‘I’ll bet.’ If Rocco was offering help there must be something in it for him.
‘Come on. What you got to lose? You got nothing left, innit?’
Absolutely nothing. ‘Maybe,’ she told him. ‘Maybe not. Depends on the offer.’
‘Joolsy,’ he snorted, ‘good to see you haven’t changed. You’re paranoid, you are.’
‘Yeah, and you’re about as trustworthy as a fox at a petting zoo.’
Rocco smiled. ‘Why, thank you! He leaned in closer still – so close she could smell the mix of stale body odour and the garlic kebab sauce. ‘Happy to help, innit?’
Rocco ran his eyes over Jools, as if she was a wrapped meat selection at Whole Foods. She needed a shower from just being beside him.
‘Work for me. I’ll give you a place to stay – rent free – until you get back on your feet.’
That was priceless. Jools could only imagine what type of work Rocco had in mind. ‘I’m not breaking anyone’s knee caps. Or streetwalking!’
Rocco looked up at the sky and made a loud hiccupping noise Jools identified as laughing. Rocking back on his heels as he enjoyed his private joke, Jools thought he might fall over backwards (the kebab gut was rather large) but somehow he stayed upright.
‘Oh Joolsy, Joolsy. You’ve always been my favourite non-payer. I don’t need you to do nothin’ like that. I’m thinkin’ cleaning. You got the skills, innit? I need someone to make sure the flats are in top condition.’
Jools was bemused. The only way Rocco’s rat-infested flats could ever be considered ‘top condition’ would if they were knocked town and rebuilt. Why was he suddenly so concerned with cleanliness anyway? Certainly never seemed to care when she lived there. Still, Rocco’s offer might be her only hope for survival.
‘I suppose I can do that,’ she said slowly, ‘as long as that is all there is to it. Just clean and maintain the flats?’
There had to be a catch.
‘That’s it,’ he told her, ‘swear on my kebab.’ He held one hairy hand over his heart before passing it over for Jools to shake. She paused, then shook the greasy palm, trying to keep from looking too disgusted.
‘Alright. But I’ll need a new key to the front door, since you changed the locks on me.’
Rocco raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean? You never had a key to that front door.’
‘Of course I did. I lived there, didn’t I?’
‘Oh Jools,’ Rocco shook his head with mirth. ‘You got the wrong end of the stick again, innit? I don’t need you to clean your old building. I need you to clean that.’
Rocco pointed down the street towards the massive stone and concrete monstrosity that was sitting solid and heavy, looking like the structure that time forgot. Great. The local council block. It had at least forty units, instead of the eight that she thought she’d be cleaning. On top of that, it was probably filled with some of the most depraved and shocking examples of humankind she’d ever seen. Besides Rocco, of course.
‘That? You want me to clean that?’
‘Not all of it. Just the communal areas and the tenants who pay extra.’
Well, that was a little better. Surely, only a few residents could afford a cleaner? Besides, there wasn’t really a choice. It was getting dark and she was homeless. Again.
She followed Rocco to the building. He led her to a small, dank flat off a long hallway in the basement. Unlocking a dented metal door, he pulled a cord on the single light hanging from the peeling ceiling.
Jools looked around, horrified. It was little better than a prison cell, with a stained toilet and sink in the corner and a small fridge that hummed louder than a lorry stuck in an uncharacteristic heatwave on the M25. A soiled mattress lay on the floor in one corner. In the other, a scarred wooden desk tried valiantly to remain upright. Jools knew how it felt.
‘Home sweet home!’ Rocco dropped a massive set of keys on the desk. ‘Here are the keys for the flats that need cleaning. Numbers are on the tags. Don’t forget the front hall and path.’
‘When do you want me to start?’
‘Now’s good.’ He rocked back and forth on his toes as he waited for her to get started.
‘Now?’ Jools could barely move.
Rocco’s bruised features betrayed slight understanding. Or maybe the kebab was just repeating on him. ‘Alright, Joolsy. Tomorrow, then. But you better toughen up. This ain’t no easy ride.’
With that he left.
Jools collapsed onto the horrid stinky bed. The springs bit into her back as she rolled into the middle of the sagging, smelly heap. It was about as comfortable as sleeping on the boot of a car, but she was so exhausted from the intrigue of the last twenty-four hours she was asleep in two minutes flat.
The next morning she awoke, turned her knickers inside out (well, one had to have some standards, after all), splashed some cold water on her face and under her armpits and headed upstairs for a day of work.
The building could have easily won a competition for Most Festering Location in London. The elevator, which made horrible noises as it ascended through the narrow shaft up the middle of the building, smelled of urine and was covered in graffiti. The front hall was covered in some substance that required a nose peg to get close enough to clean.
She propped open the front door to air out the small room and set about mopping the floor and washing the walls.
Finished in the hall, she headed outside for some fresh air. A passed-out drunk blocked the front entrance. She kicked him a couple of times to make sure he wasn’t dead. Or Skuttle. He came to, cursed at her through black teeth, and went back to sleep.
