Something to Live For

by Richard Roper

  Peggy put a hand up to her mouth, fingers splayed across her lips. “How can you be so naive?” she said. “In what universe does that happen so smoothly, so quickly, with all the logistics sorted and none of the fucking pain of it all? We’re not teenagers, Andrew. There are consequences.”

  “I’m getting ahead of myself, I know. But yesterday has to count for something, right?”

  “Of course it does, but . . .” Peggy bit her lip and took a moment to compose herself. “I have to think of the girls, and that means making sure I am in the best possible state of mind so that I’m there for them whatever.”

  Andrew went to speak but Peggy cut across him.

  “And, at the moment, given what I’ve been going through with Steve, what I really need—even if this is hard to hear—is an understanding friend with a good heart, who’s there to support me. Someone honest, that I can trust.”

  * * *

  —

  They had been promised a replacement train, but in reality this just meant they were forced to cram onto the next service, which was already full. It was an every-man-for-himself affair, but Andrew managed to get into position by a door to let Peggy and the girls onto the train first, before some opportunists snuck on before he could. In the end, with no hope of reaching the others, he was forced to perch uncomfortably on his stupid purple rucksack in the vestibule. The toilet door opposite was malfunctioning, perpetually sliding open and shut and letting out a cocktail of piss and chemical smells. Next to him, two teenagers with an iPad were watching a film where old ladies played by grotesquely made-up men farted and fell into cakes, all of which the teenagers observed without a flicker of emotion.

  When they finally reached King’s Cross and traipsed off the train, Andrew realized he’d lost his ticket. He didn’t even bother to fight his case, instead shelling out more money on the new fare so they’d let him through. At the other side of the barrier, Suze wore the telltale creased face of a grumpy child after a long journey, but to Andrew’s surprise, when she saw him she ran over and reached her arms up to hug him good-bye. Maisie opted for a formal but still affectionate handshake. As the girls bickered about who deserved the remaining strawberry bonbon, Peggy approached Andrew warily, as if he might try to carry on their earlier conversation. Sensing this, Andrew managed a reassuring smile and Peggy relaxed and leaned in to hug him. Andrew went to let go but Peggy took him by the hands. “We shouldn’t forget, in all of this, that we actually found Beryl!” she said. “That was the reason for the trip after all.”

  “Absolutely,” Andrew said. It was too painful, this intimacy. He decided to pretend his phone was vibrating, apologizing and backing away with one finger pressed to his free ear as if to block out the noise of the station. He made for a pillar, still holding the phone up to his ear and mouthing silently to nobody, as he watched Peggy and the girls walk away until they were lost in the crowd.

  * * *

  —

  Later, he stood outside his shabby building, which had seemingly aged ten years in the last week, and considered finding a pub or somewhere else where he could sit and pretend for another few hours at least that he wasn’t back home. He thought back to how uncharacteristically rushed he’d been when he’d left the house, feeling jarred by the change in routine but dizzy with excitement at spending so much time with Peggy. He’d barely had time to turn off his PC before—weighed down by his backpack—he’d hurled himself down the stairs and out of the building.

  Eventually he resigned himself to going indoors, into the shared hallway with its familiar scent of his neighbor’s perfume, the scuff marks on the wall, and the flickering light.

  He was about to unlock his front door when he became aware of a noise apparently coming from the other side. God, surely it wasn’t a burglar? Gritting his teeth, he swung his bag up in front of him to make an improvised shield, unlocked the door, and threw it open.

  Standing there in the semidarkness, his heart pounding, he realized that the sound was coming from the record player in the far corner. In his haste to leave he must not have turned it off properly, so the needle was skipping, and the same note was stuttering away on a loop, over and over and over again.

  — CHAPTER 22 —

  His name was Warren, he was fifty-seven years old, and it had taken eleven months and twenty-three days for anyone to realize he was dead. The last record of his being alive was when he’d been to the bank to deposit a check, whereafter he’d returned home, died, and rotted away apologetically on a sofa under a throw patterned with hummingbirds.

  The only other flat in the building was unoccupied, which explained the fact that the smell, which was currently causing Andrew to gag even before he’d set foot in the flat itself, hadn’t been the thing to alert someone to Warren’s death. In fact, the only reason it hadn’t been longer before his body had been discovered was that direct debits for his rent and energy bills had bounced back at the same time. An unfortunate debt collector—who’d apparently been scrambled to the property with the urgency of a counterterrorist operative—had peered through the building’s letterbox only to be met by a volley of flies.

