Chapter 11
Say what you like about Nicol – and you can, he’s an absolute bastard – but, and I hate to admit to being wrong, he does have a point about climate change.
The planet is fucked. Today’s one of those days that makes you extremely aware the world is burning and is ruined.
The sun is too warm, it hasn’t rained for days.
The weather is withholding all of the things it usually does in autumn to draw attention to the fact it is hurt.
Like a wife not saying a word to the husband she is spurning after a disagreement.
The house in Mote Hill I’ve just spent twenty minutes hanging in the kitchen of so Brian’s phone would ping in the correct location was cool, which was probably something to do with the direction it faced, if I’d paid attention to the listing.
The blast of heat I got leaving it and then walking back in the direction of the office has made me sweat in a way I hope can be mistaken for an intentional dewy look, because there’s nowhere I can fix the sheen covering my skin before I meet Gavin in Cadzow Glen for lunch – we might as well enjoy the world burning while we can.
Gavin’s waiting for me on a bench in the grassy area with my Tupperware from the work fridge.
They hand me it and then I open it up on my knees.
Today’s spread is as disappointing as usual – a flat white bread, butter and watery cheap ham sandwich.
It is great I have a job, even this job, but payday is one week away and I am skint.
The small sums of money the foot perv sends help me survive, but with nothing left over for extravagant purchases like perishable food.
Gavin does not have this problem. They’re eating a meal of couscous and veg that smells fragrant and nutritious. They chew a mouthful of it and, as they talk, the hand holding the fork swishes around and stray grains of couscous fly. ‘Do you know I’ve never thought of eating lunch in here before.’
This makes sense. The glen is wedged between the nice bit of Hamilton and the rough-arsed area.
As a woman, I would never just pop down here to dine while waiting to get mugged or raped.
Gavin stands out around these parts with their salmon-pink suit jacket and waxed moustache.
To sit here alone would be to ask to get a doing.
‘Well, I’m glad we did.’ I smile, and they reciprocate.
It is such an unseasonably gorgeous day I’m compelled to take a picture on my phone of the roof of the library and the clear blue sky above it.
After checking it looks good, I add it to the ‘Pics for Leanne’ folder on my phone I’ve created.
Yes, there’s a little more admin to do – all the pictures have to be screenshot once I AirDrop them to Brian’s device and then I have to fiddle with the metadata so there’s no connection to the true provenance of the image – but I feel it’s worth it.
Having pictures to add colour to my text message exchanges with her helps add authenticity, and with the right caption I can leave subtle clues to tell her what is really happening.
If she looks hard enough, she’ll be able to figure it all out – although she’s not picked up on a single hint I’ve sent her yet.
This one could work when Brian has his next lunchtime rendezvous booked in, so long as the weather holds up.
‘Gav, fancy being in shot so I can claim you and Brian picnic in the park together?’
‘Absolutely not. Not only because I don’t want to be involved in Brian’s deception any more than I already am, but also because Leanne would never believe I would dine with him. That picture could be what brings the whole thing down.’
‘Even better. I can fire that off and save her from being tied to Brian’s community penis for the next forty years of her life.’
‘Please, no talk of Brian’s penis when I’m eating.’
As you can tell, I’m sure, Gavin and I have recovered from the smooching.
Things are not at all awkward between us.
On Gavin’s part, this is probably because they are used to rejecting people uglier than them, and on mine it’s because I’ve kept my urges repressed.
I think, maybe, we are pals, although it’s been so long since I made one I’m not sure of the signifiers.
We don’t socialise outside of work, but they told me they liked my hair when they saw it was up in a bun today and brought me in a fancy coffee from TIME on Monday morning.
Those seem like things friends do rather than mere colleagues.
But maybe they view me with pity and those were acts of charity with no hidden depths.
And that’s fine – forging a fresh friendship right now might be too much for me, alongside transporting Brian’s phone the length and breadth of South Lanarkshire for work and starting a crusade against Willie in the early morning and evenings.
I’m two weeks into trying to sort Willie out and it has been all-encompassing – the following, the researching, the planning.
Speaking of Willie, he’ll be here soon. I check the time on my phone – it’s 1:05 pm.
He’s a creature of habit. Every day he leaves the house punctually to meditate in the park, and I know he takes the exact same route because I’ve followed him here multiple times and he’s never strayed from it.
Last night a neighbour tried to have some small talk with him, and he didn’t stop, just shouted, ‘I’ve places to be,’ and kept going.
Begrudgingly, I find his dedication to his meditation admirable.
If only he offered the same level of care to his tenants.
My plan for what I’m going to do to Willie has all been finalised; I’m quite pleased with what I have in store for him.
First, though, I have to consider if this is a choice I really want to make.
What I need ideally is for him to do something shitty where I have a witness.
Confirmation that the bad things I think about him are true and not my biased perception because he’s chosen to be a landlord.
