The Door to Betrayal
After a three-month shift, Thomas Whitmore returned home to his native Manchester, exhausted but proud of his hard work. The day was overcast, but his heart was full of sunshine—he clutched his pay, dreaming of how happy his wife, the elegant and fiery Victoria, would be. They had recently bought a two-bedroom flat in a concrete tower block on the outskirts of town. He’d done the work himself—plastering the walls, fitting the ceilings, laying the tiles, wiring the appliances. Only one thing remained: furnishing it the way she wanted.
“Tommy, I won’t stand for anything shoddy,” she’d said. “I want our place to be just as nice as Lucy and Jake’s! Only the best!”
He’d nodded, agreed, then left for his shift, working himself to the bone so she’d be proud. He’d suffered through the freezing cold in that cramped portacabin on the rig—no warmth, no familiar faces, no scent of morning coffee. Just her voice on the phone, usually impatient, demanding.
At the station, he lingered at the flower stall, picking through roses for the freshest ones. He grabbed a large crimson bouquet and hopped into a cab. Fifteen minutes later, he stood outside his building, heart pounding. He took the stairs two at a time, too full of joy to wait for the lift. About to use his key, he hesitated, then grinned and rang the bell instead.
Silence. He reached for his keys again—then the door swung open. A stranger stood there in his dressing gown. Tall, broad-shouldered, bare-chested, with a cocky smirk.
“Who the hell are you? Lost, mate?” the bloke growled.
Thomas felt the world tilt. He froze, the bouquet drooping in his hand.
“Guess I got more than the door wrong,” he muttered.
The door slammed. He stood there, numb, pulse hammering in his ears. All he could see was the wallpaper he’d hung late at night, the tiles he’d scrubbed clean, the kitchen he’d taken out a loan for… and now, some stranger in his home.
The flowers went straight into the nearest bin. Thomas called another cab and headed straight to his best mate, Mike. He stopped at Tesco for vodka, pickled herring, and crisps. Mike was thrilled—old friends, long time no see.
“Blimey! Cheers to this, then!”
By the second shot, Thomas couldn’t hold it in. He told him everything. Mike, half-Irish and quick to rage, shot up from his chair.
“WHAT? In YOUR flat?! I’d have—I’d bloody well—” He slammed a fist on the table.
Thomas grabbed his shoulder. “Mike, calm down. But… we getting payback?”
“You bet we are!”
Tipsy and furious, they hailed a cab and sped toward Thomas’s flat. Their revenge plan was hazy, their heads buzzing.
They reached the door. The bedroom light was on. Thomas roared, “I’ll show you—!”
Mike started pounding on the wood. “Open up, you wanker! Who’s wife did you fancy, eh? Come out and fight like a man!”
The door flew open—and a fist shot out. Mike stumbled back, clutching his nose.
“Bloody warm welcome,” he muttered, wiping blood.
Thomas saw red. With one kick, he sent the door flying off its hinges. It crashed into the hallway. The men stormed in like a hurricane, yelling, searching.
“Where’s that bastard?!”
Victoria shrieked in the kitchen, fingers trembling as she dialled. Mike bolted into the corridor.
“Did he jump off the balcony?”
Then—a groan. Beneath the shattered door lay the lover, crushed by his own arrogance. Pathetic—dressing gown askew, face white with fear, mouth bloody.
“Now that’s revenge!” Mike grinned, nudging the wreckage.
Then, just their luck, a shrill cry echoed from downstairs.
“Help! Someone! Murder!”—Thomas’s mother-in-law, by the sound of it.
Sobered instantly, they bolted before the police arrived. The next morning, Thomas filed for divorce. He couldn’t bear to live in a home where he’d been humiliated—where another man wore his robe.
A week later, he packed for another shift. Mike saw him off, sporting a black eye and bandaged knuckles.
“Worth it, though!” He laughed. “Next time you marry—just not Victoria! But call me. I’ll help sort it out.”
