Guest

by SJ Bradley

  ‘Not our problem,’ he said.

  ‘True.’ She started to make her way down again, lurching, leaning heavily against the rail. Two pairs of shoes lay in a crazy pile, and she went by without touching either.

  ‘You know Mum, you could tidy up a bit.’

  ‘No way. I’ve got better things to do.’

  ‘You could take a few things to the charity shop.’

  ‘Salvation Army?’ Flores stumbled the last few steps, and turned to look at him, in the light coming through the front door. ‘Don’t be stupid. Listen. I’ll worry about tidying the house the day I start eating at McDonald’s.’

  ‘You won’t lose me, Flores,’ he said.

  ‘I know, little bug.’

  ‘I’m not angry,’ he said. ‘I’m just focusing on the future.’

  ‘That’s right. Your baby.’ She turned to the book spines, poring through them. ‘Speaking of tidying up. How about you take a few of these?’

  Children’s books. Cardboard-hard covers, with pictures of elves and princesses. Their pictures illustrated and painted by hand.

  ‘Great, Mum,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

  There wasn’t much where Flores lived. It was a grey, tiny place. All so much smaller than he remembered. The corner shop had shrunk to the size of a box, and the house – he worked out that the downstairs footprint had less floor space than his bedroom at the Boundary Hotel.

  His feet had taken him the wrong way, past the park gates and over the motorway bridge; he was crossing the underpass and walking out of town, walking towards the bus station.

  Arms weighted by the bags she’d given him. Curtains and old sheets and a huge bag of books.

  ‘When you get everything sorted,’ she said, ‘can I come and see her?’

  Flores had always liked Charley, and now, it seemed, she was taken with the idea of being a granny. It was the perfect excuse to start knitting again, she’d said.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ he’d said. ‘Why not.’

  He hadn’t liked to tell her that he was some way off seeing her himself.

  8.

  Dear Charley,

  I’ll start by saying sorry. First for the way I treated you and also for generally being a prick. You might not believe it (probably won’t) but I’ve learned a lot lately. I’m different now from what I was. Please let me have the chance to prove it.

  There’s £50 in this envelope. It won’t make up for everything but maybe it’s a start. I didn’t even know Astrid existed until about a month ago. If I had, I would have sent money before. You know I grew up without much myself and I don’t want the same for her, so please take it.

  You have always been so good at things Charley. I bet you don’t even need my help. But Astrid is my daughter and I do want to start seeing her please. I am her father and I have rights.

  I’ve got a job now so I’ll be able to send you money more often. Also I’m moving soon. I’ve been looking for places with two bedrooms so she can come and stay with me sometimes.

  Please tell Mart when I can come and meet her.

  Samhain.

  The I have rights bit had been Kebby’s suggestion. He had said it a few times: that and, ‘Maybe you should get a lawyer.’ But Samhain didn’t see the need for that, not on his wages.

  Getting a lawyer would have meant less money for Astrid, and a bill that he’d be paying off for the rest of his life, most likely. A lawyer would mean he’d be short on money for rent, and that he’d have to carry on living at The Boundary Hotel forever. He and Frankie could grow old there, living on separate floors, gradually filling the downstairs kitchen and bar with old guitars and fanzines, and boxes of broken electronics dragged out of skips, while Mama Cat and Frazzles grew bad-tempered and scratchy, upstairs: they could become a pair of burrowing men, together.

  The smell, he thought, the smell.

  Nothing was too much trouble for Frankie. He planed a few millimetres off the top of Samhain’s door so that it closed properly, re-hung it, and vacuumed the sawdust off the carpet, all while Samhain was out at work one day. Suddenly every loo on every floor always had toilet paper. Showers were wiped clear and sparkling, and the kitchen became almost catering standard clean, without Samhain having to do a thing.

  Two weeks after the tour had finished, Frankie had made the place clean enough for paying guests. Opening the front door threw a light over a sweeping and polished staircase, a grand, yet dilapidated entry hall; a place with swept edges and clean skirting. Frankie had even cleaned the light fitting in the entryway: no more cobwebs.

