The Other Tenant, page 2
I spend a little time reading their post. Then I drop it into the fireplace grate and put a match to it all. I’d lay a proper fire in here if I could, but we’re under strict instructions from the landlord not to use any of the old fireplaces in the house because the chimneys haven’t been swept. Fucking tightwad. Bet he’s got one of those poncy woodburners in his own house.
There’s something mesmerizing about fire, isn’t there? Watching the flames dance in the air. Listening to the distinctive crackling and popping sounds. There’s nothing like it. It’s such a destructive force. The speed that car went up – it was incredible.
After I’ve swept the ash out of the grate and put it in my waste-paper bin, I return to my scrolling. Maybe it’s time I had a break from watching that video. I have a quick look at @Sue5Dilby’s timeline, but honestly, she’s so boring I’m not even sure I can be arsed to wind her up. And she’s hardly ever online. Where’s the fun in that? I follow her anyway, just in case. From a different username. Obvs.
I know, I’ll have another pop at some of those lifestyle twats on Instagram. I haven’t done that in a while and they really crease me up. I’ve been following a few new ones lately. Like this one who calls herself Boho Birdie and goes on about all the beautiful vintage pieces she’s found. She’s got ten thousand followers, would you believe? Ten thousand followers who drool over her photos and say things like ‘@bohobirdie, you are SUCH an inspiration!’
Excuse me while I puke. She doesn’t say where she lives, only that it’s a renovation project in London that she’s been working on for the last couple of years. To be fair, it is rather beautiful. Looks like it could have been a church in a former life.
I’d love to know what she looks like, but unfortunately, she never does selfies. She posts the odd story, but she’s always behind the camera, never in front of it. Same with her reels. Her stupid fucking reels that everyone seems to love but which make me cringe. Why don’t these saddos realize how embarrassing they are?
Every so often there’s a glimpse of one of her hands, or a foot. Once, she posed in front of a full-length mirror, but the way she took the photo you couldn’t see her face. She jokes that nobody wants to see her ‘ugly mug’ and that anyway, ‘it’s all about the interiors’.
Now come on, Birdie, tell the truth. It’s not all about the interiors, is it, love? It’s all about YOU!
I think about that video. What a buzz it gave me, seeing that dickhead’s car get torched. Imagining his reaction when he looked out of his bedroom window.
You see, people think we’re harmless in real life. They think we’re sad, pathetic creatures who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but we’re not. Not all of us, anyway. Some of us don’t mind taking things offline once in a while. Some of us actually relish the chance.
2
Marlow
It’s Sunday, two days after my conversation with Harry Kiernan, and I’m ready to go. I could have stayed on for a few more days, but there’s no point in hanging about and prolonging the agony. I walk round the outside of the chapel to make sure it’s secure and that there are no signs of forced entry, no fresh graffiti on the walls or litter in the tiny, overgrown graveyard. I’ve followed the same routine every single day for the past ten months as part of my duties, and I’ve come to enjoy the ritual. The silent communion with the dead.
Earlier this year, during the peak of the heatwave, I found a smouldering disposable barbecue tray someone had tossed into the bin. People are so stupid, so thoughtless. I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn’t sensed something was wrong and gone out to investigate. One spark flying out on to the tinder-dry grass, and the whole graveyard could have been set alight.
That kind of thing happens to me sometimes. Dev says it’s nothing more than good, old-fashioned intuition, and laughs when I tell him I’m sure it’s a form of psychic ability. I mean, there was no way I could have known about it. There was no smell or noise, not inside the chapel.
Fire. My worst fear. I screw my eyes shut. Refuse to think of it.
There’s a nip in the air today, a reminder that autumn is on its way. The leaves have already started to change colour and fall, and for a moment I stand among the ancient gravestones, mulch sticking to my trainers, and let the sadness wash over me. If it weren’t for Dev parked on a double yellow line at the front of the chapel, I’d stay even longer.
When I finally tear myself away and join him on the street, he’s hoisting the last of my bags into the back of his white van, a grubby Ford Transit.
‘Don’t know what I’d do without you,’ I say.
It’s the first time I’ve said anything like that to him, but lately I’ve sensed a slight shift in our friendship, as if something has come loose, some vital connection that might suddenly and irrevocably sever.
‘Sure you mean me and not the van?’ he says.
He’s grinning, but something about his eyes isn’t right. I plant a kiss on his stubbly left cheek.
‘We are OK, aren’t we, Dev?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I dunno. You seem … different.’
He gives me a level stare. ‘You think?’
‘Dev, you can talk to me, you know, if something’s bothering you. We’re mates, aren’t we?’
Dev laughs, but there’s an edge to it. ‘Yeah, course we are.’
He shuts the doors at the back of the van and walks round to the driver’s side, opens the door and climbs in. I get into the passenger side. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.
He points at the satnav stuck to his windscreen. ‘Stick the address in, will you?’
‘Shit! I’ve left my Rubik’s cube on the altar table.’
Dev sighs. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to go through the rigmarole of unlocking and locking that fucking door again for a piece of old tat?’
