Debts you can't repay Part 1: The metal door
About one of those times where being overzealous at work can be a problem.
Reader discretion advised: contains references to blood and murder. Also, debt.
Arthur Jenkins was known among his colleagues as a rather rigid type, which for a debt collector was saying something. He looked permanently like he was smelling something foul. On the other hand, Timothy Garner was the humane kind. He wore a suitably doleful expression, hunched shoulders, and a permanently crackly voice that made the collectees almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
‘People like you are the reason our society’s full of freeloaders,’ grumbled Jenkins, marching on the cobblestones without a glance at the gaps the drizzle had turned into muddy patches, ‘If you and the others worked half as hard as you’re supposed to, I don’t see how we’d have so many cases falling through the cracks. Disgraceful.’ Garner huffed along, carefully avoiding the puddles.
‘Well, I mean…’ I don’t see why you insisted on pursuing this specific case. Boss was less than pleased, he wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut. His colleague could be touchy at times.
‘What?’ shot Jenkins, ‘You mean what, Garner? Complete your sentence, we’re almost there.’ Under a weak yellow streetlight, they could see a double metal door; patches of rust along the edges were methodically eating it. Warehouse, thought Garner, this is not a place where people live.
Jenkins’ voice startled him. ‘Well, Garner, unless you want to turn tail and run, here we are. Florentine Street, 18B. Charles and Henry Maxwell. The highest debt in our system and nobody is working on it. You can try your whiny thing, or you can watch and learn how to get some respect from these parasites. Regardless, we’re not leaving empty-handed, or I’ll write you a report that will make you lose every last hair you still got. Understood?’ Garner sighed and nodded.
‘Fine. Now man up and ring that bell.’
Garner saw the bell and his insides churned. The button was caked in dust and grime and his hands felt sticky just looking at it. Using a tissue as a shield - Jenkins rolled his eyes - he gave the lightest press on the doorbell; it squeaked hoarsely for a fraction of a second. No answer. ‘Again, Garner! For real this time,’ barked Jenkins. Exasperated, Garner pressed for almost a minute, his head thrumming from the discordant noise. Then, silence.
Garner dared to hope. Clearly, nobody was home. Clearly, this was a bogus address. That bell hadn’t been used in years. They could leave now. Dry off and try again. Investigate. Find the real address. Assign the case to someone else, and he could go back to his elderly widows and barely-registered immigrant families, who never complained. At worst, they cried.
Garner was about to turn back and leave, Jenkins and his report be damned, when heavy footsteps behind the door sunk his hope ship right in the harbour. Jenkins was poised like a hawk about to descend on its prey. Garner hunched ever so slightly, pushing irrational fears aside and preparing to play his part. Creaking and scraping the floor, one side of the metal door opened.
A face appeared in the crack. The man appeared to be middle-aged, taller than Jenkins and shorter than Garner, with a short, patchy beard, and red-rimmed watery eyes. His mouth was a thin crooked line and his strawberry nostrils flared in irritation.
‘State your business, gentlemen,’ he croaked.
With a voice just as hostile, Jenkins asked: ‘Am I speaking to Henry or Charles Maxwell?’
A grunt and a slight nod. Jenkins looked to his reluctant companion.
Garner started: ‘Timothy Garner, sir, and my colleague is Howard Jenkins. From Galvestone Collections. We regret to inform you that you have significant outstanding debt with multiple companies, as well as the state. Over several years, you have received communication attempts at negotiating a payment plan…’
‘I don’t read mail,’ grunted Charles/Henry Maxwell. ‘Throw it right in the trash.’ Garner hesitated, so Jenkins stepped in, smelling blood.
‘Irrelevant.’ Maxwell’s eyes darted to Jenkins with such hate that Garner took a step back. Jenkins didn’t notice or didn’t care. ‘You received bills and notices. You had your chance. Garner, serve him.’
‘Well, here it is, I’m afraid…’ Garner fished the paper sign off his briefcase and quickly attached it to the door. It read EVICTION NOTICE in garish red. Maxwell opened the door to lean forward and read. Garner caught a whiff of damp air from the inside.
