The Other Tenant, page 1
About the Author
Lesley Kara is the Sunday Times bestselling author of The Rumour, Who Did You Tell?, The Dare and The Apartment Upstairs. The Rumour was the highest selling crime fiction debut of 2019 in the UK, and a Kindle No.1 bestseller. Lesley is an alumna of the Faber Academy ‘Writing a Novel’ course. She lives in Kent.
You can follow Lesley on Twitter @LesleyKara or visit her website at www.lesleykara.com
Also by Lesley Kara
The Rumour
Who Did You Tell?
The Dare
The Apartment Upstairs
Lesley Kara
* * *
THE OTHER TENANT
To Phoenix Heath, Milo Max and Theodora Moon
DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE A PROPERTY GUARDIAN?
We have vacancies all over London starting from £50 a week and are looking for tenants with a difference – responsible people willing to act as property guardians.
You would occupy a shared living space (although solo occupancies are sometimes available) under a non-exclusive licence agreement, and would be required to look after the property in accordance with the property guardian guidelines.
Please note, your live-in presence would act as a deterrent for antisocial behaviour common to unoccupied buildings, e.g. squatting or asset-stripping, but in no circumstances would you be required to intervene in or prevent criminal activity.
You must be 18+, employed, and with no live-in dependents or pets.
Please email Harry Kiernan at hkiernan@guardianangelsinc.com for an informal discussion.
Hayley
This place gives me the creeps. Pools aren’t supposed to be empty. They’re meant to be full of water. Blue and inviting. Silky-smooth against the skin.
It isn’t just the air of neglect, or the dated, institutional vibe; there’s something about the shape of it I find unsettling. The hard, unforgiving angles of the exposed rectangular basin. The dramatically sharp slope to the deep end. Then there are the clinical white tiles with black mould in the grouting, like food stuck between teeth. And the metal ladders, flat against the sides.
I walk as far from the edge of the pool as I can possibly get, convinced I can still smell chlorine, still hear the echo of shrill voices, the splashing as young bodies propel themselves through the water. Every time my trainers squeak against the tiled floor, I flinch.
The tiered seating area to my left is shadowy in the fading light. I force myself to swivel my head, braced for the sight of a lone spectator watching my every move, even though I know I’m quite alone in here. I’ve been observing it from outside for ages, and no one has come in or gone out. If only my rational brain would communicate that fact to my heart, which is beating fit to burst through my chest.
When I’ve satisfied myself that there’s nothing of interest to be found in the immediate vicinity of the pool, I climb the stairs to the spectator area, letting my gaze travel along each row of seats. Then I look under the seats, but apart from old sweet wrappers there’s nothing there. I go back down to the pool and into the changing rooms, where a thorough search reveals nothing more exciting than a couple of slimy old swim caps and a pair of dirty knickers left scrunched up in a locker.
Feeling much calmer now that I can no longer see the exposed shell of the swimming pool, I explore the rest of the building. The door to the pump room stands open, and I can see all the equipment inside. The bank of switches on the wall. The maze of pipework and valves, that looks like the back of a giant washing machine. The massive filtration cylinder and circulation pump.
Even with everything turned off and disconnected, it feels dangerous to be standing so close to it all. For a moment I think I hear a ticking noise, like a radiator warming up. I stand perfectly still and listen intently. No, the only sounds I can hear are my own breath and the beating of my heart.
I reach out my hand and touch the cylinder with the very tips of my fingers. Stone cold. Of course it is. This pool has lain empty and unused ever since the school closed down two years ago.
I’m about to leave and do a quick check of the toilets when I hear footsteps coming from further down the corridor. The brisk, echoey slap of shoes on linoleum. I freeze. I’m definitely not hearing things this time.
Panicking, I look around for somewhere to hide.
I push the pump-room door till it’s almost closed, then tuck myself behind the filtration cylinder. I crouch down on the floor and hold my breath as the steps draw nearer. I hear a door opening and closing, and the footsteps stop. I can’t be sure, but I think they’ve just gone into the changing rooms.
Shit! I left my tote bag on one of the benches while I was searching the lockers. My phone is in that bag. What if it starts ringing?
My knees are stiff from crouching down, and I shift position. Further along the corridor, a door swings shut. I hold my breath, too petrified to move a muscle. Please God, don’t let them have found it. Please God, don’t let anyone call me until they’ve gone. The footsteps start up again, only now they sound like they’re heading away from the pump room and back towards the exit that leads to the playground.
I rock back on my haunches, relief flooding through me. I must be crazy doing this. I should have got the hell out of here days ago. Slowly, gingerly, I stand up.
And that’s when I see it, tucked behind one of the pipes that run horizontally along the wall about four inches from the floor. Suddenly, I know exactly what’s going on here. I know what this is all about.
The tap on my shoulder makes me gasp. If this is who I think it is …
I turn my head reluctantly, desperately trying to think of a good reason for why I’m here, a reason that will reassure them I’m not—
‘Oh! It’s you!’ I almost laugh out loud. ‘Thank God.’
