Emma

I was just about to knock on Tom’s front door when I heard them. A woman was yelling at a man. All the windows were shut but the glass in the hallway was the original stained glass: it was beautiful, but not soundproof. I don’t suppose they’d considered that when they moved in.

The shouting seemed to come from upstairs. I pressed closer to the window, all the better to hear. I could hear a woman yell, “You bastard!” and I thought, Oh, that sounds interesting. I could hear him try to answer back but she wasn’t having it. She was livid.

And then I saw Tom standing at the top of the stairs. His back was to me, but it was him, all right. He had a gray T-shirt on that I remembered him wearing the night we met, and a pair of jeans. He was barefoot and just before it happened, I saw the legs of his jeans were just that bit too long.

He put out his hand to whoever he was fighting with. I couldn’t see who it was. He reached over and held the rail, then let go of it and thrust his hand out again. A woman’s hand batted it away and he moved to one side. Her voice was low now; I couldn’t hear what she said, but I could get the gist of it. The tone was not nice.

This time when he tried to hold the rail he couldn’t reach it. I don’t know whether she thought he was reaching out for her because she knocked his hand away harder this time. He took a step back. And then it was like slow motion, where I could see his foot on the edge of the stairs, could see his jeans were too long. He turned to grab the rail and his jeans caught under his foot. His foot reached out for a step that wasn’t there. And then he twisted and fell. He crashed down those stairs, his arms and legs flailing, and there was a loud crack as he hit his head on the tiled floor.

I held my breath. I knew I should call the police, the ambulance. Someone. But I couldn’t move.