The Other Room
Page 13
The sound seemed to be all around and pressing in, like it was amplified by a speaker in every room, making the whole house shudder with it. In the street behind people opened windows and doors to shout at him, or just to stare. Panicked, his nerves shrilling like the alarm, he fumbled at a few of the buttons on the console with sweaty fingers. In the din he didn’t hear the door open above him, or the footsteps heading down from B. From behind him there appeared a looming, angry shape, which elbowed him aside and punched at the keypad of the alarm. He couldn’t hear the resulting silence because his ears were still ringing; but he could hear the furious words that the shape yelled at him: “One! Nine! Eight! Six!” The code was shouted so loudly that he was sure the whole street must have heard, and taken notes. He tried to look at the man who had saved him, but the whole mass of the person was too close, the face too high, and he couldn’t focus. The tattooed, bouncer-like shape moved back upstairs before he had the presence of mind to utter any thanks, and the slam of the door to the middle flat shook the whole building again. He’d had hopes of sharing the house with pretty fellow students – but if the reality was this then so be it. There would be plenty of girls at university. And that man had no right to be angry – this was his house too.
Feeling better with these thoughts he went outside to retrieve the rest of his bags, and behind him a malignant draft slammed the front door shut. With a sinking feeling he remembered where his keys were – he had placed them on the rickety table next to the alarm while he had tried to turn it off. His sick nerves returned as he rang the front door bell, at first timidly, then holding it down until the angry bouncer-shape appeared, even more indistinct behind the frosted glass, and let him in. He closed his eyes, half-expecting to be punched, and only opened them again when he heard the slam of the middle floor door once again. He moved inside, angry with himself, and feeling more of a child than ever. “One. Nine. Eight. Six,” he chanted under his breath, determined to avoid any further mistakes. The guy upstairs had yelled at him like it was obvious, yet how was he supposed to remember such an abstract collection of numbers? They held no previous history for him – he was too young to remember 1986 as an actual, real-life year.
He unlocked the door to flat A, his flat. As he entered there was a ‘porch-way’ of bare floorboards, with three doors leading off to the bedroom, lounge, and bathroom. The bedroom had been enthusiastically advertised as a ‘double’ by the housing agency, and indeed someone had crammed a double bed into it – he almost banged his shins on it as he entered. The only other item of furniture was a dusty desk of drawers – nothing else could have fitted in with that bed. Vague doubts about his choice crossed his mind. He sat down, and felt his heart sag as much as the mattress did.
The lounge appeared somewhat more spacious. A two person yellow sofa and a matching chair, both leaking foam innards. Rickety looking shelves, an equally rickety looking coffee table, still with a circular mug stain on it. A window at the back that rattled as the wind outside shook it - as he moved towards it he could feel a midnight chill, even though it was only two o’clock. From the lounge was another doorway to the gangway shaped kitchen, and he went through to turn on the heating. By the boiler a carbon monoxide detector had turned black, but he had been reassured that whatever had caused the leak had been fixed ‘long ago’. Pipes and radiators juddered and awoke from the dead, but those noises were masked, for at that moment the occupier of the flat above (no doubt the man who let him back in) started playing force-ten heavy-metal music, and any thought he’d had of putting on one of his own CDs (indie rock and the safest of hip hop) evaporated.
He went to put some toiletries in the bathroom, and inspected that too. The toilet and sink were both of the same chipped enamel, and the bath looked like a swamp had been drained from it long ago. The room needed a good clean – the whole flat did really. But he was tired from travelling that day – he had a whole five days before term started. Let the mildew climb the walls of the bathroom a few days longer. There were no windows in the bathroom and the flickering bulb and rickety whirr of the ventilator made his eyes and ears overly sensitive. Although the mirror was stained he felt for a second that he saw something move in there even as he stood still. He rubbed at his tired eyes, made more tired by the oscillating light. He needed to sit down and relax, maybe read, maybe watch TV and have a beer – he had been on edge all day. He wouldn’t be able to hear much TV with the music still echoing down from above him, but that was okay – the TV was just an excuse really. His eyes felt so tired. He pulled the cord and the bathroom went dark.
