by Alex Marwood
Vesta puts a hand on to her breastbone, feels her heart thud in her chest. It’s too much. This is too much. She steps over the fallen umbrella stand and peers into the living room. The curtains are open, the nets still drawn, but the light that penetrates here, even on a blazing summer day like today, is thin and pale. She switches on the light, looks around her, feels tears spring into her throat.
‘Oh, Hossein,’ she says. ‘Oh, my Lord.’
Chapter Seven
She lies on the bed, listens to the sound of voices in the corridor outside. There’s something going on beyond her door; something’s happened. She hears a man’s voice, foreign; the guttural aitch of the East raised over the classical music that started up an hour after she arrived and continues to pierce her party wall. From somewhere in the distance, floating through the window over the sticky air, the sound of sobbing, a woman’s voice saying, periodically: ‘No! Oh, no! Oh, no!’
Collette rolls on to her side, picks up the pillow and presses it to her ear. She’s exhausted, wrung out after her journey, after three years spent looking over her shoulder, dreading the weeks or months to come. She’s desperate to sleep, desperate to feel that, even for a few days, a few weeks, she can let her guard down and rest while she finds out what’s going to happen with Janine. It’s okay, she tells herself. You don’t have to get involved. Just keep yourself to yourself and —
A series of loud bangs on her door wrenches her upright. Someone’s thumping on it as though they plan to break through.
Collette sits on a stranger’s musky sheets and stares as the wood judders beneath a fist. A man’s voice, the foreign accent that she heard passing out in the hall earlier, an edge of intemperate urgency. ‘Hello? Hello?’
Angry men. The world is full of angry men. She can’t face an angry man today. She feels like she’s been running from them all her life.
He thumps again, rattles at her door handle. ‘Hello? Are you in there? I need to talk to you.’
Maybe if I just keep quiet… at least this one doesn’t seem to have a key…
Another burst of hammering. ‘HELLO?’
She pushes herself off the bed and crosses the room. No spyhole, no chain, no bolts: it’s as secure as a sauna, this room. She steels herself, throws the door open, ready to fight.
The most beautiful man she has ever seen stands in the corridor, clenched fist raised at her face. Golden skin and sad, almond eyes, glossy black hair and a beard trimmed close to sharp, angular cheeks. A generous mouth that, even in what is clearly a state of some disturbance, is dimpled at the sides by good humour. Collette gasps, and blushes.
He misinterprets the sound. Looks at his upraised hand and drops it to his side. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were going to open it.’
It’s a precise diction, its foreign edge poetical, educated, the consonants carefully separated. He’s learned his English from the BBC, not CNN.
Collette feels her blush begin to subside, says: ‘That’s okay. Just lucky I didn’t open it a second later or you would’ve broken my nose.’
He laughs. ‘I was just…’ She sees him look her up and down, take in her crumpled face, her crumpled clothes. ‘I’m sorry, you were sleeping.’
Up the corridor, by the front door, the door to Flat One opens and a man – washed-out sandy hair and skin with the strange plasticky quality that always makes you think that the top few layers have somehow been burnt off – steps out and stares. Collette leans out of her own door and gives him what she hopes is a friendly smile. No point in being stand-offish with her neighbours. It’s not like they can’t all hear each other. The man blushes and looks down, then retreats into his domain. The sound of his music dies back as he closes his door again.
‘It’s okay,’ she says, hurriedly, not wanting to admit that this is how she’s been dressed all day. ‘Stupid thing to do, in the middle of the afternoon. I’ll be up all night, now.’
He offers a hand. ‘Hossein Zanjani,’ he says. ‘I live upstairs. Above you.’
‘Hello, Hossein.’ She shakes the hand, leaves it a beat. ‘I’m Collette.’
‘Collette,’ he says. ‘That’s a pretty name. French?’
Collette shakes her head. ‘Irish mother who spent too much time reading romance novels.’
