The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  “How far did you get?”

  “‘Sexy,’” I admit, and Richie laughs.

  “All right. You can sign the note off now. But leave that last bit, if you don’t mind—it’ll make Leon smile.”

  I shake my head, but I’m smiling, too. “Fine. I’ll leave it. It was good to meet you, Richie.”

  “You too, Tiffy. You look after my brother for me, all right?”

  I pause, surprised at the request. For starters, it seems like Richie’s the one who needs looking after, and for seconds, I’m really not best placed for looking after any of the Twomey family, given that I’ve never met a single one of them. But by the time I open my mouth to respond, Richie’s hung up the phone, and all I can hear is the dial tone.

  16

  LEON

  Can’t help laughing. This is typical. He’s trying to charm his way into the affections of my flatmate even from a prison yard.

  Kay leans over my shoulder, reading the note.

  Kay: Richie is still his old self, I see.

  I stiffen. She feels it and tenses, too, but doesn’t backtrack or say sorry.

  Me: He’s trying to keep things light. Keep everyone laughing. It’s Richie’s way.

  Kay: Well, is Tiffy on the market?

  Me: She’s a human, not a cow, Kay.

  Kay: You’re so principled, Leon! It was an expression, “on the market.” You know I’m not actually trying to sell the poor girl to Richie.

  There’s something else wrong with that sentence, but am too tired to trace it.

  Me: She’s single, but in love with her ex still.

  Kay, interested now: Really?

  Can’t fathom why she’d care—whenever I mention Tiffy she switches off or gets grumpy. This is first time we’ve been in my flat for months, actually. Kay has the morning off work so came to see me for brinner before bed. She got a bit prickly about the notes stuck everywhere, for some reason.

  Me: Ex seems average. Far inferior to bricklayer-turned—

  Kay rolls eyes.

  Kay: Will you stop talking about that bloody bricklayer book!

  She wouldn’t be so judgmental if she’d read it.

  * * *

  A few weeks on and it’s the sort of sunny day that normally only happens abroad. England is unaccustomed to such warmth, especially when it strikes so suddenly. It’s only June, barely summer yet. Commuters hurry around corners, heads still down like it’s raining, backs of pale-blue shirts stained dark with Vs of sweat. Teenage boys whip off T-shirts until there are stark white limbs and chests and gawky sticking-out elbows all over the place. Can barely move without being confronted with sunburnt skin and/or unpleasant body heat emanating from man in suit.

  Am on my way back from visit to Imperial War Museum Research Room, following a final lead on the hunt for Johnny White. In my backpack, I have a list of eight names and addresses. Addresses were gathered through endless record-office riffling, contacting relatives, and online stalking, so not exactly foolproof, but it’s a start—or rather, eight starts. Mr. Prior gave me plenty to bulk out my research in the end. Get the man talking and he remembers a lot more than he claims to remember.

  Every man on list is called Johnny White. Unsure where to start. Pick favorite Johnny? Nearest Johnny?

  Get out phone and text Tiffy. Filled her in on the search for Mr. Prior’s Johnny White last month. Was after a lengthy letter from her about ups and downs of book about crochet; I was obviously in a sharing sort of mood. It’s peculiar. Like Tiffy’s compulsive oversharing is contagious. Always feel slightly embarrassed when I get to the hospice and remember whatever I ended up revealing in that evening’s scribbled note written with coffee before heading to the door.

  Hi. Got eight Johnnies (sing. Johnny) to choose from. How to pick where to start? Leon

  Response comes five minutes or so later. She’s working on the crazy crochet author’s book full-time, and it appears her concentration is low. I’m not surprised. Crochet is weird and boring. Even tried reading some of the manuscript when she left it on the coffee table, to check was not like bricklayer book, but no. It’s just a book of detailed crochet instructions, with end results that look very difficult to achieve.

