Running on Empty (3 page)

He gestured to the troops, who briskly pushed past the Steins, into the hallway and began searching the rooms. In spite of the cold December air, tiny beads of perspiration dappled the forehead and upper lip of Albert Stein as he waited in the doorway. The officer studied him curiously.

‘You seem to be perspiring, Herr Stein?’

‘Oh yes, I think I’m coming down with something. I haven’t been myself the last couple of days’ he answered in a quiet voice.

The minutes ticked by slowly, agonisingly, until finally the soldiers returned to the hallway.

‘We’ve searched the house and could find no-one sir’ the trooper reported.

‘Indeed’.

He turned back to the street.

‘Matteus, bring that canine of yours and check the building’ he ordered.

Otto Matteus called Gunther to heel, and proceeded past the Steins into the hallway.

‘Search’ he ordered, and the dog began scanning to and fro, nose to the ground, with Matteus following closely behind. They worked through each room slowly, methodically, until finally the only place left was the cellar. Matteus called Gunther to his side, and they proceeded down the steps. It took the soldier a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim half light. The dog began sniffing, exploring each area of the room. Suddenly it stiffened, and began clawing at a stack of boxes which lay to one side. It barked a number of times, its eyes fixed on an area high up on the stack, near ground level. Matteus followed its gaze. In the dim light it was difficult to clearly make out what he was seeing, but what was that dark shape? Was it….part of a child’s shoe?

He froze. He looked back towards the steps, then again at the shoe.

He stood motionless, eyes fixed on that piece of children’s footwear in the gloom of the cellar, thoughts ebbing and flowing and tumbling and fighting for supremacy in his consciousness.

After standing there for what seemed like a minute, but may well have been a lifetime, he finally spoke.

‘Down’ he ordered the dog.

Gunther looked at him, puzzled.

‘Down’ he ordered again.

The dog emitted a whining sound, but did what it was ordered.

‘Heel’ he instructed the canine, who immediately came to rest behind his master. The two of them made their way back up the cellar steps to the kitchen, the dog giving one last glance back to the stack of boxes as they did so.

‘Well?’ asked the officer.

‘There was nothing, sir’ answered Matteus.

The officer gave him a puzzled expression.

‘But, why was the dog barking?’ he asked.

‘Oh, he just disturbed a rat sir’ was the reply.

‘Indeed, it appears this area is rife with vermin’ he said, glancing at the Steins.

‘Well, gather up whatever it is you’ll need for a journey’ he continued, ‘and make it quick. You must come with us’

‘But where….., where are we to go?’

‘Somewhere else’.

Tom took another drag on his cigarette as he lay naked beneath a sheet strewn in disarray across the bed, staring at the shafts of December sun which penetrated the curtains and created abstract images on the ceiling.

What am I doing hanging with Rachel anyway? What’s the fucking point of it all?

Well, there’s the sex for starters. That’s good anyway, isn’t it? I mean, she’s pretty damn hot in the sack, isn’t she?

No, not really.

Not once the novelty has worn off.

And the novelty has been getting more than a little threadbare of late.

And, what else?

Not a fucking lot if the truth be told.

Ride the big dipper first time and you’re blown away, but go on it a dozen times, and you just want to move on to the cocoanut stall. No thrill in repetition.

Tom resigned himself to the fact that he and Rachel weren’t going to be an item for too much longer.

He checked his watch on the bedside table.

Time to get up and do his Saturday grocery shop.

Tom stepped out onto the landing, pulling the door behind him.

He paused, conscious that he wasn’t alone, and turned. There was a figure, a silhouette, difficult to make out exactly, backlit by the large bay window at the end of the corridor. As his eyes adjusted, Tom began make out the form of a woman, an old frail woman he now realised. She appeared to be motionless, with one hand holding the varnished wooden handrail at the top of the stairs, while the other appeared to be resting on a walking cane. Tom seemed to recollect that someone had mentioned to him before that his next door neighbour was, what was their phrase?, ‘a bit of an oddball’. He’d never heard any noise coming from the apartment, nor seen or heard anyone enter or leave, in almost a year of living next door.

Still no movement, so Tom approached, cautiously.

He didn’t want to be beaten about the head by a cackling crazy woman.

‘Are you…ok?’

Now that he was nearer, he could see that he was safe from assault. This old woman could hardly stand, let alone go wielding her stick about his person. She was definitely old, very old, thought Tom absently, well into her eighty’s he guessed. She was dressed from head to toe in black, like one of those widows he’d seen in countless Sicilian mafia movies. The only departure from her sombre state of dress, Tom noticed, was a delicate gold chain from which hung a single pearl around her thin, narrow neck. Her grey hair was tied back, but small wisps had escaped their confines and were matted to her damp forehead. The knuckles of both her hands were white, clinging with a vice-like hold on both the handrail and the stick. And, she was in pain, quite a bit of pain he reckoned as he studied her features.

‘Are you ok?’ he repeated.

‘Yes thank you’ she answered, without much conviction. Her voice was low, guttural, heavily accented.

German,
thought Tom. He’d seen too many movies not to know.

She let out a long, frail sigh, and looked up at him.