But I’m out of the van before he can say another word. I’ve had that cube all my life and it’s coming with me. One of these days, I might even manage to solve it.
Ten minutes later, the cube safely on my lap, I tap the postcode into the satnav and settle back as Dev starts the engine and pulls away. Anyone else would probably turn around to take one last look at the chapel, but not me. When one part of your life is over, it’s over, and that’s that. Finito. Jobs, lovers, homes, childhood. There’s no point revisiting any of them. No point at all.
So why the hell am I going back to my old school?
Because I’ve run out of options, that’s why. And because Angie told me to. In his own, inimitable way. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
‘Guess I won’t see you much if you’re living on the other side of town,’ Dev says.
‘You can see as much of me as you like.’ I glance at the side of his face. ‘Stay over tonight if you want.’
We’ve shared a bed before, usually when Dev’s had a drink and can’t drive home, but we’ve never actually done more than cuddle up for a while and fall asleep. I get the feeling he’d like more, but he’s never tried it on. Not once.
My words hang in the air between us, and I’m horribly aware that they sound like an invitation.
His left hand lands on my knee and gives it a brief squeeze. There’s something apologetic about it. ‘Cheers, but no. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’
‘Oh yeah? Where you off to?’
I didn’t particularly want him to stay over, not on the first night in a new place, but now that he’s said no, I feel snubbed. Rejected. How stupid is that?
‘Bristol. Then it’s Birmingham the day after.’
I nod. All the kids are starting uni. Dev and his van are in demand. ‘I suppose you could have done without me adding to your workload.’
Dev shrugs. ‘It’s what mates are for, innit?’
He puts the radio on, and for the rest of the journey, neither of us speaks much. It’s not exactly awkward – we’ve known each other too long for that. But it’s not entirely comfortable either. I uncross my legs and roll my neck, first in one direction, then the other. I hear it pop and do it again. I think of what another friend, another ‘mate’, once said. You could do a lot worse than Dev, you know.
Even now, months later, that comment still rankles. It was the underlying assumption that I probably don’t have much hope of doing any better. Or worse still, that settling for Dev is better than being on my own. It sounds like the sort of thing my mum would say, if she were ever to meet him. Not that there’s anything wrong with him. Dev’s cool. Dev’s a laugh. Well, normally he is.
Who am I kidding? Dev’s so much more than that. Dev is my best friend and I’ve taken him for granted, assumed that what suits me suits him too. I meant what I said earlier. I don’t know what I’d do without him.
We’ve reached the outskirts of Belsize Park now, with its tree-lined streets and wide pavements, its trendy boutiques and cafes. With Camden to one side and Hampstead to the other, it’s a world away from Woolwich. As a property guardian, I’ve lived on both sides of the river, but I’ve grown to prefer the south. It doesn’t take itself quite so seriously. And yet here I am, moving north again.
I shift position in my seat, forcing my gaze on to the windscreen and the road ahead. We’re passing through a more residential area now. I’m holding myself so stiffly, my neck and shoulders have begun to ache.
‘Bet these places cost a bomb,’ Dev says, more to himself than me. The disapproval in his voice is unmistakable.
I check out the grey plantation shutters on my parents’ bedroom window. Not that it is their bedroom window. Not since they sold up and moved into a fancy apartment in Montpellier. But apart from the shutters and two different cars on the driveway, the house looks exactly the same as it did when I lived there.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I bet they do.’
We’re almost at the school now. It looks both familiar and eerily different. Like one of those weird dreams where you think you recognize where you are, but it’s not quite the same as you remember, and you’re lost and unsettled.
Dev peers at it through the windscreen. ‘Looks like it must have been a private school.’
If I told him what the yearly fees were and that I used to be a pupil here, he’d never believe me. There are times when I hardly believe it myself. He’d be furious, too, that I’ve been lying to him all this time, pretending to be something I’m not. Our shared ‘working-class’ background and disdain for the privileged elite is what drew us together in the first place, what binds us still.
The stupid thing is, if I’d told him to start with, we might still have become friends. I’d probably have had to work a bit harder to earn his respect, but once he got to know the real me, it would have been fine. I know it would. But it’s too late for all that. Our whole friendship is based on a lie. To come clean now would ruin everything between us. It’s why I can’t even contemplate a romantic relationship with him.
The perimeter fencing is higher than before, with large, strategically placed notices that state: This property is protected by live-in guardians. But that hasn’t stopped someone from scrawling graffiti across one of the fence panels where the property developers have fixed their logo. Big letters in red paint spell out the word ‘SHAME’.
‘I guess it makes a change from “Fuck Off”,’ Dev says, and even though I make an amused exhalation in response, I feel shaken by it. Where the paint has run it looks like blood, and there’s something about that solitary word that’s more unnerving than the usual obscenities. Shame about what?
‘Take this side road on the right,’ I tell Dev. If Harry’s instructions are correct, the East Gate – at the entrance to the original school building – is the only way in and out of the campus, now that it’s been secured by the agency.
The old tightness in my chest returns. The Monday-morning dread that used to start at about four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. But it’s more than that this time. I can feel it in my gut too. As if I’m shivering from the inside out. What on earth was I thinking, agreeing to move here of all places? Why the hell did I take any notice of a stupid angel? Correction: a decorative window. I must be mad.
