At the Gate
By Paul Goodwin
Kowski’s at my gate again. He’s like a Cold War spy: a white raincoat down to his knees, a trilby shadowing his face. And the casual way he smokes tells me he’ll wait until I leave, however long it takes.
But I must leave. I must leave now. I don’t think Kowski will assault me. He’s plump and looks unfit. It’s his words I fear: his twisting lips searching for the most wounding accusation, his broken English stirred into an unbroken torrent of abuse.
I grab my briefcase, straighten my glasses and tie, lock the front door. Kowski moves closer to the gate, throws his cigarette onto the path. He’s already shouting. “You kill her. I know you kill her with your car. What you have to say, you bastard? You guilty for sure.”
I keep my eyes ahead, but I feel Kowski’s shadow. His words scream in my ear. His spit hits my cheeks. I make haste to the car but try to make my walk seem casual. I slam the driver’s door, throw the briefcase onto the passenger seat, rev the engine as a threat.
But this time, Kowski is blocking my exit, leaning over the bonnet, banging on the metal with his fist. His hat falls off. Long strands of hair flap over an ear, leaving him bald. His face is red and glistens with sweat.
It’s no good telling Kowski that I was cleared, that I’m sorry for his loss. I tried that once. It only provoked him. “I kill you. I kill you real bad,” he’d shouted. I’d had to call the police. But Kowski fled before they arrived, and I played it all down, telling them not to go after him.
I try to inch the car forward, but Kowski sprawls across the bonnet. He’s blocking my view. He’s grasped a windscreen wiper, bent it so it sticks out like an antenna. Only glass separates our faces—his is red with anger. “I get you,” he shouts. “I get you for what you do to her.” His breath condenses on the screen. His mouth becomes indistinct.
Now Kowski has a hammer. He’s striking the glass. It turns into crystals. Another blow, and there’s a hole. I could get out and confront him, but he’s still swinging the hammer. The crystals fall across the dashboard and into my lap. “I get you,” he shouts. “I get you now.”
I panic. I push the accelerator to the floor. The car jolts and swerves sideways. Kowski falls away. I feel a judder and hear scraping and then a yell. I’ve run into the wall. I leap out of the car. Its front is twisted into a snarl. The engine is still running.
Kowski’s motionless body pokes out behind a wheel: his arms stretched out. One hand still grasps the hammer. His mouth is open, frozen in shock. A tyre pattern is printed in mud across his coat.
“Not again,” I scream. “Oh no, not again.”
Already, I’m looking for excuses. “His fault,” I gasp. “His fault.” I repeat it again and again, like a mantra.
I squeeze the top of the open driver’s door until it hurts. I press my forehead hard into the cold window and scream. My brain is working like a fast computer searching for a rationale, telling me this can’t be true. It can’t happen twice.
I lean down and pull back Kowski’s fingers. His hand is warm. I take the hammer and toss it into the long grass. His arm falls limp when I release it.
I close my eyes. “He brought this on, provoked me, caused me to lose control.”
“No, it’s not,” I mutter. “It’s not the same at all. This time, I was sober.”
Paul Goodwin lives in Somerset, England where he writes fiction and non-fiction. His stories have appeared in Literally Stories, CommuterLit, CafeLit, and LitBreak magazines, and Six Word Memoirs. His books include Forewarned (Biteback Publications) and Something Doesn't Add Up (Profile).