Gavin sheds their jacket to feel the rays of the burning sun on their skin.
My gaze is on the bridge where Willie will appear, as Gavin tells me the storyline of a TV show they’ve been bingeing about lesbian nuns.
I’m making the noises of listening but nothing is landing in my consciousness.
Once they’ve concluded, they ask me if I’ve been watching anything good recently.
I’m not really thinking about my words, only Willie’s actions, which is why the truth slips out – ‘Willie.’
‘What?’
I thank God and all the other spiritual entities I do not believe in that Willie is bang on schedule as I point in his direction. ‘Isn’t that Willie McAllister?’ I make sure to sound uncertain, test out the capabilities of my acting.
As well as being a huge area of interest for me outside of work, there’s been a lot of chat about Willie inside of it too.
Despite intense discussion, utilising the Battle and Backdown Negotiation System Brian outlines in great detail on his YouTube channel as a ‘never fail technique’, Willie has started the process of leaving Perfect Property Solutions.
He invited Brian out for lunch, came and collected him from the office like they were embarking on a fledgling romance, ordered the most expensive food and drink on the menu for the pair of them and then, once the food had arrived, Willie repeatedly called Brian names as he dumped him, my favourite being that he was a ‘clueless, perma-tanned prick’.
When the table was cleared, Willie refused to pay for his share.
Brian has not taken this turn of events well.
He’s made a habit of leaving his phone in the office overnight and telling Leanne he’s not to be disturbed as he’s formulating the next incarnation of the business.
That’s not what he’s doing, unless business planning is why he rolls into the office ages after I’ve got there, looking shagged out.
Gavin looks over their shoulder. ‘Shit, yeah, I think it is Willie.’ Without debate, they put their jacket back on and press the lid onto their half-eaten lunch, preparing to leave.
‘Where are you going? Is he the landlord of the park, too? Now he’s chucked us are we not allowed to sit here?’ My use of ‘us’ hangs heavy in the air. I view myself as part of Perfect Property Solutions. It feels wrong but – this is the troubling bit – it’s not inaccurate.
Gavin reopens their lunch. ‘No, I mean of course not. It’s just, I don’t really want to see him or be seen by him.’ They prod at olives with their fork, failing to spear any onto it. See, Willie needs to be shown the world is not all his for the taking.
‘Do you feel this way about all the landlords you deal with? That you would rather vacate the space they’re in than be in their orbit?
’ I’m sick of my rank sandwiches, I can’t face another bite.
I crumple what remains in the square of tinfoil I wrapped them in and mush it together into a soft, jagged ball of metal, bread and meat.
‘A lot of them are pretty demanding customers but I wouldn’t avoid them. Although I wouldn’t want to socialise with them either.’
‘Why are they so unpleasant to their letting agency, then? The very people who make it easy for them to collect their rent and make their profit?’
Gavin straightens their back as if this answer is in a formal setting.
‘Well, we’re there to provide a service for which we take a cut, so they have high expectations.
Investing in property is a gamble. They’ve put a lot of money into an enterprise they’re hoping will continue to give them an income they can’t really control, so that comes with a lot of stress and we bear a bit of the brunt of that.
’ Happy with what they’ve said, they reward themself with a cherry tomato.
I hear it pop in their mouth when they bite down.
‘Their stress isn’t real. If it all goes wrong, they still own a property that has value to sell and no doubt make profit on.
’ Gavin looks like they’re considering adding in their tuppence but I don’t give them space to.
‘I read an article the other day where loads of landlords were moaning about having to sell their properties because the buy-to-let market isn’t as profitable as it used to be.
So off they’ll go and sell their properties and make their money and then there’ll be fewer places to rent and rent will get pushed up for everyone else.
Renters are the ones taking on the bigger burden existing in this system, paying for their landlord’s mortgage, which makes them unable to save up to get their own.
Landlords are leeches. Society would be much better off if they didn’t exist.’
‘Oh, come on, that’s a bit harsh. Some are fine. Probably most are fine. I mean, if I were a landlord…’
The very thought of socialising with such a person makes me stick out my tongue and go, ‘Eurgh,’ on impulse.
Gavin persists. ‘Obviously the system needs to change a bit so the horrible ones get weeded out more efficiently because they ruin it for everyone.’ Gavin’s red in the face, either from the unseasonal heat or from strong disagreement with my central argument that all landlords are bastards. I can’t tell which.
The conversation has waylaid me from paying attention to Willie.
When I locate him, he’s not in his usual spot.
The good weather means it’s occupied for a change.
He’s prowling for a space to chill out, stomping on the path towards me and Gavin.
As if to prove a point about the kindness of landlords, Gavin says to Willie as he passes, ‘Hi, William.’
‘Fuck off.’
Gavin whispers, even though Willie is already a good distance away from us and has his earbuds in. ‘OK, society would be better off without Willie McAllister.’
I agree.