The Door to Betrayal
After three months on a rigging job, Tom Harrison, exhausted but proud of his hard work, was finally heading home to his native Newcastle. The day was gloomy, but his heart was full of sunshine—he clutched his pay, dreaming of how he’d surprise his wife, the striking and fiery Charlotte. They’d recently bought a two-bed flat in a concrete tower block on the city’s outskirts. He’d done most of the work himself—plastered the walls, fitted the ceilings, laid the tiles, even wired up all the appliances. Only one thing remained: furnishing it just how she wanted.
“Tommy, I won’t stand for anything shoddy. I want our place to be just as nice as Emma and Jake’s! Top quality, understand?”
He’d nodded, agreed, then left for another shift, working himself to the bone just to make Charlotte proud. The solitude in that freezing container on the rig was suffocating—no warmth, no familiar face, no smell of morning coffee. Just her voice on the phone, usually impatient, demanding.
At the station, he lingered at the flower stall, carefully picking the freshest roses. He bought a grand bouquet of crimson blooms and hopped into a cab. Fifteen minutes later, he stood outside his building, heart hammering. He took the stairs two at a time, too light-footed for the lift—his joy bubbling over. He almost slid the key in the lock but stopped himself. Smirking, he rang the bell instead.
Silence. He reached for his keys again, but the door swung open—revealing a stranger in *his* dressing gown. Tall, broad-shouldered, bare-chested, with a cocky glare.
“Who the hell are you? Lost, mate?” the bloke growled.
The world tilted. Tom froze, the bouquet slipping in his grasp.
“Guess I messed up more than just the door…”
The door slammed. He stood there, numb. His pulse roared in his ears, hands shaking. All he could see was the wallpaper he’d pasted at midnight, the tiles he’d scrubbed spotless, the kitchen he’d taken out a loan for… and now this stranger, lounging in his home.
The flowers went straight into the nearest bin. Tom hailed another cab, heading straight for his best mate, Gary. On the way, he stopped at Tesco for a bottle of vodka, some pickled herring, and crisps. Gary was thrilled—old friends reunited.
“Bloody hell! Cheers to that!”
By the second shot, Tom cracked and spilled everything. Gary, half-Irish and quick-tempered, shot up from his chair.
“What?! In *your* flat?! I’d have—I’d rip his—” He slammed a fist on the table.
Tom grabbed his shoulder. “Gaz, cool it. But… we getting payback?”
“Damn right we are.”
Buzzed and furious, the two called a cab and sped toward Tom’s flat. Their revenge plans were hazy. Adrenaline buzzed in their skulls.
They stormed up the stairs. The bedroom light was on. Tom roared:
“Right, let’s see how you like this—”
Gary pounded on the door. “Open up, you wanker! Who’s wife d’you think you’re messing with? Come out here and face us like a man!”
The door flew open—and a fist shot out. Gary stumbled back, clutching his nose.
“Lovely welcome…” he muttered, wiping blood.
Tom saw red. One solid kick sent the door flying off its hinges, crashing into the hallway. They barged in like a storm, tearing through rooms, shouting.
“Where is that bastard?!”
Charlotte shrieked in the kitchen, trembling as she dialled someone. Gary darted into the hall:
“Did he jump off the balcony?”
Then—a groan. Beneath the shattered door writhed the very man they’d come for, pinned by the wreckage and his own arrogance. A pathetic sight—dressing gown askew, face twisted in fear, mouth bleeding.
“Now *that’s* revenge!” Gary grinned, nudging the wrecked door with his foot.
Then, as if on cue, a shrill cry echoed up the stairwell:
“Help! Good people, they’re murdering someone!” It was Tom’s mother-in-law, unmistakable.
Sober in an instant, the pair bolted before the police could arrive. By morning, Tom filed for divorce. He couldn’t bear living in a house where he’d been humiliated, where some stranger had strutted around in *his* robe.
A week later, he packed for another rig job. Gary saw him off, face bruised, knuckles wrapped.
“Still, went out with a bang, eh?” He laughed. “Next time you marry—just not another Charlotte! But *definitely* call me. I’ll sort it out if needed.”
