Harry froze at the pounding of the thump-thump-thump of the door knock. Nobody knew he was there. Correction: nobody should have known he was there. What had gone wrong? His heart, troublesome at the best of time, fluttered and bile rose to the back of his throat. Suddenly his armpits were soaked in sweat. He wiped a drip of snot from his top lip with the back of his hand.
His clothes lay in an untidy pile on the chair. How to hide? He surveyed the room. There was no furniture to speak of apart from the bed, a huge divan with drawers beneath it leaving no space. There was no wardrobe to hide in like lovers did when interrupted by the unexpected return home of a woman’s husband. This was no French farce; this was deadly serious.
A door led into a shower room, but Harry had already visited there several times during the night. He knew the room led nowhere. His only chance was the window. It took only three steps to cross the room. He ripped aside the flimsy curtain; a low beam of light entered the room. He had arrived after midnight and now saw for the first time the notice glued to the glass. It could not be opened more than a couple of inches. It gave Harry no comfort to know that he would not be tossed out of the window to the pavement seven storeys below.
The thumping repeated. Three urgent raps. Bang-bang-bang.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 