  That’s easy. Eenie meenie mini emo, catch a tiger by its toe … xx

  And then, two seconds later:

  Eenie meenie MINIE MO. Autocorrect. I don’t think you’d gain much by getting any small emos involved xx

  Peculiar woman. Nonetheless, dutifully pause in patch of shade under bus stop to get out list of names and do eenie meenie. Land on Johnny White (obviously). It’s the one who lives up near Birmingham.

  Good choice. Can visit this one when next visiting Richie—he’s in Birmingham area. Thanks. Leon.

  A few minutes of silence. Walk through busy, sweaty London as it basks in the heat, sunglasses turned up to the sky. I’m knackered. Should have been in bed hours ago. But I spend so little actual daylight time out here in the open air these days, and miss the feel of sun on skin. Consider idly whether I might be vitamin D deficient, then thoughts shift, and I’m wondering how much open-air time Richie got this week. According to government, he should be let outside for thirty minutes a day. That rarely happens. Prison guards are low on numbers; time unlocked is even more limited than usual.

  Did you get my note about Richie, by the way? And telling me what happened to him? I don’t want to push but it was over a month ago now, and I just want you to know I would like to hear it, if you want to tell it. xx

  I stare down at her text, sun bleaching my screen until the words are almost invisible. I shade it with one hand and reread. It’s odd, how it came like that, just as I was thinking of Richie.

  Wasn’t sure what to make of Richie’s note about telling Tiffy. As soon as I knew they’d spoken I found myself wondering if Tiffy thinks he’s innocent, even though she doesn’t know him and doesn’t know a thing about the case. Ridiculous. Even if she knew everything, it shouldn’t matter if she believes him. Haven’t even met her. But it’s always like this—a constant nagging that you feel with everybody, no matter who they are. You’re conversing perfectly normally, and then, next moment, you’re thinking, “Would you believe my brother is innocent?”

  Can’t ask people, though. Is a horrible conversation to have and a horrible thing to be asked on the spot, as Kay will testify.

  Reply via note when I get home. Don’t really text Tiffy much; feels a bit weird. Like emailing Mam. Notes are just … how we talk.

  On wardrobe (latest note trail stops here):

  I’ll ask Richie to write to you, if that’s OK. He can tell it best.

  Also, a thought: Could your crochet author come to St. Marks (where I work) sometime? We’re looking to put on more entertainment for patients. Strikes me that crochet, though dull, may interest ill elderly people. x

  Hey Leon,

  Of course. Whenever Richie’s ready.

  And yes! Please! PR are always looking for opportunities like that. Can I just say, though, you’ve timed this very well, because Katherin has just become A CELEBRITY. Check out this tweet she did.

  Printed-out screenshot from Twitter, pasted below note:

  Katherin Rosen @KnittingKatherin

  One of the fantastic scarfs you can make from my upcoming book, Crochet Your Way. Take time out for mindfulness, and create something beautiful!

  117 comments, 8,000 retweets, 23,000 likes.

  New Post-it below that:

  Yeah. EIGHT THOUSAND RETWEETS. (For one of Mr. Prior’s scarfs, too—be sure to tell him!)

  Next Post-it:

  I’m assuming you don’t know much about Twitter because your laptop hasn’t even moved for several months, let alone been charged, but that is a lot of retweets, Leon. A LOT. And it all happened because this amazing DIY YouTuber called Tasha Chai-Latte retweeted it and said this:

  Printed-out screenshot from Twitter (now so low down the wardrobe door I have to crouch to read it):

  Ta
sha Chai-Latte @ChaiLatteDIY

  Crochet is totally the new coloring in! So much awe for @KnittingKatherin for her amazing designs. #bemindful #crochetyourway

  Sixty-nine comments, 32,000 retweets, 67,000 likes.

  Another two Post-it notes beneath:

  She has 15 million followers. The marketing and PR team are basically peeing themselves with excitement. Unfortunately this means I’ve had to explain YouTube to Katherin, and she’s even worse than you with technology (she has one of those old Nokias that only drug dealers use), plus odious Martin from the PR team “live tweets” from all Katherin’s events now, but still. It’s exciting! My lovely oddball Katherin might actually be in with a shot at a bestsellers list! Not the bestsellers list, obviously, but one of the niche ones on Amazon. Like, you know, number one in crafts and origami, or something. xx

  … Will wait until I’ve slept before attempting to reply to this one.

