Charade

Benji

A slick layer of sweat coated both hands as I fumbled with the door handle.

Two silver paperclips with sharp poking ends prodded the base of my fingernail. I flinched, swearing under my breath. With the prickly beige carpet cutting into my knees, I listened to my heartbeat drum in my ears, felt the vibration of the hammer against my ribs. I couldn't breathe. I'd been here too long, kneeling on this carpet, trying to pick the lock to my temporary home. Somebody was sure to come around the bend. Someone was sure to catch me.

I stole a quick glance down both ends of the hallway. Cream-coloured paint cracked and peeled from the plaster walls, highlighted by the blinding white lights running along the ceiling. The silence was eerie. You'd think nobody lived here, but I knew that they were locked away in their rooms like rats in a cage, sleeping soundly.

Or maybe not everyone.

Footsteps came trotting up a nearby walkway, heavy but relaxed, their volume raised every step. I gasped and my eyes jerked back to the lock, my hands clumsy and shaking, jamming the clips deeper into door. The footsteps continued until their beat became rhythmic, coming closer and closer, until I was sure they'd find me.

The door burst open and I dived inside, kicking it shut behind me. The footsteps paused for a long moment, confused, before picking up again and strolling by the door. I saw the two dark shadows of large feet pass under the crack between the wood and the carpet and I didn't dare let the air in my throat go any further.

When the footsteps faded into oblivion, I let out a sigh. It was so dark in here. I couldn't even make out shadows. The only light streamed in from under the door, where I'd seen the two feet, and it wasn't nearly enough to see even my own hands.

With my legs spread out and hands holding me up, I heard the floorboards creak as I rose. It took a minute or two to feel my way to the light switch, and in the moments before I did, I hit something cold and sturdy and heard it smash at my feet. Then there was light, and I narrowed my eyes at the sudden change.

It was a picture frame that had shattered two inches from my toes. The photo, now slumped against the wooden frame, revealed a man around forty holding a little girl on his shoulders. She hugged his head, her tiny body folded around it, smiling sweetly as she blinded the man who held her pink sneakers over his chest. I almost smiled, then wondered who took the picture.

When I turned around, I saw this apartment was surprisingly impeccable. Most people liked to clean their houses when they went away so they could come back to a nice comfortable space, but these people went far beyond that. A yellow light glinted off the glossy kitchen table, painted with fresh vanish and holding a bowl of strategically placed fruit. The couch was spotless, complete with fluffed pillows arranged to make it seem more inviting than it probably was. There were shelves and shelves of alphabetized books, in order of their authors and I was sure that nobody – absolutely nobody – could read that many books in only one lifetime. Everything was ordered and boring, like the life had been sucked out of the place.

I dropped my back pack at my feet and went for a look around. I looked at the books first, remembering how much I used to love them before I ran away. I ran my fingertips over their spines, digging through my memories in search of the authors I once adored. Reading used to be everything to me. It was my only escape in a time where I really needed one. Then came the drugs and the booze and the girls, and in one swift motion, it washed away all my love for dead authors and their lively words.

I flopped back onto the couch and sunk deep into the foam, knowing I should really be getting my brick mobile phone out of my bag to take snapshots of the apartment before I got too comfortable. There were few things that I took with me in my travels, and all of them fit nicely in a schoolbag. The cheap little phone was among them. There was also a book I loved, but never read, titled Addiction, by Peter Melufe – a gift from my sister, many years before. There was still a photo of us tucked in between pages sixty three and sixty four.

Among the book, there was a laptop without internet, a black hoodie I stole last winter, two and half changes of clothes, a new bottle of Russian vodka and a half-empty packet of cigarettes. This was my life, all tucked up neatly inside an old schoolbag, and I was happier with these simple gifts than I ever was with my parents' millions at my fingertips.

With a heavy sigh, I got up and grabbed the phone out of my bag and started taking pictures. The coffee table, the couch, the books, the kitchen. Every inch captured in pixelated pictures. This has been my life ever since I ran away two years ago – train-hopping, food-stealing, and house-borrowing. My name is Benji Forrester. I'm a squatter. I'm the guy who borrows your house when you're away in Bali, tanning it up on some sandy beach. I'm the guy who takes photos of every inch of your house so I can put everything back before you get home. I'm where that last can of spaghetti went and why your water bill is up. I borrow people's apartments and homes and trust houses, and I'm gone before you ever knew I was there.

I looked through the lens at the living room and snapped the photo. I scowled when I realized that I'd cut half the couch out of frame. I took a step backwards, eyes squinted at the little screen, and backed into something that made me stumble.

"Fuck!" I swore as my legs buckled behind me.

I made a slight bump as my ass hit the ground. Phone still firmly in my grip, I looked at the red sandals wrapped around my ankles. That'd be right – I trip over the one thing Mr and Mrs Hammond forgot to pick up.

"Fuckers," I murmured, kicking them off.

Then something caught my attention. In my clumsy fall, I'd kicked up the Turkish rug. I pulled my feet in, looking at the floorboards beside the leg of the coffee table. Something was wrong – the floorboards weren't right. They were cut into a perfect square, about a metre either way, and I wondered why until it clicked. With a wide grin, I pulled a switchblade out of my pocket and jammed the blade in the cut. I pried it open quickly and tossed the wood aside. There, under the floorboards, was a stainless steel floor safe. A beautiful, breakable, valuable safe.

And what I found inside changed everything.

© A.G. Travers 2015