“Barbecue on Saturday if the weather’s nice,” Andrew said. “Steph’s decided she’s vegetarian, so not quite sure what’s going to be on the menu for her.”
“Oh, I am too! It’s fine—just do some halloumi cheese and some Linda McCartney sausages. She’ll love it.”
They were still discussing weekend plans some minutes later when Andrew got an e-mail from Adrian, the recruitment person who’d called him, asking him to confirm what dates he was free for the second interview. Andrew excused himself and escaped to a toilet cubicle. He didn’t want to admit to himself quite how warm and comforted he felt after little moments like this with Bethany and the others when discussing family stuff. The thought returned to him again: Where was the harm in what he was doing? He wasn’t upsetting anyone. People had actual families that they did actual diabolical things to, harming loved ones in all sorts of awful ways, and what he was doing wasn’t comparable to that in any way.
By the time he’d gotten back to his desk he’d made up his mind. He would make peace with what he was doing. He wasn’t going to turn back now.
Hi Adrian,
I’m really glad for the opportunity to have met with Jackie, but after a bit of soul-searching I’ve decided to keep on in my current role. Thank you for your time.
From then on, things started to get easier. He could happily join in with family chat feeling guilt-free, and, for the first time in a very long while, he felt happy more often than he felt lonely.
— CHAPTER 6 —
Andrew emerged from the station and—soddiest of sod’s laws—found himself walking just behind Cameron. He hung back and pretended to check his phone. To his surprise, he actually had a new text. To his disappointment, it was from Cameron. He read it and swore under his breath. He wanted to like Cameron, he really did, because he knew that his heart was in the right place. But it was hard to warm to a person who a) commuted on one of those mini-scooters that had suddenly been deemed acceptable for people above the age of five, and b) was unwittingly trying to ruin his life, having waited barely twelve hours before texting him to ask whether he’d had a chance to reconsider the dinner party plan.
The idea of losing his family didn’t bear thinking about. Yes, there was still the occasional tricky moment in conversation that sent him briefly off balance, but it was worth it. Diane, Steph and David were his family now. They were his happiness and his strength and the thing that kept him going. Didn’t that make them just as real as everyone else’s family?
* * *
—
He made a cup of tea, hung his coat on its usual peg and turned to see there was a woman sitting in his seat.
He couldn’t see her face because it was obscured behind his computer, but he could see her legs, clad in dark green tights, under his desk. She was dangling one of her black pumps on her toes. Something about the way she was flicking it back and forth reminded Andrew of a cat toying with a mouse. He stood there, mug in hand, not quite knowing what to do. The woman was swiveling in his chair and tapping a pen—one of his pens—on her teeth.
“Hello,” he said, realizing that even for him this was a record, to feel his cheeks reddening as the woman smiled and offered him a cheery hello in response.
“Sorry, but you’re, um, sitting in . . . that’s sort of technically my seat.”
“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” the woman said, jumping to her feet.
“It’s okay,” Andrew said, adding, rather needlessly, another “sorry” himself.
The woman had dark, rusty red hair that was piled high on top of her head with what looked like a pencil poking through it, as if to pull it out would make her hair cascade down like some sort of Kerplunk Rapunzel. Andrew guessed she was a few years younger than him, late thirties perhaps.
“What a great first impression to make,” she said, getting to her feet. Then, seeing Andrew’s confusion, “I’m Peggy—it’s my first day.”
Just then Cameron appeared and bounded over like a quiz-show presenter on a now-defunct digital channel.
“Excellent, excellent—you two’ve met!”
“And I’ve already stolen his chair,” Peggy said.
“Ha, stolen his chair,” Cameron laughed. “So anyway. Pegs—do you mind if I call you Pegs?”
“Um . . . No?”
“Well, Pegs, Peggy—the Pegster!—you’re going to be shadowing Andrew for a while just to get you up to speed. I’m afraid you’re rather in at the deep end this morning as I believe Andrew has a property inspection. But, well, no time like the present to get stuck in, I suppose.”