Then I see the look on their face and register what they’re holding. But … but surely that’s for something else. It can’t be …
My mouth goes dry. I’ve got it wrong. So very, very wrong.
‘I won’t tell,’ I say, my voice little more than a squeak.
The loud rasp of the gaffer tape as it peels away from the reel makes my stomach contract.
‘I promise I won’t—’
1
Marlow
The agency is supposed to give me a month’s notice, and to be fair, they usually do. But not this time. I’ve got less than a week to pack up my stuff and find somewhere else to live, before the developers move in and turn this place – my home for the last ten months – into two swanky apartments, the likes of which I’ll never in a million years be able to afford.
I look into the eyes of the angel in the stained-glass window, and a small part of me hopes for divine intervention.
‘Come on, Angie.’ My voice echoes in the rafters. ‘Prove you’re not a figment of the collective imagination and bloody well do something. Save me. Please.’
For one split second, I think I see a flicker in Angie’s glassy eyes, but of course it’s just a trick of the light. I squint up at the benevolent figure in the blue robe. Perhaps he isn’t keen on being called Angie, although it’s a bit late to give him a new name now.
From somewhere outside comes the sound of a fire engine. It cuts straight through me like a jolt of electricity, and I find myself waiting, as I always do, breath suspended in my lungs, to see if the sound gets closer or recedes. Today, thankfully, it recedes. My shoulders soften and I exhale.
I turn away from the window and face the empty pews. My invisible congregation.
‘Right then, you lot, we’ve got work to do.’
When I first spotted the old chapel on the agency’s website, I knew straight away that I’d be happy here. It was just a feeling I had. An inexplicable sense that, out of all the possible places I could choose to live, this one would suit me best. I guessed it would be draughty, and it is. But the cold keeps me sharp, makes me feel alive. In any case, the beauty of the building, its history, more than makes up for its chilly interior.
There was another, more compelling reason why I was so keen to move in. It was a solo occupancy, and that alone made it an attractive option, never mind the Gothic architecture or the way the light shines through the stained-glass window. Never mind the solidity of the thick stone walls and the sturdy, double-planked door with its iron studs and bands to repel intruders.
When I draw the heavy bolt across each night, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace and security. Now though, everything’s up in the air again. If the agency can’t find me another suitable vacancy, I’ll be homeless. There’s always Dev’s place, of course. I won’t exactly be on the streets, but even so …
In the tiny vestry, I retrieve my large, framed rucksack. It’s the most useful thing I’ve ever bought. One of the most expensive too, apart from my camera. As I lift it clear of the hook on the wall, the backs of my eyeballs start to tingle. I screw up my face and shake my head till the sensation passes. Tears are no use to me – they won’t change anything. I’ve always known this day was coming. Everything in life is temporary. Provisional. At least, it is in mine. But it’s the life I’ve chosen, so I can’t really complain.
I plonk the rucksack on the vestry table and unzip its various compartments, running my hands inside each and every one to check they’re empty. Once, I found a tenner folded up small and caught in one of the seams. I love it when that happens – it’s like an unexpected victory. No such luck today though.
Half an hour later, I’ve made a good start and packed my underwear, my second pair of jean
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out. It’s Harry from the agency.
‘You’re in luck,’ he says. ‘I’ve found you another place, but you’re going to have to make your mind up quick. It won’t hang about. Not this one.’
My heart soars. When he called me with the bad news earlier this morning, he offered me a room in an empty office block in North Acton, and I turned it down. He wasn’t best pleased. I’d heard what he was thinking in his voice: beggars can’t be choosers. But that’s where he’s wrong. I’d rather doss with Dev for a few weeks than shack up on the floor with a load of other people snoring and farting on the other side of a flimsy partition wall. I’ve lived in an office block before, and it was a dismal experience. Almost as bad as working in one.
Sometimes, being a property guardian feels like a brave, exciting thing to do. I’m an adventurer, living on the edge, spurning the tedium of a humdrum existence. A non-conformer. A bohemian. Other times, it feels sordid and sad. Not much better than being a squatter, as my dad would say. As he has said, on more than one occasion.
‘Sounds promising,’ I tell Harry. ‘What is it?’
‘A school in North London. You’d have a whole classroom to yourself in a nice old Victorian building. We’ve already got a small team installed there, but one of them’s had to leave at short notice.’ I hear him sigh. ‘I’m really annoyed with her, actually,’ he drawls in that bored-sounding, public-school voice of his. ‘She was adamant she wanted this licence. I turned down several good, reliable applicants on the strength of that.’
I don’t say what I’m thinking: that it’s a bit rich of the agency to expect 100 per cent commitment from their guardians, when long-term security is the very last thing they offer us. Harry’s given me hardly any notice to vacate the chapel, and I wouldn’t mind betting I’m as good and reliable a guardian as any on his books.
