A Shock

by Keith Ridgway

  They both look at him, and for a moment nobody says anything, and the young man’s eyes widen slightly. Then Nadia laughs, and Laura does too, and the young man sighs exaggeratedly and puts his hand to his heart.

  — Oh my god, he says. Just for a second there. I thought . . . god what a faux pas that would have been.

  They are still laughing, and he laughs too. The cat walks out of the room, into a small corridor and ambles into the kitchen. It is a small kitchen, with a small window, also looking out on the back garden, also with the blind down. She sniffs in the corners, sniffs an empty bowl that sits in a little alcove under the sink, sniffs a bowl full of water beside it, and rubs her back on the corner of a cupboard. Then she jumps onto the countertop, sniffs her way slowly to the blind and noses her way in behind it. She surveys the garden for a moment, then awkwardly jumps and clambers up to the open awning at the top and goes outside.

  The kitchen is quiet again. The voices of the women and the man continue, naming people in the building, speculating and laughing. They seem much more relaxed with each other now. Next to the kitchen is a large bathroom. Some items of clothing hang from the rail above the bath in the dazzling light. Frosted glass. Tiles. A mirror. Next to the bathroom is a large bedroom, messy, dark, with a television, chairs, clothes lying around, a large wardrobe with a door missing, a big unmade bed. The windows are covered by dark heavy drapes. Dust in the air. Paintings. Photographs. A fan by the bed. A full-length mirror. The voices can barely be heard. Somewhere in the building or outside it a cough. Another cough. The silence then. The drapes. The dark.

  The silence then.

  Something has happened to the conversation.

  The young man is sitting on the edge of the armchair, turned slightly to the side. He seems downcast and the air above him quivers. It quivers for an instant then stops. The women sit leaning into each other, Nadia with her arm around Laura, who looks into space, her expression one of sorrow. Here is sorrow.

  — Really. It’s fine. It’s just . . . Well, it’s lovely that you’ve moved in.

  This is Nadia. She is forcing a smile while her hand strokes Laura’s arm.

  — And great that the building is staying queer. Pretty much, right? It’s just we miss them quite a lot. Karl. Peppi. They were really great. Weren’t they?

  She squeezes Laura, leans her head towards her a little, kissing her hair. Laura says nothing and does not move.

  — Where have they moved to? he asks.

  Nadia makes a face, as if he has said something clumsy, something inappropriate. Laura briefly shuts her eyes, then disentangles herself from their embrace and stands up. She sighs, forces a smile, glances at the young man and says a damaged Sorry, takes her coffee cup and hurries out of the room.

  — Oh, said Nadia. Don’t worry about it.

  — I’m . . . I don’t understand, says the man. And seems about to say more.

  — Really, said Nadia. It’s fine. I think we assumed that Alison would have told you. But it’s fine. I mean, it’s not something, well, Alison does what she wants I suppose.

  She stands up. She keeps on talking. He hesitates, and then stands up as well.

  — She’s been quite good with us really. I mean, I’ve had landlords that were far worse. I mean, immeasurably worse. She’s not great with getting stuff fixed, but she gets to it eventually. She’s put the rent up on us just the once. She’s a little eccentric, and

  She moves towards the door. He follows her.

  — she can be a bit random, scatty, not completely on it. But it’s a price we’re willing to pay for having a landlord who is vaguely human, you know,

  She opens the door. He walks slowly past her, stands in the doorway and turns. He is clearly confused.

  — and not wanting a cut of our entire fucking lives. I mean. She doesn’t take the piss. You might have to wait a while before she has someone come to look at . . . you know, a dodgy tap or whatever, but she’s all right. For a landlord. Doesn’t actually give a shit. But isn’t obnoxious about it. At some point she’ll probably kick us all out and sell the place for seventy billion quid and that’ll be the end of that. But anyway.

  She gives him a weak hug.

  — Look I’m really sorry if I’ve . . .

