Chapter 15
Mark
By the time I get back to Islington on Sunday afternoon, Heath has survived family lunch by what I can only describe as sheer spite.
I carry the cage into the kitchen, set it carefully on the table, and peel off my jacket.
He remains buried inside the beanie.
Motionless.
Emotionally bankrupt.
“Dramatic,” I inform him.
No response.
Fair.
The house is quiet.
Not unsettlingly quiet.
Just my usual kind of quiet.
Orderly.
Controlled.
A place where everything sits where I left it and nobody hums One Direction while poaching eggs.
I stand still for a second.
Then immediately wish I hadn’t.
Because now all I can hear is the absence.
Excellent.
I drop my keys in the bowl by the door and lean on the counter.
Sunday lunch at my parents’ had started innocently enough.
Mum had cooed over the hamster like I’d arrived with an orphaned infant.
Dad had asked whether hamsters bite.
Tom had wanted to know if this was some kind of delayed psychological event.
My eldest brother, Daniel, had looked at the cage and said, “You picked up a rodent with the bloke?”
Which, admittedly, was not an unreasonable summary.
I had ignored all of them.
For nearly forty minutes, Heath had remained hidden and offended while Mum cut cucumber into pieces with the concentration of a Michelin chef.
Then Lily discovered that tapping the side of the cage made him move.
One enthusiastic niece drumming on plastic.
One horrified squeak from inside the beanie.
One hamster launching himself into complete nervous collapse.
And one truly impressive quantity of panic-induced shit.
Mum had reacted first.
“Lily, absolutely not!”
Daniel had laughed so hard he nearly choked on Yorkshire pudding.
Tom had announced, “Bloody hell, he’s detonated.”
Dad, traitorously useless, had said, “Well, that can’t be ideal.”
Meanwhile I had been trying to get the cage open while Heath ricocheted around like a furry jumping bean in emotional crisis.
Not my finest hour.
Mum had hustled the kids away, fetched kitchen roll, and informed my brothers that if either of them made one more joke she would write them out of the will.
They made several more jokes.
One child banging at the cage and the poor little bastard had all but left his soul.
I look over at the beanie lump now.
Yeah.
Sophie’s house with two boys would have finished him by Wednesday.
At least one sensible choice was made this weekend.
I start unpacking his supplies.
Food in one cupboard.
Treats in another.
Fresh wood shavings under the sink.
Heath noses out just enough to blink at me with deep distrust.
“You survived.”
He disappears again.
I pull my phone from my pocket.
Philip’s number sits there.
One press away.
I stare at it.
Then lock the screen and put the phone face down.
No.
He said he wasn’t good at this.
He said he needed to let it be what it was.
I can respect that.
Even if respecting it feels suspiciously like being kicked in the ribs by common sense.
Heath pokes his nose out again.
Looks at me.
Then retreats.
I fold my arms.
“You,” I tell him, “are a terrible roommate.”
I leave Heath to settle and head upstairs for a shower.
By the time I come back down in joggers and a T-shirt, the edge of the day has dulled slightly.
Heath is sitting in the food bowl, stuffing sunflower seeds into his face with the grim determination of a man eating through emotional collapse.
I lean on the island and watch him.
“You’re coping better than I am, which feels unfair.”
He ignores me.
The beanie, however, is another matter.
Sunday lunch has not improved its condition.
Between the panic-shit incident and Heath’s insistence on treating it like a bunker, it now looks like a damp woollen health hazard.
That needs washing.
I open the cage carefully while Heath is occupied and lift the beanie out.
He freezes.
One sunflower seed hanging out of his mouth.
Suspicion.
“It’s being cleaned,” I tell him.
No visible reassurance.
I rummage through the supply bag Philip left behind and find the small wooden cave Philip had scrubbed after Friday night’s equally glamorous digestive episode.
That should do.
I place it in the same corner and close the cage.
Heath waddles over.
Sniffs it.
Circles it.
Sniffs it again.