  Peggy had messaged him on Sunday evening, the day after they’d returned from Northumberland, to say she’d developed “a stinking cold” and wouldn’t be coming into work the next day. In truth, Andrew was quite relieved she wasn’t with him. He wasn’t sure how he’d be able to act normally around her after all that had happened. And so it was that he found himself at his first solo property inspection in weeks, a heavily aftershave-soaked mask pressed to his face, bracing himself to enter. Though he’d tried to prepare himself as best he could, he was still unable to stop himself from dry-heaving. He dropped his bag to the floor and batted away the flies excited from the disturbance. He worked as quickly as he could, separating trash bags of indiscriminate rotting food and soiled clothes as he looked for any sign of a next of kin. He searched for nearly two hours without finding anything. With all the usual places covered, he even forced himself to look inside the oven, which was caked in congealed fat, and the fridge, which was empty save for a single summer fruits Petits Filous yogurt. When he finally left, not having found a single trace of evidence that Warren had family, or any concealed cash, he headed to his flat rather than the office. As soon as he was inside he tore off his clothes and showered, turning the water as hot as he could bear and scrubbing feverishly at his skin, using a whole bottle of shower gel. All the while he struggled to think of anything other than Warren. What must his last few weeks before he’d died have been like, living in all that filth? He’d always thought he preferred the chaos to the sterile, but on a purely sensory level it was hard to reconcile how someone could have lived like that. Surely he must have been of unsound mind not to know how bad it was. It made Andrew think of the frog boiling to death, unaware that the water’s getting hotter.

  Later, he headed back to the office smelling like the Body Shop had vomited on him, and arrived to find Cameron sitting on Meredith’s yoga ball, his eyes closed in contemplation, a mug of what looked like swamp water steaming away next to him.

  “Hello, Cameron,” Andrew said.

  Cameron kept his eyes closed and showed Andrew the flat of his hand, like a sleepwalking traffic cop halting imaginary cars. There wasn’t enough space for Andrew to squeeze around the exercise ball to his desk, so he had to wait while Cameron finished whatever the hell it was he was doing. Eventually, he let out such a long, powerful breath that Andrew thought at first the ball had developed a puncture.

  “Good afternoon, Andrew,” Cameron said, rising with as much dignity as is possible when clambering off an oversized plastic testicle. “And how was the property inspection?”

  “Truthfully, it was probably the worst one I’ve ever had to do,” Andrew said.

  “I see. And how does that make you feel?”

  Andrew wondered if this was a trick question.


  “Well . . . bad.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Cameron said, rolling his shirtsleeves up to the elbow before changing his mind and rolling them back down again. “No Peggy today then, poor thing.”

  “No,” Andrew said, slumping down into his chair.

  “Meredith and Keith are off on their hols,” Cameron said, running his finger along the top of Andrew’s screen.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So that means it’s just us two here . . . holding the old fort.”

  “Yep,” Andrew said, unsure where this was going, wondering if he should suggest that Cameron’s next move toward enlightenment should be an enforced period of silence. It was horribly clear, though, that Cameron had some sort of an agenda. Andrew watched him go to walk away before making a big show of changing his mind, snapping his fingers as he turned back.

  “Actually, do you mind if we have a quick chat? I can make you some herbal tea if you want?”

  The break-out area had evolved since Andrew had been away. There were blue and purple throws over the sofas and a coffee table book about transcendental meditation artfully placed on a beanbag where the coffee table used to be. Andrew was just glad that there weren’t any obvious hooks to hang wind chimes from.

  “Are you looking forward to Thursday night?” Cameron asked.

  Andrew looked blankly back at him.

  “It’s Meredith’s turn to host us for dinner,” Cameron said, clearly disappointed that Andrew had forgotten.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Should be . . . fun.”

  “You think? Look, I know it was a bit of a funny old evening when Clara and I hosted . . .”

  Andrew wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to agree with this or not, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “But I’m sure it’ll be a more chilled-out evening this time around,” Cameron said.

  They sipped their tea and Andrew chanced a look at his watch.

  “I’m glad it’s just us two, actually,” Cameron said. “It gives me a chance to touch base with you about something.”

  “Right,” Andrew said, resisting the temptation to scream, IF YOU MEAN “TALK” JUST SAY “TALK,” at him.

  “You’ll remember my presentation a little while back, where a certain notification appeared on the screen.”

  Cutbacks. With all that had been going on, Andrew had barely had time to think about that.

  “The truth is,” Cameron continued, “I just don’t know yet whether it’s going to be us that’ll need to have fewer people wearing more hats, or another department.”

  Andrew fidgeted in his seat. “Why are you telling me this, Cameron?”

  Cameron flashed him a particularly desperate grin, his teeth on full display.

  “Because, Andrew, it’s been playing on my mind to the point of distraction, and I just felt I had to say something to someone here and because . . . we’re mates, right?”

  “Sure,” Andrew said, guiltily avoiding Cameron’s eye. If Cameron was telling him this, did it mean he would be safe? His optimism quickly vanished when he realized that meant that Peggy could be the one to go.

  “Thanks, mate,” Cameron said. “Feels loads better getting that off my chest.”

  “Good,” Andrew said, wondering if perhaps he should try to make the case for Peggy now.

  “So how’s the old fam-fam, then?” Cameron said.

  The question caught Andrew off guard. Troublingly, it took a moment for him to realize Cameron meant Diane and the children. He made to reply but his mind was blank, no false anecdotes or news coming to mind as usual. Come on, think! Just make something up like you normally do.