  — No, really, please, don’t worry about it. Let us know if you need anything. Or need a hand with moving stuff at the weekend. We’ll be here. And come down and say hello any time, ok?

  — Of course. Really good to meet you.

  — Let’s all be friends, she says, and shuts the door.

  The flat is not the same shape as theirs. He stands in a small hallway. He puts his keys on a shelf over a radiator. Everything white. Except a small round wooden table in a corner, on which stands an empty plant pot. The floor a blond wood laminate. He stays where he finds himself, staring at nothing, his lips slightly parted, an expression on his face. Some sort of expression. There is a door to his left, into a large bedroom. A double wardrobe takes up one whole wall. One of its four doors is a mirror. Opposite it is a large window looking down into the garden. There is what appears to be a blackout blind but it is not down and the room is bright and warm. The window is open. A fly buzzes against the inside of the glass, trapped by the central vertical strut. Divider. What that thing is called. That part of the window. The wardrobe is closed. On the bed are piles of clothes and books, several pairs of shoes, an open suitcase. Towels neatly folded in a pile on the floor. A stack of magazines. More books. Boxes filled with things that people bring with them.

  The young man is still standing with his back to the door of the flat. The expression has gone.

  The walls in the bedroom, white. The floor the same as the hallway. There is a small bathroom too, directly opposite where the young man stands. He sighs and takes off his vest and steps out of his flip-flops. He walks to the right, into a large living room and kitchen, wiping his torso with the vest which he then drops onto a dark sofa. The window is open here as well, and the blind up. He squints, blows out a breath of air, walks across the room, leans over a desk that is covered in books and papers and pulls the blind down. At the other end of the room there is a kitchen alcove and he goes there and sits on a stool at the counter which divides it from the living room and opens a laptop. There is a carpet in the living room, dark blue, laminate in the kitchen, the same as the hallway and bedroom. There are boxes on the floor. In the kitchen all the cupboards are open. He types into Google.

  Karl Peppy

  He reads the results but does not click on any of them.

  Karl and Peppy

  Same.

  Carl and Peppy

  Same.

  Carl and Peppi

  Same

  87 Denman Road

  Same

  Karl Peppi Peckham Camberwell death

  He clicks the first result. It is a story about a couple falling to their deaths from the tenth floor of a nearby block of flats. He goes back. The second result is about a teenage boy, stabbed. He looks at Images for Karl Peppi Peckham Camberwell death. The boy. Buildings. Police. In the kitchen there is a humming fridge. There are jars on a counter top. There is a spoon on the floor. There are more books.

  He pulls a phone out of his pocket and puts it on the counter and slowly types a message. He stops several times and stares into space. Sighs. Rubs his hand over his chest.

  Hi Alison. Really love the flat thanks for taking the table away. Had a slightly weird conversation with the girls downstairs. Don’t know if I said something wrong but they seem upset when i asked about the previous tenants. They said they thought you told me? But I don’t know about what. Am slightly concerned. Can you let me know what that’s about? Thanks! David.

  He sends it. He gets up and goes to the bathroom.

  While he is gone, while David is gone, the phone buzzes against the counter top, slides a little
. Nothing else happens.

  The light is much dimmer. So it is morning. It is cooler in the flat. The bed has nothing on it now. All those things are on the floor. The bed has been slept in. There is a glass of water on the small side table. There are cables. A tablet. A box of tissues. A book lies face down. Somewhere outside there is hammering that starts and stops. Starts. Stops.

  In the kitchen area David is making coffee. There are two mugs. A woman is sitting on the sofa in the living room, watching him. He has put croissants on a plate. Milk in a small jug, sugar in a matching bowl. On a tray. The kettle is boiling and he is speaking loudly.

  — I mean sometimes I have to go in on a Saturday, but not . . . not often. If there’s a new campaign . . . there’s always some last-minute panic. Printers. Delivery. Website disasters.

  — Campaign?

  The kettle clicks off.

  — Yeah, product launch or . . . there can be a few during the year. Different things. Oh I’ve made this pretty strong, I hope that’s all right.

