FLATMATE WANTED: SMOKERS WELCOME
C.L. Taylor
C.L. Taylor lives in Bristol with her partner and young son. Born in Worcester, she studied Psychology at the University of Northumbria and works for a London university. The Accident (Before I Wake in the US) is her debut psychological thriller. She is currently writing her second novel – about friendship, mind control and murder.
I sense the atmosphere the second I walk through the front door. When you know someone as well as I know Gavin – and I know my big brother pretty damned well – you don’t need to hear, or even see them to know how they’re feeling. It’s in the air, the electrons are whizzing around the nucleus faster than normal, or something. The house feels different, that’s what I’m saying.
‘Mark?’ Rob, the newest member of the household, calls out my name. ‘Come into the living room, Gavin’s called a house meeting.’
He says the last two words like he’s trying to suppress a laugh.
The electrons whizz faster. Gav’s seriously pissed off.
‘Alright guys?’ I poke my head around the living-room door and place my tool belt on top of the sideboard. Rob’s sitting in my armchair so I sit on the sofa next to Gavin instead. He stiffens as I sit down but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s too busy glaring at Rob who’s just swung his legs over the arm of the chair. It creaks ominously under his weight. At 6'3" tall and about eighteen stone he’s the biggest flatmate we’ve ever had but Gavin’s not intimidated by a man twice his size.
‘Right,’ he says, ‘now Mark’s back from work you can admit it.’
‘Admit what?’ Rob gives an exaggerated shrug, a smile playing on the corners of his lips. ‘I don’t even fucking like milk. I drink black tea, you’ve seen me.’
‘Only because you’re too tight to buy your own milk.’
‘Why don’t you look a bit closer to home for the milk thief.’ Rob glances at me. ‘Or Mr Cereal as I like to call him.’
I stifle a laugh. Mr Cereal? Rob’s a dick but he’s funny. I’ll give him that.
‘Mark?’ There’s no hint of amusement on Gavin’s face. ‘Did you finish my milk this morning and then put it back in the fridge?’
‘No.’ I meet his gaze. Neither of us blinks. His pupils are tiny pinpricks, barely visible in the murky brown of his irises. ‘I’ve got my own milk.’
Gav looks back towards Rob. ‘I know it was you. Admit it and this won’t go any further.’
Silence descends as Gavin stares at Rob and Rob stares right back at him. No one’s laughing now.
‘I don’t like thieves,’ Gavin says evenly. ‘And I won’t have them in my house.’
‘Ooh.’ Rob purses his lips and fakes a shiver. ‘I’m so scared.’
I say nothing, although I probably should.
‘What’s his fucking problem anyway?’
It’s the next evening. Gav’s out at pool and Rob and I are in the living room watching All Star Mr and Mrs because there’s fuck-all else on TV. I just caught him watering down Gav’s milk from the kitchen tap but I didn’t give him shit. Instead I laughed when he said, ‘Two can play at this game’ and pointed to the biro scribble where Gav had marked the level of the milk on the side of the carton.
‘He was starved as a kid,’ I say. ‘There was never any food in our house.’
‘Seriously?’
‘No.’ I lie. I’m not about to tell him that Gav and I grew up in a grotty sink estate and that Mum didn’t have two quid to rub together. It didn’t help that she’d introduce us to a new ‘uncle’ every couple of weeks, some itinerant alcoholic drifter who’d throw her a few compliments, shag her, nick what little money she had and then disappear as quickly as he’d appeared. We were always glad to see them go, particularly the one that paid a late-night visit to our room when Mum was out shelf-stacking at Tesco.
There’s always a tale to tell with the guys who rent our third bedroom – families they fell out with, girlfriend’s kicking them out, flatmates who hated them (never their fault, of course). And, funnily enough, they never get any visitors. It’s almost as if they don’t want anyone to know where they are. None of them stick around for long but that’s not a problem. As long as they stump up the £150 deposit and a week’s rent, they’re in.
Rob lights up a cigarette and I reach into my back pocket for my own fags. I don’t know what it is about the kind of guys that respond to our ‘flatmate wanted’ ads but we haven’t had one yet that didn’t smoke.
‘Can I borrow your lighter?’
