by Alex Marwood
He knocks on the door of flat two. Hears the sound of a bolt being pulled back and a chain being slipped on, raises an eyebrow. Collette opens the door in a knee-length cotton dress, her hair pulled back from her face with a rubber band. She looks better than she did when he first met her. I bet she’d brush up nicely, he thinks. Quite a looker, our Collette, if she’d wipe that don’t-touch-me look off her face. ‘All right?’ he says.
‘All right, thanks.’
‘I see you’ve added some extra security,’ he says.
She shrugs. ‘Yale lock’s not a huge amount of protection, is it? Specially given what happened to the old lady downstairs.’
‘I hope you’ve not damaged my door,’ he says.
‘You can take it off my deposit if I have.’
She looks him straight in the eye. The look of someone who’s used to handling stroppy clients. Managing that bar in Spain, he wonders. But he’s never believed any of her story, never will. Policewoman? Could be. A no-questions-asked rooming house like this attracts all sorts, and where all sorts are, the plod are rarely far behind. Teacher? He considers for a moment. Yes, that’s it. She’s another teacher. Split with her husband and on the downward slide, but she’ll never shed that air of judgement.
‘Settling in?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ she says. ‘I’ve got the rest of that money for you inside. Hang on a sec.’
She turns away and closes the door. He’s used to that. His tenants rarely seem to want to let him look inside their quarters. Ironic, really, considering that he has keys to every room in the house. He presses an ear against the door, hears the sound of things being moved around, and a zip being drawn. He is back in the middle of the corridor by the time she returns. She extends an arm from behind her chain, a sheaf of notes in her hand. ‘There you go,’ she says. ‘I think that’s the lot.’
The Landlord counts. Three hundred and twenty pounds, all present and correct. ‘Yup,’ he says. ‘That’s you done till next month.’
‘You’ll be giving me that receipt I asked for, of course?’ She gives him The Look again. No one’s asked him for a receipt since he made a brief, unsatisfactory foray into student accommodation back in the noughties, though Vesta Collins is a stickler for her rent book. He has a receipt book somewhere in his desk, he’s sure of it. It might be a bit yellow by now, but he doesn’t suppose that matters. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I’ll drop it in next time I’m passing.’
‘Thanks,’ she says, and closes the door, firmly.
Rent day’s not a lengthy procedure at the moment. The Government pays the rent for Hossein Zanjani directly into his bank account. It’s swings and roundabouts with these asylum-seeker/single-parent DSS accounts. The tax is a nuisance, but at least the pay is regular. No feckless bimbos skipping out on their bills, no I-swear-I’ll-have-it-next-week types. A bit of a wait for payment to start, sometimes, but it always come through in the end.
He tucks Collette’s money into the pocket alongside the envelope, takes his Filofax from the shopping trolley and leaves it parked in the hall. Hauls himself slowly, step-by-laboured step, up the staircase, gripping the banister like a mobility aid. Good God, this heat is heavy. It’s been threatening to thunder for weeks, but nothing ever happens. He wishes it would. It’s like wading through treacle. If the fun bit weren’t on the first floor, he would leave it until later.
He stops on the landing to mop his brow again and takes the bunch of keys from his pocket. The padlock key stands out, polished by the rubbing of his fingers. He likes to feel it sometimes, when he’s sitting on his sofa; touching it somehow makes him feel closer to the contents of his cupboard. He leafs past it, finds the key marked Three. He always likes to have the key to the room in his hand when he comes knocking, in case the tenant doesn’t answer. Sometimes they try hiding until they think he’s gone, to wriggle out of paying up. It gives them the shock of their lives, when he comes in anyway.
He stops outside Cher Farrell’s door and has a little listen. Faint sounds of movement, then the hiss of the tap being turned on and off. She’s in there. He’ll be interested to see how she responds. He knocks.
To his surprise, her footsteps cross the room immediately, and she throws the door open as though she’d been expecting him – something of a contrast with last month. He had to make three trips back before he caught her in then, and in the end he only managed it by waiting in his cupboard until he heard her thunder her way up the stairs. ‘Hiya!’ she cries, and beams at him. It’s a false, over-bright greeting, too friendly.
‘Hello,’ he says, suspiciously.
