The Montgomery House

Three

Daylight had begun to filter through the blinds he'd forgotten to completely close the previous night before he'd finally dragged himself off the hall floor and climbed onto his mother's bed to fall into a restless sleep. 

Groaning as his semi-conscious brain adjusted to its change in realities, Jackson stretched and hoped that the housekeeper had remembered to set the coffee machine to boil before he clocked off. Resigning himself to the fact that he had to get up, he stretched, wincing as his muscles cramped and his bones cracked in protest at having to get up at such an unsociable hour. Reminding himself to add a new mattress or mattress topper to his shopping list, Jackson rubbed at his sleep-crusted eyes and rolled over, jumping up when his focus shifted enough to take in the pale pink wallpaper and stuffed doll collection on the nightstand.

Momentarily forgetting where he was Jackson searched his surroundings, pink and white decorated the now slightly damp duvet he had spent the night resting on, a lilac throw lay folded at the foot of the bed. A calendar featuring various fuzzy cats adorned the wall above his mother's dresser, her handwriting scratched into the tiny boxes that planned out her days for the coming weeks. A strange array of perfume bottles sat in a neat row on the window sill.

 Immediately recognising his surroundings, he sighed a bitter sigh of relief as his memory caught up with him. Sitting himself down on the edge of the bed he concentrated on steadying his breathing. When he was sure his heart was no longer going to teat through his ribcage, Jackson let his eyes wander around the room that was as familiar to him today as it had been 21 years ago. 

Acutely aware of how lonely his mother must have been in this house, surrounded by the memory of a family long since lost to her, Jackson shivered, the damp suit he'd neglected to change out of last night, clinging uncomfortably to his wiry, muscular frame. Eyeing the wardrobe at the far end of the room, he got steadily to his feet, his long legs making quick work of the distance. 

Pulling the disused doors open, he was not disappointed to find his father's clothes still hung seemingly freshly laundered and hung, like he'd popped out to the shops only this morning and would walk through the front door at any moment. 

Casting a wary glance over his shoulder like he was expecting either one of his parents to come in and reprimand him, he searched through his father's wardrobe for something that might fit him. He smiled at the battered old leather Jacket that had been his father's pride and joy. Pulling out the coat hanger it hung from, he pressed his nose to the fabric and inhaled, the smell of old spice, his father's favourite aftershave shrouded his senses, conjuring confusing images of the man he both loved and hated, stroking a hand down the material, he sighed surprised that it could still smell like the man 22 years later, before returning it to the wardrobe. Continuing his search for suitable clothing, he pushed his memories to one side, vowing to pack it up and take it home with him when the time came.

Several old plaid shirts and jeans, Jackson pulled the closest ones out of the wardrobe and dressed quickly. Throwing his suit over the small ottoman he added a task to his mental checklist of finding a local dry cleaner before making his way out of the room, his stomach already wondering if there was going to be anything in for breakfast. 

Mentally reciting a list of things he had to do today, Jackson stopped at the top of the stairs. The hair at the back of his neck and on his arms stood up as he heard the unmistakable sound of movement.

Wondering if it could be the cat, Jackson stood for a moment and strained his hearing above the erratic beating of his own heart. Hearing the sound of a cupboard door, Jackson flung himself back into his mother's bedroom. His blue eyes frantically searching the room for his phone. 

"Damn it!" He whispered as he remembered he'd left it in his coat pocket which was still hung up in the pub, he moved quietly around the room in search of a weapon.

Pulling a dusty old slipper from beneath the bed, Jackson rolled his eyes. 

Gripping the slipper-like a bat, Jackson tiptoed out of his mother's room and down the stairs, grateful now that he'd decided on a thick pair of woollen socks yesterday and his mother's obsession with regular maintenance. 

Taking a deep shaky breath, Jackson gently pushed on the kitchen door, groaning internally at the slight squeak of the hinges.

Seeing no other option, Jackson balled up his courage and he charged through the kitchen door.