Touch by Graham Mort

on his knees, pulling the ring-pull from his can and folding it neatly before dropping it into the bag at his feet. He tilted his head so that the light fell across sparse hair, taking a long draught of the beer. Then he sighed and put the can down, opening one for Mary and handing it across. It was gassy and metallic, but she drank it. She needed its chill to quell the fluttering in her stomach.
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The caretaker ate rapidly, dipping his head down to the fork rather than raising it up to his mouth, and swigging beer from the can. When he had finished, he laid the plate on the floor and rested his hands on his knees. She could see the hairs glistening there like strands of glass.
    â€˜I’ll just take a peep at the boy.’
    Mary opened her mouth to speak. She couldn’t. It was hard to get her breath. The man was already rising from his chair, padding softly to the bedroom to look down at the sleeping child. When he returned to the living room Mary was gathering up the plates and the empty beer cans. The caretaker looked at her. Green eyes, like a cat.
    â€˜I’ll fetch it then, shall I?’
    Mary nodded, running the hot tap to wash the plates, squirting washing up liquid into the sink. That smell and the spicy food made her feel sick again. She turned on the fan again to get rid of the steam, rinsing the plates and stacking them. They’d have coffee later. That was the usual way of it. But not until he asked her.
    The man returned, carrying a chequered board and a box. He set up the board on the table and laid out the chess set, carefully positioning each piece. It’d started as a joke, a way of passing the time. He played chess impulsively, making bold and foolish sallies with his pieces to capture a pawn but sacrifice a bishop or knight. It was as if he had no subterfuge. Mary sat down opposite him. He took a black pawn and a white one, mixing them together behind his back and holding out his clenched fists. She chose the right hand and he held out a white pawn.
    â€˜Lucky! You go first.’
    Mary said nothing. The chequered board made her dizzy. She was short of breath again, moving her king’s pawn two squares forward with an effort. The caretaker took his knight and moved it into the centre of the board, taking command. Mary let her fingers stray towards her queen’s pawn and then paused. He was looking at her, watching every move, examining her motives. She broke out her own knight. He stared at the board. The hands of the electric clock jerked silently forward on the wall. He leaned over to move a pawn and the intercom gave a screech in the corridor like the scream of a caged bird. She had a visitor. Down in the foyer someone had come for her, someone was waiting to be let in.
    Neither of them moved. Mary let her hands fall into her lap. The intercom went off again. She rose to her feet, but the caretaker was quicker, getting between her and the door. She sat down again at once and looked up at him.
    â€˜It’ll wake the boy.’
    The man said nothing. He bit his lip, looking puzzled, uncomprehending. Again the screech, two short ones this time, followed by a whimper from Mark’s room. Mary moved forward but the caretaker caught her wrist, his fingernails scraping into her skin. Then Mark was there, framed in the doorway of the bedroom, his eyes glazed and unfocused, unaware of the man.
    â€˜Mummy! Mummy!’
    She broke free to go to him, but the caretaker got there first, taking him up and hugging him to his chest.
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Mary ran to the corridor, pressing the switch that would allow her to speak and release the lock on the main door. The mouthpiece swallowed her cry. It flew out of the room, down the black lift-shaft to the man below. The lock clicked and gave. She waited for the sounds of the lift, for footsteps on the landing. From behind her came the muffled, almost sobbing words of the caretaker as he comforted the boy. She could hear Mark