Chapter 36
It is Tuesday morning, still forty-eight hours of waiting and longing until I become part of the Fixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer universe.
I’m on Reddit at my desk, on the FUGUTH board, trying to get an idea of what the experience on the day will be like.
Someone who appeared as an estate agent put up a post a while ago inviting folk to ask him anything about the experience. His most upvoted answer is:
Felt a bit of a tit pretending to look at the walls over and over again.
No information is provided I wouldn’t have been able to work out for myself, except this important nugget:
Malcolm was there on the day I was, which I don’t think is usual.
He certainly didn’t seem like he was used to talking to estate agents.
He was, well, quite an odd man. He asked the people who had bought the property if he could take away the fridge the old owners had left.
Thought it was a joke until I saw him later on that day driving through town with a fridge hanging out the back of his car.
I click out and see the latest post on the board ‘Are FUGUTH landlords being murdered?’ My blood freezes in my veins. There’s no way it could have been worked out, not yet. There aren’t enough victims for a pattern to be deduced, surely?
Maybe I’ve too much time on my hands, but I like to keep up with the landlords on the show to see what they get up to so I set up Google alerts for them.
(I know, I know. I have ADHD and get hyperfixated on stuff.
Better FUGUTH than crack though, eh?) I’ve been doing this for years.
Occasionally I’ll get alerts that one of them has passed, I think it’s only happened three times before.
In the last two months five have died and two have been injured in weird circumstances.
– Colin O’Donnell in Hamilton, South Lanarkshire : electrocuted, dead.
– Emily Best in Sheffield, Yorkshire : house set on fire by arsonists, lived but badly injured by falling debris.
– Peter Smeaton in Glasgow : straight up murdered.
– Ma Anh in Cardiff : stabbed in a robbery gone wrong, dead.
– Ron Robbins in Leeds : burned in freak accident at his restaurant, dead.
– Paula Homerton in Bothwell, South Lanarkshire : ran over in a hit-and-run, survived.
– Derek Ndebele in Hendon, London: found dead, cause of death undetermined.
So what do we think? A coincidence, or is someone out there killing FUGUTH landlords?
My head is reeling. Google alerts are clearly not yielding as much information as the user knows – if they find out about Willie and Harry, the local connection will be undeniable. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jobie234544 says:
Do you think you should contact the police? It seems like there’s something there.
To which the original poster confirms:
I think I will do. Not the emergency number obviously. Don’t think it’s right to have these suspicions and keep them to myself. Worst case I’m overly cautious. Best case I save some lives.
Not everyone wants lives to be saved.
A hero if true.
Not a bad way to pick victims tbf.
If he fancies doing my landlord in too that’d be ideal.
– What makes you think it’s a man?
– Duh, it’s always a man.
Maybe it’s not one person. Maybe so many people are being broken by the system they operate within that tenants are finally seeking vengeful justice.
It is genuinely impressive that I am actually able to process this information because Brian and his wife are having a blazing row in his office.
She’s shouting very specific dates and times like, ‘The evening of September 24th,’ at him, and after a pause, during which I assume he’s consulting the fake diary, he responds in a measured tone, ‘I was doing a house viewing with a Mr and Mrs Reynolds. Nice couple, if I remember correctly. Didn’t put an offer in, though.
’ That’s one of mine. Mrs Reynolds was my teacher in Primary 3.
Leanne bats that away with ‘Went on any long drives I should know about?’
‘What are you talking about? I drive every day, you mad cow.’
Momentarily, I wonder if I will miss this role.
The answer is clear: I won’t. The legal firm I applied to have already reached out to organise an interview.
The wages are a bit higher than here, even with the affair money, and it won’t involve degrading myself with being an estate agent for the odd commission.
Which is good. Dave’s money, which was inconsistent at best, has ended.
He sent me a message the other day which read:
No more money. Free pics pls? X
Leanne breaks into my thoughts, yelling, ‘I know you’re lying, Brian. I know what you’ve been up to.’
