16April2025
Im writing this from the kitchen of my cramped sixteenstorey council block in Leeds, the lift grinding to a halt between floors. The voice of my late Gran keeps echoing in my head, as it does every time I step into that rusty cage.
Our marriage has been a disaster from the start. Arthur, who took me as his wife when we were barely out of school, never let me finish any education. He pushed me into drinking and idling, and the only thing I managed to earn was a driving licence and that only because his mate, a driving instructor, helped me out after my father wouldnt lift a finger from his workshop.
I only leave the flat when its absolutely necessary, which in my case means a quick trip to the shop for groceries. My only exercise is hanging the laundry on the balcony rail. Arthur is constantly watching me, even when Im taking out the rubbish I have to keep my mobile tucked in my coat pocket in case he rings.
Weekends, which for me begin on Friday night, fill me with dread. Arthur comes home demanding dinner, and the table must always have a frosty bottle of his favourite gin. After we eat, he sits there, eyes full of contempt, and mutters, Whats the point of you, you daft, useless little thing? When will I have an heir? He leaves me alone in the bedroom to weep, then wanders back to the kitchen for another nip of gin. After his last tot, he snaps, Wheres the ale? I know hell ask that, so I never buy any during the day, buying myself a few minutes of fresh air in the evening.
The lift shudders again and Grans voice pierces the silence: Why are you so quiet? Do you like the way your husband treats you?
No, I whisper, tears hot in my throat, He wipes his feet on me.
And thats only now, Gran urges, Itll get worse. Do you want him to break your legs?
God, no! I gasp, the words catching. Dont let me stay.
Then run, love, run!
Run where? To my mothers tiny flat with her new husband? To my fathers with his new wife? Im a cutoff slice, Gran. I have no one. My eyes sting, my nose twitches.
Youre alone, and thats a blessing. Total freedom, a chance to start anew. What would you do if you had a child?
Where do I go? I ask, my eyes widening like saucers.
An opportunity will present itself soon. Dont miss it. Keep your eyes on the window and youll see.
What will I see?
Ive told you enough. Figure it out if youre not foolish. The lift is moving now. Dont be scared. Go for the ale, for your husbands sake. And one more thing, the ghost in my head adds, search the little box Gran left you after she passed. Its not empty; it has a double bottom. Find it, but do it without witnesses. Take only its contents, leave the box behind so Arthur never suspects youve fled.
Whats inside?
Answers to your questions.
The lift lurches, and despite Grans warning, a shiver runs through me. It stops at the ground floor. I step out into a warm evening thats melting the lingering snow. The streams will soon rush, nature will renew itselfperhaps I can too.
Arthur, drunk, lies sprawled on the kitchen table, snoring like a beast. While his roar fills the flat, I can slip in and examine the box. Its base feels hollow, as if a secret compartment is hidden beneath. Grans voice was not a trick of my mind. I shake the wooden box over the bed; threads, needles, crochet hooks, buttons, all tumble outuseless junk I rarely touch. When I first got the box, Arthur rolled his eyes and muttered, If its on display Ill toss it. Your Gran was a character, leaving a trinket for her favourite granddaughter. No point in keeping it.
I turn the box over, searching for a hidden latch, but the wood is solid. Something clicks inside, however, and a small compartment shoots out, striking me in the stomach. Inside I find an envelope, a set of keys, and several sachets labelled with odd instructions: Turn on the brain, Freeze the fear, Ignite vigilance, Dont be a fool, Kill the weakness in character, Feed the meat, and more. Gran always loved riddles; perhaps thats why the neighbours on the landing called her a witch. She baked pies and knitted socks, but no one knew what she really did when the building was empty.
I open the envelope. Documents lie on my kneespaperwork for a house Gran once talked about when I was a child. She described it as sturdy, built without a single nail, hidden away in the countryside. A note said a local farmer kept an eye on it. The deed declares that the house now belongs to me, Evelyn. Another document lists an old Lada, a Zhiguli with a foreign engine, kept in my fathers garage as a rare relic.
