They Did Bad Things

by Lauren A. Forry

  “Might be better on the inside.”

  She took it in trips to carry her bags up to the front door, which squeaked open without the need for a key.

  “What an exceptionally good start.” She kicked the door in and dragged her first bag over the threshold.

  Lorna had requested a bedroom on the highest floor, preferably in the corner where it would be quiet, so of course her bedroom key opened a room one floor up across from the bathroom. Perhaps if one of her housemates were particularly gullible, she could convince them to swap. For now, she was stuck with scratched white walls, a metal-framed bed, and a flimsy fabric wardrobe. The beat-up desk sported a pink Post-it proclaiming DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY! Lorna crumpled up the note and tossed it in the bin.

  When she made her second trip downstairs, she peeked through the kitchen, not sure if she was prepared to learn of its condition, and spotted someone in the garden. She watched as a guy in a baggy hoodie and torn jeans sat on a three-legged lounger and held a flame to a pink bag. She crossed her arms and leaned against the door jamb.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Naught.” The boy dropped the lighter. “I’m Hollis.”

  “Do you have a habit of setting things on fire, Hollis?”

  He shrugged.

  “Right. Keep it outside. I haven’t bothered to get renter’s insurance, and I don’t want all my things going up in flames.”

  He shrugged again. Lorna decided that was the extent of his communicative abilities and turned to go inside.

  “Hey! What’s your name?”

  Lorna kept walking.

  Having carried all her belongings to her room, she locked her door and pulled out her books and word processor. She tried the small television, but it wouldn’t turn on. In fact, all the outlets in her room were dead.

  “Is everyone here completely useless?”

  Lorna called the agency from the house phone but received no answer.

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  Back in her room, she opened the letter her mum had handed her before she left. Sixty pounds and a photograph of her Spitz-mix, Alfie, dumped into her lap. Mum had scribbled on the back of the photo: He misses you already!

  Lorna stared at his smiling face and her chest tightened. Alfie would love that back garden, she thought, but pets weren’t allowed. For their own safety, most likely. If the boy outside was any indication, her housemates were liable to set Alfie on fire or feed him beer and crisps. No, he was better at home without her. She could trust Mum and Dad to take decent care of him, even if it meant he couldn’t be here, snuggled up at the end of her bed or sitting at her feet as she finished an essay.

  Unable to sit still, Lorna tried the electrical outlets again, flicking the switches off and on. No power. She unlocked her door, ready to handle this in person at the estate agent’s office, when a flurry of chirpy voices rose from downstairs. Lorna retreated and locked the door. As the voices escalated, she sat on her bed and stared at Alfie’s photo, willing the house to quiet.

  Lorna could’ve had her quiet if it weren’t for Eleanor Hunt. She was squealing as soon as her father parked the Rover. The house, to her, was absolutely marvelous. Everything. From the little painted fence to the decorated sashes.

  “Are you certain this is it, poppet?”

  “Caldwell Street, number 215,” Ellie read from her notes. “Oh, Daddy, isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It’s certainly something.”

  Her sandals flapped on the pavement as she ran through the front door.

  “Hello?”

  Light trickled in from the back of the house, but the front room remained dark until she flung back the faded red curtains, allowing the sun to pour in. Dust motes danced in the air. Bathed in light, the sunken pink sofa looked like a smile, and the pale yellow paint a sunrise. She ran her fingers across the mantelpiece above the bricked-up gas fire-place despite the dust. When her father entered with the first of her bags, Ellie skipped across the carpet and clung to his arm.

  “It looks just like the photos!”

  “So it does.” He kissed the top of her head. “Go find your room, poppet. We don’t want to leave your things in everyone’s way.”

  Ellie hurried upstairs to the narrow second floor, knocking on doors instead of trying her key.

  “What is it?” a girl’s voice barked from a room across from the bathroom.