  He is filling a cafetière and speaking at a normal volume now.

  — Strong is good.

  He carries it over and sets it on the low table in front of her. Coffee table.

  — So, yeah, we sometimes have a bit of a panic on. Not just now though. Everything is bobbing along.

  He brings the tray with everything else on it.

  — Oh, this is very nice David, thank you. I should drop in regular.

  He laughs.

  — You’d be welcome.

  He sits beside her.

  — What sort of products then?

  He is wearing a red T-shirt. The same shorts and flip-flops. She is older. White. Perhaps in her fifties. She has shoulder-length fair hair. She wears a black blouse. White trousers. There is a little pile of mobile phone, wallet, keys, a couple of envelopes, and a notebook and pen on the table in front of her. A bag lies on the floor at her feet. His face flickers something and resettles.

  — Could be anything. Let’s see. We did a new range of sushi for Sainsbury’s last month. Before that there was a coffee maker, a yoghurt thing that

  — Lots of food.

  — Yeah. New supermarket lines mostly. Can be pretty dull really if

  Outside, the garden is in shade but the heat is coming. The cat is sitting on the boundary wall on the right, looking into the garden next door. Behind her, in front of the other house which shares the big garden, a man is standing on the grass with his hands behind his back, walking very slowly, looking at the plants. Occasionally he leans forward or stoops down to see something, or to reach out a hand and touch a flower or a leaf. He seems content. He turns and looks back towards the house. The other house, his house. The one next door. Then he swings slowly back around, his eyes running over the windows where David sits talking, and down, past the cat on the wall, to look again at the flowers. All these flowers. Look at all these flowers. He is like a bee. Moving from flower to flower. But all he does is smile, and look, and sometimes one hand will touch a stem. Happy.

  — Yes, well, they disappeared.

  — They disappeared?

  David is smiling at her. He scratches his shoulder, shifts slightly forward on the sofa.

  — Yes love. Vanished.

  She smiles too. He laughs, looks at her quizzically.

  — I mean that’s the truth of it. We don’t know where they went to. Nobody seems to know where they went to. Nobody really knows anything at all. It doesn’t affect you though, I mean, in case you are worried about that. The flat is yours, contract’s done, all the rest of it. If they show up. Well they won’t. But if they were to, they don’t live here anymore. Locks have been changed actually. Your door and the front door.

  — But what do you mean they disappeared?

  The woman folds her arms. Sighs.

  — Well, it was February. Quite late on I think. I mean, we didn’t notice for ages. That was part of the problem, trying to work out when exactly they’d last been seen. Anyway. Laura and Nadia couldn’t get in touch with them. So they asked me. I come knocking. Texting. Phoning. Nothing. I knock again. A Wednesday night it was, and at this stage Laura and Nadia haven’t seen them for a week or more. So I am a little concerned. And I really am an idiot, shouldn’t have done this, but I let myself in. Of course it’s only when I’m standing in the hallway that I think, you know, well, what if it’s the worst? Not sure I’d be ready for that at all. So I turned on my heel

  She laughs.

  — and I went and got Archie from opposite. You meet Archie yet?

  — No not yet.

  — Anyway he thinks I’m barmy but he hasn’t seen them either, so we come in together, you should have seen us, clutching on to each other like such babies, and we look around and of course the place is empty. And it’s a bit of a mess, but no more than you’d expect with those boys. So I just assumed they’d gone on holiday and not told anyone. Next thing I know the police are here.

  — Shit.

  — Well, just because Laura and Nadia had been on to them. And I have to tell you David, this is a big deal for those two. For Laura and Nadia. But honest to god I don’t think anyone else really thinks it’s any great mystery at all. I mean, the police couldn’t find them. But they weren’t really interested because they couldn’t find anything that, you know, suggested a crime. And there were no passports or phones here. The laptop was gone. No sign of anything bad happening at all. Just messy. Clothes lying around. State of the bathroom. But there was no food left in the cupboards. Or no . . . you know, nothing that would go off. Oh some mouldy bread I think. But it looked like they’d cleared out, though they did leave of lot of stuff — TV, pictures,

  She looks around the room.