And a useful name, as it turns out, given that she shed it in primary school after two terms of playground banter and used her second name. It was the work of a moment to swap it back to the front when she applied for her Irish passport.
She deliberately steps out through the door, into his territory. She already feels that the room behind her is her safety zone, but she learned a lot from watching Tony and Malik and Burim, in the time when they weren’t her enemies: watching them assert their authority with a single forward footstep, a cold smile, a refusal to allow their arms to cross their bodies. She pulls the door to behind her, leaving it slightly ajar but blocking off his view of her space.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asks.
He takes a step back, cedes the status.
‘I – so, you moved in this morning?’ he asks.
‘This morning,’ says Collette. ‘That’s right.’
‘The Landlord didn’t scare you away?’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ she says, and sees him blink with incomprehension. Okay. His English is good, but not that good. He’s not been here all that long. Either that, or he doesn’t get out, much.
‘I just,’ he says again, then takes a moment to formulate his next words. ‘I wanted to ask you. Vesta…’ He gestures towards a doorway under the stairs that she hadn’t noticed when she arrived. ‘The old lady downstairs. She’s been burgled.’
‘Oh, no,’ Collette makes the appropriate sounds of sympathy, though her thoughts stray immediately to the bagful of cash lying by the side of her bed. ‘How awful.’
‘Yes. It is. Poor lady. She came back from holiday, and… anyway, I was wondering if you’d… noticed anything. You know. Anything unusual.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry. Poor lady.’ She wants to ask more, like: is this something that happens a lot? Should I be worrying? But contents herself with saying, ‘No. No, I haven’t. Though I suppose I’ve only been here a few hours, so I wouldn’t know unusual from not.’
He looks impatient, as though she’s not being helpful. Well, what do you expect me to say? she thinks. And by the way, you turning straight up here at my door the second there’s been a burglary doesn’t exactly make me feel welcome.
‘No… you know. Someone moving around downstairs? You didn’t see anybody?’
Collette shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. Mind you, it’s hard to hear anything over the free entertainment.’ She jerks her head towards the flat next door. Hossein rolls his eyes and grins.
‘Poor lady. Is she okay? She wasn’t hurt, was she?’
He’s backing away already. ‘No. No, she’s okay. She was away. She’s just… upset.’
‘Yes,’ says Collette, and puts a hand on her door handle. It’s clear the conversation is coming to an end. This beautiful man hasn’t come to welcome her to the house, but to interrogate her about her movements; to check her out. She’s not going to get involved. She’s only here for as long as it takes to see Janine through to the end. ‘I should think she would be. Has she lost anything valuable?’
Hossein shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s a mess. And, you know, she doesn’t have much. Family things…’
A fleeting look of inexpressible sadness crosses his face. For a moment, he’s a thousand miles away. He snaps back into the room, gives her a sorrowful smile. ‘She’s still, you know…’
‘Oh, dear,’ says Collette. She knows she should offer condolences, offer to help, because that’s what civilised people do. But I’m not civilised, she thinks. Not any more. You fall asleep at the job, and before you know it…
Their attention is diverted by the sound of someone jogging up the outside steps, whistling tune
lessly. It’s a semi-familiar tune, more from its rhythm than from any actual musicality. A key slips into the street door and turns. A man comes in: an unremarkable forty-something, a courier bag in one hand and a supermarket carrier in the other, looking at his keys as he wiggles them from the lock, as yet unaware of them, still whistling. Thinning hair, slightly tinted spectacles and Hush Puppies. A brushed-cotton shirt with a tiny, faded check let into the weave, like a farmer in a documentary. I know what that song is, she thinks. ‘I’m Leaning on a Lamp-post at the Corner of the Street’. Now I know I’m really back in England if the neighbours are whistling George Formby.
The man looks up, jumps and claps a hand over his heart. ‘Jesus!’
He’s instinctively raised his courier bag in front of his chest like a shield, lowers it as his eyes focus on Hossein. He glances from him to Collette and back again. ‘My God,’ he says, ‘you nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘Sorry,’ says Hossein. He doesn’t sound particularly sorry.
