Kim & The Hitman

back to the flat. Tired, my throat sore, and being cramped on the bus with all the school kids, I was relieved when I arrived back home. Then I saw my bags parked outside the door. We might have lived in a posh block, but I still wouldn’t trust anyone.
Not in the mood for him joking around, I went to let myself in. My key didn’t work. Confused, I knocked on the door. What’s going on? He must’ve known that April 1st, April fool’s day isn’t until tomorrow.
‘Is that you, Kim?’
‘Yeah… who else would it be. Come on. This isn’t funny. I’m tired and hungry. Open the door.’
‘Didn’t you get my text?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘That’s it. We’re done. You came back with me for one night. I didn’t expect to get stuck with you for a month. Sorry, Kim, it’s not working and since you won’t take the bloody hint… fuck off.’
I was mystified. And what Paul had said wasn’t strictly true. He had invited me to stay for the weekend, not one night. And then hinted I could leave some clothes there. If he had said in the first week how he felt, but no, not a word. And we had made love the other night. It wasn’t his best performance, but still. And though he had been a bit rat arsed as of late, I figured he had problems at work. Though I liked to think, I never brought mine home.
‘If I’ve done something wrong… couldn’t we work it out?’ My gut was fluttering, my chest filled with emotion, and I struggled not to cry. I failed and burst into tears.
‘You can stop that. It won’t work on me,’ snapped Paul from the other side of the door.
‘Didn’t mean to cry,’ I sobbed. ‘Please open the door and talk to me face to face.’
‘Not a chance, you get your foot in the door, and I’ll never get rid of you–you are the shallowest person I think I’ve ever met. Everything is about you… I complain of an ache in my back, and you have one worse in your shoulder. I have an unpleasant customer, then you have three. Everything is about you, you, you….’
While I listened to the rant, a door opened behind me. It’s Fred, or whatever his name was, with a face like a poker. I guessed in his sixties, always grumbling about something.
Do you have to be so noisy?’
‘Do you mind? Can’t you see this is a private conversation?’ I informed him, brushing the wetness from my face and trying to muster some dignity.
‘It’s not exactly private. The entire block can hear you,’ he snapped and just stood there staring at me. Then his eyes flicked down to my bags, grinned, and closed the door again. Now everyone would know Paul had kicked me out, and a flush of humiliation hit me. Worse, my throat had become painful, reducing me to a whisper.
‘Are you still there?’ shouted Paul through the door.
‘Yes,’ I said but now not sure he could hear me. I texted him. ‘Losing my voice.’
‘And I’d like to lose you. Goodbye, Kim.  Don’t contact me again.’
I texted him back, ‘I love you.’ No answer. So, I sat on the bags, waiting for him to change his mind. Sure, he’d had a bad day and took it out on me. An hour went by. A text from him. Why are you still there? I can see the top of your head through the peephole. Go away, will you?
Another hour and another bus and the sky opened up. I arrived at dads at six-thirty. I was soaked through and
knackered. I let myself in since I didn’t give dad the key back, ignoring him when he asked me to pop it through the letterbox. He was so happy for me when I left to live with Paul. Still, he’d be glad to have the company back.
The house was a two-up, two down on the road full of terraces where you couldn’t park a car for love nor money. When taking driving lessons, I had to get picked up in the middle of the road, which reminded me, I needed to let Pass-test-First time know I’ve moved again. The name was a bit of a joke as I’d failed three times. Still, I got on well with Jo; we had such a lot in common. What with liking the same television programs, Strictly and The Kardashians.
The house was warm, so I knew dad was somewhere about as he was old school. If he was not in, the heating went off. I’d tried to tell him it was more expensive that way, but would he listen?
Closing the door, I heard moaning. My heart spiked, thinking dad sounded like he was having a heart attack. He was not in the living room or kitchen. I raced to the bedrooms and burst in. OMG. I left again. I won’t describe what I saw as it’s too revolting—the sight of Mrs Brown from next door in that position with dad. I was traumatised.
‘What the fuck are you doing back here?’ shouted dad.
‘Didn’t work out with Paul,’ I answered, trying to unsee what confronted me. Then it hit me. ‘She hasn’t moved in, has she?’ I mean, she had a good house of her own. The grunts and groans continued—no answer. I couldn’t bear it if she moved in. My mother would’ve turned in her grave. And where would that have left me?

 3
 
 
Thursday, my day off. I’d got out of bed at eleven; I was to meet the girls for coffee later and catch up with gossip. I hoped to stun them with my new red-streaked hair colour. A natural blonde, so the effect was eye-catching. I didn’t mind saying I looked fantastic. Then, as a professional beautician, I would have expected