The Waiting Game by Sheila Bugler

remote control for the alarm. She crawled to the door, banged her shoulder against the hard edge of the sofa but kept going. Out the door, along the hall and into the kitchen. Only then did she stand up. Dark in here too, but enough light to see where she was going.
    She grabbed the control but couldn’t remember how to use it. One button controlled the alarm, another put a call straight through to the police. She pressed a button but it was the wrongone and set the alarm off. The screaming, wailing noise was too loud for her small house. She tried to turn if off but whatever button she pressed, nothing worked.
    She pressed her hands over her ears and ran to the back door. Had to get away from the noise but she was too scared to go out front, in case he was still there. The door was locked and she couldn’t turn the key. Crying, not caring about making noise now, she tried again with sweat-slippery hands. Finally, she got it open and ran into the small back garden.
    It had started to rain. Big, wet raindrops landed on her head, mixed with the tears running down her face. She didn’t care. Anything was better than being trapped inside that house, waiting for him to come back and hurt her again.

Eleven
    ‘What happened?’ Ellen asked.
    ‘A bad date,’ Monica said. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’
    ‘If he hurt you,’ Ellen said, ‘you should report it.’
    Monica shrugged. ‘He’s an old flame. We still meet up from time to time. Just a bit of fun. You know what fun is, right?’
    Something about the way she said it set Ellen’s teeth on edge. She didn’t want this woman in her house. ‘Why are you here?’ she said.
    ‘I’m too scared to go home,’ Monica said. ‘Besides, you told me to call you anytime I wanted.’
    ‘I meant phone me,’ Ellen said. ‘I didn’t mean call over here whenever you like. How did you get my address?’
    ‘You gave it to me,’ Monica said. ‘I took your details when youbought the painting, remember?’
    ‘What if I wasn’t alone?’ Ellen said. ‘Did you even think about that?’
    Monica smiled. ‘So you do know what fun is, after all. I’m sorry, Ellen. I like you. Liked you the first time we met and like you even more after today. You were very kind to me. I wanted to see you. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
    She pointed to Ellen’s wine glass, sitting empty on the table.
    ‘Any chance I could have one of those?’
    ‘Why me?’ Ellen asked. ‘You have other friends, I assume.’
    ‘They’re all men,’ Monica said. ‘And right now, the last thing I feel like doing is propping up some bloke’s ego while he thinks he’s doing me a favour. Wine? One glass and I’ll be gone. I promise.’
    Ellen stood up.
    ‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ she said. ‘And then I’ll call a cab to take you home.’
    In the kitchen, Ellen took a swig of wine straight from the bottle. It didn’t make her feel any better but it didn’t make her feel any worse, either. The wine trickled down her throat and into her stomach. She waited for the anger and frustration to pass. Outside, it had started to rain, droplets tip-tapping against the glass doors, distorting Ellen’s reflection as she moved around the kitchen.
    Once she was sure she could deal with what waited for her, Ellen poured a glass of water for Monica and went back into the sitting room.
    Monica was standing by the fireplace, looking at the collection of photographs on the mantelpiece.
    ‘Your kids?’ she asked. ‘Cute. Who’s this?’
    ‘My husband,’ Ellen said. ‘Don’t touch them, please. Here’s your water.’
    She handed the glass over and sat down, hoping Monica would do the same.
    ‘Good-looking guy,’ Monica said, refusing to take the hint. She leaned in, pushed her face against the precious image of Vinny. Ellen’s hands clenched into tight fists, fingernails digging into her palms.
    ‘He died, right?’
    Ellen nodded.
    ‘That must have been awful,’ Monica said.