‘Hot, isn’t it?’ The man’s eyes run up and down her, like Hossein’s before them. Differently, though. His spectacles glint with a gleeful sort of curiosity. ‘Visitor, Hossein?’
‘No,’ says Hossein. ‘This is Collette.’
She looks over at him. That’s not madly helpful, is it? ‘I – I live here, actually,’ she adds.
The eyes glint behind the specs. A likely story, they say.
‘Nikki’s room. I’ve taken over Nikki’s room, I just moved in today.’
The man’s face clouds with doubt. ‘Nobody said anything to me,’ he says.
Were they meant to? She tries again. ‘The Landlord let it to me. Roy Preece? This morning?’
This seems to be the password, the Open Sesame. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Well, sorry about that. You can’t be too careful.’
He gives her one of those toothy smiles that looks like he’s practised it a lot, but doesn’t get too many opportunities to use it in real life. They’re not great teeth. Small and pointy and yellowed from lack of cosmetic care. ‘Thomas,’ he says.
She realises the word is an introduction, shakes the hand he offers. ‘Hi, Thomas.’
‘Welcome to Beulah Grove. I live upstairs.’ He points upwards, in case she is in any doubt as to where it might be.
‘In the attic,’ says Hossein.
‘Oh, right,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know there was an attic flat.’
‘It’s a Tardis,’ says Thomas. ‘I keep thinking I’m going to stumble across a secret portal to another dimension. How are you?’ he asks Hossein.
‘I’m okay,’ says Hossein. ‘But I’m afraid poor Vesta’s been burgled.’
Thomas drops his courier bag on to the carpet. ‘No!’
Hossein nods solemnly.
‘Christ! I knew it. I knew it would happen. It’s that girl. I swear she doesn’t understand how a door works. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve just found it hanging open. Oh, poor Vesta.’
‘It wasn’t the front door,’ says Hossein. ‘Whoever it was came in through the garden.’
Thomas seems to simply tune this out. He turns to Collette and puts a hand on her upper arm. Instinctively, she goes to pull back. It’s overfamiliar, this touch. Grabby. ‘You need to make sure you keep your door locked, even when you just go to the loo, young lady. Especially living in that room. Easy access from the street, you see. Opportunists. They can be in and out in a minute. Poor Vesta.’
‘I don’t think it was opportunists,’ says Hossein. ‘It looks as if…’
‘You can’t be too careful,’ Thomas continues, as if Hossein hadn’t spoken. Hossein looks irritable, then forces a look of patience on to his face. He’s clearly used to this man talking without listening. ‘I don’t even like leaving my windows open, when I go out. Even on the top floor.’
She slides her arm out from his clutch, steps back towards the sanctuary of her door. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Seriously,’ says Thomas. ‘I wouldn’t even go to sleep with your window open, if it was me. Someone could easily…’
‘Yes, thanks,’ she snaps. ‘I feel much safer now.’
‘Well, I’m just saying. I mean, I don’t suppose Vesta…’
She’s got the door open. ‘Yes, thank you.’
He starts walking towards her, as though he’s assumed that the open door is some sort of invitation. ‘Why don’t I…’
‘Yes, maybe some other time,’ she says. Hossein meets her eyes behind her back, and winks. He’s biting his lower lip, and his eyes shine with merriment. Ah, the house bore, she thinks.
‘It’s no problem,’ continues Thomas. ‘It won’t take a —’
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Ooh! There’s my phone! Got to go!’
She skips inside and closes the door.
Chapter Eight
There’s a new tenant in Nikki’s room. Barely time for her sheets to get cold. Thin and nervous-looking, creamy skin – Scottish blood, perhaps? Or Irish? – thick fair curls pulled to the back of her head with a rubber band and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t look as if she belongs here. But then, he wonders, which one of us does look like we belong here? Maybe that’s what all the people who live in houses like this have in common: that we all look like we’re just passing through. And, of course, most of us are.