The letter inside is written in tiny, looping script, sounding like Grans voice:
My dear granddaughter, the hour has come to open the box. All my possessions, apart from the flat, are left to you. If youre reading this, its time. Take your papers, the boxs contents, and the car. Leave now. Peace and happiness await you at Granddads house. Money for the first few days is tucked under the glove compartment. After that youll have to earn it yourself. Perhaps youll finally get an education. Love, Gran.
Gran knew what awaited me with Arthur, which is why she opposed our marriage. Even when I disobeyed, she never turned her back on me; after her death she still guided me.
I slide the documents into a new folder, adding the boxs contents. Theres no time to lingerjust grab and run. The first instruction reads: Take the Ignite vigilance sachet, stir its powder into milk, and drink. Dont throw the paper away; keep an eye on it. No other steps follow, but Gran insisted I keep the instructions, so I tuck the sachet with the folder and swallow the milk.
At dawn, with a clear head, I lift the mattress and find the folder exactly where I left it. My eyes are raw, but the next line stands out:
Drink a glass of milk on an empty stomach with the Dont be a fool powder.
I slip into the kitchen, where Arthur still snores. I sip the concoction, crack the window for fresh air, and return to the bedroom. The folder now holds a second note:
Dont waste the folder or youll meet an enemy. In an hour, drink tea with the Kill the weakness in character sachet.
A third instruction appears later:
An hour later, have coffee with the Feed the meat sachet. Stay alert.
I obey each task. After the drinks, I feel a surge of strength. My onceflabby body seems to fill with muscle. I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror that dominates the room; the figure looking back is toned, not gymbuilt but solidarms, legs, a tight stomach, firm hips, sharper cheekbones, eyes that shine with newfound power.
A thump on the laminate draws Arthurs attention. He eyes me, scowling.
What have you been up to? he snarls.
Ive just I stammer, my voice trembling, Nothing.
He leans in, voice low, Did someone work on you? A lover, perhaps? His fists clench, his eyes flash.
No lover, I whisper, but a surge of confidence steadies me.
He lunges, fists flying, but I block each blow with practiced precision. I dodge his punches, twist his arms, and finally drive a punch into his nose. Blood spurts, his face turns pale, and he collapses onto the floor.
I look at him, feeling no pity, no fear for his future health. I grab the folder.
Good job, Im proud, the next note reads. Look out the balcony, dress as you are, leave the balcony door ajar. Place your bag where you can see it, then drink the Freeze the fear juice. When you collect Granddads car, stop at a cafe, order a milkshake with the Turn on the brain powder. Leave the other sachets untouched for now. Get out as fast as you can. Gran.
I rush to the kitchen, mix the powder, and gulp the drink. I dash to the balcony, heart pounding. Below, on the pavement, a young woman lies facedown, hair and stature identical to mine, a broken bottle beside her. Shes dead, but the concoction has numbed my terror.
Im wearing grey jeans and a black Tshirtjust like the dead girls. Its early March, and the street is bitterly cold; shes barefoot, no coat, no sweater. I pull on the coat I found in the rubbish chutea battered puffer, not ideal but better than nothing. I slip my bag, stash my wallet inside the folder, and race out in bare feet.
A discarded sack near the bin holds an old pair of boots, too big but usable, and a shabby winter coat. I slip them on, grateful for any shelter. I leave the empty bag beside the body as if it were stolen.
The nearest tram passes, so I hop on, hoping to reach the garage where the Lada waits.
At the garage, a sleepy security guard recognises me. Whats with the old car, love? he asks. I show him the papers.
Dont mind me, dear. Call your dad if you need a new ride.
I reply, No, I just need that Lada. He hands me the keys, pours a cheap soda from a vending machine, and I slip into the drivers seat. The car feels oddly comfortable, as if Gran had tuned it herself.
I drive out of the estate, the motorway already choked with a mix of cars.
See those signs up top? Grans voice whispers.
Yes, I smile.
Turn left at the roundabout, head for York. Youll find what you need. Safe travels, love.
I wave to the guard, take the next turn, and the road leads me north. The rear seat remains empty, but in my mind I feel Grans gentle, gingerhaired presence, wrapped in her usual fluffy headscarf.
The journey ahead is uncertain, but for the first time in years Im moving forward on my own terms.