She’s stunning, today. Her hair’s pinned loosely to the back of her head with a chopstick, brassy tendrils falling loose against a neck so smooth it could be made of alabaster. Skin that’s like that all over her skinny body, he knows. He’s thought about touching it many, many times. Her make-up is relatively light – in smoky browns and taupes – her eyelashes not coated into tarantula legs like she so often wears them. She has on a pair of pedal-pushers, like the ones the young girls used to wear when he was a child, and a crop top, which they certainly never did, and a pair of platform shoes so high you could use them as a step-stool. Her legs go on and on, colt-like, and her belly is flat and brown and muscular. He knows she’s been sunbathing in the garden and she looks young and fresh, and fragrant and, standing before her, he feels squat and sticky and ungainly. He’d thought he’d got over his resentment of all the young girls, their careless beauty, the eyes that turn away as he shambles down the street as though he’s something they don’t want to exist, but Cher is something else.
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting the rent,’ she says.
‘That’s right,’ he replies.
‘Hang on a tick. I’ve got it right here.’ She turns back into the room, striding across the threadbare carpet to her knock-off Chloe handbag, which lies beside the bed.
The Landlord follows her in, and closes the door.
She whirls round at the sound of the latch clicking to, crosses her arms over her small breasts and backs against the sink. All legs and wide, wide eyes, she looks like a fawn overtaken in the forest. She’s taller than me, he thinks, but I’m so much bigger than her. I could do anything I liked, really.
The vulnerability doesn’t last for long, a couple of seconds at most. Then she masters her fear and the street-smart Scouser is back. ‘I thought I said to hold on,’ she says, and digs in the bag for her wallet.
He can see her surreptitiously glance through her lowered eyelashes in case of sudden movement, enjoys knowing that, however insouciant her demeanour, she is still ill at ease. A lot less friendly than last month, he thinks. But then she came up short and had to suck up, last month. ‘I thought you might want to give me a cup of tea,’ he says.
‘No milk,’ says Cher. Finds the wallet and starts pulling notes from it, fanning them out of the top of the slot like playing cards. Fifties, twenties… she’s had a good month, he can see that. ‘And no tea either. I don’t do tea. It’s the devil’s drink.’
‘Never mind,’ says the Landlord. ‘I’ll have a glass of water instead.’
He goes to the sink. She totters backwards on her stupid shoes, not fast enough to avoid a brush from his arm as he approaches. For a brief moment he feels the softness of that little breast against his forearm, through her flimsy top. Feels goose bumps raise themselves where they’ve touched. Then she’s away, striding purposefully over to the bedside table and picking up her cigarettes as though this was always her intention. She turns back round, lights one and blows smoke towards the ceiling, amateurishly, without inhaling.
The Landlord slows his movements down as he selects a glass from the choice of two, mismatched, on the drainer. An Arcoroc tumbler, like they had at school, and which the bistro on the High Street affects for wine, to stimulate the nostalgia of the local self-improvers, and a pint glass, complete with Weights and Measures markings. She’s got a few more bits and bobs than she had last month: not
hing matching, all cheap; stuff that pubs and cafés use on street tables. A couple of side plates, a soup bowl, a chunky glass latte mug in a metal cage. Teaspoons, a knife, a fork. Building herself a home, bit by bit, with pickings from the edges of other people’s lives. There’s a saucer on the floor, encrusted with the remains of something brownish. She’s feeding that bloody cat, he thinks. Oh, well. If I ever need to get rid of her, I can add it to the list of Whys.
He chooses the pint glass – the heat and the climbing have made him thirsty – and runs the cold tap for a half minute to pass off the warm. Fills the glass and turns back to face her, drinking. Looks her up and down over the top of his hand.
‘Aaaaah,’ he says, ‘that’s better. So how are you, then, love? All cosy? I see you’ve got yourself some new bedclothes.’
She looks affronted that he would mention the place where she sleeps, though they are both standing in full view of it. There are etiquettes to bedsits, and one of them is that you treat the bed, in company, like a sofa. The duvet is pushed over to one side, a polycotton sheet rucked up where she’s clearly been sleeping. Too hot for proper bedclothes. He wonders if she wears anything under that sheet, hopes that she doesn’t.
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Ta.’
