the tenancy agreement: chapter 11

2005

November


Conor strolled out of his bedroom in light steeped in early afternoon. Stretching loudly. He walked past the basement door, the kitchen and to the living room. He peered in but the room was empty, salt piled on the bloodstain.

“Guys?” he said loudly. There was no reply. Must have been gone lunchtime. “Anyone home?” No reply again. He shrugged and went back to the kitchen and picked up the kettle. Screamed awfully and hopped onto one foot. Stepped in glass. There was blood seeping out of his thick soles. It ran in a single careful line from the wound, down to the base of his toes. Because of the elevation. He put the kettle down and picked the glass out, a piece about two inches long and broken into a perfect point. It made a sound like kissing on the way out. He threw it in the bin and wiped the blood off with a tea towel. Screwed in a ball and sodden on the surface. The colour of tea. Kettle filled and on it started to boil. He turned on the radio loud and put a slice of bread in the toaster. It was the crust end. An act of desperate finality. It was too thick for the toaster compartment and he had to coax it down. About thirty seconds later the kettle stopped mid boil. Toaster popped up. Radio flicked off. He pulled open the fridge and the light was off. Darkness among the milk carton and the mayonnaise jar.

“Fucking electricity,” he said.

They had a prepayment meter with a plastic key and only ever bought the minimum amount. It ran out almost constantly. The meter was in the basement, just at the bottom of the stairs. Next to the tunnel. He opened the basement door and looked down the stairwell. It was the same as always but he knew there was a body. He had helped carry it down. Don’t be fooled by the tennis racquet covers. There was no light on the stairs. The carpet was loose. It hung red from the contours of the steps like it had been left there by mistake. The door was closed at the bottom. How they left it.

“Hello?” he said. Shouted. Not taking his eyes from the stairway. He held a torch in his hand. They left it by the basement for just this reason. “Guys? We’re out of electricity. Guys? Shit.”

The house was even quieter without the humming of the fridge. He didn’t want to go down there alone but it was either that or sit in darkness until someone else got back. It was dark early in November. He stepped down onto the first step. It creaked loudly. Conor shone the torch into the stairway, craning his neck to see. There was nothing there, just piles of clothes. He licked the corner of his lips. They were so claret they looked sore.

“Guys?” he said again. “Is anyone in the house?” It was empty. Of course. Perfect. To himself: “Fuck. I’ll have to do it.”

He shone the torch again and started down the stairs. Must have only been, what, ten degrees? Twelve at most. It felt hotter. His face was damp with sweat. Was that flies buzzing? Already? He didn’t know how quickly a body decomposed. He remembered reading that it was quicker than you’d think. Or maybe that it was slower than you’d think. It sounded rich with the life of insects. They feasted themselves to birth. Swallowed the mess of death to make life of their own. Under slipping skin and liquefied cells. It’s the way the world works. Life makes death and death makes life. Amplified by the basement walls the buzzing was claustrophobic. His heart oscillated with it. He got to the bottom, slumped in the piles, felt snapped wood scrape his calf. It was so hot. Bowels of the earth. Flies like a wall of noise behind the door. Must have been thousands. Drunk on the product of the autolysing cells. He pointed the torch at the electricity meter. It said Credit £4.50. He pulled the key out and shone the torch on it, then plugged it back in. The radio came back on upstairs. It was Bobby Darin. “Dream Lover”. Conor shrugged and started back up the stairs. He turned the torch off because of the light from the back door. He was walking into the light. The kettle restarted the boiling process, sounded like an aeroplane flying overhead. About halfway up he tripped and fell down onto his hands. He looked down at his ankle, tried yanking it away from whatever it was caught in.

“I hate this fucking mess,” he said, and meant it.

He pulled at his leg a few more times, bent down and tried to free it. His ankle was caught between two planks of wood, he saw it when he angled the torch down. Joe must have left them there. He sighed with a bit of relief and pushed the wood to one side. Continued up the stairs. There was a loud crash from the bottom of the basement. From behind the door. From the tunnel. Like smashing furniture. Like something was moving. Only loud. It drowned out the radio and the kettle and the flies. Only for a second but a second can be long. A slow second. Then the flies again. They weren’t there for him.

“Hello?” he said. The tone of his voice said more than a sentence. It faltered like a cold car engine. He felt vulnerable in his dressing gown. The dark-striped towelling was abrasive. Don’t let him piss in a dressing gown.

No reply just appliances. Conor swallowed and stood up, started creeping towards the top. Another crash from the bottom. He froze up. Couldn’t move his legs. It was louder than the first, sounded like something had hit the door. He heard the cheap wood crack some from the impact. Like it had been hit from the inside. He felt his bladder want to quit. Gave him something to focus on. There was a scraping sound on the door. He could hear it. It was like fingernails. Knew it couldn’t be but that’s how it sounded. Fingernails. Scraping to get out. It was getting louder. Don’t piss yourself. You know it’s not. Fuck, but listen. It was definitely scraping. He could hear it.

“Shit, hello?”

The scraping went on. It was faster. Uncontrolled. Scraping. Frantic.

“Hello? Oh God. Hello?”

He was leaning his head down, peering down the stairway, trying to see the door, see what the fuck was going on. The torch light was too dull to make it out. The scraping just got louder. And so fucking fast. He turned and ran up the last few stairs but the door slammed shut in his face. Knocked him back a step. He felt the warmth of piss on his legs. It pooled out from the bottom of his dressing gown, soaked the stairs carpet, hit it with the sound of an overflow pipe. The scraping. It became a thumping at the door at the bottom of the stairs. Four thumps a second. He was soaked in piss in the darkness. The only light was the failing torch beam. He hammered on the door, turned the handle, shouted out, screamed. It didn’t give. The scraping and the thumping was deafening. He had to shout to hear himself over it.

“Guys! The door’s stuck! Shit. Get me out!”

He had his back to the bottom of the stairs, pounding his fists into the door. The noise from the bottom sounded closer. It was moving. It was right on top of him. He had set the torch on the floor. Its little light seemed red from the carpet. The door wouldn’t move. He heard a creak on the step behind him. Heard the piss wet carpet slurp.

“Oh fuck,” he said, like a prayer.

He started to turn around. He had to see it. The scraping. The thumping. So loud. It was right there. It was. He screamed. A real scream. It spoke of pain. He clasped at his guts. He felt them go. He dropped to the floor. The dark basement darker still. His blood smelt metallic. He couldn’t speak. The scraping. The thumping. So loud. Couldn’t think over it. He felt his body pulled down the stairs. He saw the rectangle of light that shone around the edges of the closed basement door. He saw the electricity meter. He saw the torch falling down the stairs behind him. He heard the scraping stop. He heard Bobby Darin.