And it only got worse. In a flat on the third floor, she found several dead rats piled on top of each other, like some sort of surreal sculpture. All the furniture had been eaten through and the linoleum was covered in rat faeces and rubbish. The rats had been dead for some time. They looked hollowed out and dusty — much like Jools felt.
She swept the rat pile into a heavy-duty bin liner and headed down to the basement to throw it into the incinerator. On her way, she almost collided with a tall, gaunt man. Although he looked young, he was missing several teeth. In his arms was a tiny old dog covered in scabs. The animal’s eyes were clouded and it barked and growled like crazy. She was tempted to toss the mutt into the incinerator along with the rats.
The man found his voice. ‘I have a fucking leak in my fucking apartment. It’s been fucking running for fucking days and days. It’s right over my fucking bed, which makes sleeping very fucking unpleasant,’ the man growled for emphasis, sounding remarkably like his feral pet.
Jools wanted to tell him to fuck off but given his familiarity with that particular expletive it was hardly worth it.
‘I’ll look into it,’ she told him, still holding the bag of dead rats. Covered in grease and soot, she was knackered, her back was killing her and all she wanted was to crawl into bed and go back to sleep, even though her bed was so putrid it could hardly be classified as a place of rest.
Dumping the rat bag into the incinerator, she headed upstairs to see about the water problem.
Standing in front of the leak-causing abode, she knocked on the door. There was no answer at first, but soon Jools heard the sound of unsteady feet heading towards the door.
‘Hang on.’ The voice was old and scratchy. The door creaked open and an ancient woman wearing a floral print bathrobe appeared. The stench coming from inside the flat was unbearable. It was the worst thing that Jools had smelled yet — a mixture of decaying animal matter, urine and something sweet she couldn’t quite place. She thought she might vomit right there on the old woman’s fuzzy pink slippers but luckily managed to hold it together.
‘The man downstairs says he’s got a leak and we think it might be coming from your flat,’ she told the woman, trying desperately to breathe through her mouth so as not to inhale the vile odours.
‘Rubbish,’ the old woman barked. ‘He’s a lunatic, that one. There’s nothing leaking
up here.’ Just then, Jools heard a pained howl coming from the flat. It could have been animal or human. Jools wasn’t sure.
‘Don’t you pay no attention to Henry,’ the old woman said. ‘He howls for attention. Been doing that for forty years. Since our wedding night.’
‘Would you mind if I come in and take a look at your loo?’ Jools asked.
‘I told you there’s nothing wrong with our pipes!’ the old woman yelled, stamping her fuzzy foot at the same time.
‘Madame,’ Jools began, trying to stay professional, ‘I have been hired to keep this building clean and orderly. I can’t do my job if you don’t let me in.’
‘Fine, come inside. But watch where you step. We got traps set for the vermin.’
The old woman opened the door and Jools stepped backwards in horror. The entire flat was covered in rat-traps, many of which had already achieved their purpose. Dead rats lay scattered about the small two-bedroom flat, roaches scurried up walls and the entire apartment seemed coated in a fine sheen of urine.
Jools immediately spied the old woman’s husband. He was hard to miss. Tied into his wheelchair with what looked like fishing line, he held an oxygen tank on his lap and shrieked as she approached. He held the mask up and took a deep breath of oxygen. Jools almost snatched the mask to use the fresh air herself, but managed to exercise restraint.
Where the floors weren’t covered in rats, yellowed newspapers served as makeshift carpeting. The old woman had seated herself on a filthy sofa and was sifting through more papers when Jools spotted herself on the cover of one of them. She shook her head and headed quickly for the loo, hoping that the old woman wouldn’t recognise her. But it was too late.
‘You! It’s you!’ Jools heard the old woman shout from the lounge. Then she started cackling like crazy.
Jools closed the loo door. The bathtub was filled with rust-coloured water. Lord knew how long it had been standing in there. The old woman started banging on the door.
‘You’re the fat doughnut girl who was to marry that politician! Let me in, I want to talk to you!’ The old woman pounded manically on the door.
‘You’re wrong. I’m a cleaner. Just a cleaner.’
‘Bullshit. Come out, I want to take a photo, it might be worth something.’
God, enough was enough. Jools sprang out of the bathroom like a crazy person.
‘Listen you pathetic old bag, my life is none of your business, and given how you live, I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. So you can take your leak, and your rats and your nasty little hovel and shove them.’
And with that, she stormed out.
The next morning, Jools headed straight for Rocco’s office and told him she wouldn’t be cleaning the building any longer.
‘That’s too bad, Joolsy,’ he said to her. ‘Obviously, you’ll have to leave your flat then. Or pay rent.’
‘Rent?’ she asked, disgusted. ‘That room is barely fit for human presence. And you want rent for it?’
‘Better than the streets, isn’t it?’ he snarled.
Jools had to admit that it was a minute step up from sleeping in the gutter. But she wasn’t going to sit back and let some thug manipulate her.
‘Here’s the thing, Rocco. I need a few days to get some money. And you know, if that building really is for council flats, it shouldn’t be in that condition.’
Rocco yawned. ‘Yeah, yeah.’
She flashed him what she hoped was a respectable glare. You wouldn’t want anyone to find out about it, would you?’