  “Hi! My name’s Eleanor but you can call me Ellie. I’m your new housemate.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Sure, sure! Sorry to bother you. We’ll chat later! Daddy, there’s another girl here!” Ellie hesitated to see if the girl would open the door after all. When she did not, Ellie followed the staircase up to the third floor, which stank of fried chicken and chips. The source of the smell came from a room halfway down the hall, where a boy with headphones jammed on top of his ears sat on his bed, flipping through a magazine and eating from a takeaway box between his legs. A Bon Jovi poster hung at an angle above his bed. When he noticed Ellie, he wiped his hands on his jeans and slipped off his headphones.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi! I’m Ellie.”

  “Hollis.”

  She lingered in the doorway, twisting her foot into the carpet, unsure of what else to say. The boy, Hollis, chewed a mouthful of chicken, waiting for her to speak. Her father’s panting breaths broke the silence as he arrived on the top floor, a piece of luggage in each hand.

  “Did you find it, poppet?” He spotted Hollis. “Ah, hello.”

  “Here, let me help.” Hollis rolled off the bed and took a suitcase from her father. She could see the sheen of grease on his fingers but said nothing.

  “That’s very kind of you. Eleanor, dear, find your room, please.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, Daddy.” Her key opened the door to the left of Hollis’s. “Look! We’re neighbors.”

  Hollis shrugged. Her father frowned. Ellie clapped her hands. The room was bigger than she imagined, with a beautiful view overlooking the back garden through dirt-streaked windows. Various stains marred the cream carpet, but she could find a rug to cover them.

  “I think you brought too much,” her father said as Hollis brought the first suitcase inside.

  “Don’t be silly, Daddy. I’ll get some under-the-bed boxes and a few crates. And we packed a fabric wardrobe, didn’t we? That can go right there, and if I ask, I’m sure the agency will let me hang a shelf or two, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, well”—he checked his watch—“let’s get the rest then. Your sister’s play is tonight. Mother will be cross if I’m late.”

  Ellie followed her father downstairs to see him off.

  “You have everything?” he asked. “Keys?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Credit card?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which is for . . .”

  “Emergencies only.”

  “Call your mother or me if you need anything.”

  “I will, Daddy.”

  “All right then. Study hard. Be a good girl.”

  “I will.”

  With a honk of the horn, he drove away, and she waved to the car until it was no longer in sight. Alone on the unfamiliar street, goose-bumps rose on her skin. She rubbed her arms to keep them warm, then stepped back into the house.

  Upstairs, Hollis had closed his door. She raised her hand to knock but let it drop and returned to her room. Before, it seemed so large. Now, filled with suitcases and bags and boxes, it had become incredibly small, and with every item she unpacked, it continued to shrink. She could find no home for any of her belongings. Half her things were in the wrong spot. The other half were in the way. In frustration, she kicked her teddy bear across the room and let out a muffled scream into her pillow. Then, with a deep breath, she sat on the edge of the bed, smoothed a loose strand of hair, and stared at the catastrophic mess around her, unsure of what to do.

  As Ellie waited for someone to save her from her loneliness, a BMW pul
led up with a screech alongside the sidewalk. Oliver Holcombe had barely switched off the engine before he was out of the car. He looked the house up and down and flicked his cigarette end into the road.

  “This is fucking brilliant.” He grabbed his bags, ready to mark his territory, but two steps inside, the stench of fresh lemon and bleach assaulted him. A fit blonde bent over a crap sofa, wiping down the skirting board.

  “They didn’t mention maid service.”

  “Oh!” She dropped her rag. “No, I got bored waiting for people. And whenever my mum gets bored she cleans, so I guess I’m turning into my mum, which will be a terrible surprise to her I’m sure and—”

  “Hey, it’s cool. Oliver.” He watched her melt.

  “Ellie.”

  “So, Ellie, now that you’ve fixed the place up, how do you feel about hosting a little party tonight?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Excellent. We’ll say ten, so expect people around eleven, eleven-thirty. If you could grab crisps or beer or something, that would be brilliant. There a toilet upstairs?”

