Murder Day [The Novel]

Chapter 1

As I walk down the eroding sidewalk, my toe snags on a particularly dangerous crack and I stumble forward. I put my hands out, catching myself on the side of one of the many boarded up old buildings. Pulling back, I examine the soot on my palms and rub it off on my pants. All around me lingers the smell of oil and coal fuelled fires – it’s acrid and stings my nostrils even though by now I should be used to it. A woman on the corner pulls back her skirt as I walk past, she hollers something obscene but I try to ignore her as I lower my eyes and pick up my pace; nothing can slow me down, not today.

As I turn into my own decrepit neighbourhood I notice Mrs. Macaulay frantically peering from one alley to the next, “Hello,” I tip my head to her and try to zoom past but she reaches out and grabs hold of my elbow.

“Have you seen my boy? Have you seen Mitchell?” I feel a pang of regret as I brush her off, pushing her away a little too forcefully, “Please I need to find my son!” She cries out after me as I quickly apologize and continue on my way.

Approaching my building, I can hear Mrs. Macaulay screaming for Mitchell, begging him to come home, pleading with god to keep him safe. God…what a funny concept…not many believe in him anymore, but those who do, do so almost fanatically. I know her prayers won’t be answered though, if god does exist I don’t think he’s listening, why would he? Why would he want anything to do with us?

I walk into the lobby of my apartment building, the carpet is old and stained; it’s curling up in the corners and much of it is threadbare, its floral pattern all but disappearing from sight. The elevator doors are open just a crack, as per usual, and I’m so used to ignoring them that I brush right past – not even bothering to try the cracked and faded buttons. It’s never worked, not as long as I’ve been living here and I’ve lived here all my life.

The door to the stairwell is heavy and stained with years of finger prints, the thick black grease is repulsive to the touch and the eyes. I brush through it though, only touching the handle and trying to hold my breath in the rancid air that fills the stairs. The smell of urine and feces is all around me, in the dim light I can see black mold creeping along the walls and every once in a while I need to watch my step as the stairs are crumbling under my feet.

I hear a sound echoing down toward me, it’s coming from the floor above my apartment and I almost instinctively know who it is, “Agnes?” I say in a stage whisper that carries quite well in the narrow space, “Agnes is that you?”

“Who’s there?” She calls back and leans over the railing with a smile, “Oh it’s you, hello!”

“Agnes, what are you doing here?” I quickly make my up the stairs and grab hold of her arm, she smiles at me and it causes her wrinkled face to buckle in on itself. Her hunched shoulders lean against me and I can feel her struggling for breath, “Where’s you puffer?”

“My puffer?” She asks and I lead her back out of the stair well, she sounds more and more confused by the day.

“Yeah, your puffer, it helps you breathe.”

“Oh that darn thing,” Agnes waves a liver spotted hand, her knuckles are swollen and her fingers a little crooked, “I can never quite keep track of it I’m afraid.”

“Well, let me help you find it okay?” I lead her into her apartment and sit her down in her favourite old arm chair, “Where did you see it last?”

“See what, dear?” She asks with a pleasant smile and I feel my heart sink.

“Your puffer!” I say a little more loudly than I know I have to.

“Oh that darn thing,” Agnes repeats herself and I stop listening, instead I search the drawers in her kitchen and peek into her crooked medicine cabinet. The mirror on the outside is rusted and fading; I can barely make out the features of my face as I watch my worry grow.