Jenkins continued: ‘We’ll send for the appraisal of your property. Good day.’ He was turning back, and Garner was all too eager to follow, but Maxwell turned his head with a smirk and insinuated: ‘Well, this is it? Don’t I have a right to know how much I’m losing my house over?’
‘That would be standard proce…’ Garner started, but Jenkins shushed him with an impatient hand.
‘You’ve had your chance, Mr. Maxwell. Your notice is official.’
Maxwell laughed, showing yellowish ill-fitting dentures. ‘Understood, sir. But since you corporate crawlers’re here, might as well do your dang job properly.’
‘Suit yourself,’ shrugged Jenkins strutting towards the door and inside the building. Garner lingered outside, until Jenkins shouted for him. He stepped in, his nose stinging with every breath. Maxwell followed him and closed the door behind them with a clang.
Garner was expecting either a badly lit workshop or a b-movie serial killer home. The Maxwell house was neither. As Garner entered, he saw grey. From the kitchen setup to his left, to the small living room to his right, where Jenkins was standing between a lumpy leather sofa and a boxy TV set, shades of grey and beige dominated the space.
‘Cozy, huh?’ chuckled Maxwell, slithering from behind him to the kitchen counter and grabbing a tall glass bottle. He waved it towards Garner with a smirk; brown liquid swirled inside.
‘One for the heart, pal?’
Garner shook his head.
‘How about you, sergeant?’ Maxwell called to Jenkins.
‘Major, if you please,’ grunted back Jenkins. ‘And let’s get to it.’
Maxwell held his hands up in surrender and took a long swig from the bottle, then smacked his lips.
‘Better get my brother up here, too. He’ll want to hear this, too.’
Maxwell strutted to a door at the back end of the kitchen, the bottle sloshing in his hand. Another rusty metal door, noticed Garner. Why would a house have so many metal doors? Jenkins marched towards him, his expert eyes assessing the value of every item around them. Every look, the chime of a cash register.
‘This shack full of rubbish won’t even begin making up for what they owe,’ he hissed to Garner. ‘They’re fixing to be locked up for a while.’ Then he frowned, looking at his colleague’s face. ‘My God, Garner, pull yourself together. I’ll get the papers. These two will want to hear their rights and all that rubbish.’
‘Chuck!’ Maxwell shouted, interrupting them. He had opened the door and was leaning in. ‘Come up, you dumb assface! We have guests!’
‘We can come back another ti…’ started Garner, but a sudden sneeze cut him off. His nose had been torturing him since stepping foot inside. And even though the metal door was a fair few meters away from him, Garner could smell something faint coming up from it… he bent over, sneezing again. Jenkins snorted and shook his head without a word; he was busy pulling a hefty folder out of his briefcase.
‘Bless you, pal!’ called Henry Maxwell in a cheery voice. ‘I’m afraid my useless brother is refusing to come up. You see,’ he walked up to them. ‘Chuck is not a sociable type. Me neither. We never have guests. He barely ever comes up from his workshop.’
Henry Maxwell stood in front of them, his head cocked to the side, methodically chewing the side of his thumb in a way that made Garner nauseous. Jenkins cleared his throat and declared: ‘We can do this without him. Let’s get moving.’ He made to grab a chair next to the kitchen table but stopped. Henry Maxwell was shaking his head. Slowly, deliberately shaking his head, his eyes fixed on Jenkins.
‘No,’ he insisted. ‘My brother must be present. You will come down with me. He needs to hear it from you.’
Tossing the folder on the table, Jenkins hissed: ‘Fine. Let’s get your brother, Mr Maxwell. Garner, sit down and get the papers ready.’ He pressed on towards the workshop door, Henry Maxwell following. Garner sighed and grabbed a grey chair, immediately pulling his hand back with a shudder. It felt sticky. He stared at it. The chair was not grey. A coating of dust and damp covered it, that was almost, but not quite, solid. In the outline of his fingers, he could make out a faint brown.
