It was her final shot: the personal touch. She waited for his answer. He was staring at the floor, mulling it over. Slowly he raised his head.
‘A two-month trial. Yes. That might work. But then again…’ He stared off into the middle distance and kept silent for an extended dramatic pause. Like waiting for a talent show host to announce the winning act.
Finally, he looked her in the eye and said, ‘Cash would be best…’
The winner of tonight’s competition is… Sinead Woods.
Two minutes later, Sinead was outside the front door, grinning like a fool. She was going before she blew it, before he changed his mind. The man stayed back in the porch.
Sinead said, ‘You will not regret this. It’s gonna be unreal. So I’ll see you next Saturday then? About twelve?’
‘Okay. Yes, I’ll see you then.’
Sinead waved goodbye and hurried off. She stopped, making a sudden about turn. ‘God! I don’t even know your name!’
‘You don’t?’ He seemed surprised.
‘Yeah, you never told me.’
‘That’s right. My name’s… Elliot.’
‘Nice to meet you, Elliot. I can’t wait to move into your lovely home.’
2
At the front window, he stood watching the girl as she turned out of the driveway and disappeared down the road. Sinead. He drew the curtains. Sinead Woods. He repeated the name in his mind. She was quite unique. Not at all like others from her infantilised generation. This was no millennial snowflake. This girl had – well there was only one word for it – balls.
He began processing their strange encounter. It had been an unsettling experience – and today, of all days. When the doorbell rang he’d just flushed the toilet and had assumed that whoever it was at the door would give up after a minute and leave. But the visitor was nothing if not persistent, and calling the mobile phone, which he’d left out on the coffee table, had given him no choice but to open up. Normally his penetrating gaze and abrupt manner would have swiftly resolved the situation, but she didn’t back down after his polite yet curt dismissal. In fact, she was spoiling for a fight. He would have slammed the door in her face except for one niggling detail that threw him off balance: he’d recognised her. But where from, exactly?
Curiosity had overruled caution. For the life of him, he could not recall where or why they had met. He was racking his brain, searching memories for her face. It was an honest face, but there was an unmistakable steeliness in her expression. Pretty, fine-boned features, strawberry blonde hair, clear blue eyes, but lacking the kind of beauty that made lesser men crumble. The voice was familiar too – a Southern English accent, neither posh nor pleb – but he was damned if he could remember her. It was certainly possible he’d encountered her in an exam hall somewhere, but then again he’d never been to Reading University.
Really, he’d just been toying with the girl, with no intention of letting her inside. Then she’d mentioned the birthday to soften him up, and he found himself impressed by her clever ruse to gain instant sympathy. Of course, he hadn’t been fooled, but he was always open to learning new tricks. She was skilled; he was intrigued. Why not let her inside and give him time to place her?
He paced around the living room and kitchen, retracing their conversation. There were undeniably moments when he had not been in control of their interaction. She was cheeky, flirtatious even. Using humour to win him round: he did so admire that particular technique. He’d never quite got the hang of levity. His jokes always had the effect of unnerving, rather than disarming, people. Sinead’s manipulation seemed effortless. Except, of course, she’d made one crucial error by losing her temper. Like most of the general public, she wanted to keep the anger hidden, but that slip up had let him know how much this place meant to her.
It was a huge risk allowing her to come inside. Although he had thoroughly cleaned the bedroom and mended the broken lamp, there might always be something he’d overlooked. If the situation had escalated, if he’d been forced to act… well, he certainly had more than enough on his plate. And she would have family, friends; people looking out for her. A girl like that could never just vanish. Letting her in was a perilous move. So naturally the dangerous thrill made it impossible to resist.
Once he’d satisfied his curiosity about their prior meeting, asking her to leave should have been straightforward. I’m expecting an important call; I’m sorry I wasted your time but I definitely won’t be taking in a lodger. What he hadn’t expected was being made an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse. £1,800 in cash would certainly solve a few immediate problems. It was a shame she didn’t have it on her, but in a week’s time, he’d be solvent again – at least for a month or so.
Unemployment was taking its toll. The jobsworth at the Jobcentre had asked far too many personal questions, and if there was one thing he couldn’t tolerate it was the filling out of endless bureaucratic forms. It was a stressful business, trying to come up with falsehoods that couldn’t be disproved if they were ever investigated. The less the government knew about him the better. He’d binned the forms as soon as he left the building.
Now he ambled along the hall, stopping outside the spare bedroom. Right there on the mattress was where it had happened, but everything looked spick and span. Superglue had taken care of the broken lampstand by the bed. Yes, he had to congratulate himself on his tidying abilities. The room was in pristine condition. Sinead had also been impressed.
But where the hell had they met before? It was really starting to irritate him.
His mind snapped back to the present. There was another task to be done tonight. He went to the kitchen and fetched a hard-backed chair, carried it through to the hall, and placed it down directly beneath the square-shaped loft hatch. Standing on the chair, he unhooked the fastening clips and swung the hatch door down on its hinges. Holding the telescopic metal ladder’s base, he carefully pulled it down, extending each section in turn until the ladder’s rubber feet reached the floor. He climbed the rungs until his head and shoulders were through the hatchway, then placed his hands down on either side and pushed himself upwards, swinging a leg up onto a wooden crossbeam. He brought up his other leg and crouched there on the beam before his fingers found the light cord dangling in the darkness.
The fluorescent tube buzzed above, casting light on dusty cardboard boxes, old suitcases, bubble-wrapped picture frames and rolls of excess insulation. Moving cautiously along the crossbeam, he came to a large, bulging black golf bag, positioned under the eaves. Next to it was the coiled rope that had served as an effective hoist for hauling the heavy bag up there. Kneeling down, he took the metal tab between thumb and forefinger and slowly unzipped the golf bag.
It always struck him how plastic-looking the human face was when inanimate. Rather like a shopfront mannequin. This particular face belonged to a man not entirely dissimilar to himself; about forty years old, neither handsome nor ugly. A plain-looking, ordinary man. He could see the remnants of terror in the brown eyes. The skin tone was taking on a greyish hue and was ice cold to the touch. A thick black moustache lined the upper lip, like a beetle on a slice of smoked salmon. Pulling the zip down further, he found an angry line snaking around the neck, crimson red and indented deep into the flesh. He traced a finger along the groove, admiring his expert handiwork.
‘I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to leave. Someone more suitable is moving in.’