  JULY

  17

  TIFFY

  It’s still light when I get home. I love summer. Leon’s trainers are missing, so I guess he walked to work today—I’m so jealous he can do that. The tube is even more gross when it’s hot.

  I scan the flat for new notes. They’re not always that easy to spot these days—there’s usually Post-its on pretty much everything, unless one of us has got round to doing a clear-out.

  I spot it on the kitchen counter eventually: an envelope, with Richie’s name and prisoner number on one side and our address on the other. There’s a short note in Leon’s handwriting next to the address.

  The letter from Richie is here.

  And then, inside:

  Dear Tiffy,

  ’Twas a dark and stormy night …

  All right, OK, no it wasn’t. It was a dark and grotty night at Daffie’s Nightclub in Clapham. I was already plastered when I got there—we were coming from a friend’s housewarming.

  I danced with a few girls that night. You’ll get why I’m telling you that later. It was a really mixed crowd, lots of young guys out of uni, lots of those creepy types who hang around the edges of the dance floor waiting for girls to get too drunk so they can make their move. But right at the back, at one of the tables, there were a few guys who looked like they belonged somewhere else.

  It’s hard to explain. They looked like they were there for a different reason from everyone else. They didn’t want to pull, they didn’t want to get drunk, they didn’t want to dance.

  So I know now they wanted to do business. They’re known as the Bloods, apparently. I only found that out much later, when I was inside and telling guys here my story, so I’m guessing you’ve never heard of them, either. If you’re a pretty much middle-class person who just happens to live in London and goes about their business going to work and everything, you’ll probably never know gangs like this exist.

  But they’re important. I think even then I could tell that, looking at them. But I was also very drunk.

  One of the guys came to the bar with his girl. There were only two women with the group, and this one looked bored out of her mind, you could just see it. She caught my eye down the bar and started to look a lot more interested.

  I looked back. If she’s bored of her bloke, that’s his problem, not mine. I’m not going to miss the chance to make eyes with a pretty lady just because the guy standing next to her looks tougher than the average bloke in Daffie’s, let me tell you that.

  He found me later, in the bathroom. Pushed me up against the wall.

  “Keep your hands off, you hear me?”

  You know the drill. He was shouting right in my face, a vein pulsing in his forehead.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. Calm as a cucumber.

  He shouted a lot more. Pushed me a bit. I stood firm, but I didn’t push back or hit him. He said he’d seen me dancing with her, which wasn’t true. I know she wasn’t one of the girls I’d danced with earlier in the night, I would have remembered her.

  Still, he’d wound me up, and when she turned up later, just before the club closed, I was probably more inclined to chat to her than I would have been, just to piss him off.

  We flirted. I bought her a drink. The Bloods, out there at the back, talked business and didn’t seem to notice. I kissed her. She kissed me back. I remember I was so drunk I felt dizzy when I closed my eyes, so I kissed her with my eyes open.

  And then that was it. She just sort of faded back into the club somewhere—it’s all hazy, I really was plastered. I couldn’t tell you exactly when she left, or I left, or whatever.

  From this point on, I can’t verify everything. If I could, obviously I wouldn’t be writing this to you from here, I’d be chilling on your famous beanbag with a cup of Leon’s milky coffee and this would probably just be a funny anecdote I’d tell at the pub.

  But anyway. Here’s what I think happened.

  They followed me and my mates when we left. The others got night buses, but I didn’t live far, so I walked it. I went into the off-license on Clapham Road that stays open all night and bought cigarettes and a six-pack of beers. I didn’t even want them—I definitely didn’t need them. It was nearly four in the morning and I was probably not even walking straight. But I went in, paid cash, went home. I didn’t even see them, but they can’t have been far away when I got out of there, because according to the camera in the store “I came back in” two minutes later with my hoody pulled up and a balaclava on.

