Five Stories High

by Jonathan Oliver

  No, no. Interrupt away! Don’t get me started on my design philosophy; I can go on for hours.

  Oh absolutely, yes, I did meet her first husband. German name, but British as they come. Public school, a whiff of condescension about him. Adesh and I used to call him the Old Nazi. He insisted on having his own study – the best room in the house – but I can’t imagine he did anything other than watch porn in it, because according to Malika, he didn’t bring in a cent.

  So I was delighted when Malika asked me if I’d give her a quote on her new place. She told me she’d divorced The Nazi, and I couldn’t stop myself from saying “congratulations”. She laughed. She didn’t tell me she’d found herself a younger model. Not then. Not until...

  Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I was impressed at first. Great location, fabulous building – Georgian. It had good bones, as they say. Divided into five flats, I think she said. I was feeling good about it until she waved me inside the apartment itself. My dear, what the previous owners had done to it was a crime. Well the whole of the Eighties was a crime against good taste, wasn’t it? And this place was like an exhibition of the worst of that decade – frills, pastels, executive chic, Holly Hobby lamps and oh God, Laura Ashley prints. Don’t get me wrong, I speak as someone who staggered through his twenties in that decade and I had a blast, I mean, there are pictures of me with Leigh Bowery in his heyday, but this was beyond the pale. I can picture it now. The lounge was dominated by a dusty pink L-shaped sofa, one of those atrocious bulbous ones. This squatted next to a Fracati rug and a glass coffee table the size of a Jacuzzi. There were ruffled cushions just everywhere. The bedroom was a horror show of sprig-patterned wallpaper edged with a contrasting pattern. And the bathroom! Grey and pink tiles and a pink suite! I could go on and on, but suffice to say it was awful, although bizarrely, even the fabrics still looked brand new. And I mean brand new, like they’d just been installed. Malika shadowed me into the kitchen, which was painted a shocking, glossy red, set off with white laminate cupboards and a sharp-edged fridge. A watercolour, the type you’d see in an unimaginative dentist’s office, lurked on the wall, framed in mock gold. Again, there was absolutely no sign of wear and tear. It could have been a show home, zapped into the building by a time travel machine. Perhaps, I thought, the previous owners were obsessive Eighties’ culture vultures or were going for an ironic look, but the stuff looked authentic, not retro chic. While she made me some Earl Grey, the fridge hummed, an irritating sound, like one of those rude commuters who insists on listening to their music through cheap headphones.

  I’m not usually lost for words, but I was then.

  “So what do you think, Louis?” she asked, a small smile on her face. “Do we need to get the blow torch out, or can you do something with this?” She had a good sense of humour. Dry. Not everyone got it. She could come over as cold, but she wasn’t.

  “My dear,” I said. “It’s nothing a truck load of heritage paint can’t fix.” I was already planning a scheme in my head. Malika said the place had been converted in the Fifties, and there was a complete absence of period features. I would give it a new lease of life. I would restore its grandeur.

  Then he came in. Robin. Tall, that was the first thing you noticed about him. Muscular, too. Ooo-er, I thought, Malika’s got herself a bit of rough, the lucky thing. She looked uncharacteristically nervous when she introduced us. I got the impression she hadn’t expected him home until much later. When he found out who I was and why I was there he set his jaw like a teenager. “I thought you said I could do it, Malika,” he said.

  “Darling,” she said. “It’s a lot of work and it needs to be done quickly. I need to get back to work.” She told me she’d left her firm and was planning on working from home. What was it she did again?

  An actuary? What’s that when it’s at home?

  I’m not taking in a word of that, my love. Never mind. Well, like I was saying, he was getting quite het-up.

  “But I need this, Mally. I need to do this,” he whined.

  She snapped at him and he cowered like a dog that had been struck. I usually love a bit of drama, but this was making me uncomfortable. It was all getting a bit too ‘Mommy Dearest’ for my liking. I half expected him to storm into his bedroom and slam the door.

  “I’m so sorry, Louis,” she said to me, rolling her eyes. “He wants to have a go.”

