Safe Home by Maeve Keane
Image by Koolshooters for Pexels
“Safe home!”
Madeleine waves her co-workers off with a smile and pulls the door of the bookshop closed behind her. The sky is navy-blue and thunderous, and the high-street is quiet; shoppers have long departed to avoid the threatening downpour. The yellow lamp outside the bookshop flickers and dies as she pulls the keys out of her satchel. She fumbles them in the new darkness, and they fall at her feet. She reaches for them awkwardly.
“Are you ok?”
The voice is behind her. Male.
Madeleine stands up hastily and turns, the keys gripped tight in her hand.
The man stands in shadow, his silhouette tall and broad, outlined by the lights on the other side of the street. She can’t make out his face but quickly takes in the details she can see. He is wearing bright green trainers, a parka, and has a red canvas backpack slung over one shoulder. One hand is free, a little outstretched as though to help her up.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
She gives him a wary smile and waits for him to move on.
She holds the smile while he stands there, a beat more than is comfortable.
“No problem.” He lowers his hand and adjusts the backpack.
He is gone. Madeleine lets go of the smile and a breath she didn’t know she has been holding and locks the door. She slips the keys back into her satchel and fastens the clasp. The bag hangs across her body, and she holds on to it like she is gripping the safety strap on a subway, steadying herself for the journey home.
She steps out from the recessed doorway and turns right, more aware of her surroundings now and the noises of the evening city. She should have asked the other two to wait while she locked up.
There are taxis lined up at the rank across the road, and a couple are having a row by taxi number three. She watches them for a moment. The lights on that side of the street are working just fine and she can see the tense, set line of the man’s jaw, and the exaggerated angry shapes the woman’s lips make.
Madeleine wonders if she should get a taxi altogether. The rain won’t be long, and she could do without getting soaked. It’s late and she is tired; staying open the extra hour on Fridays isn’t worth it. She hesitates.
A warm smell of salt and vinegar from the chipper on the corner wafts past, and Madeleine’s stomach complains up the chain of command. She realises that she has nothing in for dinner, and that she forgot to get milk. That answers the taxi question. She starts walking.
She pulls her jacket close around her. The days are definitely getting colder. She will need to wear a heavier coat soon.
Madeleine spots a familiar shape huddled under the statue outside the convenience store. An elderly man and his dog are sitting there curled up together. She reaches into her pocket and feels out the shrapnel within. She pulls out whatever change is left from earlier and places it in the cup at their feet.
“Going to be a bad one tonight, John,” she says, without really knowing what she can do for the man. She passes him most evenings. Sometimes they exchange a few words. He’s not usually here on Fridays at this stage though.
“Got a few friends that myself and Tiny are going to stay with tonight,” the man tells her, rubbing the ears of the terrier. “They’ll be along in a bit.”
Madeleine nods and hopes they really are on their way.
She goes into the convenience store for a carton of milk. The shop is busier than the street outside suggests, and there is a queue for the cashier. The man at the front of the line is wearing green trainers, a red backpack. She realises it is the same man who asked if she was ok. She hadn’t noticed him walking ahead of her. She wonders how long he has been in the shop.
Unnerved, Madeleine goes to the hot drinks counter and prepares a takeaway tea. Then she picks out a litre of milk and makes her way to the till. The radio is talking about the spate of recent attacks. There is no link between them, other than they are all unprovoked acts of violence against women. She tries not to listen; she has heard enough about this at work already. Customers making small talk. The same conversation on a loop.
The queue moves swiftly; a quick tap of her card and she is soon outside again, the carton of milk in a carrier bag, and the cup of tea in her left hand.
The man with the green trainers is standing outside, rolling a cigarette.
She pretends not to see him and backtracks a little, handing John the tea.
“Thanks, pet. Safe home.”
She carries on, passing the green trainers smoking his rollie outside the shop, and she acknowledges him with a weak smile. He nods.
The salt and vinegar smell lingers, an unnecessary reminder. She is hungry. As she waits at the traffic lights to cross, Madeleine unclasps her satchel, pulls her phone out and searches for a number. She presses call.
A voice answers quickly.
“Miyazaki Takeaway. May I take your order?”
She asks for a portion of chicken gyoza and gyu-don. Ten minutes they tell her. Perfect.
Phone back in the bag. Clasps clasped.
She crosses the road and heads towards the river. There are very few people outside The Goat this evening as she walks past the usually teaming pub. No live music tonight. The winter schedule is less packed.
Walking over the bridge quickly, she avoids eye contact with the lad playing the tin whistle. She has given all her change to John and Tiny. He has no business still being out at this time anyway, his fingers must be frozen.
The city seems almost abandoned as she walks away from the centre towards her little one-bedroomed house. The streetlights are sparse after the bridge, and the buildings are not so well maintained.
She decides not to take the shortcut down the alley. It’s too dark, and the cobbled steps are lethal in the daytime, not to mind now. The extra five minutes won’t kill her.