***
There was a knocking at the door.
He struggled awake, and for a few seconds of claustrophobia he couldn’t grasp where he was. He didn’t know how long he had been dozing and he had no idea what time it was, for he had drawn a curtain over the draughty window. The music from the flat upstairs had stopped, but he had turned the TV up earlier - a quiz show presenter bellowed incomprehensible questions at him. The room was muggy and far too hot, and the radiators rattled and coughed.
As he headed towards the front door, tripping over a beer can, it struck him that the noise wasn’t someone ringing the bell outside, but actually knocking on his door - they had got inside the entrance way where the alarm was. He opened his flat door cautiously, only at that moment noting that it didn’t have a chain.
He could only imagine it would be the blurred and looming man from upstairs, but the figure in front of him, while shadowy, was far too small to be his irate neighbour. He couldn’t see properly who it was because of the light. He flinched as from behind the visitor a moth flitted, and darted past him into his flat. It must have got into the house when this man had opened the front door.
“Good morning,” the figure said. “Did I wake you?” His voice was a business-like monotone – but with maybe a faint edge of sarcasm…
“Um, I… No,” he said. He tried to ask just who this stranger was, but his tongue had dried in his throat while he had been asleep and moved clumsily in his mouth. The stranger smiled as if he was reading his mind anyway.
“I am Mister Domwood,” his monotone said, “but you could call me, hmmm, Dom. I own this place: I am your landlord. Yes, I know you rent through that damn agency but I thought I’d introduce myself personally.”
“Oh right,” he said uncertainly. “Um, do you want to come in?”
After all, he did own the place.
Dom smiled.
They went into the lounge. His landlord was small and stick-insect thin, with a head that looked too large for the rest of his body. His hair was dark and in a widow’s peak, his face seemed oddly and unevenly stubbled. As he watched Dom (who sat down without being asked) it struck him that there was something spider-like about his landlord, with his spindle-like limbs and attenuated body.
“Uh, I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything to drink,” he said, turning off the TV and picking up his beer cans. “I haven’t had time to buy any coffee or anything yet.”
“Quite all right,” Dom said. “After all, in a way you are as much my guest as I am yours.” There was something about his English that seemed almost learned, foreign, although nothing was detectable in the man’s blank accent. “I will only stay for a short while. If for the rest of the evening you need anything I’m sure your neighbours upstairs would be happy to help.”
“I’ve, um, already met one of them, the guy upstairs,” he said. He was standing awkwardly, he wanted to go and turn the heating off but was unable to while Dom sat talking.
“Hmmm, ah yes. He works for me. They both work for me in fact. I own quite a lot of property in this city, clubs and such like. He works in one of my clubs. The girl upstairs, you probably won’t see much of her. She sleeps a lot during the day.”
“What’s…,” he coughed, for a moment unable to finish. “What’s her name?”
Dom smiled. “Layla,” he said.
He thought that Layla was an odd name (Dom too, come to thi
nk of it) and he was about to ask what she did for him when suddenly the moth which had been let in flew against his face. Its soft and alien touch reminded him of the cobwebs earlier. He gave an involuntarily cry, and flailed his arms. Then he flushed as he realised that Dom was watching him.
“Actually,” Dom continued, “this flat was supposed to be occupied by one of my, hmm, hirelings too – I let them live rent free in lieu of wages. Convenient for us all. But this particular person decided to quit my employment. They sometimes do.” And again Dom’s lifeless voice hinted at a sarcastic life underneath, at a joke that he couldn’t spot. “And I needed some cash quickly. I’ve never rented to a student before.” Dom pronounced the word as if it were new to him, from a foreign tongue. “Hence the blood-sucker agency. It is a pity about them, but there you have it…”
“Blood-sucker?” he said – it had sounded like a cue.
“Well, what do they do?” Dom said. “What do they contribute? They are just blood-suckers on this free market economy of ours.”
“Uh, I guess…”
Dom looked at him.