Then starts pawing frantically at the wood shavings, nosing under it, shoving his face into corners like he’s trying to locate the missing hat by scent alone.
I watch him for a moment.
Heath continues his increasingly offended search.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I head upstairs to my bedroom and pull open the bottom drawer of the wardrobe.
Winter stuff. Scarves. Gloves. A couple of old wool beanies I haven’t worn in months.
I grab a dark blue one and head back down.
“This is not a precedent,” I tell him.
Back at the cage, I remove the wooden cave and drop the beanie into the corner.
The transformation is immediate.
Heath scurries forward, dives inside, turns three frantic circles, and vanishes.
Stillness.
I stare.
Then let out a short laugh.
“You high-maintenance little bastard.”
A twitch of blue wool is my only answer.
I crouch down and lift one edge of the beanie.
Heath is curled into a tight little ball inside it, nose tucked under himself, already looking marginally less betrayed by life.
I take a photo.
Then another because the first one is blurry.
Then stare at both for a second longer than any sane man should spend reviewing hamster portraits.
Ridiculous.
On impulse, I send the better one to Callum.
The reply comes back almost instantly.
Callum
Why are you sending me rodent images on a Sunday?
Me
That’s Heath.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Callum
You bought a hamster and named him Heath?
Mark, what the fuck is going on?
I snort loudly.
Me
Long story.
Callum
I’m supposed to be concerned, aren’t I?
Me
Probably.
Another pause.
Callum
Have you made him an Instagram yet?
I stare at the screen.
Then at the cage.
At Heath bundled in my old beanie.
At my kitchen, which still feels too quiet and far too aware that someone is missing from it.
No.
Absolutely not.
That would be unhinged.
I open Instagram.
Five minutes later, the account is live.
@hamsteroftheheath.
Profile picture: Heath glaring suspiciously out from the fold of blue wool.
Bio: London rodent. Survivor of seagull attacks. Collector of hats.
I stare at it.
Then let out a short laugh under my breath because apparently this is where my life has landed.
The first post goes up before I can reconsider.
Photo: Heath curled inside the beanie.
Caption: New residence. Same anxiety.
I toss the phone onto the counter.
Then, because Callum deserves to suffer for planting the idea in the first place, I pick it back up.
Find his profile.
And send Callum a follow request from @hamsteroftheheath.
I grin to myself.
Petty.
But satisfying.
The phone rings less than ten seconds later.
“That was quick.”
“What,” Callum says flatly, “the fuck is this?”
I look over at Heath’s cage.
“At a guess? Social media.”
“Do not be a smart arse. Why am I being followed by a hamster?”
“Because he’s broadening his horizons.”
There is a silence on the line.
The kind of silence that usually precedes either murder or financial litigation with Callum.
“Mark.”
“Yes.”
“Are you alright?”
I let out a breath that might almost be a laugh.
“That seems to be everyone’s first question.”
“You have never in your life sent me photos of rodents hiding in knitwear.”
“First time for everything.”
“Mark.”
There it is.
That tone.
The one beneath the sarcasm.
Actual concern.
I scrub a hand over my jaw.
“It’s Philip’s hamster.”
Another pause.
“Philip.”
“Yes.”
“I guess we are talking about the bloke from Whitstable?”
I go still.
I never actually told him that much.
Not directly.
Callum snorts on the other end.
“You disappeared off radar Friday night after saying someone caught your eye. You ignored me most of Saturday. You are now in possession of a hamster named Heath and have created a social media account for it. I’m not an idiot.”
Fair.
Heath remains hidden in the beanie like he wants no part in this.
“Philip is moving to Canada on Wednesday,” I say.
Silence.
Not because Callum doesn’t understand.
Because he understands immediately.
When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“Ah.”
I close my eyes briefly.
There it is.
One syllable.
Sympathy wrapped in a tiny coffin.
“We said goodbye this morning,” I add.
Callum huffs a breath.
“And now you’re cyberbullying me with rodent content.”
“Apparently.”
Another pause.
