Louis Beside Himself by Anna Fienberg

the thrillers I’d stopped watching because I could never get to sleep afterwards. And just two weeks ago, hadn’t Mrs Livid Next Door had a break-in? Her precious bracelet, from her mother who’d been born a whole century ago, had gone missing. I tried to think . . . an emerald bracelet, she’d said, and the burglars must have been very professional because the window hadn’t even been smashed.
    I tried to slow my breathing, but my heart wouldn’t shut up. Surely it was too loud? Thud, thud , like a shovel coming down into packed earth, a grave of mud . . . I was going to be buried alive in this silence.
    There was a sharp grunt, and the shadow outside suddenly became a solid figure on the windowsill. It teetered there for a heartbeat, then – oh! It tumbled forward onto our own polished floorboards, crashing against the kitchen table—
    â€”just a metre from my big toe.
    This couldn’t be real. I stretched my eyes wide open, to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. But the person was still there, crouched over, hands on his knees as if he’d been winded. I couldn’t see his face. He was breathing hard, a black cap pulled down over his forehead.
    The sweat was running down my back, a small creek between my shoulder blades. Then I heard a moan. The burglar was clutching his ankle. My eyes fixed on his boots – black, head-kicking, steel-capped boots.
    Now , hissed Dad’s voice in my head. While he’s down on the floor. You’ll have the advantage of surprise. Get him on his back, hook his legs under your arms in a Jericho hold . . .
    But my legs had frozen. I couldn’t move. My heart was hammering so hard, my head floated off into the dark. I’d have given anything not to be there. Oh, to be falling off a skateboard, dribbling a basketball, even getting lost looking for Agnes. Any second I’d be discovered and then the burglar would have the advantage. Maybe there was time to run out back through the hallway. But what if he chased me?
    Jump on him , said Dad. No, the burglar was getting up, or . . . what was he doing? He’d turned around, was slowly inching up to the windowsill, just his head peeping up, looking out the window. At what?
    Get him from behind, do a dropkick . But my legs felt like air, wobbly air. As if I wasn’t inside my body at all.
    I was B ESIDE M YSELF .
    So that’s what it means, I thought, almost calmly. Mrs Livid from Next Door was always saying, ‘I was so upset I was beside myself.’
    Just then the burglar turned, his face in profile catching the moonlight. Thin, young, worried. Lips pressed together in a grim line.
    What a lugubrious expression he’s wearing .
    The silence changed. It became charged somehow, electric. I suddenly wondered if I’d spoken out loud. The words seemed to ring in the air.
    â€˜Well, look what you’re wearing.’ The burglar was pointing at my head.
    My hand shot up. I’d forgotten about Grandad’s beret. My cheeks blushed hot. But surely that was the least of my worries? My heart was rioting against my ribcage.
    â€˜I’m beside myself,’ I said, trying to explain.
    â€˜Pleased to meet you both,’ the burglar replied, sarcastically.
    There was a short, surprised silence. We studied each other. Then I couldn’t help myself.
    â€˜You know, you can’t really wear lugubrious like a . . . like a hat.’
    The burglar glanced at the window again. ‘Are you the only one home?’
    I nodded. What an idiot. I should I have said my enormous father was asleep in bed because he does shift work and any moment now he’d be waking up to get his tea and then he’d be off to the police station because he was a sergeant soon to be promoted to detective as he’d just captured his fifth burglar that month.
    The burglar looked relieved. As he lifted his cap to smooth his hair, his bomber jacket swung open. I saw a glint of steel in the