“Actually,” he said, “we don’t need them. I’m sure we could come to a, hmmm, mutually beneficially agreement between ourselves. If I wasn’t paying their fees I could split the difference between us, and reduce your rent by, hmm, twenty pounds…”
He liked the way that Dom was talking to him – like an equal, like a fellow man of the world. Neither his parents nor his teachers had ever spoken to him like that – in fact no one ever had really.
“Sure,” he said. “I’m sure we could work something out Dom. But what about the agency? They have my deposit you see and…”
“Do not worry, “Dom said. “I’ll get your deposit from those leeches. You know, I own the office that they work in – a housing agency, renting their office…!” Dom smiled his faint smile.
“Uh, okay…”
Dom rose from his chair, and the moth orbited him and flicked away into the kitchen. “I’ll leave my number,” he said. “Do not hesitate to call if you need anything.”
“Sure Dom,” he said. “Thanks for popping round.” He felt a lot less nervous now, more secure in his choice of dwelling. This would show his parents! Hadn’t he already saved twenty pounds off the rent? (And after all, why should they get it? What had they done?)
“Oh, one more thing…,” Dom said, pausing at the threshold.
“Sure, what…?”
“You do not seem to have many possessions I notice. Well, you are, hmm, young I suppose – not yet bogged down with junk. But I notice you are not using that storage space near the bathroom…”
“Um, no,” he said. In truth he had barely noticed it. But now, following Dom’s gaze, he saw the small quarter-sized door, like the door to a goblin kingdom. He guessed the water tank was behind there from the choking noises he could hear.
“As I said earlier I own a lot of property,” Dom said. “And sometimes I need to move things around. As I let go of properties. Would you mind if I stored some things in there? If you are not planning to use it of course. Just a couple of boxes. Please, if you mind just say so.”
“No, no, that’s fine,” he said, although he had barely started to unpack yet.
“Many thanks. I will bring them round tonight. Don’t trouble yourself to be in, I have my own key naturally. As a thank you I will bring some tea and coffee, since you have yet to purchase any,” Dom said, smiling again. Dom let himself out, his over-sized head bobbing as if nodding to himself. Inside the moth was flitting around, avoiding the bare light-bulbs.
***
He did go out that night – but only to explore the local pubs until he found one quiet and secure enough to sit and read in. He tried to drink slowly but halfway down each pint he became thirsty and frustrated; his book made less and less sense before his eyes. He could have read in his own home, but he knew that Dom was coming round, and he didn’t want his new landlord thinking that he didn’t have anywhere better to go. Plus, he had the idea that the troll-like rocker from upstairs would be helping Dom with the packages he wanted to store, and he didn’t want to meet him again (although he’d craned his neck expectantly for ‘Layla’ as he’d left the house). He hoped that the ignorant muscle-head wouldn’t tell Dom of his fumbles at the burglar alarm, or how he had locked himself out. “One. Nine. Eight. Six,” he had chanted in his head as he had ordered each beer.
When he returned it was late. He turned on the lights and saw the damn moth flap away – weren’t they supposed to be attracted to the light? It was huge and hairy, more like a small bat than a moth. He opened the small door next to the bathroom, and sure enough inside were two cardboard boxes, with upside-down ‘This Way Up’ signs, and ribbons of Sellotape peeling away from them. A spider was already attempting to build a home between them, and the water tank was making drowning noises above. He resisted the urge to look inside the boxes, and went towards the bedroom, for his first night’s sleep in his new house.
***
He tried to sleep, but it was hard. The beer hadn’t made him tired, just agitated his bladder. He tried to ignore it. By the streetlight that came in through his threadbare curtains he could dimly see the dimensions of his bedroom, and he couldn’t help but think them wrong. As if the corners weren’t quite right angles. The house kept making noises as it settled, as if it were constantly losing temperature, decompressing, and the faint sounds were like intruders. He would jerk awake in bed, convinced that a constant noise had just ceased. Then he would lay back, his heart another noise, another intruder, and shut his eyes, and bury his head under the heavy covers, for he kept convincing his sleeping brain that some soft, flying thing would brush against his face, against his lips…
He awoke spitting. It was still dark - he could hear people outside, and in his weariness their muffled steps seemed as loud as his neighbours music had earlier. He twisted, kicked at the suffocating duvet, and set about masturbating - it seemed the only way to break the rut of insomnia and frustration into which his thoughts had fallen. Confused images of an experience which he had never had (for he was still a virgin) with a girl he had never met brought him to a climax. Afterwards he felt guilty, as he always had in his old house, afraid that his parents might somehow have known what he had been up to. The house creaked again, and he imagined Dom bursting in uninvited and catching him sweating and red-handed.