  ‘When you move into your new place,’ Frankie said, ‘I can do all of this sort of thing. Any sort of light fitting you want – I’ll get it. I’ll make it all look nice – like this one.’ Frankie let his hand drop, clasping it one way, then another, tightening his hand and seeming unable to settle it, around the screwdriver handle resting between the loops on his belt. ‘For the little one, you know.’

  ‘Astrid.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Thanks, Frankie. I appreciate it.’ Samhain didn’t say that, after moving out of the Boundary Hotel, he was hoping to see as little of Frankie as possible.

  One by one, the kittens went.

  Marta went off to work one day with the tortie tucked inside her shirt, and came back at the end of the day without it. Frankie took the black one around to its new home in a shoebox strapped to the front of his bike, and David and Barbara came for one of the ginger ones.

  ‘My, my.’ David took a couple of broad strides into the hall. ‘You’ve got it looking absolutely dandy in here – haven’t they, Barb? Look at that.’ He pointed up at the light fitting, sparkling overhead. ‘That’s one heck of a fine polish you’ve got on those bar backs, as well. Do you mind if I...’ And in a minute, he was in the bar. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice, indeed.’

  The two remaining kittens were in their urbex playground, Frazzles jabbing and sparring his way around the drawers; his sister, more docile, was asleep in one of the drawers. Her ears were like crisp packet corners.

  ‘Oh,’ Barbara said, ‘Martha said she was a lovely little cat. But I didn’t realise she would be this lovely.’

  ‘She hasn’t been spayed.’ Samhain lifted her out of the drawer. ‘But she should be old enough for that soon, and you should get it done.’

  ‘Oh.’ Barbara accepted the kitten, warm and sleepy, in her arms. ‘Let’s call her Martha. For your Martha.’

  David coughed, dangling his change. ‘He says she’s not his Martha, love.’

  Barbara’s face was buried into the cat’s back fluff, and she didn’t reply.

  ‘Now, let us see you right.’ David got his wallet out. ‘You must let us give you something for her.’

  He shuffled three twenties loose, out of the back of his wallet. Barbara was trying to persuade Little Martha to go into a fabric cat carrier, and the cat did not want to go. Four limbs starfished hard against the soft entrance.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Samhain said. ‘I won’t take your money.’

  ‘Take it.’

  ‘No. I didn’t do anything. It was Mama Cat who did all the work.’

  ‘Well.’

  David looked around, apparently for somewhere to stash the notes. Glancing first at the dado rail, perhaps thinking there might be a gap down one side; but it was glued fast, Frankie must have seen to that.

  ‘Try grabbing it by the scruff of the neck,’ Samhain said.

  ‘Seems cruel,’ she said, but she did, pinching a scrap of loose skin where an older cat might wear a collar. The kitty stopped writhing and hung limp, its legs trailing like seaweed. ‘Aha,’ Barbara said. ‘So that’s how you do it.’ She popped the cat into the bag, and zipped the door closed. ‘Who’s a good kitty, then? Who’s a beautiful girl?’

  ‘I imagine you’ve spent money on cat food, and so forth.’ David was getting to his feet; he’d spotted an opportunity between two of the drawers, and wedged the money in there. ‘We wouldn’t want
you to be out of pocket.’

  ‘I’m not a breeder,’ Samhain protested. He was trying to get to the money, to get it back, and force it into David’s hand, but Barbara stood in his way.

  ‘We haven’t had a pet since the dog died,’ she said. ‘But I just know the grandchildren are going to love little Martha. Aren’t they?’

  ‘Now look, we know you’ve got your job with Peter,’ David went on. ‘It’s not as if we think you’re a charity case. Just think of it as a token payment, that’s all. Just to keep you in pocket for kitty litter, and so forth. It’s a small price to pay, for something our girls are going to love so much. Isn’t that so, dear?’

  Little Martha was making a piteous mewing sound, like a cat trapped up a tree. ‘Oh yes,’ Barbara said. ‘And you know, you can come and visit her any time you like.’