She finishes counting out her money, steps forward and places it, at arm’s length, on the drainer. Steps back, refolds her arms, tries to stare him down.
The Landlord gets out his handkerchief, takes off his specs, polishes them, then mops his face again and picks up the notes. Starts to count them, relishing her mounting tension as he does so. ‘You’ll find it’s all there,’ she tells him. Sucks another drag off her cigarette and flicks the ash into a grimy saucer on the nightstand.
‘You’re not smoking in bed, are you?’ he asks, once again violating the unspoken rule. ‘Only that’s a fire risk, you know.’
Cher shrugs. She’s not going to rise to the bait. The Landlord finishes counting, starts to count again, for the pure pleasure of it. ‘All right?’ asks Cher.
He reaches the end, rolls the notes up and snaps them in alongside Collette’s in his rubber band. Slips the money back into his trouser pocket. ‘Yup,’ he says. ‘That’s fine.’
‘Good,’ says Cher.
He picks up his water glass and takes another drink, studies her again as she taps her foot on the carpet. He wonders if he might extend things by sitting down for a minute, but the chair is piled with clothes. Her clean laundry, he assumes, as there’s a small heap of underwear and a couple of skirts kicked into a corner beyond the bed.
‘Well,’ she says, uncomfortably, ‘I must be getting on. People to do, things to see.’
The Landlord finishes his drink and puts his glass back on the draining board for her to wash up later. ‘Thing is, I wanted a little word.’
A little frown plays across her face. Suspicion, mixed with boredom.
‘Thing is,’ he continues, ‘I’ve been charging you well below market rent for this place. I felt sorry for you. Wanted to help you get on your feet. But I’m afraid the rent’s got to go up next month,’ he tells her.
Cher’s chin jerks up. ‘What?’
‘Yes,’ he says, and gives her his oiliest smile. ‘I’m afraid so.’
She doesn’t look so bored now. ‘But…’ she says, ‘hang on a minute!’
‘Yes?’ he says.
‘I’ve only been here four months.’
He spreads his hands in the air before him. ‘Sorry. Prices are rising all over the shop.’
‘How much are you talking?’
‘I was thinking three hundred.’
Cher’s face colours. ‘I… are you serious?’
If there’s one thing the Landlord likes more than a young girl, it’s a young girl over a barrel. ‘You can always go somewhere else,’ he says. ‘No skin off my nose. There’s people queuing up for a room like this.’
‘But you can’t just… it’s not legal.’
The Landlord raises his eyebrows and smirks. ‘I think you need a contract for something to be legal, Cher, dear. And I’m sure you’ve got your pick of places that take tenants without a reference or a direct debit. It’s all the rage, in this day and age. Still, if you want to report me…’
He lets the sentence hang in the air as her blush spreads. She knows she’s stuck. Doesn’t stand a chance.
‘The council, perhaps?’
She looks away, covers her stomach with her arm and takes another puff of her cigarette.
‘Social services?’
She glares at him, defiant in defeat.
‘We could call them now, if you like,’ he offers, to ram his advantage home. ‘Give them your details?’
‘No, that’s okay.’ Her voice is dull, stripped of the lilt he found so irritating.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘That’s settled, then. Don’t worry. It’s only starting next month. Plenty of time. How is everything? You comfortable?’
Cher shrugs. ‘Whatever,’ she says.
He’s not going to get any more from her today. Launches himself off the kitchen counter and lumbers to the door. ‘Well, I’m always at the end of the phone, if you, you know, need anything.’
He turns in the doorway, and smiles at her. ‘Oh, and you really shouldn’t be smoking at your age,’ he says. ‘It’s not good for you.’
She doesn’t answer.
Out on the landing, he gets out his keys again and checks the house for noises. There’s music from the downstairs front, but otherwise the place is quiet. There’s not a sound from behind Cher’s door. He imagines her standing where he left her with her face in her hands, and smiles.
He goes over to his cupboard door. Undoes the padlock and lays it on the carpet, pulls the door wide to allow himself to pass through. It’s a tiny space – a triangle beneath the stairs, four feet deep, the street window, whitewashed, saving him from having to pay to light it – and there’s barely room for him, but the Landlord is skilled at manoeuvring his bulk through a thin man’s world. He squeezes in, plops himself into the old office chair – no arms, because there’s too much Landlord to fit between them – that sits inside, and pulls the door to behind him.