Garner looked around. What had seemed like an ordinary, if shabby, room in grey tones, was actually caked in grime. He could now make out faint hints of colours peeking from underneath. Black on the tv. Faded burgundy on the sofa. Garner swallowed, frantically rubbing his hand clean with a tissue. His nausea and nose itch were getting worse.
Then a dull, sick thumping sound made him jump and his head jerked towards the workshop door. Garner’s stomach froze.
Henry Maxwell stood tall, the arm holding the big bottle high up in the air. The bottom of the bottle was dripping liquid and for a fraction of a second Garner saw Jenkins wobble like a drunk. Then, he crumpled onto himself and fell.
Garner squealed, then covered his mouth. Too late. Henry Maxwell turned to look at him with shiny eyes and a wide grin.
‘All right, pal,’ he said in a cheerful tone, ‘I’ll give you some time. Let’s see if you can surprise me.’ Then, he smashed the bottle on the wall, making Garner jump and squeal again.
Maxwell laughed heartily, kicked Jenkins’ body over the threshold and stepped in, closing the door behind him. Garner heard the thump, thump, thump of Jenkins’ body rolling down the stairs, each thump startling him like a gunshot. Then, the room fell silent.
Garner absentmindedly picked up the folder from the table and held it. It was heavy. He put it back in Jenkins’ briefcase, fumbling with the clasp with shaky hands. He moved as if he was swimming through treacle. The thumps still echoed in his brain. He stood there for a second that felt like a year, holding the briefcase.
Then, a piercing scream rose up from the basement and shook Garner out of his stupor.
‘I have to leave!’ he exclaimed and ran to the double door. Locked.
‘Shit, shit, shit, where is the key?’ he cried, then stopped and covered his mouth. He didn’t need to. Cries were still coming up from the basement, together with other sounds Garner didn’t care to identify. He needed to hurry.
Garner’s eyes darted around the room: the kitchen. He rushed to the counter, pulled open a drawer: it was full of pairs of glasses. At least ten pairs, many of them crooked and with cracked lenses. He pulled another drawer: rings, watches, a necklace. A third one: gloves.
His dread growing by the second, Garner went through every drawer in the kitchen area. He found no keys, no knives, nothing that could help him pick a lock or defend himself.
After the last drawer, he stopped, deflated, his eyes burning with tears, whimpering. Then, something froze him on the spot. The house was silent, and he was standing next to the basement door. His frantic search had led him to the end of the kitchen.
He was summoning the courage to turn around and look at the door, when a heavy, slow step echoed up from the bottom of the staircase, and a shrill, elated Henry Maxwell called:
‘You still there, pal? Cause I’m coming for you!’
Garner’s head emptied and his feet took over. He ran to the front door and started mindlessly pulling and pushing the handle. He was a stout man - his wife sometimes called him Bigfoot - and the rusty handle creaked under the pressure; it didn’t break, though. The steps were getting closer, but Maxwell was taking it slowly, taunting him all the way.
‘Five more steps, pal! Come on, surprise me!’
To be continued…
Writing musings and news
This short was a blast to write, which should maybe be of some concern to me, considering the topic and atmosphere. Turns out I like writing gruesome stories; who knew? The second part will be coming at the end of November. So far, it doesn’t bode well for Jenkins and Garner.
On other news, I have recently opened my writing website Magnolia Fay Writes, where I hope to post updates on all my writing projects, as well as reviews of books I read and love.
Speaking of writing projects, I am very excited to be a part of the second edition of the Heart Art Anthology, curated by Mistress M, owner and editor in chief of the Mistress M’s Community Publishing House. The theme of the anthology is writing inspired by art, and it will be a delightful mix of art and word. I contributed a few pieces of poetry, and will keep you updated on the release date.
In the meantime, you can find here the Heart Art Anthology: Volume 1 from last year. It features my short story How the Coven of the Flaming Peaches Fell Apart, as well as many other works of fiction and poetry by amazing creators.
I thank you for your attention and hope you enjoyed this read!
See you soon,
Magnolia Fay
So glad to see this gruesome story making its way out into the world! So perf for Halloween 🎃
And THANK YOU! for the shoutout to the Heart Art Anthology! I’m so honored and so glad you’re a part of our project 💕