  ‘Are you sure? About the money, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t even mention it,’ David said. ‘Shall we, dear?’ He motioned his wife to the stairs.

  ‘Better had,’ Barbara said. ‘The natives are getting restless.’

  Still, that made £110 now, for sending on to Charley.

  Samhain started to wish that he had waited before sealing up the envelope.

  9.

  ‘You’ve got everything you need in this flat.’ The woman showing them around had stiff dark hair, and a face that looked as though it had been buffed to a high shine with an industrial sander. ‘Kitchen – bathroom… you could put a pull-out sofa bed in the living room, and create a second bedroom.’

  She gestured down the hallway. ‘It’s a real feature to have a separate kitchen and living area. Creates a real feeling of spaciousness.’

  To say it was narrow would have been to do an unkindness to narrowboats. The kitchen had a single worktop the size of a chopping board, and the cooker only had one front leg; the other side was propped up by a tower of beermats.

  ‘Is that safe?’ Samhain asked.

  ‘What?’ The estate agent glanced at it. ‘Oh, that – you could ask the landlord to sort that out before you moved in. I’m sure he’d see to it. You see, this is an ideal starter flat,’ she went on. ‘Perfect location – very central – only you would have to apply quickly, because we’ve had a lot of interest in this one...’

  ‘It smells like somebody died in here,’ he said.

  Samhain saw: a back-to-back terraced house whose top window had a fabulous view of the nearby maximum security prison – barbed wire on top of a curved wall twenty feet high. That one had a good-sized kitchen and living room, and gold spray paint on all of the walls. ‘You could redecorate if you wanted to move in,’ the agent said, a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting navy suit. ‘The landlord is very easy-going that way – lets his tenants decorate to their own tastes...’ He looked as though he was itching to scratch himself round the collar.

  ‘Plenty of terraced houses around here,’ he said. ‘All with the same layout, same number of bedrooms – but this is quite a nice one, as you can see.’ He reached for the light switch, flicking it up, down, up, down. Nothing happened either way. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Light bulb must have gone.’

  The rent was out of Samhain’s price range, anyway.

  Samhain saw: an apartment in a converted Georgian house, with polished wooden floors, and a window looking out into the tops of the plane trees.

  Beneath the trees, a busy road. It wasn’t really near anything, apart from the main road that went to some other place. They’d had to walk ten minutes from the nearest bus stop to get here.

  He looked out of the window, saw tarmac, and concrete, and steel.

  ‘Should you have wooden floors?’ he asked Mart. ‘With children?’

  You could take your shoes off and cross the entirety of the flat in less than twenty paces. But once you had the windows shut, it was quiet: it had a living room, two tiny bedrooms. Was she a messy child, he wondered? A girl who left toys and trucks on floors, making a plasticky safari of every room?

  She tapped a foot, and her shoe made a tight echo around the walls. ‘Charley’s got wooden floors in her place.’

  ‘Like it?’ The agent was a slim, young Asian woman with a black ponytail, and dark jeans. She opened a door at the end of the living room. ‘And look, you’ve got all this storage – very useful. You need that, when you’ve got children.’ Beyond the door, a small cupboard held a big old boiler. ‘And you see, we’re not like the other agencies. If you ever have any problems, any emergency at all, you can always call us – 24 hours a day, not like some of the other agents. Say if the pipes burst, even on a Sunday night, you could call us and we’d have somebody out to you within the hour.’

  This place was less than five minutes’ walk to Charley’s, Marta had said.

  But to everywhere else, miles. It would be two buses to work, unless he could get Kebby to pick him up on the way in the van; half an hour’s bus ride to the social club. The last bus heading this way left town at ten thirty. Moving here would mean missing the last band at any gig.

  It would also mean getting a bike. ‘The location’s not exactly convenient,’ he said.

  As he said it, he caught sight of Marta’s face. Eyes to the ceiling, jaw tightened as if she was getting ready to throw a punch. It was a look he’d seen before on Roxy, and on Charley, but never before on Mart. It was a face that said, you are driving me up the fucking wall.