Brian matches her volume. ‘Oh yeah? Please, do let me know what that is. I’ve told you exactly where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. It sounds like I’ve been doing my job and being a loving husband and doting father and nothing else. Sounds fucking boring if you ask me.’
The bell above the door ringing is barely audible over Leanne screaming, ‘Fuck you, you’re a lying cunt, Brian. Just admit it.’ If I get this job, I’ll tell Leanne every detail of what he’s been up to. She knows it, clearly, but I want to make sure she really knows.
I smile towards whoever has entered. No matter how dazzling I am capable of being, it will not make up for the welcome they are receiving involving a domestic dispute. It’s Diane, the detective. The smile drops from my mouth.
‘Hello again. Feeling better?’
‘I’m fantastic, thank you for asking.’ She barely registers what I’m saying, though. She peers over my head to the glass panel of Brian’s office wall.
‘Your boss got a few minutes?’
Leanne storms out. ‘I know you’re up to something, you arsehole.
You’re not as clever as you think you are.
’ She makes a move to slam the front door but it has one of those mechanisms where it shuts slowly, cautiously, and we don’t get the dramatic burst of sound she was after.
Instead we hear the clip-clop of her angry footsteps and then nothing.
Brian follows a moment later. ‘Sorry about that, troops.’ Then he clocks the detective and stiffens. ‘Diane, nice to see you again. How can I be of service?’
‘Maybe not out here. Could we go into your office for some privacy?’ She’s already entering Brian’s space without being given permission.
‘Aye, sure.’ I see it. Brian’s eyes crease at the corners, a flicker of concern. It only lasts until he blinks then he’s restored to his usual self.
Before, with Leanne, his tone was authoritative; it carried his voice through the walls of his private space.
Now we can hear nothing, which gives me time to worry that Diane is in there asking Brian questions about me, my behaviours, if he’s noticed anything unusual about me.
This is information I have not allocated in Brian’s diary.
Without any little fictions left for him, what would he say?
Gavin is in a frivolous mood. They pick up their mug, point to Brian’s office and mouth, I’m going to listen in. They stand with their back against the wall, next to Brian’s door.
‘He’s asking if the house the dead guy was found in is being released so he can sell it.’ They strain their ear closer. ‘No is the answer. She wants to know if Brian knows someone. Can’t make out the name. He says he’s no idea who she’s talking about. Now she’s asking if she can see his car.’
That is surely something to do with Paula.
I miss a bit of what Gavin is saying, too concerned about it only being a matter of time before they figure out it’s me.
When I pick back up, they’re whispering, ‘He lied. Said he doesn’t have the work car today, but I definitely saw it in its usual spot.
’ I did, too. The only reason I can fathom him lying to a police officer is that he’s not wanting Diane to root about in his gym bag of sex stuff, which isn’t very sexually liberated of him.
‘Jesus, she’s asking about his online presence.’
Matters having moved onto an area Brian is enthusiastic about, he’s louder, more like his usual self. I hear him respond, ‘You a fan, aye? In your line of work, long retirement and that, getting a few rental properties locked in would be a wise investment.’
Gavin rolls their eyes and removes themself from the wall, taking their cup through to the kitchen and returning with a fresh coffee just as Diane is leaving Brian’s office.
Hearing the activity behind me, I begin putting random figures into a spreadsheet to appear unfazed by being in close proximity to a woman who has the legal power to lock me away forever.
Brian and Diane do their farewell in front of my desk.
‘Always here if you need me.’ The whole time he’s speaking I can hear him fidgeting with the loose change in his pocket.
‘Anything to help the boys in blue.’ I’m trying to decide if the police uniform is actually a dark navy or black, when Diane turns around and does a Columbo.
‘Just one more thing. You were pals with William McAllister, weren’t you?’
‘Aye. Why?’
‘That’s what I thought. Wanted to be sure. Thanks.’
Once the detective is safely away, Brian says, to either himself or me and Gavin, it’s not clear which, ‘What a fucking day this has been, and it’s no’ even lunch.’
He’s not wrong. I click out of Reddit. It’s some bloody day.