  Oh Malika, I remember thinking, Darling, you’re going to end up with a hot mess. And honestly, I couldn’t see the relationship lasting after what I’d witnessed.

  I assumed he’d been watching too many of those home makeover programmes. But good interior design is not that easy. You have to have an eye. You can’t just drop a wad of cash on made.com and voila, expect to have a coherent scheme.

  Until I saw it on the news, I didn’t give Malika and her toyboy another thought. I had enough on my plate. It was around that time that Zizou, my Shar Pei, was diagnosed with cancer. And like I said, when I first heard about it, it floored me. That can’t be my Malika, I kept thinking. I didn’t want to believe she did it, but what’s the alternative? She was covered in his blood, wasn’t she? And I read that the first thing she said when they found the body was, “It’s my fault.” So they had a confession as well.

  But I know what you want me to say. You want me to comment on what the papers are saying about her new defence, don’t you? Tell you if I thought the place was haunted. Well I will. I had an aunt who was a medium, so I’m a believer, but I have to say the only thing that was haunting that apartment when I was there was that truly appalling colour scheme.

  The House Clearance Guy

  WE DO A lot of work in that area, and you wouldn’t believe what people throw away. Whole kitchens, bathroom suites, the lot. We do all right. Cash in hand most of the time, which helps seeing as how those Tory cunts have cut the wife’s disability benefit, ‘scuse my French.

  It was her, The Butcher, who called me up and asked me to clear the flat. Didn’t even ask for a quote first. Got the feeling she needed it done in a hurry, said her ‘partner’ was eager to start renovating it and wanted the ex-owners’ stuff out of there sharpish.

  I took my youngest lad, Tommy, along to the job. Poor bugger can’t seem to find his place in life, wants to go to art college or whatever poncy thing they call it now, but I’ve got six kids and ten grand a year’s beyond me. He’s been having nightmares ever since it first hit the news, daft sod. “You were only there for a few hours,” I keep telling him.

  I only dealt with her. Never met him. She was waiting for us outside. She didn’t have her own stuff moved in, no kettle, nothing, so she went down to the caff and got us all some coffees. There’s a lot been written about her being a snotty cow, but honestly, I didn’t see that myself. She wasn’t up herself. Quiet, yeah, but polite and friendly.

  Tommy and I had a look round while she was getting the coffees. Didn’t think the place was so bad myself, but Tommy had a right old laugh. Thought he could sell some of the stuff to a collector maybe, took some pictures for his Instagram wotsit; he’s got this page where he displays some of the weirder interiors we come across. I don’t mind. People have strange things in their houses and we’ve seen it all. Dolls’ heads, pervey art, and sometimes in the hoarders’ houses you can get a right shock. Found a collection of trusses and stainless steel joints once. Hip joints mostly.

  It was getting shot of the sofa that bothered me the most. Sofas. They’re my biggest headache. Can’t resell the older ones, see? Don’t have the fire regs. Took us an hour to get the fu – bloody thing down the stairs. It’s still in the lock-up. Keep meaning to take it to the tip. Tommy won’t go near it.

  Yeah, come to think of it, everything did look new. Funny that.

  What else? Oh yeah. It was when we were knocking down the fitted cupboards in the bedroom that we found a wedding album, half full of photographs – old ones, seventies or eighties. It was pushed right to the back of the top shelf. Took it t
o her straight away.

  She was sitting on the stairs outside, working on her laptop so she wouldn’t get in our way. ‘Must have belonged to the people who owned this place before us,’ she said.

  She flicked through it, turning the pages slowly. Her fingers were shaking, I remember that. We all had a look.

  “Jesus,” Tommy said. “The bloke in those pics looks just like Terry Richardson.”

  “Who’s that?” Mrs Weston and me said at the same time.

  “He’s a photographer, Dad. He’s always being accused of being a perv.”

  “She looks sad,” she said, meaning the bride. Can’t remember what the girl in the picture looked like, but I think she was a lot younger than the groom.

  And then Mrs Weston said, “Do you think it feels funny? The flat I mean. The atmosphere.” She just came out with it. I didn’t know what to say; knew she’d just bought it, didn’t want to go putting ideas in her head. Like I say, she was alright.