  When you watch the footage, the guy does have a similar build to me. But as I pointed out in court—whoever it is, they’re doing a better job of walking properly than I did. I was way too drunk to be able to dodge the bargain bins and get the knife out of the back of my jeans all at the same time.

  I had no idea any of this had happened until two days later when I was arrested at work.

  They got the kid at the till to unlock the safe. There was four thousand five hundred pounds in there. They were smart, or maybe just experienced—they didn’t speak any more than they had to, and so when the kid gave evidence she hardly had anything to recount. Other than the knife pointed in her face, obviously.

  I was on CCTV. I had a previous criminal record. They pulled me in.

  Once I’d been charged they wouldn’t grant me bail. My lawyer took me on because he was interested, and he felt confident in the only witness, the girl at the till, but they got to her as well in the end. We were expecting her to stand up there and say the guy who came in the second time couldn’t have been me. That she’s seen me in the off-license before and I’ve been perfectly nice and not tried to nick anything.

  But she pointed at me across the courtroom. Said it was me for sure. It was like a living nightmare, I can’t even tell you. I could just see it playing out, and watch how the jury members’ faces changed, but I couldn’t do anything. I tried to get up and speak and the judge just shouted at me—you’re not allowed to talk out of turn. My turn never seemed to come, though. By the time they got to questioning me, everyone’s minds were made up.

  Sal asked me bullshit stupid questions, and I didn’t get the chance to say anything good, my head was all over the place, I just hadn’t thought it would come to that. The prosecution played on my dodgy record from a few years back—I’d got in a couple of fights on nights out when I was nineteen, when I was at my lowest (that’s another story, and I swear it isn’t as bad as it sounds). They made out like I was violent. They even dredged up a guy I used to work in a café with who properly hated me—we’d fallen out over some girl he’d liked in college, who I’d ended up taking to the prom or some other crap like that. It was kind of amazing, watching them spin it. I can see why the jury believed I was guilty. Those lawyers were really fucking good at making it sound true.

  They sentenced me to eight years for armed robbery.

  So here I am. I can’t even tell you. Every time I write it out or tell it to someone I can’t believe it even more, if that makes sense. All I get is angrier.

  It wasn’t
a complicated case. We all thought Sal would sort it on appeal. (Sal’s my lawyer, by the way.) But he hasn’t fucking got to the appeal yet. I was sentenced last November and there’s no appeal even in sight. I know Leon is trying to sort it, and I love that man for it, but the fact is nobody gives a shit about getting me out of here except him. And Mam, I guess.

  I’ll be honest with you, Tiffy, I’m shaking now. I want to scream. These times are the worst—there’s nowhere to go. Press-ups are your friend, but sometimes you need to run, and when you’ve got three steps between your bed and your toilet, there’s not a lot of room for that.

  Anyway. This is a very long letter, and I know it took me a while to write it—you’ve maybe forgotten about the whole conversation we had by now. You don’t have to reply, but if you want to, Leon can send it with his next letter, maybe—if you do write, please send stamps and envelopes, too.

  I hope you believe me, even more than I usually do. Maybe it’s because you’re important to my brother, and my brother is like the only person who is properly important to me.

  Yours,

  Richie xx

  * * *

  The next morning I reread the letter in bed, the duvet pulled up around me like a nest. I’m all cold in my stomach, and my skin has gone kind of prickly. I want to cry for this man. I don’t know why this is hitting me so hard, but whatever it is, this letter has woken me up at half five on a Saturday morning. That is how much I cannot bear it. It’s so unfair.

  I’m reaching for my phone before I’ve really thought about what I’m doing.

  “Gerty, you know your job?”

  “I’m familiar with it, yes. Primarily as the reason that I am awoken at six a.m. almost every morning, bar Saturday mornings.”

  I look at the clock. Six a.m.

  “Sorry. But—what kind of law do you do again?”

  “Criminal law, Tiffy. I do criminal law.”

  “Right, right. What does that mean, though?”

  “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that this is urgent,” Gerty says. She is audibly gritting her teeth. “We deal with crimes that are against people and their property.”