Dev parks up, and I get out to press the button marked ‘Reception’. After several long minutes, when I’m on the verge of getting back in the van and telling Dev I’ve changed my mind, a male voice answers.
‘Hello? Who is it?’
‘Marlow. Marlow Cairns. I’m moving in today.’ The words don’t sound real. Surely I’m not doing this?
There is a brief silence. Then the buzzer goes, and the gate slides open with a low whirring sound. I walk through and gesture to Dev to follow me in, tell him where to park the van. As I look up at the words carved into the stone lintel above the entrance – ‘McKinleys School for Girls’ – the gates click shut behind us and something in my stomach curdles.
This is a terrible mistake.
3
Marlow
The first time I stood here, aged eleven, I was flanked by my parents. I remember gazing at the imposing red-brick building covered in creeping ivy, its high arched windows and bell-tower, and thinking it looked more like a church than a school. Dad launched into one of his many lectures, explaining all about Victorian Gothic architecture and how it was expressly designed to draw the eye upward, towards God. I was more than a little apprehensive, but something of their confidence and pride must have rubbed off on me that day, because I was excited, too. I was going to be a McKinleys girl.
Now, as my eyes travel up to the finials on the roof once again, my overriding sensation is queasiness. Why did I ever think this was a good idea?
A lanky guy in his thirties steps out to meet me. There are old acne scars on his cheeks, and he wears a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. He pushes them up his nose with his middle finger and walks towards me.
‘I was expecting you earlier,’ he says. His eyes are small and sharp. Pink-rimmed, like a rodent’s.
I stick my hand out towards him. ‘Hi, how you doing?’
When someone is rude, I always weigh in with extra courtesy to make a point. But as soon as I touch his clammy palm, I really wish I hadn’t.
‘My friend is here to help me move my stuff in,’ I say, trying to rub my hand on my jeans as discreetly as I can.
The two men grunt at each other.
‘His name is Dev,’ I say. Why are men so hopeless at this sort of thing? ‘And you are?’
‘Sorry, yeah, I’m Rob. Rob Hornby. I’m the HG.’
‘What’s that stand for?’
‘Head Guardian. Follow me. I’ll show you to your room.’
As soon as I step into the darkened interior of the school and catch sight of the old hall, I feel like a schoolgirl again. Eighteen years might have passed since I was last here, but it feels like yesterday. I keep expecting to hear the strident tones of Miss Latham, the headmistress, ringing out from the stage.
We pass the old office. There’s just one computer now, rigged up to security cameras, and a typing chair on wheels with a torn cushion. A Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle with steam rising from it has been left on the one remaining desk.
‘Looks like we’ve interrupted your lunch.’
Rob shrugs. ‘It’s too hot anyway.’
‘The clue’s in the name,’ I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t. I always make stupid jokes when I’m nervous. It makes me look like a pillock.
‘This way,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you the full tour once you’ve brought all your stuff in. You’ll meet the rest of the squad later. I’ve arranged a meeting at seven o’clock. In the drama block.’
I almost groan out loud. After ten months of doing my own thing in the chapel, of not having to answer to anyone else, I’ve walked straight into my worst nightmare. I’m part of a squad.
‘Where am I then? Which classroom?’
‘You’re in Block C, across the playground. Unit 9. Top floor. The lift’s not working, I’m afraid.’
I stare at him, dismayed. Having one of the rooms in the beautiful old Instagrammable part of the school with the lovely arched windows was the only reason I agreed to come here in the first place. The only thing that made this decision seem slightly less crazy than it clearly is.
‘But Harry said I’d be in the old building.’
Rob blinks behind his glasses. ‘I’m afraid there’s a bad leak in the room that’s just been vacated. It’s unlikely to be fixed for a while.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind about that. I’ve put up with a lot worse—’
‘Sorry,’ Rob says. ‘You don’t have a choice.’
I bite my lip. I want to tell him that I do have a choice. I can turn around and walk away from here right now. Go back to Dev’s place and wait for something else to come up. I could even call my parents and blag the fare to Montpellier. They’ve been on at me to go over and visit them for ages, even though we all know we’ll be sick of each other after a couple of days.
No. Weird and uncomfortable though it is being back at McKinleys, it can’t be as bad as living with Mum and Dad again, listening to them go on and on about how I’m wasting my life and how it’s not too late to turn things around.
I can still remember the shock on their faces when my A Level results came through. And when I refused to resit them and insisted on getting an ordinary job, the sort of job they didn’t want a daughter of theirs to do, the shock turned to anger. I was the investment that didn’t pay out.
Rob sets off across the hall towards the door to the playground. ‘This room’s actually better,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘No one’s ever lived in there before, so you’ll be starting with a clean slate.’
‘Why don’t we go back to the van first and get some of your stuff?’ Dev says. ‘Seems daft walking all the way over there empty-handed.’
‘No,’ Rob says. ‘She has to check the unit first, and sign and date the inventory form and the declaration before she can start moving in.’
