Double Parked
BY SAMUEL BEST
There was a car parked in Matthew’s space when he got home. It had been an unproductive day and he felt flat, unhappy. Something burned behind his forehead; the hint of a deeper headache on its way. He pulled the handbrake on and cursed. Matthew’s flat was one of twelve in the complex and each had its own assigned space. His was number eleven, the same as his flat. It was a simple system and yet people living nearby – people whose flats didn’t come with parking – often tried to park there during the working day. This was the second time in as many weeks that Matthew’s space had been taken. He eyed the stranger’s car and felt his temples throb.
Just as Matthew was about to reverse out of the car park – there was a spot a few minutes’ drive away that he had found to use in these circumstances – he saw that the stranger’s car might have parked up in his space but the driver hadn’t gotten out yet. Silhouetted in the car, Matthew could make out a man; he leaned over to the glovebox for a moment before opening the driver’s side door and stepping out. He must have only parked a minute ago. Matthew cursed himself. If he had only left work earlier, driven faster. The man was tall and slim, his hair short, his face lean. Matthew thought for a second that he recognised the man, but then decided that he didn’t. Matthew opened his own car door and got out. In his head he played the argument, imagined beating the man up. Punching that sallow face. Matthew realised he was angry, very angry, already.
‘Hey!’ Matthew shouted. ‘Hey!’
The man turned at the second call.
‘That’s my space.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s my parking space,’ Matthew said. He had closed the space between them now, standing level with the boot of the man’s car. ‘Find somewhere else to park.’
The man frowned for a second and Matthew was annoyed that he didn’t seem angry or defensive. Matthew balled his fists. He wondered what it felt like to punch another human. He had never actually done it before. His veins pounded, tense as ropes.
‘This is my space,’ the man said, locking his car. The flash of lights, the little bleep; it was like a full stop.
‘Are you joking?’ Matthew asked, continuing on regardless. ‘I’ve lived here for six years. This is my space.’
The man laughed a little and Matthew felt his temper grow. He wondered how hard he would have to hit the man to break his jaw.
‘I’ve lived here for six years,’ the man said.
Matthew took a step forward but the man did not move. A noise began to buzz in Matthew’s ear, like a wasp or a guitar feeding back. He was so angry he felt a little dizzy.
‘I don’t care where you live,’ Matthew said, his voice staccato. ‘But I live in flat eleven and this is my parking space. Space eleven. See?’ He dangled his house keys in front of the man, like his own punctuation to end the conversation.
‘I live in flat eleven,’ the man said.
Matthew’s hand fell down, his keys hanging uselessly from his fingers. He had nothing to say back. The pain in his head tightened. The buzzing grew louder.
The man took a step forward. Not in an intimidating way, just to get by Matthew, and Matthew let him. The man began to walk across the car park and towards Matthew’s building.
‘Wait!” Matthew called. He jogged to catch up with the man.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Matthew continued. ‘I live in flat eleven.’ He pointed up at the building. ‘That’s my bedroom window there. And the one to the right is my study. I live up there.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to do,’ the man said. They had reached the door to the building. He put his key in the lock and sure enough the door opened. He stepped inside and Matthew followed.
The stairwell was wide and well lit, the carpet cleaned weekly. It always smelled faintly of something chemical and reassuring but today the smell was acrid, an ammonia kick in the air. They walked up a flight wordlessly. Matthew imagined pushing the man over, watching him tumble backwards. His headache twinged again and the white noise in his skull mixed with the electric buzz of the lights on the wall. Matthew wiped sweat from his face and kept pace with the man.
‘Okay, what is the woman who lives there called?’ Matthew asked, pointing to flat four’s door.
The man stopped and looked for a second. His face was quite blank, as if he had had this conversation before. Matthew had a similar feeling of déjà vu.
‘That’s Duncan’s flat,’ the man said. ‘There isn’t a woman who lives there.’
Matthew cursed, his trick question shot down.
‘When did he move in then?’
‘Look,’ the man said, putting one hand out like he was asserting the distance between them. ‘I don’t know what you want from me. If you want me to call someone for you I can.’
‘I don’t need you to call anyone,’ Matthew said. ‘I need you to move your car and get out of my building.’
They were on the second-top floor now. The door to flat nine was just closing and Matthew saw a chance.
‘Wait! Wait!’
He bolted over, pushing the door back open to reveal a young woman. She looked startled and tried to force the door shut. Matthew jammed his foot in the way and held his palms up to her.
‘Calm down, Jill, it’s me. It’s me. Look, will you tell this guy that I live upstairs? He doesn’t believe me.’
She looked at Matthew and then to the stranger, then back again. Matthew smiled and stepped back, his house keys hanging from his fingers like a rosary. Jill shut and bolted the door and Matthew heard the metallic scrape of a security chain sliding into place. The hallway hung in silence. Matthew looked down, feeling the stranger’s gaze burning into the back of his head. A bead of sweat tickled his skin as it ran down his face.
After a moment, the man said, ‘There’s an easy way to sort this out.’
Matthew looked up and the guy nodded to the stairs. They went up and stood at the door to flat eleven. It was white, with a silver letterbox and an embossed silver number plate, the same as all the others in the building. Except the door to number eleven had a foot-long black scuff towards the bottom of the door, from where Matthew had scraped his old desk against it before leaving it for the city council uplift. Matthew was about to point this out when the man gestured to the door.
‘Let yourself in then,’ he said.
Matthew paused, his blood pulsing thick as molasses. He tasted salt on his lips and realised that his shirt was soaked through. His keys were warm and clammy in his fist.
One hand on the doorknob, Matthew pushed his key in the lock. The stairwell was silent and the man looked on expectantly. His hand was shaking and it was then that Matthew realised that he was actually nervous. Why was he nervous? This was his home. He had lived here for six years. He imagined punching the man in the face again. Bursting his lip or maybe his nose. Matthew’s hand was still shaking and he was beginning to feel quite faint.
The key wouldn’t turn. Matthew tried again, hearing the metal clatter inside the door. There was no give. He pulled the key out, checked it was the right one, and then tried again. The door remained locked.
When Matthew removed his key again the man stepped forward with his own. He seemed to ooze an air of mastery now, like he was superior to Matthew in some way, with his steady hand and his dry shirt. Matthew stepped out of the way and the man opened the door to flat eleven.
Inside, Matthew saw his own flat. His carpet on the floor, his artwork on the walls. From somewhere deeper Matthew heard a cat – his cat – mewling. A woman stepped out from the living room. She was on the phone and waved hello to the stranger. Matthew remembered how he had first met her, that woman, Jenny, and how they had dated and gotten engaged last year and were planning a wedding – a whole life – together. He knew her. He was sure he knew her. Matthew went to speak but could not find his voice. His head burned, his mind blurry with static. Sweat stung in his eyes. He reached behind him and braced a hand against the wall for support. Jenny looked at him blankly for a second before continuing to walk across the hallway and into the bedroom. The stranger turned back to Matthew.
‘See?’ he said, and he closed the door.