  But Tommy said, “Yeah. It does a bit, doesn’t it?”

  She looked relieved, as if she’d been worrying that she was going funny in the head or something, and Tommy had put her mind at ease.

  “You want us to dump that for you?” Tommy asked, meaning the album.

  “No,” she says. “I’ll keep it.”

  We didn’t make much out of the stuff. Nothing much of value in there after all. People like that retro rubbish but there’s old-fashioned and then there’s stuff that’s only fit for the skip.

  Tommy went white as a sheet when he heard what she done. He kept updating me with all the details. Got a bit obsessed with it. Like how she’d sliced that lad up like he was a Sunday joint. Put him through months of abuse, they said. Peeled the poor bugger like a grape.

  “You think she done it?” Tommy kept asking.

  “Buggered if I know, son.”

  But they had the proof, didn’t they? Convicted her in a court of law. And one thing I know for sure after years of doing this job, you never know what goes on behind closed doors.

  The Co-Worker

  WE WEREN’T BEST mates or anything, but we all liked Robin. What wasn’t there not to like? He was quiet, professional, didn’t try to poach clients. He’d come out with us for drinks every so often, and we’d go for a run together sometimes.

  He’d been working at Fitness Central for eight months or so when he met that bitch.

  Kelly blames herself for that. She was off sick that day and he took over her class. Always thought Kelly had a bit of a thing for him. Don’t know why he never went for her, she’s hot, looks like the trainer off The Biggest Loser – the American one, Jillian somebody. Way sexier than that Malika. Until she came along, I never saw him with a woman, and not for want of trying. Tried to get him on Tinder, or Grindr – didn’t bother me which way he rolled.

  He wasn’t the most popular trainer, that’s Kelly, and he dealt mainly with older clients. Yeah, come to think of it, the geriatrics were his specialty. Did you see that documentary the other night about guys who have a fetish for old people? Maybe that was his thing. Yeah I know she wasn’t that old, but she could have been his mum, couldn’t she? And she wasn’t a cougar or anything. She wasn’t glamorous. Kelly couldn’t get over how drab she was.

  It took him ages to tell me about her. He came out with it after we’d gone for a run one Sunday morning and were getting paninis. I think I was on at him again to ask Kelly out for a drink when he told me he’d met someone, and that they’d got talking after one of his classes. He went bright red. Well, as red as he could go. He said that he’d moved in with her and they were buying a place together. Never heard him talk so much. On and on he went about how he was going to fix it up and do all the work.

  I felt bad for Kelly, but I was relieved he’d finally got himself a girlfriend.

  “When do we get to meet her?” I asked him.

  He went red again. Mumbled something about her not being very social. He didn’t tell me about the age difference then. I kept asking him to go out for drinks with us so as we could meet her, but he kept making excuses. And whenever he was on a break he had his laptop out, browsing all these D.I.Y and home improvement blogs and sites. We took the piss out of him for that, but he just smiled.

  Just before he moved into the flat, he asked me for a favour. First time he’d ever asked me for anything. He needed someone to help him shift a few things into the flat. Couldn’t believe it when I heard where it was. She must have money, I thought. I knew he didn’t.

  He’d done all right, moving into that neighbourhood. Porsches and Aston Martins parked in the street, as well as a couple of those Range Rovers with blacked-out windows. He’d hired a van, and he’d been going back and forth moving their stuff in. I asked him, “How come you didn’t get a removal company in?” There was a shed-load of furniture to shift, see. He said someone had come in to collect all the ex-owners’ stuff, and from now on he wanted to do everything himself. Pride probably, wasn’t it? Must have stung, him not putting any cash in. She probably liked that though, stuck up bitch. Kept him in his place. Meant she was the one with all the power. I only met her once, but you could tell she was up herself. It was clear who was wearing the pants in that relationship.

  What did I think of the flat? Well like I said, it was in a seriously blinged up area. If I’m honest I suppose I was a bit jealous. Loads of space. My place could have fitted inside it three times over.

