towards the basement door.
To my right was another passageway, lit by one bare bulb attached to a looping wire pinned to the false ceiling. Flat Four, Johnny had said yesterday. It was the last door at the end on the right, with the number smeared on in white paint. Check he was still alive, I thought, make soup, leave. I took a breath and rapped with my knuckles on the bare wood.
There was no answer. I waited, and then knocked again. The timer light turned off, and I patted the walls between the door frames until I found the switch. ‘Hello?’ I called through the closed door. ‘It’s … er … it’s Rosie. From yesterday?’
For a short while I thought my call might be met by yet more silence, but then I heard faint creaks from inside the room and a hacking cough that started and never seemed to end. Finally the doorknob turned, and a yellow eye beneath a wild grey eyebrow looked out. ‘Is it the rent?’ barked a cracked old voice.
‘No.’ I smiled at the yellow eye. ‘It’s me. Rosie.’
The door opened a shade further, revealing another eye and Dockie’s red-veined nose. ‘Were you sent by Mrs O’Shea?’
‘Mrs … O’Shea?’
There was a noise from inside the room, a sort of strangled gargle. I heard a muffled oath, and then the door was flung open to its full extent, sending forth a reek of body odour and stale alcohol, and Dockie roared, ‘Where the hell has my room gone?’
He was still wearing the stained overcoat he had wornyesterday. Perhaps this was where the cabbage smell was coming from. He staggered out into the corridor and pointed a shaking finger towards the darkened space behind. ‘My room has gone missing.’ He clutched the wilds of his hair. ‘Mrs O’Shea’s. Tell me I am at Mrs O’Shea’s. Ranelagh Road. Rathmines. Dublin. Ireland.’
I shook my head. ‘None of the above, I’m afraid. You’re in England.’
Dockie took in a deep, raggedy breath. His hand gripped the door frame. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he said, with a seashore of regret in his voice. ‘What on earth have I done?’
He rested his forehead against the frame. I raised the tin and he blinked at it, trying to focus. ‘I’ve brought soup.’
He grunted, and I took that to be an invitation. I entered the dark, foul-smelling room and said, with my breath held, ‘I’m just going to open the window, if that’s all right.’
He grunted again, and I put the tin down and walked to the lighter-coloured oblong at the end of the room. There were some nylon curtains covering the window; I yanked them apart, revealing a basement yard with nothing much in it but some corrugated iron sheets stacked against the far wall, rusting quietly, and an overgrown fern that was nodding under the weight of the rain.
I tugged at the sash window and pushed it up as far as it would go. A gust blew drizzle on to my face and rattled the curtains together on their flimsy runner. I pulled them apart once more, and turned back towards Dockie’s new home.
I was standing in a small kitchenette, divided from the rest of the room by a half-partition. The kitchenettecontained two gas rings, a sink, a few sagging cupboards and a small pull-down table, which was where I’d put the tin. Behind the half-partition was a single bed made up with a rough-looking blanket and one pillow, with planks for shelving overhead. Dockie remained in the doorway.
‘You don’t remember meeting me yesterday, I suppose,’ I said.
He shook his head and ran his calloused hand across his eyes. ‘I feel a little … my dear, could you tell me where I may locate the facilities of this establishment?’
‘It’s at the end of the hall,’ I said. ‘On the left.’
Dockie lurched into the hallway, then swung suddenly back towards me. ‘I beg your pardon. Where did you say I was?’
‘Helmstone,’ I said. ‘South of England.’
He squinted towards the end of the passageway. ‘Helmstone,’ he murmured. ‘Helmstone.’
‘Castaway House,’ I said.
To my right was another passageway, lit by one bare bulb attached to a looping wire pinned to the false ceiling. Flat Four, Johnny had said yesterday. It was the last door at the end on the right, with the number smeared on in white paint. Check he was still alive, I thought, make soup, leave. I took a breath and rapped with my knuckles on the bare wood.
There was no answer. I waited, and then knocked again. The timer light turned off, and I patted the walls between the door frames until I found the switch. ‘Hello?’ I called through the closed door. ‘It’s … er … it’s Rosie. From yesterday?’
For a short while I thought my call might be met by yet more silence, but then I heard faint creaks from inside the room and a hacking cough that started and never seemed to end. Finally the doorknob turned, and a yellow eye beneath a wild grey eyebrow looked out. ‘Is it the rent?’ barked a cracked old voice.
‘No.’ I smiled at the yellow eye. ‘It’s me. Rosie.’
The door opened a shade further, revealing another eye and Dockie’s red-veined nose. ‘Were you sent by Mrs O’Shea?’
‘Mrs … O’Shea?’
There was a noise from inside the room, a sort of strangled gargle. I heard a muffled oath, and then the door was flung open to its full extent, sending forth a reek of body odour and stale alcohol, and Dockie roared, ‘Where the hell has my room gone?’
He was still wearing the stained overcoat he had wornyesterday. Perhaps this was where the cabbage smell was coming from. He staggered out into the corridor and pointed a shaking finger towards the darkened space behind. ‘My room has gone missing.’ He clutched the wilds of his hair. ‘Mrs O’Shea’s. Tell me I am at Mrs O’Shea’s. Ranelagh Road. Rathmines. Dublin. Ireland.’
I shook my head. ‘None of the above, I’m afraid. You’re in England.’
Dockie took in a deep, raggedy breath. His hand gripped the door frame. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he said, with a seashore of regret in his voice. ‘What on earth have I done?’
He rested his forehead against the frame. I raised the tin and he blinked at it, trying to focus. ‘I’ve brought soup.’
He grunted, and I took that to be an invitation. I entered the dark, foul-smelling room and said, with my breath held, ‘I’m just going to open the window, if that’s all right.’
He grunted again, and I put the tin down and walked to the lighter-coloured oblong at the end of the room. There were some nylon curtains covering the window; I yanked them apart, revealing a basement yard with nothing much in it but some corrugated iron sheets stacked against the far wall, rusting quietly, and an overgrown fern that was nodding under the weight of the rain.
I tugged at the sash window and pushed it up as far as it would go. A gust blew drizzle on to my face and rattled the curtains together on their flimsy runner. I pulled them apart once more, and turned back towards Dockie’s new home.
I was standing in a small kitchenette, divided from the rest of the room by a half-partition. The kitchenettecontained two gas rings, a sink, a few sagging cupboards and a small pull-down table, which was where I’d put the tin. Behind the half-partition was a single bed made up with a rough-looking blanket and one pillow, with planks for shelving overhead. Dockie remained in the doorway.
‘You don’t remember meeting me yesterday, I suppose,’ I said.
He shook his head and ran his calloused hand across his eyes. ‘I feel a little … my dear, could you tell me where I may locate the facilities of this establishment?’
‘It’s at the end of the hall,’ I said. ‘On the left.’
Dockie lurched into the hallway, then swung suddenly back towards me. ‘I beg your pardon. Where did you say I was?’
‘Helmstone,’ I said. ‘South of England.’
He squinted towards the end of the passageway. ‘Helmstone,’ he murmured. ‘Helmstone.’
‘Castaway House,’ I said.
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