House of Straw

by Marc Scott

  Peering through the curtains she looked down to see that it was Preston. She recognised him by his curly brown hair and his stocky frame. He was one of Jamie’s friends from the gym. He was carrying a sports bag. She knew that bag, she had bought it for Jamie when he first left home to go to university. She noticed that Preston’s attention had been drawn to someone calling his name. Looking backwards towards the end of the path she could see that Kayleigh was parking her car. Bree’s best friend seemed to be tidying her hair as she approached Preston, a very common habit that she had developed. Bree moved behind the curtain to make sure she could not be seen. The couple met below and began to chat. They were talking about a mutual friend of theirs. They started to laugh. Why are they laughing? Bree thought. How can anything be funny? My brother is dead, how can anything ever be funny ever again? This made Bree angry, but she was in no mood for an argument today. ‘Don’t let him in,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Get rid of him, Kayleigh.’ At that point Preston handed the sports bag to Kayleigh and Bree’s request seemed to have been heard. ‘Now tell him to go, Kayleigh,’ Bree said to herself. ‘We don’t want him coming in here.’ The two of them seemed to be discussing other matters now. Bree watched closely as Preston passed something in to Kayleighs hand, something small. The laughing stopped for a second or two and both or her visitors seemed to be in deep thought. When their conversation continued they began discussing the inquest into Jamie’s death. ‘What the hell has that got to do with him?’ Bree said to herself. ‘Get rid of him, Kayleigh, get rid of him!’ Bree tried to make out what they were saying, but their conversation had changed again, they seemed to be laughing about something else now. Bree looked on as her friend reached into her coat pocket for a pen and wrote down her mobile phone number. ‘You are such a slag, Kayleigh Hardy!’ Bree muttered under her breath. ‘Such a heartless fucking slag!’

  As soon as Bree heard the keys at her front door, she sprinted back to the sanctuary of her brother’s bed, those athletic legs returning just in time to save her from having to entertain her best friend. She did not feel like cleaning up the mess caused by the overturned coffee cup, but she did throw a pillow over the remains of the tablets on the carpet. The last thing that she needed now was Kayleigh thinking she had done something stupid. She knew that her friend would probably call for an ambulance, or far worse call her mother and give her chapter and verse on the unstable condition of her daughter. The idea of her mother returning to England to babysit her would be more than enough for her to scoop up the remains of those pills and end things once and for all. Retrieving her phone from the floor, Bree wiped off the coffee stains and huddled up underneath Jamie’s warm duvet. She found the video, that one small morsel of comfort she had left in her empty existence.

  Kayleigh should have been alarmed, when she entered the living room. The place looked as if it had been hit by a small bomb of some sort. But by now she was so used to Bree’s strange and unpredictable antics, she simply turned the table back onto its legs and closed all the drawers in both the lounge and the kitchen. She began thinking that she would have to spend an extra hour or so that night tidying up Bree’s mess. But then she remembered that her best friend would not appreciate her touching anything that was remotely related to her lost brother and decided that she would just cook Bree a meal instead.

  Kayleigh made her way upstairs and gently pushed open Jamie’s door. The room smelled of stale sweat, but she had become accustomed to the foul odours by now. ‘Hi, babe, are you still sleeping?’ she asked, in a tone not much more than a whisper. Bree played a game of ‘silent statues’ under the covers. She wasn’t ready for any conversation, not just yet.

  ‘That was Preston at the door, you know, from the gym. He came to drop off some of…’ Kayleigh cut her sentence short, not wanting to mention her late brother’s name. ‘He has gone now,’ she added. ‘He said that everyone there is thinking of you.’ Bree’s eyes moved from side to side under the covers. Can’t this girl take a hint and just leave me alone? she thought.