He proffered a violent double thumbs-up and Andrew watched Peggy recoil involuntarily, as if Cameron had just pulled out a knife. “Righto,” Cameron said, oblivious to this, “I shall leave you in Andrew’s capable hands.”
* * *
—
Andrew had forgotten they had a new person starting, and he felt uneasy at the prospect of being shadowed. Entering a dead person’s house was still strange and unsettling, and the last thing he wanted was someone else to worry about. He had his own methods, his own way of doing things. He didn’t really want to have to keep stopping to explain everything along the way. At the start, Keith had been the one to show Andrew the ropes. He had seemed to take it relatively seriously at first, but before long he started to just sit in the corner and play games on his phone, pausing only to make crude jokes at the deceased’s expense. Andrew might have welcomed a bit of gallows humor, though it wasn’t really his style, but Keith didn’t seem to possess a shred of empathy. Eventually, Andrew had approached him in the office kitchen and suggested he carry out inspections on his own. Keith had mumbled his agreement, barely seeming to notice what Andrew had said (though this may have been due in part to him struggling to extract his finger from the can of energy drink it was stuck in).
From then on, Keith stayed with Meredith in the office, registering deaths and arranging funerals. Andrew much preferred doing the inspections alone. The only problem with being unaccompanied was that news traveled fast when someone died, and suddenly a person who’d expired in complete solitude now had posthumous well-wishers and dear, dear friends who arrived during his inspections—caps in hand, beady eyes darting about the place—to pay their respects, and, just on the off chance, check if that watch the deceased had promised them in the event of their death, or fiver they owed them, happened to be on the premises. It was always the worst part, having to shoo these people away, the threat of violence hanging in the room long after they’d gone. So at least with the newbie alongside him he’d have a bit of backup.
“I meant to say,” Peggy said. “Before we left, Cameron cornered me and told me to try and persuade you that us all having ‘dinner party bonding sessions’ together was a good idea. He said be subtle about it, but, well, that’s not really my area of expertise . . .”
“Ah,” Andrew said. “Well, thanks for letting me know. I think I’ll just ignore that for now.” He hoped that was that nipped in the bud.
“Righto,” Peggy said. “Probably for the best as far as I’m concerned.
“Cooking isn’t my bag, really. I managed to get to the age of thirty-eight without realizing I’ve been pronouncing ‘bruschetta’ wrong all my life. Turns out it’s not ‘brusheta,’ according to my neighbor. Then again he does wear a pink sweater tied around his shoulders like he lives on a yacht, so I’m reluctant to take any of his advice.”
“Right,” Andrew said, slightly distracted, having realized they were running low on supplies ahead of the property inspection.
“I suppose it’s a team-building thing, is it?” Peggy said. “To be fair I’d prefer that than clay pigeon shooting or whatever it is these middle managers get up to.”
“Something like that,” Andrew said, pulling his rucksack around and searching it to see if he was missing anything.
“And so we’re, um, actually going to s
ee a house now where a bloke’s just died?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Shit, they did need supplies. They’d have to make a detour. He looked around in time to see Peggy puffing out her cheeks and then realized how unwelcoming he was being. He felt a familiar wave of self-loathing, but the words to rectify the situation wouldn’t come, so they walked on in silence until they got to the supermarket.
“We just need to make a quick stop-off here,” Andrew said.
“Midmorning snack?” Peggy asked.
“Afraid not. Well, not for me. But feel free to get something for yourself. I mean, not that you need my permission. Obviously.”
“No, no, I’m fine. I’m actually on a diet anyway. It’s the one where you eat an entire wheel of brie and then have a bit of a cry. You know the one?”
Andrew remembered to smile this time.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, shuffling off. When he returned with everything he needed he found Peggy standing in an aisle by the books and DVDs.
“Just look at this lass,” she said, showing him a book whose cover displayed a woman smiling to the camera, apparently halfway through preparing a salad. “No one should look that delighted while holding an avocado.” She put the book back on the shelf and looked at the air freshener and aftershave in Andrew’s basket.