“How bad?” he asks calmly.
I stare at the counter.
At my own hand flat against the stone.
Bad enough that the kitchen feels wrong.
Bad enough that I considered texting about knitwear.
Bad enough that a hamster now has an online identity because I need somewhere to direct my attention before I do something stupid.
I exhale.
“Not great.”
Callum is quiet for a second.
“You really are fucked.”
I bark out a short laugh.
“Helpful.”
“I’m not trying to be helpful. I’m trying to establish the severity of the emergency.”
“There is no emergency.”
“You made an Instagram for a hamster.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“No, you’re not,” Callum says. “Because I want the full story, and also Jasper is making me sit through airport delays, so frankly this is the best entertainment I’ve had all day.”
I smile.
Small.
Tired.
And lean back against the counter.
“Fine,” I say.
“It started at the pub.”
A week later, Heath has developed opinions about pasta night.
Namely that my eating it means he should also receive something of equal interest, and that sunflower seeds are apparently no longer sufficient compensation.
He stands at the bars of the cage, tiny paws gripping the plastic, watching me with the accusatory intensity of a disappointed landlord while I twirl spaghetti around a fork.
“You are not getting carbonara.”
He blinks.
Unmoved.
I take another bite.
Heath shoves his face dramatically into the food bowl as if to indicate he is settling for lesser cuisine under protest.
“Martyr.”
He ignores me and starts munching.
I pull my phone over with one hand.
This has become routine now.
Dinner for me.
Rodent surveillance for the internet.
I angle the camera and take a picture of Heath half inside the bowl, cheeks stuffed.
Then post it to @hamsteroftheheath with the caption:
Demanding Michelin standards in a cost-of-living crisis.
I snort at my own stupidity and set the phone down.
The account, against all reason, has become a thing.
Entirely Callum’s fault.
Three days ago, after accepting the follow request, he had shared the profile to every group chat containing anyone we know with the message:
Mark has lost his mind. Please monitor.
Tom had followed immediately.
Then Daniel.
Then Mum, who still hasn’t grasped how Instagram works but leaves comments consisting entirely of red hearts.
By the end of the first evening, Callum’s wider circle had piled in too, mostly to take the piss.
Jasper.
Milo.
A few old army mates.
Two of Callum’s clients, inexplicably.
And then strangers, because the internet will attach itself to any anxious mammal in headwear if presented with enough consistency.
Heath now has just over four thousand followers.
I have no explanation for this.
Nor do I have an explanation for why posting his tiny miserable face has become the most anticipated part of my day.
Heath keeps eating.
I scroll through the comments.
Protect him at all costs.
I too require emotional support knitwear.
This hamster understands my tax return anxiety.
I huff a laugh.
Then my thumb drifts.
To Philip’s contact.
Still there.
Still silent.
One week.
No messages from him.
None from me.
Exactly as requested.
I stare at the name.
A thought forms before I can stop it.
Heath’s basically an influencer now.
I could send him the account.
Just so he knows.
Just because it’s Heath.
Harmless.
Practical.
A funny update.
I stare at the screen for another second.
Then let out a slow breath and lock the phone.
No.
That’s not why I want to send it.
I want to send it because it’s been seven days and I still reach for my phone every time Heath does something stupid.
Because every post feels like a conversation I’m not having.
Because “your hamster is internet famous” is a thin disguise for I miss you enough to invent reasons.
Heath lifts his head from the bowl.
Looks at me.
Chews.
I point the fork at him.
“This is your fault.”
He resumes eating with all the concern of a freeloader.
I shove another mouthful of pasta into my face and try very hard not to think about what time it is in Toronto.
Which, naturally, makes me think about exactly that.
Early afternoon there now.
Philip in some rented apartment.
Probably unpacking.
Probably working.
Probably not thinking about Whitstable, me, or one emotionally unstable hamster in North London.
I tighten my grip on the fork.
The irritating thing is not that I miss him.
That part is obvious.
The irritating thing is that I have absolutely no right to.