‘Perhaps you could assist me back to my apartment door?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, I’m sure a young man such as yourself has better things to be doing with his time’.

‘Don’t be silly, happy to help. We are neighbours, after all’ Tom answered, without much conviction.

The problem was, he didn’t know how to help. His hands shifted a number of times, unsure of where to actually take hold of her. He finally settled on gently taking hold of her handrail side arm, seeing as how the other had the walking stick. Together they shuffled slowly towards her apartment door. She appeared to be limping quite heavily.

‘Would you be so kind as to take my key out?’ she asked. ‘It’s in my left coat pocket’.

Tom removed the key and opened the apartment door. A number of things struck him immediately as they entered the room. The first was the musty, stale air. He remembered reading somewhere that the older a person gets, the more their sense of smell deserts them, to the point where they could be sleeping soundly in their bed, while a dead, decomposing rat could be wedged neatly under their mattress undetected. He shuddered slightly. Then there was the cold. Christ it was cold in there. Tom could see his breath in front of him as they walked.
Maybe she can’t afford the heating bills
, he thought absently. But the most striking thing about the apartment was the décor. It felt to Tom like he was stepping onto a film set. Every available space was taken up with furniture, mainly dark wood or floral print, to the point where there was no floor space as such, just narrow channels in which to walk. Dozens of wooden framed photographs, all black and white, covered almost every available area of the walls.

He helped her over to a floral print armchair, which she slowly, gingerly, eased herself into.

‘Thank you’ she said, ‘It was very kind of you to help’.

‘Don’t be silly’ he answered. ‘How are you feeling, would you like me to call you a doctor?’

‘No, no, I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor. I’m not ill. It’s just the years catching up with me, I’m afraid’.

‘But you seemed to be limping badly. Are you sure?’

‘Oh that? That’s just an old injury from my childhood. It acts up every so often, and this cold weather makes it worse unfortunately. But it will pass, it always does’.

‘Oh, ok, if you’re sure. How about a coffee? Would you like me to make one for you?’

She paused before answering.

‘Well, not a coffee, I don’t drink coffee. But if it’s not too much trouble, a cup of tea would be nice. That’s if you don’t mind. I feel like I’ve delayed you more than enough already’.

Tom made his way to the kitchen, searching the presses until he found what he was looking for. He called back to the sitting room.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Of course not, I’d be delighted if you would’.

He returned a couple of minutes later with two cups of tea, handed one to the old lady, then sat down opposite her with the other.

‘Tom’s my name, Tom Feeney’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘I’m your next door neighbour’.

‘Ella Stein’ she answered, taking his hand.

‘Well, Mrs Stein, are you feeling any better now?’

‘Please, call me Ella. Yes, much better thanks, the tea is doing wonders’.

‘Ok, er..Ella, that’s good. Where were you off to anyway when I came across you?’

‘I was heading out to get some groceries, why?’

‘But sure, that’s good. I was heading out to do some shopping myself. If you give me a list of what you need, I can pick them up for you’.

‘No, I wouldn’t impose like that, you’ve enough to be doing’.

‘It’s no problem, honestly. Just write down what you want’.

Ella began to reluctantly make up a short list before handing it to Tom.

‘I really feel terrible doing this, you know’.

‘Look, I’m shopping anyway, what’s the difference in a few extra bits and pieces’.

Tom began to walk to the door, then turned back.

‘Y’know Mrs Stein’ Tom began. He noticed a disapproving glance from her and corrected himself sheepishly, ‘Y’know Ella’ he continued, ‘it might be an idea to maybe turn up the heat a little, just for today anyway’.

‘Oh, that’s ok’ she answered. ‘Apart from the leg acting up a bit, the cold doesn’t bother me at all. I became used to the cold a long, long time ago, when I was a child, in fact’.

Tom turned and walked out the door, puzzled.

He had nearly completed his grocery shopping, and now it was time for a bit of fun. Although the butcher shop went by the name of Hannigans, Tom always referred to it, well to himself anyway, as a visit to ‘The Three Little Pigs’. It was run by three sisters, with the occasional assistance of their elderly father. Tom entered, and smiled quietly to himself as he approached the counter.

‘Good morning girls, and how are you all keeping today?’.

They appeared almost identical. All wore white aprons, had ruddy pink complexions, beady little piggy eyes, and, Tom swore, noses that resembled snouts more than anything else.

‘Hi Tom, we’re good’ all three answered in unison.

‘And what can we get you?’ one of them asked in a high pitched voice.

‘Get me some bacon, chop, chop’ he answered. This was typical of his exchanges with the girls. He always included some corny, meat reference quip in his conversation, which the three seemed to find hilarious. They all began to squeal on hearing his reply, and Tom was sure he actually heard a grunt in there somewhere. One of them wrapped his meat up in white paper using her stubby, sausage-like fingers as he paid.

‘Have to go now girls, have to bring home the bacon’ he said as he walked out the door, to a chorus of squeals, giggles, and, was that another grunt?

None of the streetlamps were working, Ella was unsure why, with the only illumination coming from the cold light of a December moon, and the warm yellow glow which radiated from the occasional house window, like a sunflower on a bed of coal.