The Rebirth of Henry Whittle

THE KEY

I wake confused to hammering, sanding, drilling. A collection of languages float in the air. It takes a minute to remember I'm not at The Institution. I see windows recently fitted, explaining no curtains, beautiful wooden floors, explaining no carpet, and light fittings yet to be wired, explaining no bulb. So, I wasn't being mugged off. I should have waited. I consider how overwrought I was last night and as usual blame myself. Perhaps I'd misconstrued Henry's...Jesus, it's hard to put a label on his behaviour. I shake my head, but despite last night, I enjoy an undercurrent of excitement from being in a home with an uncle. Perhaps Henry has loosened up; he might give me a hand recovering my car.

I dress in the bathroom, in front of a floor to ceiling mirrored wall. My dark brown hair shines from Henry's luxurious hair product but the rest of me is tatty: over washed jeggings, and a Levi t-shirt from Scope.

From the landing I see Henry, standing, in the archway below. I smile my broadest, deepest smile. Descending the stairs, a labourer is running up; he's about twenty and wears a 'look at me' confidence that accompanies a gym-body and symmetrical features. His eyes size me up; immediately I stiffen. His grin is predatory.

"Morning, princess."

Two ordinary words, out of a man's mouth, whose inference is sexual.

"Morning," I stiffly reply; my annoyance compounded by Henry turning his back and not waiting for me.

Henry already sits at the kitchen table, long legs stretched out, his feet resting on the chair opposite. Approaching, I see only the top of his head as he holds the newspaper open. In the light of day, I see the kitchen is large, but Henry's presence significantly reduces the scale of the room.

"Good morning," I greet brightly.

No answer. Obviously not a morning person.

"Would you like a cuppa?" I ask.

No response. What should I do? Sit, make a cuppa, do Gangnam Style?

"Cuppa?" I shout.

"No. Thank you."

"There's nothing like the first cup of the day," I declare sitting down, disconcerted to find a pair of bare feet on the chair beside me.

"Midday is perfect for a cappuccino, and a hot chocolate before bed."

The hands holding the paper are strong with long fingers and neatly clipped nails. Capable; hands that could twist a stiff lid off a pickle jar.

The paper lowers, millimetre by millimetre; breathe Phoenix, breathe. Jesus, his eyes are lifeless.

"Are, you, o, k?" Henry articulates with exaggerated precision.

"I, am, not, special, needs."

To my annoyance, he raises an eyebrow indicating the contrary.

"Admittedly it wasn't the best start," I state.

Silence.

"I was nervous, and the corned beef didn't help."

Extra silence for dramatic effect.

"This kitchen is impressive: ultra-contemporary but warm." I look around. "Yeah, the sofas give it that comfortable plushness. Does your fridge have an ice dispenser?"

Still no response. Is he purposely making me squirm?

"Do you live alone?"

"Yes."

"I thought as much," I whisper sarcastically.

He visually appraises me, his expression expressionless.