“I’ve got a horrible feeling I don’t know what I’m letting myself in for,” she said.
“I’ll explain a bit more when we get there,” Andrew said. He made his way to the tills, watching Peggy as she strolled toward the exit. She had a curious way of walking, her arms flat against her sides but her fists gently clenched and pointing out sideways, so that it looked like she had two treble clefs attached to her sides. As Andrew punched his pin into the card reader the tune of Ella and Louis Armstrong’s version of “Would You Like to Take a Walk?” drifted into his head.
* * *
—
They were standing at a crossroads, Andrew checking they were going the right way on his phone. Peggy filled the silence with a story about a particularly moving TV episode she’d watched the night before. (“Admittedly I can’t remember the name of the show, or the lead character, or when or where it’s set—but if you can track it down it’s brillo.”) Satisfied they were going in the right direction, Andrew was about to lead the way when there was a sudden crash behind him. He spun around to see where the noise had come from and saw a builder leaning over some scaffolding, about to toss an armful of rubble down into a dumpster.
“Everything okay?” Peggy said. But Andrew was rooted to the spot, unable to take his eyes off the builder as he hurled another lot of bricks down with an even harsher clang. He began to clap dust off his hands but saw Andrew looking at him and stopped.
“Problem, mate?” he said, leaning over the scaffolding. Andrew swallowed hard. He could feel pain beginning to grow at his temples, the sound of harsh feedback slowly filtering into his head. Underneath the static came the faint strains of “Blue Moon.” With great effort, he managed to get his legs moving, and, to his relief, by the time he’d crossed the road and walked further on both the pain and noise had subsided. He looked around sheepishly for Peggy, wondering how he was going to explain this, but she was still standing by the dumpster, talking to the builder. From the expressions on their faces, it looked as if Peggy was patiently trying to teach an incredibly stupid dog how to do a trick. Abruptly, Peggy walked off.
“You all right?” she said when she’d caught up with him.
Andrew cleared his throat. “Yes, fine,” he said. “Thought I might have a migraine coming on, but thankfully not.” He nodded back at the builder. “What were you talking to him about?”
“Oh,” Peggy said, still seeming distracted with concern for him, “he made some unsolicited comments about my appearance so I took the time to explain that I sensed a deep, unquenchable sadness in his eyes. Are you sure you’re okay, though?”
“Yes, fine,” Andrew said, realizing too late that his arms were rigid at his sides, like a toy soldier’s.
They set off again, and even though he braced himself, the distant crash of rubble still made him jump.
* * *
—
The deceased’s flat was part of the Acorn Gardens estate. The name was written in white on a green sign featuring the names of the various blocks on the estate: Huckleberry House, Lavender House, Rose Petal House. Underneath that someone had spray-painted “Fuck cops,” and underneath that a sketch of a cock and balls.
“Blimey,” Peggy said.
“It’s okay. I’ve actually been here before, I think. Nobody bothered me that time so I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Andrew said, in part trying to reassure himself.
“Oh no, I’m sure it will be. I just meant that.” Peggy nodded at the sketch. “Impressive detail.”
“Ah, right. Yes.”
As they walked through the estate Andrew noticed people closing their windows and parents calling their kids inside, as if it were a Western and he was an outlaw hell-bent on chaos. He just hoped his attempted friendly smile conveyed the fact it was a coverall and some Febreze in his bag, rather than a shotgun.
The flat was on the first floor of Huckleberry House. Andrew paused at the bottom of the concrete steps and turned to face Peggy.
“How much detail has Cameron gone into with you about what happens at the property inspections?” he said.
“Not a huge amount,” Peggy said. “It would be great if you could fill me in a bit more. Because I’ll level with you, Andrew, I’m ever-so-slightly completely bloody terrified.” She laughed nervously. Andrew dropped his gaze. Part of him wanted to laugh along to reassure her, but at the same time he was aware that if there were any neighbors or friends of the deceased watching it wouldn’t look very professional. He squatted and reached into his bag.
