the foyer?”
    â€œNo, outside on the step. My step, actually. He’s been there for twenty minutes at least. I just wondered if anyone