  What?

  No I bloody didn’t pick up anything creepy about it. Oh yeah. There was that thing that happened during that evening me and Kelly went round – now that did creep me out a bit – but I wasn’t, like, uncomfortable in the place or anything like that.

  It was just after he moved in that that his personality started to change. He was distracted all the time, snapped at me a couple of times. And he took to calling in sick and cancelling his sessions. Ryan, the owner, was getting pissed off, but me and Kelly tried to cover for him when we could.

  One time he didn’t even bother to call in or cancel his client – he just didn’t pitch. I tried calling him, but his phone just went to voicemail. Kelly convinced the client, one of his geriatrics, to join her class and not grass Robin up to the boss. But this couldn’t go on, so after work I went round to his flat.

  When he buzzed me up, he looked dazed, like someone who’d been lost in a dream or something. He was covered in dust and looked like he’d been sweating a fair bit.

  I was like, “Mate, why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

  He said, “I have to get it right.”

  “Get what right?”

  “The flat. I have to get it right.”

  He was twitchy, kept biting his lip. He looked scared. It didn’t occur to me then that it was her he was afraid of.

  I followed him inside. He’d been steaming the old wallpaper off the walls and there was mess everywhere. I dunno where she was. At work or whatever.

  I tried to talk to him again, but you could see he was itching to get back to his D.I.Y. I made him promise to come in the next day and do his classes. He swore that he would. And he did. That didn’t last long as he quit soon after.

  Oh yeah – as I was leaving, he called after me, “Hey, Steve,” he said. “You’re going to think I’m mental, but doing this... I feel like I’m taking its skin off.”

  The Best Friend

  A COUPLE OF weeks after they moved in, I went around to the flat to see how they were getting on, and Mally showed me the photo album they found when the old owner’s stuff was cleared out. Just touching it made me want to bleach my hands. Or maybe I’m just projecting now that I know more about it.

  You could see straight away that the wedding in the photographs hadn’t been a happy one. It looked like it was done on the cheap or organised in a hurry. The photos weren’t professionally done. Several were taken on the steps outside a grim registry office, and the figures of hurrying strangers were blurred in the background. The rest were taken inside a poor
ly lit pub where they must have held the reception. The groom was older, tall, with thinning hair and a moustache. In several of the pictures the light caught his glasses from the wrong angle, and you couldn’t see his eyes. The bride was young – looked like a teenager – with permed hair and wonky teeth. Her dress was ill-fitting and ruffled. She was nervous, you could almost see her hands shaking. A cluster of greying older people surrounded them, wearing polyester suits, bewildered looks on their faces. The bridesmaid caught my attention; she scowled beneath her dyed black fringe, her little eyes thick with black kohl.

  Mal told me she’d found some medication scripted to a ‘Mr Ogilvy’ in the bathroom cabinet before all the ex-owners’ stuff was removed and she reckoned he might be the moustachioed groom. There was no evidence of anything belonging to his wife in the flat. We made up stories around them: the wife had left him, run off with someone else, and he’d died alone. Or maybe he’d murdered her after having a torrid affair with the scowling punky bridesmaid. It makes me feel ill to think about us joking about that now.

  Mal said she hadn’t shown the album to Robin.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she said. “He’s got enough on his plate.”

  She had a point. It was abundantly clear that he’d bitten off way more than he could chew when he decided to do the renovation himself. There was no rhyme or reason to his work. The lounge was half-papered in blue silk wallpaper, but instead of finishing that job he’d started stripping the paper in the bedroom. The kitchen counter was covered in rows and rows of sample paint pots, the kitchen walls were sloppily undercoated in white, overlaid with a frantic patchwork of multiple tester colours.

  “Having trouble deciding on a colour?” I asked him jokily.

  He gave me a blank look. “Yeah.”

  Mal and I had no choice but to sit in the poky second bedroom to chat, the one she was supposed to use as her office. The furniture in the lounge was covered in fabric swatches, catalogues and more rolls of wallpaper. While I was there she was being inundated by calls from irritated clients. I got the impression she’d been letting her work slide – not like her.