  “Um . . . ,” he said, then, panicking that Cameron would take his hesitation to mean something might be wrong, quickly followed up with, “They’re fine. Just all good, really. Listen . . .” He got to his feet. “. . . I’ve actually got loads to do, so I better get back to it. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, well if you’re—”

  “Sorry,” Andrew said again, nearly tripping over an errant throw on the floor as he hurried away, feeling suddenly short of breath, just making it to the toilets in time to cough up bile into the sink.

  * * *

  —

  That evening, he chatted with BamBam, TinkerAl, and BroadGaugeJim, and tried not to think about what had happened with Cameron. It had been terrifying to go blank like that. Maybe he was just rustier than usual because his focus had been on Peggy. The closer he’d gotten to her, the more distant Diane had become. He’d neglected his “family,” the people he relied on for support, and the guilt he felt was deep and real. The strength of the feeling was horribly troubling. This. Isn’t. Normal, he told himself, digging his fingernails into his thigh.

  He felt bad for interrupting the current subforum conversation (Which type of rubberized horsehair is best for creating bush scenery?), but there was nowhere else for him to turn.

  Chaps, not to bring the mood down, but remember when I told you about that person who I was starting to get along with really well? It turns out there was something more than just friendship there, but now I’ve blown it.

  BroadGaugeJim: Sorry to hear that, T. What happened?

  Tracker: It’s a bit complicated. There’s someone else in her life. But that’s not even the main problem. Basically, I’ve been holding something back from her, and I know that if I come clean she’ll probably never talk to me again.

  BamBam67: Yikes, that does sound rather serious.

  TinkerAl: Tricky one, mate. What I would say is maybe you should just be honest with her? Maybe you’re right—she might never talk to you again, but if there’s even the smallest chance she’ll be okay with it, then isn’t that worth fighting for? This time in a week you could be together! Bit of a cliché I know, but isn’t it better to have loved and lost, and all that???

  The discordant “Blue Moon” arrived in an instant, and the screeching feedback and stabbing at Andrew’s temples was so severe that he had to slide to the floor and clap his hands to his head, drawing his knees up to his chest, waiting for the pain to subside.

  * * *

  —

  He slept fitfully that night. He’d developed an earache and a raw, scratchy throat, and his body was starting to ache all over. As he lay awake in the early morning, listening to the rain hammering at the window, he thought of Peggy, and wondered whether he’d caught this cold off her, or just a stranger.

  — CHAPTER 23 —

  Peggy was still off sick the following day. Andrew had texted her asking if she was feeling better, but there was no reply.

  The cold he’d caught had evolved into something that sapped him of energy but left him too uncomfortable to sleep. Instead, he sat shivering or sweating under a duvet watching mindless action films, the moral of each story appearing to be if you drive a car fast enough a lady will take her top off.

  He was halfway to work the following morning, feeling like he was trudging through thick mud, when he suddenly remembered it was the day of Alan Carter’s funeral. He forced himself to turn back and flag down a taxi.

  The vicar—a squat man with piggy eyes—greeted him at the church’s entrance.

  “Relative?”

  “No, council,” Andrew said, glad that he wasn’t a relative given the brusqueness of how the vicar had spoken to him.

  “Ah yes, of course,” the vicar said. “Well, there’s one lady inside. But it doesn’t look like anyone else is coming so we better crack on.” He raised a fist to his mouth to cover a burp, his cheeks bulging like a frog’s neck.

  Beryl was sitting in the front row of the empty church. Andrew tucked his shirt in and flattened his hair down as he walked up the aisle. “Hello, dear,” Beryl said when he arrived at her side. “Gosh, are you okay? You look ever so peaky.” She put the back of her hand to his forehead.

  “I’m fine,�
�� Andrew said. “A bit tired, that’s all. How are you?”

  “Not so bad, pet,” Beryl said. “Have to say, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a church.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not exactly a believer in the beardy bloke upstairs. Neither was Alan, truth be told. I’m sure he’d have found all this palaver funny, really. Is Peggy coming, do you know?”

  “I don’t think so, I’m afraid,” Andrew said, looking back toward the door just in case. “She’s really poorly, unfortunately. But she sends her love.”

  “Oh well, not to worry,” Beryl said. “More for the rest of us.”

  Andrew couldn’t think what Beryl meant until he looked down to see she was holding an open Tupperware box full of fairy cakes. After a moment’s hesitation, he took one.

  The vicar appeared and stifled another belch, and Andrew feared the worst about the sermon, but thankfully the vicar’s delivery was heartfelt enough. The only blip in the service came when a man wearing a baseball cap and waterproof trousers—a gardener, Andrew presumed—shunted the church door open and whispered, “Oh bollocks,” just loudly enough for them to hear before slipping back out.

  Beryl remained composed throughout. Perhaps because Andrew had more of a personal investment than usual, he listened intently to the vicar’s words and, to his intense embarrassment, found himself on the verge of tears. He felt a wave of shame hit him—he hadn’t ever met this man; it wasn’t his place to cry. And yet that guilt only made things worse and eventually he was unable to stop a single tear from spilling down onto each of his cheeks. Luckily, he managed to wipe them away before Beryl saw. He’d have to blame his cold if she said anything about his puffy eyes.