He got up and headed towards the bathroom. The flat was still ridiculously hot, although seemingly random drafts still made his body shiver. A patina of dust built up on his bare feet as he walked along the bare floorboards. As he neared the bathroom door he realised that he could hear a voice coming from behind it – a female voice.
Well, not exactly a voice for there were no words, but human sounds at least – gasps and little cries, whether of pleasure or pain he didn’t know. The sounds had a muffled quality, a hollowness too like they had been sucked a great distance and lost timbre, and this gave him a clue as to their source of them. Of course there wasn’t really anyone in his bathroom! It was just the odd acoustics of the house that he hadn’t got used to yet, some quirk of the cavities in the walls perhaps, or of the plumbing, which was carrying the sounds down from Layla’s flat. “She sleeps a lot during the day,” he remembered, and so that was why he hadn’t heard her before. Or maybe the sounds were coming from that guy's room, from some woman he had up there? But he didn’t think so, for the cries had the feeling of something solitary, of something unconscious and fundamentally shaming. Just like what he had just been doing…
He opened the door to the bathroom, and for a few seconds his hand grasped blindly for the light-cord, while he stared into the dark… - he could still hear the noises, and it sounded like something crying out softly was also dragging itself away from him, something heavy and clumsy…
Then his hand found the cord; the light came on and the ventilator made a rusty take-off sound that stopped him from hearing anything else. He moved angrily into the bathr
oom, disposed of his tissue, splashed his face at the sink, and drank the tap water that tasted like metal. He was angry with himself, with his few seconds of fright – like a schoolboy! How would he sleep now that he had wound himself up again? Of course the bathroom had been empty; and of course the shapes he had briefly seen had been effects of the sudden illumination, and not trailing stains on the floor that had seemed like dirty blood.
***
He advanced cautiously, every nerve afraid for movement… The moth flicked its wings and he froze. But it didn’t fly off from the kitchen cabinet where it had settled. The dirty circles on its wings were like eyes. They watched him as he started to edge forward again, and when he lunged clumsily with the rolled up newspaper the moth avoided the blow easily, and flew away into the lounge.
He set the newspaper to one side, defeated. He would add bug spray to his shopping list, that would be the easiest way to sort the damn thing. He had been trying to kill it for thirty minutes, without success.
It was his third day in the house, and he was weary from his second almost sleepless night. He hadn’t got round to unpacking or cleaning yet, and he had bought only the most basic items of food. He hadn’t yet opened the coffee which Dom had left him (true to his word) for he hadn’t yet got round to descaling the kettle either. He felt somewhat suspended, waiting for his second life, that of being a student, to begin. He was looking forward to timetables, lectures, meeting new friends – girls. But before all that could begin he had these empty days, and he had been doing very little to fill them.
He went into the lounge (the moth had vanished) and turned on the TV. Despite the noise from the street he had to leave the window open, because the flat was so hot again. Wasn’t hot air supposed to rise? Five minutes later, almost as if he had been waiting he heard the heavy tread of the man in the flat above, and then the raucous music came blaring down again, erasing the quiz show answers he had been listening for. He shouted his frustration at his upstairs neighbour, and turned the TV up. But the world seemed to join in the conspiracy, and a dog howled outside, a car alarm harmonised. He pulled closed the window, knowing as he did so that he would be opening it five minutes later, desperate for some fresh air. His little flat was so stuffy! Thoughts crossed his mind of his parents’ cool and spacious house, with its lack of dust and mildew, its silent surrounding gardens. But he tried to ignore these images – he had come away to be independent.