He throws me his lighter and I close my fingers around it. It’s a Harley Davidson one, chrome and gold-effect, with ‘Born for Style, Born to Ride’ etched onto the side and a big pair of wings wrapped around the side. Looks like a limited edition. Expensive too. I wonder who he nicked that off.
Gav unscrews the lid of his whiskey, pours a tiny measure into his glass and then sits back in his armchair and closes his eyes. He breathes in – deeply – then out again, then opens his eyes and raises the glass to his lips. He takes a sip, audibly sighs, then swallows.
It’s Sunday night, the end of another week and he’s celebrating, as he always does, with a single shot of his favourite single malt. Just one shot, never more. I swig at my bottle of Bud. Gav’s never offered me a shot of his whiskey and I’ve never asked.
‘Alright boys?’ Rob swaggers into the living room, a towel around his waist, his broad chest glistening with water after his shower. He really is a huge bastard. ‘Hard day mowing lawns?’
Gav raises an eyebrow at him. He takes his job as a landscape gardener seriously. He takes most things seriously, my brother.
‘What’re you drinking?’ Rob spots the golden bottle at Gav’s feet. He takes a step towards it and reaches down.
Gav grabs his wrist. ‘Don’t touch what you can’t afford.’
Rob tenses and, for a second, I think he’s going to swing at him. Instead he twists his arm out of Gav’s grip and laughs. ‘Depends how much it costs.’
‘£200. You can’t buy twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie for a penny less.’
Rob whistles. ‘Expensive taste for a man who mows lawns for a living.’
‘Says the man who’s never done a hard day’s work.’
The room falls silent as Gav looks at Rob and Rob looks at the bottle. I break the silence by sparking up a fag.
‘New lighter?’ Rob clocks the white object in my hand.
‘Nah, I’ve got a few.’ I hold it up so he can read the black print on the side – buy your own fucking lighter – and he laughs.
‘I’m getting a sandwich then I’m going out,’ he says as he crosses the living room towards the kitchen.’
‘Not using my cheese you’re not.’
Rob turns back. ‘What was that, Gav?’
‘You heard.’
‘I haven’t touched your cheese.’
‘Then why is it half the size it was on Friday?’
‘Mice?’ Rob laughs, but he’s the only one smiling.
‘I told you not to touch my stuff,’ Gav says.
‘I haven’t touched your fucking stuff.’
‘Maybe it was the cleaner,’ I say, more to lighten the atmosphere than anything else.
Gav looks at me like I’m deranged.
‘What?’ I say. ‘She’s got a key. She can let herself in whenever she likes.’
‘For a slice of cheese?’ Gav narrows his eyes. He doesn’t always appreciate my sense of humour.
I glance at Rob who’s standing by the kitchen door, but he’s looking at Gav’s whiskey again.
When I get back from work at midnight on Monday, after another late night re-fitting a shop, the house is in darkness. Gav’s at pool and Rob’s god knows where so I unbuckle my carpenter’s tool belt and reach for the light switch at the bottom of the stairs. Nothing happens. The light bulb must have blown while I was out.
I make my way up the stairs in darkness, feeling my way along the bannister, when a loud thud �
� swiftly followed by a low moan – makes me freeze. The noise came from further along the landing, just outside Gavin’s room. I slip a chisel out of the tool belt and creep up the last few stairs. Whoever it is has chosen the wrong house to burgle.
I round the top of the stairs, keeping low. My eyes adjust to the gloom as I pass Rob’s closed bedroom door and I recognise the shape of the man curled up on the floor outside Gav’s room.
‘Rob?’
He doesn’t look up. Instead he groans and grips the end of one of his knackered trainers. ‘Fucker broke my toe.’
‘Who …?’ I start to say but then I notice the hammer and dessert spoon lying on the ground beside him. The padlock on Gav’s door is still intact.
‘Fancy a wee dram, did you?’ I say, though from the cloud of beer fumes I’m inhaling, Rob doesn’t need any help getting pissed.
‘Your fucking brother put a mousetrap in with his bread.’ He holds up the fingers of his right hand. ‘I could have lost a finger!’
You’ll lose a lot more than that if you go after his whiskey, I think but don’t say.
