The Door to Betrayal
After three months on the rig, Thomas Whitcombe returned to his hometown of Manchester, weary yet proud of his hard work. The day was overcast, but his heart was bright—he clutched his wages, imagining how pleased his wife, the striking and fiery Victoria, would be. They had recently bought a two-bedroom flat in a concrete tower block on the city’s outskirts. He had smoothed the walls, fitted the ceilings, laid the tiles, and wired the appliances himself. Only one thing remained: furnishing it to her exact taste.
“Tommy, I won’t settle for rubbish,” she’d said. “I want ours to be as nice as Emily and Jack’s—nothing but the best!”
He nodded, agreed, and left for his shift, working himself to exhaustion just to make her proud. The freezing rig offered no comfort—no warmth, no familiar face, no scent of morning tea. Only her voice on the phone, often sharp and demanding.
At the station, he lingered by a flower stall, picking the freshest roses. He bought a grand crimson bouquet and hailed a cab. Fifteen minutes later, he stood before his building, heart racing. He took the stairs two at a time, lightness in his chest. He meant to use his key but changed his mind. Smiling, he rang the bell.
Silence. He reached for his keys when the door swung open—and there stood a stranger in his own dressing gown. Tall, broad-shouldered, bare-chested, with a defiant glare.
“Who the hell are you? Lost, mate?” the man growled.
The world tilted. Thomas froze. The bouquet sagged in his hand.
“Seems I’ve made more than one mistake,” he muttered.
The door slammed. He stood paralyzed, pulse pounding in his temples. Before his eyes flashed the wallpaper he’d hung through the night, the tiles he’d scrubbed gleaming, the kitchen he’d taken out a loan for—and now, another man in his home.
The roses landed in the nearest bin. Thomas hailed another cab and headed to his best mate, Michael’s. On the way, he stopped at Tesco for vodka, pickled herring, and crisps. Michael was thrilled—old friends reunited.
“Blimey! Let’s toast to this!”
By the second shot, Thomas broke, confessing everything. Michael, hot-tempered and half-Irish, shot up:
“What?! In your flat?! I’d have—I’d bloody—” He slammed the table.
Thomas gripped his shoulder.
“Easy, Mike. But… we’ll settle this, won’t we?”
“We will. Damn right!”
Fueled by drink, they took a cab back to Thomas’s flat. Vague revenge plans swam in their buzzing heads.
The bedroom light was on. Thomas roared:
“Right, you’re getting—”
Michael hammered the door:
“Open up, you rat! Who do you think you are? Come out like a man!”
The door flew open—and so did a fist. Michael staggered back, clutching his nose.
“Lovely greeting,” he groaned, wiping blood.
Thomas saw red. One shove sent the door crashing off its hinges. They stormed in like a gale, tearing through rooms, shouting.
“Where’s the bastard?!”
Victoria shrieked in the kitchen, fumbling with her phone. Michael dashed to the hall:
“Did he jump off the balcony?”
Then—a moan. Beneath the wrecked door writhed the lover, pinned by the frame and his own arrogance. His robe was askew, face panic-struck, mouth bleeding.
“Reckon that’s revenge served,” Michael smirked, nudging the door.
Then, as luck would have it, a shrill cry echoed up the stairs:
“Help! Good people, they’re murdering someone!” Thomas’s mother-in-law, by the sound of it.
Sobriety hit. They bolted before the police arrived. By morning, Thomas filed for divorce. He refused to live where he’d been humiliated—where another man had strutted in his robe.
A week later, he packed for another rig stint. Michael saw him off, sporting a black eye and bandaged knuckles.
“Made for a cracking story, though!” He laughed. “Next time you marry—just not to another Victoria. But call me. I’ll sort it out proper.”