She glances down the alley as she passes and sees a small group of young people about halfway down. They are laughing and joking, all puffa jackets and beanies, sizing each other up and play-fighting. Madeleine looks away, focusing on the path ahead, and hears the smash of broken glass behind her. She feels her heart rate speed up slightly. Her footsteps speed up to match.
She is glad when she finally turns the corner and sees the lights on in the small Japanese restaurant. She can see in the window that there are a few people inside, waiting.
Madeleine opens the door and a steaming rush of air speeds out. A chorus of kon-ban-wah greets her and she steps in eagerly, glad of the heat and friendliness. She approaches the counter, gives her name and order, and is asked to wait a few more minutes. She thanks the server and takes a seat at the window, observing the other customers.
With a jolt, she realises that the man in the green trainers is sitting at the back wall.
A ripple of nausea. She wonders if he has followed her, then shoos away the panicked thought. Don’t be ridiculous, she tells herself, if he was following her, how did he get here first? Her mind blinks back to the shortcut and she feels a fleeting twitch of envy. Not everyone worries about dark alleyways, she supposes.
The man ignores her, staring at his phone, apparently oblivious to her presence, and she is relieved, though also on edge.
She eyes up the other customers, watching as a pork ramen is called and leaves, and as a woman and her young daughter collect a big bag of sushi and noodles. The woman holds her daughter’s hand tightly, car keys and the bag of food swaying from her other hand as they walk away. The daughter toddles along happily, gripping several pairs of chopsticks in a tiny fist.
It’s just Madeleine and the green trainers now.
She concentrates on watching the action behind the counter. It’s hot and there is lots of movement, steam and steel. The phone rings frequently.
“Miyazaki Takeaway. May I take your order? Hai, fifteen minutes. Arigato-Gozaimasu!”
Madeleine checks her watch. Her feet are sore. She longs to be at home, sitting on the couch with an episode of something trashy, a glass of wine, her chicken gyoza.
For a long time, she looks everywhere but at the green trainers.
Finally –
“Madeleine, gyoza, gyu-don!”
Grateful, she slips off the high stool, taps her card, takes her meal, and leaves without even a backwards glance at the green trainers.
The server calls from behind the counter as the door tinkles shut.
“Safe home.”
As she climbs up the hill, on the final stretch, there is a flash. She hears the first roll of thunder. A thrill of electricity runs up her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. The sky is black now and murderous; the first raindrops can’t be far. She quickens her pace.
She is nearly home.
Madeleine hears footsteps behind her and moves to the outside of the footpath to let them pass on the inside. One of the youths from the lane, puffa jacket and beanie, rushes past. Solo, he looks harmless and very young. Hurrying home to mammy before the storm.
She keeps walking. Her turn-off is visible up ahead.
More footsteps behind. She looks over her shoulder.
The green trainers.
Madeleine notices he hasn’t got a bag from the takeaway. Strange.
She feels her heart beat faster once more. The man has long legs; he is striding, gaining ground. Should she take her turn-off or keep walking?
Don’t be ridiculous, she tells herself again.
She doesn’t want to look behind her, but he is close now. She shifts her grip on her belongings. One hand on her satchel, the other holding the two carrier bags. She curses her lack of pockets and the fact that her phone and keys are in the satchel.
The footsteps grow louder.
She feels a rush of blood as she approaches her turn-off, and takes it, veering right at the last second. Surely the man will keep going. She can see her doorway.
But the green trainers keep coming, each footstep echoing down the empty laneway.
Madeleine’s heart is pounding. She grapples one-handed with the clasp on her satchel, trying to get her keys out as quickly as she can. Should she even stop? Should she walk past her house? Circle up the next lane and back around? But if he is following her the next lane is narrower, lonelier, riskier –
The green trainers are right behind her now.
Madeleine stops dead. Braces herself. Keys in hand, metal clutched between each finger.
Her satchel is open still, but he can take what he wants, just leave her be, please.
A green trainer steps off the footpath to avoid walking into her.
The man continues past, shrugging his bulging red backpack into place as he does so. A Miyazaki Takeaway bag peeks out the top. He hurries on, hood up, as the first heavy drops fall.
Madeleine’s heart throbs loud in her ears. She stands outside her house, breath fast and uncomfortable. She shakily puts the key in the lock, and darts in, shutting the door firmly behind her. She fastens the safety lock and leans her back against the closed door and the outside world, berating herself.
So ridiculous.
Madeleine, still shaking, pours herself a glass of wine and opens her gyu-don and gyoza.
She thinks about work tomorrow, and the short walk home.
Maeve Keane (she/her) is a writer and teacher based in Cork, Ireland. She has recently completed an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Limerick. Her work has featured in The Ogham Stone, on ShorterStories.ie, and on The Jealous Wall Podcast for Dublin Digital Radio.