‘Just who would care?’
Thinking fast, Jools replied that the local council probably would. ‘If you are being paid to look after those cesspit council flats, you might be in a load of trouble about the state they’re in.’
‘You threatening me, Joolsy?’
‘No, just suggesting you give me a few days to come up with some rent, Rocco. Nothing more.’
And Jools flounced out of Rocco’s office without another word.
She headed straight for the nearest Internet café, but as cash was a problem, a bout of lurking was necessary. Finally a guy in the corner seemed to be finishing up.
‘I don’t suppose you have any time left on your computer? That you could spare, I mean?’
‘Sure, what the hell.’
Then he looked more closely. ‘Wait a minute, aren’t you the girl …’
Oh for God’s sake.
‘No,’ said Jools quickly. ‘I just look a lot like her. Nightmare!’
Jools sat down and logged onto miSell with her old username. Thankfully it still worked. Setting up accounts was time consuming, time she definitely couldn’t afford. Next to her a half-filled cup of still-hot coffee beckoned temptingly, but she resisted the temptation. Knowing her luck, an errant pap was sitting nearby googling long-range lenses.
The Chanel suit and Dior handbag she’d managed to extract from Rodney’s clutches were in near-perfect condition. They might just fetch enough to keep her going until she found a job that didn’t involve rats or urine.
With no time for a long, drawn-out auction she opted for ‘Buy Now’ and set a fair price for the items.
After conning the café operator for a credit for the remaining 15 minutes, she left the café and managed to sneak into a local cinema to watch some guys try to blow up other guys.
Or more accurately, to sleep in relative comfort.
A few hours later, she logged on again and was shocked to discover that both items had already been purchased by someone called MysteriousSSSS. That was remarkably quick.
Then again, high-end designer at high-street prices was always in demand, wasn’t it?
At last, something was going right.
Jools wasted no more time wondering about the identity of the buyer. There was enough to pay Rocco three months’ rent in advance – hopefully on something a tad more salubrious than the pit she was in now.
Maybe her old flat was still available?
If so, she would be right back where she started. Oddly, the thought was more comforting than depressing.
Chapter 29
Dear Lady Margaret,
With reference to your letter that Rodney was kind enough to throw at me on my departure, I respond as follows: I will not be paying the £19,500 because I don’t have it and can’t afford it. If, however, you insist, I will sell the story of your ongoing coke habit to the highest bidder, allowing me to pay your invoice, and in all probability giving me plenty to live on for the next year.
If I don’t hear from you, I will assume the debt is wiped.
Julia M. Grand
THE BUYER had used PayPal, so Jools went straight to Rocco and said she could transfer money from her account to his immediately, as long as he had a place to rent in her old building, not Rat Villas.
Rocco had been slightly surprised – no doubt fully expecting her to submit to his will (and slave-labour cleaning) again. Well, that was over. Jools was taking control of her life, and no one was going to push her around or threaten her again.
‘Dare I ask what you had to do for it?’ he asked, handing over new keys to her old flat.
‘None of your business,’ she said.
‘Three months ain’t long, Joolsy. You got some dosh in your pocket now, sure, but what will you do when it runs out? You’ll be back to your same old routine, eh. Desperate, penniless and begging me for mercy.’
Jools didn’t even respond. Turning and walking out of Rocco’s office, she heard him snort through a mouthful of kebab. What if the bastard was right? Having just sold the last of her high-priced belongings, she’d better find another way to make money soon, or in three months she’d be scrambling about in rubbish bins again.
It’s good to be home, she thought, swinging open the door to the old flat to be greeted by a familiar, dusty smell. She breathed it in deeply, happily realising she’d never been totally comfortable in Rodney’s place. Like being an intruder marking time until the real occupants appeared and evic
ted her.
The suit and bag fetched quite a tidy sum and even after paying her rent, Jools had enough left over to stock up on some essentials at Sainsbury’s. Walking the floodlit aisles, she paused in front of the cupcakes, chocolates and doughnuts, saliva pooling in her mouth. No. She forced herself to walk away.
No more junk food, ever again. Well, maybe on special occasions. Or once a week. Perhaps just one packet of HobNobs today if there was a pound or two left.
No. No. No. Jools was determined to stick to her new plan of sensible behaviour.
Surprisingly, it felt good to stock up on lo-cal canned goods and non-perishable items. When the unpacking and restocking was completed, there was barely room to edge past the breakfast bar into the kitchen. At least I’m ready for a nuclear holocaust, she thought. It did sort of feel like she was preparing for something, but had no idea what.
Never mind, with a roof over her head and enough food for a month, everything was under control. And this time, she was going to make it on her own.
Well, she kind of had to, didn’t she?
She bought a small microwave from the pawn shop and was pleased to find that it worked. Preparing a treat of frozen fish fingers and green peas, she sat on the floor and declared to thin air it was good to be home.
Sure, her new place was a total pigsty but at least it was her pigsty. Nobody was going to kick her out – well, not for three months anyway. She could come and go as she pleased, keep things as messy or as clean as she wanted them and eat whatever she desired without the worry of someone, anyone, noting she was starting to look like a heifer in denim.
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