  Ellie nodded. “One floor up. It’s the first door on the right. And if you continue to the other end of the hall, there’s another set of stairs and that will take you to the top floor and that’s where my room is. Along with another boy. His name is Hollis, and he helped me carry my luggage—”

  “Brill!” He silenced her with a wave of his hand and jogged up the stairs, wondering if Princess Chatterbox’s obvious insecurity was worth the potential pursuit. He would have to check out the other housemates first. There was one now—a short-haired brunette with a decent rack emerging from the bathroom.

  “Hey.” He leaned against the wall. “I’m—”

  “I know exactly what you are. Keep your eyes off my breasts.” She disappeared into a bedroom across the hall.

  “Lesbo.” Oliver kicked the bathroom door shut, pulled down his zip, and released the piss he’d been holding in since the A25. Tilting his head back for maximum arch, he stared at the black mold clusters on the ceiling and let out a relieved sigh. He shook the last few drops free then zipped up, kicking his toe at the white-painted plywood that covered the side of the tub.

  “Cheap shit.”

  To his dismay, his bedroom was located next to the bathroom near the Bitch with Breasts. The carpet was so thin it might as well have not existed, and the light blue curtains made from old bed sheets did little to keep out the light. As for the bed, there was none, only a mattress on the floor. The room proudly said “fuck you,” and Oliver said it right back. Dropping his bag by the door, he tossed himself onto the mattress. Black mold speckled the corners here, too. If he squinted, it almost looked like wallpaper. Maybe it’d be all right, he thought, lighting a cigarette. He could sell the no-bed thing as new-wave free-love bullshit to the pretty young things he’d be pursuing over Freshers’ Week. Cover the mold with some posters. Yeah, the mold he could handle, but this mattress would be bad for his back. That’s what his physical therapist would say, he thought, trying to straighten his right knee. He’d call Mum, tell her what size and style he needed and when he needed it by. Right about now she’d be napping by his half-sister’s crib, but the call would wake her. Oliver kicked his bags toward the wall with his good leg, then changed into fresh clothes. He had plenty to do before the party, mainly finding people to invite. He grabbed his wallet and headed out.

  In the hall, he met a hoodie-wearing bloke who smelled like fried chicken. And what council estate did you come from? he thought.

  “Oliver.”

  “Hollis.”

  They shook hands.

  “Party tonight?” Oliver asked.

  “Yeah, cool. Carling?”

  “Sure.”

  With a nod, Hollis continued downstairs, lighting a cigarette on the way. Council Estate could be all right then, Oliver decided. From the house phone in the hall, he rang home. No response. He hung up and tried one more time. Nothing.

  “Whatever.”

  He had better things to worry about, he decided, trotting out of the house. He didn’t need a fucking bed.

  As day dragged into dusk, two bedrooms remained empty. Oliver’s party, however, prevented anyone from sparing a thought for their absent housemates. By the time the next to last arrived, no one even remembered that they were expecting anyone else. But reaching the house was all Maeve had in mind.

  “Here. Here! No, turn here!”

  “Which way is here?”

  “The way I’m pointing!”

  They circled the roundabout twice, Maeve gripping the instructions so tightly she thought they might rip. In the back seat, her little brother moaned, threatening to be sick.

  “There. Caldwell Street. There!” She pointed. Her mother jerked the car to the left. “Careful!”

  “This street’s not very well lit, is it?” Mum said.

  “If we would’ve left on time, it wouldn’t matter.”

  “I told you to finish packing last night, not wait till this morning.”

  “I was standing by the car waiting to go. You were the one tottering about inside.”

  “Is this it? Doesn’t look very safe.” They could hear the bass thumping through the house’s windows.

  “This is it. I’ll get my things and you can go.” Maeve unbuckled her seat belt.

  “Well, I have to come inside.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Maeve.”

  Her brother gripped the seat-back. “I need to pee.”

  “Your brother needs to pee. We’re coming in.”

  “There’s a petrol station back there!”

  “Hurry up, Max.”

  “Seriously?” Maeve slammed the door and grabbed her things from the back. Carrying one bag and a box, she hurried to the front door ahead of her mum and brother. She knocked. No one answered. She knocked again. A stunning white girl with long blonde hair opened the door.

  “Hi! Are you here for the party?”

