Knock

Knock, knock, knock.

Sometimes kids in the block run past and kick doors for fun. But you know the difference between a kick and a knock.

I don’t have a door bell or a buzzer, so it’s always a knock.

Knock, knock, knock – silence – you can hear them shuffling from one foot to the next. 

They often walk away or sometimes try again – knock, knock, knock. 

They rarely do after this. You can relax.

People knock in different ways.

There’s the one finger knock, usually around ten o’clock on a Monday morning. Three times. A five second wait. Then three times again. Before a card is pushed under the door. ‘The congregation of Christ the Redeemer wish you well during lockdown. We are here to help. Shopping, financial support, or just a friendly face to talk to.’ Email, telephone, FB and Twitter contact details follow, or you could pop along to the socially-distanced meetings at the church hall. I have a collection of those contact cards.

There used to be the regular eleven thirty ‘official postman knock’. Confident. In-charge.  A full four-finger ‘don’t mess with me and will you hurry up and answer the bloody door knock’. Alfred always stood and talked the time of day. ‘Bloody kids…..lifts not working again….traffic was bad today…..bloody Boris.’ The knocking almost sounded musical through-out the block as lockdown deliveries increased. Alfred caught Covid and I have not heard him since. 

I sit alone. On the floor. Back against the door. 

It never used to be like this. March. Lockdown. That never bothered me. Then John started coughing and had difficulty breathing. He had been ill for over a week before I called the ambulance. It was ages before they knocked at the door. A soft synthetic knock. That’s what it sounds like when your wearing plastic gloves. In full protective gear. They took him away. I never saw him again.

I knew he had died. I was lying in bed, awake. The clock on the bookcase opposite said two, but John always kept it running fifteen minutes fast so he ‘would never be late’. There were three loud firm knocks on the front door. The sound beat through the flat. No-one was there. I knew no-one was there. I knew he was dead.

There were only three of us at the funeral. Fear does that.

Thud, thud, thud.

That’s the police. I do not answer, they will be back.

The neighbours on the side nearest the lift had been arguing late into the night. Screaming. Then a dull thump. Silence. I thought she had probably beaten his head against the wall until he was dead. Serves him right. He was never nice to John.

Thud, thud, thud.

Told you……