‘He thinks he’s clever, but he’s got no idea who he’s messing with. My bitch of an ex thought she had one over on me –’ he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his Zippo. He flips it over then squeezes it open and lights it with a flick of his fingers – ‘but she was wrong. Wish I could have seen her face when she came home to an empty flat. That grubby little brat of hers is in for a shock if he thinks Father Christmas is going to bring him anything next month.’
I force a grin but my mouth is so dry my lips are stuck to my teeth. Sometimes it’s hard being the good guy.
Rob keeps his head down for the next few days. We don’t get so much of a glimpse of him during the day and the only sign he comes back to sleep is the stinky pair of Nike trainers that appear outside his bedroom door. Then, when I come home from work on Wednesday I find him smashing his hand into the fridge door.
‘Fucking arsehole. Mother fucking twat!’
His eyes are watering, his cheeks puce. I assume he’s drunk again but then I spot the upturned Tupperware lid on the draining board and the piece of paper sellotaped to the lid – ‘Gav’s chilli. Touch at your peril’.
‘He booby-trapped it! Flicked red hot chilli into my face. Fucking psycho!’
He yanks open the fridge door and reaches for the milk – Gav’s milk – and unscrews the lid. He tips his head back and pours the cold, white liquid over his eyes and face. A split second later a piercing scream fills the kitchen and he throws himself at the sink and grabs the cold tap. He turns it on full blast then puts his head under the faucet.
‘Bleach,’ he gasps between breaths. ‘He watered it down with bleach!’
I take a step back out of the kitchen and into the living room. I’m not retreating because I’m scared, I’m retreating because I know exactly what he’ll do next.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ I say evenly as Rob grabs my tool belt from the sideboard in the living room and speeds up the stairs, taking them two at a time. ‘You’ve got a choice. You could still be the bigger man.’
Rob spins round and I brace myself for a smack in the face. Instead he grabs me by the T-shirt, thrusts a hand into my jeans pocket and pulls out my phone. He pockets it, smiling, ‘Just to make sure you don’t warn him.’
I hang back as he inserts my chisel behind the lock plate on the door frame then hits it with the hammer. He pulls at the chisel, changing the angle as he rains down blow after blow and I wince as the wood splinters from the wall. He’s making a total pig’s ear of a relatively simple job.
‘I’m going to drink his fucking whiskey and then I’m going to put the empty bottle in his bed. No,’ he laughs to himself as the padlock, hasp and staple fall to the floor and he yanks the door open, ‘I’m going to drink half then piss in the bottle and put it back. We’ll see how much he likes surprises … What the fuck?’
His eyes flick from the black vinyl flooring to the grey glossed walls to the bars on the windows to the large oak wooden cabinet in the centre of the room. In it, glowing like golden treasure behind a strong metal mesh, is Gavin’s whiskey.
The chisel hangs loosely in one hand, the hammer in the other. I could overpower him now if I wanted to. He’s left my tool belt on the floor and there’s a Stanley knife still in its strap. I could drive it between his shoulder blades if I wanted to.
Choices, choices, choices. Rob has a choice. I do too.
‘Your brother’s one screwed up tight-arse, neat freak,’ Rob breathes as he walks towards the cabinet, ‘or maybe he needs all these wipe clean surfaces because he’s such a massive wanker.’
He laughs at his own joke and crouches down in front of the cabinet. He reaches out a hand to touch the mesh.
‘Careful!’ I say and he jumps.
‘What’s it going to do?’ Rob says, looking over his shoulder at me. He lifts the hammer over his head, then looks back at the box. ‘Explode?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You saw what happened with the chilli. That’s got nothing on this.’
Rob sneers but he lowers the hammer anyway. He peers around the box and shakes his head. He’s confused but he’s bought the lie. The oak chest is strong enough to withstand a hammer but he could still put some ugly nicks in it and I’m proud of my work.
‘What kind of psycho makes an exploding box and keeps his whiskey in it?’
‘Have you got fast reactions?’ I ask, crouching beside him.
He frowns. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘See this …’ I point at a small, letter box-shaped hollow in the wood, just below the shelf the bottle is sitting on. ‘In there, and just around to the right, is a button. Press it and remove your hand in under two seconds and the mesh will open and you can take the bottle.’
