Chapter 1 - The request

Frank was sixty-one, but his body still carried the solid strength of a much younger man. His skin was permanently browned from years of outdoor work, the muscles in his arms and chest firm rather than soft. He put it down to the long days of labouring when he was younger - roofs, fences, concreting, whatever paid. That same work had left him with a quiet two-storey brick house on a residential street in a working-class suburb, the mortgage long since paid off. His wife had died almost ten years earlier. There were no children. He rented out the upstairs bedroom more for the company and the steady income than any real need.

Raised voices carried down from upstairs.

“I already told you… How was I supposed to know?”

“I told you. I can’t believe you’d do something like that. What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

Frank had been dozing in the recliner. The argument dragged him out of it. It was the middle of the afternoon. The house felt emptier than usual.

The argument was between his tenants, a young couple. Jack worked some mid-level office job. Janet was a bank officer. Both were only a few years out of uni, still in their mid-twenties, no children. Janet was pretty in a soft way - slim through the waist, with full breasts and the kind of rounded thighs that drew the eye when she came down the stairs in a skirt. Frank had glanced more than once. His own wife had been gone a long time. He had tried a few casual arrangements in the past, but decided solitude was better for him.

Upstairs the argument grew sharper. Something ceramic shattered. A door slammed hard. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs as if Jack were trying to stamp the anger out of each step. The front door opened and shut. A car engine roared to life in the driveway and tore away down the street. The house fell quiet again.

Frank clicked his tongue and closed his eyes, intending to go back to sleep. Ten minutes later a soft knock sounded at his bedroom door.

“Frank? … Frank.”

Janet’s voice.

“What?” he answered, still half-irritated.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He opened the door. Her eyes were red and wet. One cheek still carried the clear print of fingers. She had been hit. Something in his expression softened.