  “Uhm, sort of. I’m supposed to live here?”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful! I live here, too!” The girl threw her arms around Maeve, then pulled her inside. “I’m Eleanor but you can call me Ellie. Oliver—he lives with us, too—he thought we should have a house-warming.” Ellie dragged her to a crowded front room. Maeve could barely hear anything over the music but saw the smoky haze generated by the hookah on the floor.

  “Everyone! This is Maeve! She lives here!”

  A few hands rose in greeting. Someone was passed out on a crappy pastel pink sofa. Empty beer cans were stacked in front of a disconnected gas fireplace.

  “Are you going to leave us out here?” Mum entered the hall, carrying more things.

  “Mum, wait.”

  “I need to pee!”

  “Your brother needs the toilet. Where . . . oh. Hello.”

  The same hands rose again, greeting her mum.

  “Hi! I’m Ellie!”

  “I. Need. To. Pee!” Max stomped his foot.

  “Hi there, poppet.” Ellie smiled. “The working toilet’s right upstairs.”

  Max took off. Her mother looked away from the cluster of drunken students.

  “Maeve, I’ll start carrying up your things.”

  “There’s an empty bedroom on the top floor across from mine,” said Ellie.

  “Thanks.” Maeve hurried after her mum.

  “Well, that girl seems nice.”

  “It’s just a party, Mum.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “I can see it in your eyes.”

  They trudged up the second set of stairs.

  “First thing tomorrow you go and get your keys from the agent.”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “Need to be able to get in and out of your own home.”

  “I know, Mum.”

  “Do they really need that music so loud? When I was in . . .”

  Max chased after them, almost tripping Maeve.

  “Watch it!”

 
; “A girl by the toilet hissed at me,” he said.

  “You probably deserved it.”

  “Be nice to your brother. Now where is this room?”

  Room 4, located on the third floor, was massive. Maeve couldn’t believe her luck. It was twice the size of her room at home and over-looked the street. She could see Mum’s car below, the boot and passenger door open. Mum clucked her tongue.

  “I hope no one steals anything.”

  “Who’s going to steal something? There’s no one out there.”

  “It’s too dark to tell, really. Let’s get the rest of your things.”

  The car was empty in ten minutes, but it took her family another twenty to leave. Her mum couldn’t stop organizing things, rearranging the minimal furniture, complaining about the noise. Despite Maeve’s insistence that it was all fine, her mother wasn’t content to leave until Maeve promised to come home next weekend.

  Once she and Max were gone, Maeve stood in her room, listening to the music thumping downstairs. The room was comfortable, private, and all hers. It told her to relax, that she was free and independent now, and a bright year lay ahead, but Maeve wouldn’t listen. She decided to change clothes before going back downstairs but couldn’t find an outfit she liked. This dress was too formal. This, too casual. This she hadn’t worn in three years. Why had she even packed it? After settling on the jeans she was wearing and a top that didn’t smell of McDonald’s, she decided to freshen her makeup but couldn’t find the bag she’d packed it in, so she reapplied the toffee lip gloss she found stuffed in the bottom of her purse and examined herself in her little compact mirror.

  “You can do this. You’ll be fine. They’re just like you.” She gave herself a thumbs-up.

  Downstairs, Ellie patted the seat next to her.

  “Maeve! Come sit over here.”

  The cushions on the sofa gave as she sat, and she sank toward the floor like she was being swallowed whole. She blushed, thinking she had broken it, but then relaxed when she saw that the thin blonde had sunk to the same level. Ellie pointed to the boy on Maeve’s other side.

  “Maeve, this is Oliver.”

  Maeve sat up and shook his hand. Floppy hair. Deep brown eyes. He looked like Thomas Kinsey and she was over Thomas Kinsey because he was an asshole who never gave her the time of day and she swore never to be such an idiot again. She was a strong, independent young woman who didn’t need the attention of boys, so she spoke to Oliver with casual reserve, answering his questions politely with no hint of flirtation. Then she said something silly. Only a little thing about her family, but it made Oliver laugh, and it was too late. Maeve was in love.