“Here you go,” he said, handing Peggy a pair of surgical gloves and mask. “So, the deceased’s name is Eric White. He was sixty-two. The coroner referred the death to us because from what they can tell from the initial search by police there’s no obvious sign of a next of kin. So we’ve got two goals today: firstly to piece together as much as we can about Eric and find out if there really isn’t a next of kin, and secondly to try and work out if he’s got enough money to pay for the funeral.”
“Wow, okay,” Peggy said. “And what’s the going rate for a funeral these days?”
“It depends,” Andrew said. “Average cost is about four thousand. But if the deceased hasn’t got any sort of estate, and no relatives or anyone else willing to pay for it, then the council are legally obliged to bury them. Without frills—no headstone, flowers, private plot and the like—that’s about a grand.”
“Jeez,” Peggy said, snapping a glove on. “Does that happen a lot—the council doing that?”
“Increasingly,” Andrew said. “In the last five years or so there’s been about a twelve percent increase in public health funerals. More and more people are passing away on their own, so we’re always busy.”
Peggy shivered.
“Sorry, I know it’s a bit bleak,” Andrew said.
“No, it’s that expression—‘pass away.’ I know it’s meant to soften the blow, but it just seems so, I dunno, flimsy.”
“I agree, actually,” Andrew said. “I don’t usually say it myself. But sometimes people prefer it described that way.”
Peggy cracked her knuckles. “Ah, you’re all right, Andrew. I’m quite hard to shock. Ha—cut to me in five minutes’ time legging it out of here.” From the couple of wafts Andrew had already smelled coming through the door, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if that was what happened. What was the protocol then? Would he have to chase after her?
“So what else did the coroner have to say about this poor chap?” Peggy asked.
“Well, the neighbors realized they hadn’t seen him for a while and cal
led the police, who forced entry and found his body. He was in the living room and he’d been there for a while so was in a fairly bad state of decomposition.”
Peggy reached up and twiddled one of her earrings.
“Does that mean it might be a bit . . .” She tapped her nose.
“Afraid so,” Andrew said. “It will have had time to air out a bit, but you can’t . . . it’s hard to explain, but . . . it’s a very specific sort of smell.”
Peggy was starting to look a little pale.
“But that’s where this comes in,” Andrew said quickly, holding up the aftershave, sounding unintentionally like he was in an advert. He shook the bottle and sprayed it liberally inside his mask, then did the same for Peggy, who strapped her mask over her nose and mouth.
“I’m not entirely sure this is what Paco Rabanne had in mind,” came her muffled voice. This time Andrew smiled for real, and though Peggy’s mouth was obscured he could tell from her eyes that she was smiling back.
“I’ve tried all sorts of different things over the years—but it’s only ever the expensive stuff that seems to work.”
He took the keys from an envelope in his bag.
“I’ll go and have a quick look first, if that’s okay?”
“Be my guest,” Peggy said.
With the key in the lock, this was usually the point where Andrew took a moment to remind himself why he was there: that he was to treat the place with as much respect as possible, no matter how bad the conditions. He was by no means a spiritual person, but he tried to make sure he carried out his work as if the deceased were watching on. On this occasion, not wanting to make Peggy any more uncomfortable than she already was, he only went through this little ritual—putting his phone on silent, too—after he’d stepped inside and shut the door gently behind him.
When Peggy had asked him about the smell, he was glad he’d managed to censor himself. Truthfully, what she was about to experience would change her forever. Because, as Andrew had discovered, once you’ve smelled death it never leaves you. Once, not long after his first-ever house inspection, he’d been walking through an underpass and had caught the same smell of decomposition as he’d experienced at the house. Glancing to one side, he saw among the leaves and rubbish on the floor a small stretch of police tape. It still made him shudder whenever he thought about it, to feel so highly tuned to death.
How Not to Die Alone Page 5