On shelves built neatly into the underside of the staircase treads, red lights blink at him. One disc has filled itself and popped out of its slot. The Landlord unzips the leather case that holds the rent book, and swaps the disc for a blank one in a slot in the side of the case. Entertainment for later. It’s going to be a good night.
Chapter Eleven
‘Hola, chica.’
Oh, Christ, he thinks he’s so witty. When she had a French SIM, it was ‘bonjour, chérie’, in Italy ‘ciao, bella’, Switzerland ‘grüss Gott’. Everywhere she hides, they find her, and every time he does, he announces himself in the local language.
But at least he doesn’t know where I’ve gone to, yet, she thinks, not if he’s still saying hello in Spanish, reminding herself to buy a British SIM.
‘Carrer de la Ciutat,’ he says. ‘Nice. Classy. Glad to know you’re still in the money, anyway. Shame it’s my money.’
Collette doesn’t speak. She always hopes, somehow, that if he doesn’t hear her voice he’ll think he’s mistaken. She’s cleared out just in time. That clearly was Burim she saw in the street, not a figment of her imagination. Six whole months she managed in Barcelona. One of her better runs. She wonders if she’s brushed up against whoever it was who tracked her down as she walked down the street, as she locked and unlocked the flats’ front door, sat at a table in Catedral. It’s the worst thing about her situation: that every stranger on every corner could be the man who’s watching out for her.
Tony waits for her to speak. Cat and mouse: a game that’s been going on for three years. Collette hiding away, scrabbling herself into dark corners, and Tony toying, pretending to have turned his back and lost interest, letting her think she might, this time, have escaped, and all the time ready to pounce the moment she allows herself to breathe.
H
ow is he getting my numbers? How? They’re pay as you go, for God’s sake. I buy them in station booths.
‘Nice flat, too,’ he says. ‘Shady. I like that. It can get hot, at this time of year. Burim says he liked your décor, by the way. Very Mediterranean, he said. All that turquoise.’
There’s sweat trickling between her breasts. She’s had the window shut all night, after that doomsayer Thomas cursed her sleep with it open, and the room is like a sauna. In Barcelona, even away from the front where she lived, there was always a movement of air off the sea, and shutters that kept the light and burglars out but let through the sea breeze. This room is close and smelly. Sometimes she thinks that the smell is coming in through the airbrick where the fireplace used to be, but it’s just as likely that her predecessor’s hygiene skills were not of the best, and she’s not got round to buying new bedclothes, despite her resolve on the day she arrived.
Ah, Tony, if you could see me now, she thinks. You’d probably walk straight past me in the street without blinking.
‘So isn’t it about time you gave it up?’ he asks. ‘Haven’t you had enough, yet? We only want to talk to you, you know.’
Chapter Twelve
Did I forget? Did I? Am I losing my mind? It’s too early for dementia, isn’t it? That door has been open all summer. Maybe I was just too excited about my holiday to remember to lock it…
She goes again to look at the back door, as though the mystery of how it came to be hanging open, unbroken, will somehow reveal itself if she stares for long enough. All my life, she thinks, I’ve made the safe choices. I’ve never taken a risk, always stuck to the featureless lowlands. It seemed like such a good thing, a secure lease at twenty-seven, but now… now it feels like I was putting myself in prison. I should have got up and gone, when Mum and Dad died, not stayed on here because it was all I’d ever known. What sort of life is this?
Each time Vesta sits down to rest, she starts to shake, so she carries on cleaning, powered by ibuprofen and PG Tips, trying to wipe away the traces of whoever it is who’s been here. Her home, barely changed since her parents’ passing, genteelly threadbare with decades of respectable dusting, feels suddenly changed, now some stranger has torn through it like a tornado. The day-after-day, the making do, the blind eyes turned to wear and tear because it was easier than confronting the Landlord, or his grabby old aunt before him, and stirring up their resentment of the sitting tenant. When did my expectations get so small? she wonders. While everybody else got caught up in the self-improvement race, while they found themselves and stretched their worlds and travelled, I stayed in the 1930s, in the decade before I was even born, living by my parents’ values, knowing my place.