  Looking around the room at the coffee-stained carpet and assortment of bits and bobs scattered around the floor, it was obvious that Bree had been searching for something that afternoon. Kayleigh thought it best not to say anything. Bree didn’t take kindly to her friend asking her personal questions anymore. ‘I have bought some nice tuna steaks for dinner,’ Kayleigh said. ‘I will put them on a bit later, when you are feeling up to it.’ Just as Kayleigh was about to leave the room, she noticed small signs of movement from under the covers. ‘And maybe you will feel like a soak in the tub, with that nice scented bubble bath,’ she added.

  Kayleigh decided to give up at this point and leave her friend to her solitude, pulling the door half closed on her way out of the room. As she reached the top of the stairs, she heard a noise, a strange sound, coming from Jamie’s bed. She looked through the gap in the door and could see that those bedclothes had moved slightly to one side. Suddenly she could hear a muffled wailing noise, like singing, and a tune playing from under the covers. Kayleigh stepped back to leave Bree to rest in her bed of sorrow. This was probably not a good time to disturb her friend. Yes, she was worried about her health, but she was reassured to think that, whatever it was under those covers, it was keeping her best friend alive.

  Chapter Six

  The drowning man was still in limbo. The images of his torrid existence on this earth were hurtling through his brain at a hundred miles an hour, but he still refused to accept that the end of his days could be near. The figure tucked up in the warm hospital bedsheets behind him had remained silent. He knew Dean well enough to know that he would never accept his fate. Why waste your last breath trying to convince a man of his destiny, when that man had never listened to anyone in his life?

  It should have ended there, he knew that, she knew that, it should have ended on that humid day at the Imediacom offices, the day he was put firmly in his place by a woman half his size but twice his stature. But he couldn’t let go, something drew him back there, some mystical force lured him back to the scene of this fantasy. He had to see her again, he didn’t know why, he just had to see her again.

  Dean returned to Neasden within forty-eight hours of his altercation with the woman whose image, by now, had become embedded in his brain. He thought that a lame excuse about missing paperwork would be enough to at least get him a rematch with the winner of their first bout. But he didn’t need to cross the threshold of the Imediacom building that day. Whilst parking his car, he noticed her, the silver-tongued goddess that had been ever present in his thoughts for the past two days. Krista was sitting in her car, eating her lunch and singing along to some random tunes on the radio. As bold as brass, Dean jumped in the passenger seat and offered her his heartfelt apology, telling her that he had been a ‘very naughty boy’ on his previous visit, and if she ever felt the need to punish him personally, he knew of a shop that sold PVC outfits and real leather whips. This was the one thing that Dean always had in his armoury, his quick-witted one-liners, but he rarely got the chance to use them in those days. For some strange reason Krista fell for his charm. She declined his offer of creating her own homemade torture chamber, but she did let him share her packed lunch. Their conversation was light and bordered on gentle flirting at times. Before she returned to her office Krista could not help but berate his patterned tie. She asked him if his constant efforts to mismatch his choice of attire was to win a bet.

  Their spontaneous lunchtime rendezvous had left an impact on them both. Before either of them knew what was really happening they had arranged to meet for a drink in London the following week.

  * * *

  Krista felt a nervous tingle rush down her spine when he finally appeared from the tube station entrance at Baker Street. She had been there almost an hour, not that she would be telling him that. Dean strolled across the road without a care in the world. He was dressed in the same suit he had worn the previous week when he w
as sitting in her car. You could hardly say that he had made any kind of effort. For Krista, this was something different. She had left work early that day to have her hair coloured and her nails painted professionally. She was wearing a smart grey designer top, one she had kept locked away in her wardrobe for special occasions, and she was sporting new leather boots which had cost her the best part of a week’s wages. She started to feel very foolish inside.

  ‘You are late,’ she said, as he strolled nonchalantly across the busy road. ‘I was just about to go home.’

  Dean smiled and gave her a kiss on her cheek. ‘No you wasn’t,’ he replied, in a most confident manner. ‘You would have waited at least another hour.’ Krista gave him a harsh stare, which he completely ignored. ‘So, shall we have a drink in here first?’ he asked pointing at the pub where they had arranged to meet. ‘And then we can find somewhere to have a bite to eat.’ Krista agreed, and the pair found an empty table inside.