‘I can whizz the details over to you in a sec,’ he says. ‘But it won’t be available for much longer.’ He pauses. ‘I’ve got at least six other people interested in this one.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Sure you don’t want to look at the details first?’
I hesitate, but only for a second. A whole classroom to myself, and the architecture in some of those Victorian schools is stunning. If I wait till he sends the details over, someone else is bound to beat me to it. Harry always makes out he’s on my side and that he’s doing me a big favour by letting me see the best places first, but all he really cares about is bums on floors. Whether it’s my bum or someone else’s won’t matter a jot to him.
‘I’ll take it,’ I say again.
When the email comes through a few minutes later and I click on the link, my legs start to wobble, and I have to sit down. I assumed it would be an old primary school. They’re always being sold off and turned into luxury flats. But this is a secondary school. And not just any old secondary school. It’s my old secondary school.
I stare at my phone in shock, the old panicky feeling rising up through my body, swelling like a wave. I’ll have to call him back and tell him I’ve changed my mind, tell him the accommodation isn’t suitable after all. Of all the places to be offered … I’ve spent the last eighteen years trying to expunge McKinleys from my memory. I can’t go back. I can’t.
I shake my head and try to blank out the images that blaze through my mind because if I don’t, the physical sensations will surely follow: the tight chest, the racing heart, the sweating. But it’s too late – they’re already happening. I’m burning up. Even my eyes have started to sting.
I get up so fast I knock the chair backwards. It lands with a crash on the stone floor, but I don’t stop to pick it up. I leave the vestry and go back into the nave. Think of something else, quick. Look at this place. Just look at it. Focus on what you can see. Right here. Right now. Focus, and breathe.
Eventually, the mindfulness techniques I’ve perfected over the years begin to work and the panic recedes. In the late afternoon sun, the chapel is more beautiful than ever. I press the camera icon on my phone and line up another shot of the window. I’ll miss it so much; the way the light refracts through the stained glass, the way it lends everything it touches a heavenly glow. I’ve taken hundreds of pictures since I’ve been here, and no two are identical. It’s like watching the sea every day from the same position on the shore. The light changes everything.
I post the picture on Instagram, then stuff my phone back in my pocket and lie down on my favourite pew, the one I’ve draped with scarves and covered with scatter cushions. I gaze up at the vaulted ceiling and reflect on my situation. If I turn down this offer, I’ll almost certainly end up in that ghastly office block. I’ll have to get rid of half my stuff or ask Dev to store some for me. All my lovely finds.
A whole classroom though … now that would be something. It might even be good for me, seeing the place empty and unused. Consigned to history. It might even, in some weird, masochistic way, be healing. Exposure therapy, isn’t that what it’s called? Facing your fears head on. Extinguishing them one by one.
I look up at the window. ‘What should I do?’
Angie stares down at me, as he always does. Silent. Benign. Do I honestly expect him to give me an answer?
‘Please, Angie, give me a sign if you think I should go. A wink or something.’ My voice rings out in the silence. Pleading. Almost childlike. A wink? Am I mad?
I’m about to fish my phone out of my pocket and read Harry’s email again, when an arrow of light falls across the pew and makes me start. I squint up at the window. It looks like a laser beam is coming straight out of Angie’s left eye. In all the time I’ve been here, I’ve never seen the light do that. Not once.
It’s a fluke, that’s all. A freaky coincidence. To interpret it as a sign would be absurd.
And yet …
I must have watched this clip on Twitter (or X or whatever it’s called now) a hundred times or more, yet each time it gets better. First, a slim guy dressed in black saunters up to a car parked on one of the driveways. It’s night-time in a typical suburban street on the outskirts of London. He tries the handle, and for a second it looks like he’s one of those opportunist car thieves. But then, in one swift, practised manoeuvre, he’s done something to the lock and got the door open.
As he steps away and out of view, another man, also dressed in black, enters the frame, chucks something on to the front seat, and sprints away. Within seconds, the car goes up in flames. The speed is astonishing. Exhilarating.
Then comes the voiceover from the person filming. His voice is low but jubilant. ‘And that, my friends, is what happens when you spout a load of shit on the internet.’
I add my comment to the ever-growing list under the video.
‘Pity he wasn’t in the car when they torched it.’
Someone immediately pounces on me. Someone called @Sue5Dilby. ‘What’s wrong with you people? Why do you have to be so hateful?’
So hateful? Is that the best she can come up with? I’m about to respond, when the familiar clang of the letter box and the thump of what sounds like a heap of post landing on the hall floor drags me away from my screen.
I go downstairs and scoop it up. None of it’s for me – it hardly ever is – but I take it back to my room anyway. My housemates have been pissing me off lately, always going on about how I don’t clean up after myself in the kitchen. Just because I left a couple of dirty cereal bowls in the sink one time and got curry stains on someone’s best tea towel. Christ Almighty. Talk about uptight. And who the hell has a best tea towel?
