Page 17 of The Quiet Tenant

All so normal. The tidy accoutrements of suburban life.

He guides you right up to it—the house, an actual house within your reach. Walls and windows and wooden slats, like the shed but larger, taller, and then a roof. On the front door, a lock and a key that comes out of his pocket and fits inside that lock, and before you can comprehend it, before the echo of the key turning inside the lock fully reaches your eardrums, you are inside.

“Come on.”

He hurries you toward a flight of stairs. The house offers itself upto you in brief, elusive visions—a couch, a TV, picture frames on a bookshelf. An open kitchen, the thin buzz of appliances.

“Let’s go.”

You follow him. Climb one step, then two, and then—your body tips forward. You catch yourself on the railing before your chin can hit the ground. You look down at your feet. You tripped: the steps are carpeted, and you’re no longer used to soft ground.

He turns to shoot you a look. Your stomach tightens.

But he resumes climbing the stairs, pulling you forward with renewed eagerness. He wants you in the room he has assigned you. He wants control. All he has ever wanted is for life to go according to his plans.

You reach the second floor. You spot it in the dark at the end of the hallway, a poster taped to the door. You focus, try to make out the image—a faceless figure cradling another, smaller one, spots of orange and blue glowing in the dark. Your eyes scan all of it and your brain—you can barely believe it—your brain saysKeith Haring.A bolt of recognition flashing through a pile of rubble. The parts of you the shed couldn’t erase.

It has to be his daughter’s room. His must be the one to your left, on this end of the hallway. He stands in front of the bare door, shut, quietly holding in his secrets. Like he doesn’t even want you to see it. Like it conceals a world entirely separate from yours.

To your right is another door. Blank. Bland. He takes out another key, inserts it in the lock at the center of the round doorknob, and turns it. Smooth, silent. So deadly agile, even in the dark.

—

THE ROOM ISsmall and bare. A twin bed immediately to your right, with one of those old, wiry iron frames. A small desk and the matching stool in a corner, a chest of drawers next to it. The radiator on the opposite end of the space. A window, obscured by blackout shades. It is the most amazing room you have ever laid eyes on. It is everything and nothing, yours and not yours, home and not home.

He shuts the door. A light fixture hangs from the ceiling but he makes no move to switch it on. Instead, he drops the crate onto the floor, undoes his end of the handcuffs, and gestures toward the bed.

“Go.”

He waits for you to lie down. That was the deal: handcuffed to the radiator by day, to the bed at night. You sit on the mattress. Springs groan underneath your body. For the first time in five years, you sink into something soft and bouncy. You bring both legs up onto the mattress, extend them, lower your torso, and let your head touch the pillow.

This is supposed to feel good. After more than a thousand nights in a sleeping bag on wooden slats, you should be hearing angels sing. But it’s all wrong. The mattress sags like it’s trying to swallow you. Like you’ll keep sinking and sinking until there’s nothing left, no trace of you on this earth, nothing to let people know you were ever here.

You sit back up, searching for your breath.

“I’m sorry.”

His hand springs to your shoulder. He pushes you back down, his fingers digging under your clavicle.

“What. The fuck. Are you doing?”

“I’m not…I’m sorry. I just don’t…I don’t think this is going to work.”

His grip hardens. You want to appease him, but your chest tightens. A stabbing sensation sets your rib cage on fire. He needs to know you’re not going to try anything, that you couldn’t run even if you thought you had a chance. You try and fail to inhale.

“Just…sorry.”

You bring your hands up, hoping your body will tell him what you can’t verbalize. That you are innocent, that you have nothing to hide. He’s still holding the pistol. The silencer grazes the side of your knee. You focus on your breath. A long time ago, in your former life, you downloaded a meditation app. An Englishman prompted you in prerecorded sessions to breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Again, and again, and again.

Just as you think your chest is beginning to settle, a wheeze rises from your throat. Or is that a ringing in your ears? In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Hands up. Eyes on the gun.

“Would it be okay…if I slept on the floor?”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s just…the mattress…It’s very different from the shed. I know it’s stupid. Sorry. I’m sorry. But could I? It won’t change anything. I swear.”

He sighs. Scratches his temple with the barrel of the gun. Does that mean the safety’s on? Or is he that confident in his own marksmanship?

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