  — couple of terrible paintings they had, vases and lamps. All in storage now.

  She looks at him again.

  — And David, I’ve told Laura and Nadia this but I don’t think they want to hear it, I don’t think they’ve quite realised, but Karl and Peppi owed me five month’s rent.

  — Oh.

  — Yes. And when the police heard that, well they just left it really. They said they’d stay in touch but of course I haven’t heard anything more.

  She laughs again.

  — Doing a runner is not the sort of crime they’re interested in. Though they did tell me to report it formally, for the small-claims court, if I wanted to go that way. But there’s no point is there. So I’m annoyed, you know. Laura and Nadia though. Genuine upset.

  — What about families? Or work?

  — Oh the girls looked into all that. Peppi is Greek. No one had any contact details for his family. Karl is from Cumbria or Cornwall or something. And he left home, or more likely was kicked out of home, when he was sixteen, seventeen, something like that. The girls did some Facebooking and emailing but nothing came of it.

  David shakes his head. He is leaning back in the sofa now. They are both leaning back, turned towards each other. They take sips of coffee but the croissants haven’t been touched. The hammering outside stopped a long time ago. Probably when the kettle was boiling. The happy man has gone in. The cat is two gardens away. She is perched on the roof of a shed, watching another cat who does not know she is there. It is like this.

  — And work?

  She laughs, this time putting her coffee mug down and pulling her hair back from her face.

  — Don’t know where Peppi was working. I had details on the paperwork. But it was out of date of course. Restaurant in Waterloo. Laura and Nadia knew the name of another place he’d been but that drew a blank as well. Karl had been out of work. I knew this because he was in bar management and I know a couple of people who knew him, or knew of him, and he had been in a place in Vauxhall and he’d been fired, the middle of last year. And I heard about that when it happened. And that’s when the rent stopped. Or shortl
y after. Probably hadn’t worked since then. Or at least, nothing regular. He worked the bar at a couple of clubs on busy weekends. Didn’t tell me anything of course, why would he? The excuses were always daft. A friend who needed surgery in Portugal or Spain or god knows. Then something about another friend stealing money. Then Peppi saying he hadn’t been paid. Then they gave me some money the month before. January. Because of course I had started to talk about eviction. They gave me one month’s worth, so I backed off. But they knew they were on borrowed time here David. This isn’t a hotel.

  David sighs. He scratches his shoulder. He picks up one of the croissants and takes a bite and flakes of pastry cascade down his T-shirt. He puts it back on the plate. He pours each of them some more coffee.

  — Nice boys. Liked them. But a bit chaotic. So I think it’s all fairly obvious really.

  — Yeah, he says. What was he fired for? Karl?

  She smiles at him.

  — I wondered that too, but it’s nothing. He had a row with the owner, one of the owners. I know this guy. Awful bully. I’d heard at the time that it had been about pay. Not getting paid. And it was. Karl got stroppy about it. Refused to work a shift until it was sorted, and that’s enough for this guy.

  He looks down at his T-shirt and starts picking up flakes of pastry and putting them in his mouth.

  — Stupid thing for them to do really. I mean. I need to get my rent. I’m not a charity. But I could have worked something out with them. Some landlords would have had them out on their ear as soon as they found out about the job. But I didn’t do that David. I gave them time to sort it out. Could even have helped, but they never asked. Which is sad. And what do they do now? I don’t know. I don’t know how they start again. Bank accounts. References. Jobs. Any of that. I’ve no idea. I’ve a claim in against them of course. Had to. Credit records are ruined. But that’s not my fault. And Laura and Nadia heartbroken.

  She pressed a button on her phone to see the time.

  — And, I don’t want to say this really David, but I think sometimes that they would rather that Karl and Peppi were dead in a ditch somewhere than have to face up to the fact that they weren’t nearly as close to them as they thought.