  The Castle Moat was just an ordinary London bar – simple wooden tables and chairs, a jukebox housing mostly out-of-date tunes and an assorted array of bar staff, many with Australian accents. The pub may have looked in need of a makeover, but that didn’t seem to bother the hordes of suited business types and foreign tourists waiting to be served. The place was heaving with customers.

  When Dean brought the drinks to the table, he sat as close as he could to his overdressed guest and set down a few rules. ‘No work talk!’ he said, to which Krista nodded. ‘And no fashion tips!’

  Her huge brown eyes had a glint of mischief in them as she smiled. ‘Oh, you want to spoil all my fun, do you? I was going to ask if you had actually taken that suit off since last week or whether you sleep in it.’ Her comment amused Dean. It was rare for him not to offer an immediate answer, but she had caught him off guard this time.

  To the regulars of this busy establishment it was obvious that the two of them must be on a date, snuggled up together in the corner seat, permanent eye contact and constant chatting and laughter. Certainly not the traits of your average married couple. They discussed everything from politics to the awful fake tan the new receptionist wore at Imediacom. Neither of them noticed the time as the drinks flowed and their light-hearted conversation turned to matters of a more serious nature. ‘I know we said no office talk,’ Dean said, ‘but how the hell did you end up working for old Mr Penning? He is such an arsehole! I call him the ‘tortoise man’ because of those thick lines around his eyes.’

  ‘Funny, that!’ Krista replied. ‘He told me that he didn’t think much of you either.’

  ‘And Dolly Daydream, your receptionist, all that fake tan, she looks like an advert for satsumas.’

  ‘That name suits her. I am sure she loves you too, Dean. Tell me, is that why they say you are such a bad salesman, because you spend all of your time making up nicknames for everyone?’

  ‘It is much more fun than you think.’

  ‘So, come on then, funny guy, is there a name for me yet, or haven’t I been there long enough?’

  Dean laughed. ‘Nylund, the monster from the chateau Imediacom. Yeah, Nylund, you have got your own nickname right there.’

  ‘I like it,’ Krista said. ‘Not just brave and bold but deeply insulting with it. I don’t think a ten-year-old schoolboy could have done better. Or maybe they could!’

  Dean backtracked slightly. ‘A beautiful monster of course.’

  ‘Sure,’ Krista said. ‘Not all beauty is skin deep, maybe I am nice on the inside.’

  Dean smiled. ‘You know damn well that you are the most beautiful woman in…’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Krista said. ‘Us monsters need all the confidence building we can get.’

  ‘In this bar! You are the most beautiful woman in this bar.’

  Krista looked around the busy public house, scrutinising the female customers. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘Hardly a compliment, there is not much competition in here.’

  Dean could not resist a put-down. ‘I don’t know, the girl by the door with the tight jeans on would give you a run for your money.’ His newly tagged ‘monster’ gave him a friendly dig in the ribs and they both laughed and carried on their conversation. He didn’t want to tell her what he really thought at that time, that he was mesmerised by her beauty, spellbound by her mysterious eyes, her face, her soft skin, her silky voice, just about everything about her. And there was more. She got him, she was so on his wavelength, it was a frightening attraction. This was their first night out and he felt as though he had known her for years. He had to find out more, so much more about his ‘monster’. ‘So, Nylund, you didn’t answer my question. How the hell did a Swedish girl end up working in London?’

  Krista stared long and hard at him before answering, ‘Firstly I am from Finland, I am Finnish and very proud of it. My mother and father were Finnish and their parents too. Don’t make that mistake again or I will get angry, OK?’

  Dean stood corrected. ‘My apologies, carry on, Nylund, the Finnish monster.’

  ‘My English has always been very good.’

  Dean shrugged his shoulders. ‘That is a matter of opinion.’

  ‘As I was saying before ‘Mr Dick-for-Brains’ interrupted me…’

  Dean attempted to copy her broken Scandinavian accent. ‘My English has always been very good.’