  He hadn’t even known Marta could pull this face.

  She took a deep breath. ‘That depends on what you want it to be convenient for, doesn’t it, Sam? I mean, no, it’s not convenient for going out drinking. But it is extremely convenient for seeing your daughter.’

  ‘To find a place like this, so modern, where the landlord will accept children?’ the agent chimed in. ‘Lucky,’ she said. ‘Extremely lucky. Most landlords wouldn’t even have let me show it to you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said.

  The agent flashed him a veneer-bright smile. ‘Is that a yes?’ She was pulling a sheaf of paperwork from a folder underarm: a form, all lines and black boxes, stapled in one corner.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘Been ages since I’ve done this,’ Samhain said to Mart.

  They were in the Boundary Hotel bar. Samhain was struggling over the rental application form while Mart, over by the pumps, did something to her bike, covered in grease face and hands.

  ‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘Well, better get a move on. A place like that might go fast – one that’s so cheap.’

  ‘That landlord probably owns at least half a dozen other places.’

  ‘Probably.’ She seemed disinterested. A ping, and something broke: he heard the buckshot scatter of metal flying over the wooden floor.

  In a box for References, he started writing Frankie’s name, and the address of the Boundary Hotel. ‘I hate renting and I hate landlords,’ he grumbled. ‘Having to give this up – all of this space – to go and live in a tiny place, and pay somebody else’s mortgage... pay for somebody else to get rich...’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Her voice was sharp as a razor. ‘You want to be near Charley and Astrid, don’t you? And you can’t keep on living here with Frankie – you said so yourself. It’s called growing up, Sam.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  The two of them, he and Frankie, had a longstanding agreement to act as one another’s former employers, or landlords, in situations like these. He had been Frankie’s ‘manager’ at least five times before himself, as Samhain Smith, MD of Smith-Wood Communications, a self-made man with a drive for success who had built up a small, but successful, telecommunications business from nothing. Samhain Smith MD had little time on his hands, and a slightly brusque telephone manner; he didn’t like spending time on the phone because, as he told callers, time was money, and even though his business was telephones, he didn’t like wasting time chatting on them himself.

  ‘Think of it this way. Charley’s been managing without you all this time. She doesn’t need you all of a
sudden. It’s you who’s got to fit into their lives, not the other way around.’

  Last time he’d rented, it had been an escape from the Ambland Road squat, when he had lived with Charley. He’d moved into the tenancy Charley already had running, and there hadn’t been any need for any of this – a guarantor form, an application to gain permission to rent. Whilst he’d been glad to get out of that squat, away from the dirt and noise, the rent had been more than he’d ever paid, and it had bound him to the crappy job he’d had at the time. Part-time work in the health food shop, for a short-tempered boss who ate meat in the back room on the sly. Some weeks, Samhain had been given as few as five hours’ work. Money had always been a struggle, then.

  ‘I know. Charley’s one of the most capable people I know.’

  ‘There you are, then.’ Mart lifted her front wheel off the ground. ‘So better get on with it, eh?’ She pushed the tyre, making the cogs and pedals turn. ‘If you want to be a part of Astrid’s life, you’ve got to show her you can contribute something. Don’t be a drain. Show Charley you can be consistent.’ She did something with her hands, and let both wheels of the bike bump against the carpet. ‘There,’ she said, smiling. ‘Fixed!’

  10.

  They were moving a family with two mothers. Both looked upwards of forty: the dark-haired one had lines in her face that might have been chipped from granite.

  Kebby struggled out to the van with a cello under one arm, and an artist’s easel under the other. ‘Now I have seen it all,’ he said.

  The whole downstairs of the house was boxes. The family had built a city of them, different sizes, streets and mazes in the carpeted lounge. It was a house that smelled of herbal tea and rosemary; it looked like they never threw anything out.

  ‘Shall we start with the heavy stuff?’ The dark-haired mother chose a big box, and started out towards the van.