I’ll have to get to know her, he thinks. Find out her story. She looks… interesting. Like she might have a tale or two to tell. Like she might be one of those strangers who could one day become a friend.
He thinks about her as he makes his preparations. Marianne, with her long dark hair and her scarlet manicure, watches him silently from the armchair. Today, she is dressed in an olive-green silk shift dress, size ten from the Monsoon sale. It hangs off her in folds, far too large, but it’s a good colour and an elegant cut, and he can always take it in; he’s become handy at many skills, over the years. He picked it based on the labels in the clothes she was wearing when they met, but of course she has lost weight since then, gone down to the level of emaciation you generally only see in famine zones, or Hollywood. He needs to remember this, for the future. His lovely friends are thin. Fashionably thin, and then some.
He has bought a new set of plastic sheeting from the builder’s merchant off the Balham High Road. The Lover doesn’t like to attract attention to himself by buying his supplies too close to home, or too many from the same source. It’s time-consuming, but he knows it’s worth it. He could, for instance, have bought the bicarb at £29.99 for twenty-five kilos on eBay, the washing soda at the cash and carry, but he doesn’t want to do anything that will cause remark. So every day, he goes into each supermarket he passes and drops a single pack into his Bag For Life, carries it home bit by bit to store in his cupboards. The bicarb he buys from the craft shop, two, three, kilos at a time, along with bottles of essential oils, which work wonders for smells. The nice, home-knit ladies behind the counter believe he has a hobby business making bath bombs which he sells on Etsy. It’s an unorthodox pastime for a man, but in this increasingly metrosexual age, not odd enough to attract attention.
He rolls out his plastic sheet. It is heavy – the heaviest gauge he could buy – and transparent, so the faded flower pattern on the carpet shows eerily through from beneath. As he crawls across the floor, he brushes Marianne’s shin with his elbow.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, my darling,’ he says. ‘Excuse me.’
The skin on her legs looks dry, today, her hair low in lustre, her make-up faded.
‘I’ve been neglecting you,’ he apologises. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been busy… you know how it is. I hope you won’t hold it against me.’ He needs to pay her a bit of attention once he’s finished his ministrations for Nikki. It’s not fair to give someone else all the love, when Marianne has been with him so long, been so pleasing. Tonight, when Nikki is safely stowed, they can watch Big Brother together. He’ll maybe paint her nails and brush her hair through. He bou
ght a bottle of spray-in shiner at Sally Hair and Beauty when he was up in Soho the other day. Hopefully it will make all the difference.
He’s judged the size of the sheeting wrong, and has to fold it under itself when he reaches the bed. No matter, really, and definitely preferable to leaving a gap. This part of the process is always messy. There are always spillages, however careful one is. He smooths the plastic out, tucks it in, and goes to get the rest of his tools from the kitchenette. There’s a bucket under the sink, and a trowel inside it: he’s learned through trial and error that, for this particular job, a trowel is the best possible equipment, and a wire brush for the fine work. It will be hot work, but the air-conditioner is turned up full and the flat is blissfully cool and dry, despite the heat. The heat has been a problem for him. He had only a few lovely hours with Nikki in her soft, pliable state before he was forced to go to work.
The Lover pulls on his pink Marigolds and returns to the bed. He’s proud of the bed, of his ingenuity in spotting its potential and buying it. To the casual observer, it’s a dull old divan in muddy brown, the faded duvet cover and sagging pillows giving no indication that it is, in fact, the seat of his heart.
The Lover bends down, takes hold of the two woven tabs that protrude from the side of the bed, and lifts. With a hiss, the top of the bed, mattress and all, rises into the air, propelled by a gas hinge within. Inside, two compartments, each the width of the bed and half its length. In one, half a dozen humidifiers, each in need of emptying. The other is filled with white crystals. No, crystals that were once white, but have become tinged, over the past two weeks, with brown.
‘Right, my darling,’ says the Lover, ‘let’s get started.’
Chapter Nine