‘And if I take longer than two seconds?’
‘A blade will slice your hand off at the wrist.’
Rob laughs, then twists to look at me. His expression changes from mirth to confusion. ‘Bullshit.’
‘Try it then.’
He looks back at the whiskey, then at the hollow, then back at the whiskey. The fingers of his right hand twitch.
‘You do it.’ He grabs my hand by the wrist. His fingers dig so deeply into my flesh that I feel sick. ‘You press the button.’
‘No.’ I try to pull away but he’s got me fast.
Rob presses his face close to mine, his breath hot and sour. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Pretending to be all chummy chummy when really you’re laughing at me behind my back with that scrote of a brother of yours.’ He leans even closer. ‘You made this, didn’t you? And those other traps? I should just chop off your hand right now!’ He shoves my hand towards the letter box and I shout out.
‘Not so clever now are you, Mark?’
‘My brother’s the clever one. I’m just good with my hands.’
‘Is that so?’ He holds the chisel to my neck, digging the sharp metal edge into a tendon. ‘Then press the button, Mr Good With My Hands.’
‘Okay, okay.’ My heart races and my stomach twists with anticipation. ‘Let go of my wrist or I won’t be able to fit my hand in there.’
Rob deliberates, then in one swift move, lets go of my wrist and twists round me so he’s grabbing me round the neck instead. I’m forced forward onto my hands and knees, my head in the crook of his elbow.
‘I can’t do it like this,’ I say. ‘If I lift up my right hand I’ll have to balance on my left.’
‘Oh boo fucking hoo. DO IT!’
Rob breathes more heavily as I lift my right hand up from the floor and move my fingers towards the letter box. He inhales through his nose – short, sharp excited sniffs that remind me of another dirty, sweating bastard that put his hands on me without asking. There are some things no one should steal.
‘Okay … okay …’ I slip my hand into the letter box, keeping my fingers pressed tightly together, my palm sliding along the gra
in until the tip of my middle finger reaches the end of the alcove and stops. Now I twist my hand round and extend my middle finger towards the right. The button is indented in the wood, five millimetres further into the cabinet.
‘Three …’ I say, then take a breath. I’m nearly there, I’ve nearly done it. But things could still go wrong. ‘Two …’ If Rob is the man I think he is he’ll do exactly what I predict. ‘One!’
I press the button and wrench my hand out of the box. At exactly the same time the metal mesh drops away, freeing the twenty-five-year-old bottle of Glenmorangie from its wooden prison.
‘Yes!’ I’m yanked upwards by the neck as Rob punches the air then dropped to the vinyl as he reaches across me with his right hand. His fingers graze the neck of the bottle. ‘Yes you beaut—’
His horrified roar fills the room.
‘My hand!’ he screams, holding his stump aloft as it pumps blood all over the wipe clean walls, the floor and himself.
His hand is motionless, still wrapped around the bottle of whiskey on the shelf of the oak cabinet.
‘So sorry,’ I say as I back towards the door. ‘I forgot to tell you the second part of the instructions. You’re supposed to press the button a second time before you take the whiskey or you risk being chopped by another blade. See, I’m really not very clever at all. I did warn you.’
I snatch up the chisel and hammer, dart out of the bedroom and slam the door shut behind me, then reach into my pocket for Gavin’s spare key and deadlock it. The padlock is just for show, to get our ‘guests’ to think there’s something worth stealing inside. We leave the door itself unlocked – until they’re inside.
I wait outside the door until Rob stops screaming and falls silent and then set to work repairing the damage to the door frame and fit a new hasp, staple and padlock. I take my time, savouring the sound of rasping saw and the gentle chk chk of the chisel on the virgin piece of wood.
The first time I saw a man bleed to death I was ten years old. Me and Gav were in the kitchen and Mum was preparing dinner. Spag bol it was, my favourite. Mum had her back to us and I was pretty sure she was crying, and not just because she’d been chopping onions. We’d just told her about what Simon had done to us the night before, while she was shelf stacking at Tescos – me and Gav taking it in turns to speak, secretly holding hands under the table – and she hadn’t said a word. She just kept chopping onions with the great big cleaver her dad, a former butcher, had given her for Christmas.
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