Chapter Five
Five
I didn’t have high hopes for my childhood bedroom. I wagered it would be better than the kitchen, likely on par with the hall. What I wasn’t prepared for, however, was the sweet, sickly, cloying smell of death. Though perhaps she thought I’d be used to it by now.
The source of the stench—a rat—did not sequester itself in a dignified corner to die, like most self-respecting creatures.
No, this one expired in as flagrant a manner as possible: on my bed, tiny paws raised to the heavens like it was sending one final plea to the great beyond.
It must’ve been there for quite some time.
The fur is coming away from its leathery skin, which clings to its skeleton like latex stretched thin over fingers.
Death doesn’t bother me. I’ve seen two human bodies now, and overexposure has stripped most corpses of their macabre mystery.
But I don’t feel comfortable sharing a bed with one.
Other than my tiny bedfellow, the room is exactly as I remember.
Divided into two almost identical halves, with two identical beds, two identical bedside tables, and two identical lamps.
Everything is caked in dust. There are black rodent droppings over every surface, husks of insects suspended in torn spiderwebs, and a thick blanket of flies on the windowsill.
I expect they died trying to escape. I know the feeling.
On the other bed—her bed—something has been propped against the pillow. Something glossy, which reflects the dim light from the bare bulb. A photograph. God, I hope Mum hasn’t turned this room into some sort of shrine. If she has, it hasn’t been well maintained.
I pull my sleeve over my hand and pick up the photograph with the material, then hold it to the light.
It’s one of me and Marcie. I recognize it, vaguely.
We can’t have been more than thirteen. Marcie’s got her arm flung casually round me, whereas I’m hunched in on myself, shoulders rounded, as though the attention was all too much.
I’d drawn the puberty short straw: mousy hair greasy with sweat that fell in limp waves around my shiny face.
Bushy, unshaped eyebrows. Next to her, I didn’t stand a chance.
She was radiant, even at that age. Even with the mouthful of braces, the smattering of spots.
It’s coming back to me now. That day: the heat.
The smell of garbage. Marcie had been given a disposable camera for our birthday, and she’d asked a passing dog walker to take our photo.
She was always so self-assured. So confident, even with strangers.
My heart aches for the small child next to her. Always eclipsed by a brighter light.
I can feel myself sinking into melancholy, so I force myself to snap out of it.
I should deal with the rat, really, but I can’t face it yet.
I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. This is all a lot to take in.
But it’s important to maintain a sense of humor in the face of adversity, and even I can appreciate the irony of a germaphobe being forced to live in this cesspit.
I sit on the landing—I’ll have to wash these clothes later anyway—and pull out my phone.
No messages. Disappointing. Jack has not miraculously found my number and sent a message apologizing for his abrupt departure yesterday, which would be the polite, gentlemanly thing to do, but no matter.
I pull up his profile anyway, scroll through the public photos again.
Nothing new. Nothing to sate my interest. I need more.
It might be time to use Sally.
Sally is one of my more successful investments.
A divorced, middle-aged mother of two, she enjoys baking, crafting, and taking hikes in the glorious British countryside.
Periodically, she shares gratifying posts about finding love again, though—for the benefit of her ex-husband—she will occasionally write cryptic updates about how she “had the best time last night,” with a not-so-cryptic winky face tacked on to the end.
Sally is most frequently to be found online in the evening, between the hours of ten and midnight.
Her current profile picture features a woman with graying hair.
She sits in a run-down café, a small, fluffy dog in her arms. She’s focusing on the weak-looking cup of coffee that has just been placed in front of her, her face angled away from the camera, so that half of it is in shadow.
I log out of my own profile and type Sally’s email address and password into the login page.
I’m greeted with a few prosaic updates from people I’m keeping tabs on.
Rita’s shared yet another insufferable post about heaven, no doubt in the hope that’s where her dead father has ended up.
Somehow, I doubt it. I might need to unfriend her soon: She seems to be losing her grip on reality, and these posts are becoming tedious.
But back to the task at hand. I type Jack’s name into the search bar, and this time I don’t hesitate. I click the “Add Friend” button and feel better instantly. In control. Purposeful. People, I’ve discovered, don’t do well without something to work toward.
It buoys me enough to go back downstairs in search of cleaning products.
Mum’s where I left her, another lit cigarette clenched between her fingers. It turns my stomach. Disgusting habit. I’ll have to be quick. The cancer statistics for inhaling secondhand smoke are dismal.
She looks up as I enter, and I don’t like her expression. There’s something knowing, almost expectant about it. I clear my throat pointedly in the fuggy air.
“You’ve got rats.”
Her mouth twitches, but it’s no laughing matter. “At least I had something to keep me company,” she says.
“There’s a dead one on my bed. Rotting. You should get someone in.”
She taps her cigarette against the edge of the mug, and I watch a pillar of ash tumble in. My stomach heaves again. “Expensive. And it’s we.”
“What?”
“You said you’ve got rats. You live here now, too, don’t you? You deal with it. Call someone if you like. I’m not paying for it.”
I stare at her, hoping my disbelief is evident. “I can’t afford it. You know that’s why I’m here.”
She shrugs in response. There’s something about the way she’s watching me that makes me pause in my quest for cleaning products. Direct, unwavering. Like she’s trying to provoke a reaction. I wonder if there’s something I’m missing. Some small misstep I’ve made already.
Mentally, I retrace my steps through the house, searching for a reason for the knowing, steady look she’s giving me.
It hits me all at once. Of course. I can’t believe I missed it.
The photograph of Marcie and me, utterly untouched by the dust. Not a shrine at all, but a reminder.
A reminder intended for me, and me alone.
The picture was so clean it could have been placed there yesterday. It probably was.
Which means—a surge of outrage—that she must have seen the rat on my bed. That she did nothing about it. I won’t let myself consider that she’d put it there herself.
So that’s how she’s going to play it. She’s laid down the gauntlet, but she forgets that I’m more than up for the challenge.
I start by ignoring her pointed look. I find a plastic bag and cleaning products under the sink. Token reminders of a once-clean house. On my way out, I turn and give her a sweet, girlish smile, like I’m a dutiful daughter and she’s a doting mother.
Back upstairs, I book an appointment with the hairdresser for the very next day.