  ‘No!’ Krista repeated. ‘Can you tell your friend ‘Mr Dick-for-Brains’ that I don’t sound like an Italian housewife eating a bowl of pasta, I am indeed very fluent in English.’

  Dean laughed. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘I was the top student at my college in most subjects, so my parents paid for me to come to England, to study at Loughborough University. They said it would be better for my career.’

  ‘Wow, that is amazing! So you Scandies can just come over here and steal the university places from one of our own kids. A poor student who has worked their socks off to get to uni and probably deserved it more.’

  Krista ignored his observation and continued. ‘So, I graduated from university with a 2:2, probably a little better than the poor deprived British student would ever have achieved. And after finishing at university I moved to London and voilà. That’s French, by the way, for the undereducated.’

  ‘So, you moved to the big city to steal a job that one of our hard-working millions was after?’

  Krista gave him a knowing stare, as if she was disappointed at his attempt to belittle her. ‘Really!’ she asked. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  Dean laughed. ‘So you went to work for Imediacom?’

  ‘No, that was about five years ago, but can you thank ‘Mr Dick-for-Brains’ for thinking that I look so young. I will definitely take that as a compliment.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-seven. Do you remember being twenty-seven, Dean, or has your memory faded over all those years?’

  ‘Nice one!’ Dean said. ‘So where did you start out?’

  ‘At Marshall’s in Ealing. They manufacture alarm systems for commercial buildings.’

  ‘I think I know it.’

  ‘And then the job came up at Imediacom, so I thought why not?’

  ‘Don’t tell me, you had to sleep with old man Penning to get the job.’

  Krista laughed. ‘No, nothing like that, it was just a blowjob. It wasn’t very pleasant, but at his age he didn’t last very long, about ninety seconds. So less than two minutes of shame and I end up with £40,000 a year, a nice little company car, five weeks’ holiday and an expense account.’

  Dean laughed out loud. He loved her warped take on life, she was so confident in her own skin. ‘And what about promotion?’ he asked. ‘What if you want to get promotion?’

  Krista thought for a second or two. ‘Well!’ she said. ‘I suppose I would have to blow the whole of the management team, except for Sean of course, that tall guy with the red bea
rd, he is just gross. Well, you have to draw the line somewhere.’

  Despite her earlier reservations Krista had found the evening to be most entertaining. She could not remember when she had ever laughed so much in her life. Their banter carried on, from the bar to the nearby brasserie where they both enjoyed a chicken dish. They learned a lot about each other that night, not everything of course, because that may have spoiled things, but enough for them both to want to do it again. When they parted company that evening at the Baker Street tube station, Dean lunged forward, expecting a full mouth-on-mouth kiss. But all he achieved was a tiny peck on the cheek and a few well-chosen words from his companion. ‘Maybe some girls fall that easy for your bullshit, Dean, but it will take more than a few glasses of wine and a cheap meal to win over the monster of the chateau.’ They did share a hug and a long-lasting smile before the two of them went their separate ways.

  Maybe it would have ended there, that night, outside the tube station. It would have been over before it had begun. If only their conversation had been more open and honest, if only they had revealed the truths behind this spontaneous rendezvous, they might have travelled in opposite directions and stayed there. Dean could have told her that night that his journey would take him to his home in South London, the one he shared with his wife Hannah. He could have told Krista that he and his spouse had experienced many problems over the past few years, but they were happy together, happy enough to be expecting their first child later that year.

  Krista had her part to play in all of this of course. She was a highly intelligent and sophisticated woman, she had a bright career ahead of her, a beautiful head full of dreams and aspirations. She should have known better. Her and her long-term partner had just completed the purchase of a beautiful two-bedroom flat in Highgate village and had been planning their wedding. To all that knew them, they were the perfect couple. Why would she want to wreck all of that for a sordid affair with a much older man, one working his way down the ladder of success rather than up? There was no logic to this liaison at all, but when has logic ever played a part in a tragic romance?