Roachville

It had rained while I was inside Hotel Blue, but the sun was shining now. The whole city was a brand new glistening place. The light glared coldly off the colossal office block on Baldwin Street, and dirty seagulls screeched overhead at the return of the blue sky.

The interpreting session had lasted a mere twenty minutes, but it had been so intense that my energy levels were depleted. I stopped at a small dingy café near the bus stop and grabbed a plump blueberry muffin that was asking for it, before getting on the bus back home. There wasn’t much traffic at that time of day and we zoomed through the rough part of town: tramps, junkies, prostitutes, dealers – you name it, they were all there. I had lived in this area a few years ago and it hadn’t been so bad. Some friendly old Jamaican neighbours, and now and then a burning car outside the house, giving just the right balance of entertainment to an otherwise quiet street.

Now I lived on the edge of the city, in Bradley Stoke, which I called Roachville. It was a safe and sought-after location for all of us cockroaches going back and forth to work. Everything you needed was there, and in my most paranoid moments I believed that even the odd cigarette-butt on the pavement had been placed there with great care by higher powers to make us feel secure in this almost perfect living environment.

DJ Shadow played in my ears, which seemed appropriate considering the feeling of impending doom lurking around my head. I got out Kenneth Tann’s money. Less than an hour ago, the notes had been crisp and shiny, as if he had got them fresh from the print. Now they were crumpled and drab. This was the weirdest job I’d ever done. I just couldn’t think why these two had picked me. Should I be worried?

I entered my house and wished I had a cat.

There were two messages on the answer phone, one from my ex-boyfriend asking me to call him back ASAP, and one from the pet products website: could I get back to them ASAP? I almost pressed the call back button, but I felt too feeble and hungry to face audio communications. Instead I prepared myself a leisurely lunch and resisted the frenetic pressure of modern times.

With utmost concentration I chopped some mushrooms and onions, which I threw into a frying pan with olive oil. A couple of minutes later I added thin slices of chilli and tiny chunks of garlic. A smell that made my stomach collapse on itself rose from the pan. I ploughed on with the cooking, putting water on to boil for the pasta. All I needed now was a bit of green salad with strong vinaigrette. As soon as the spaghetti was done and drained, I mixed it in the frying pan for one minute. Practically of its own will, the pasta slithered its way onto my plate where, before it had time to protest, I sprinkled it with an abundance of parmesan. I hadn’t gone to a religious school and I had only been baptised by accident, but I lifted my eyes and whispered some words of gratitude that resembled a most heartfelt prayer directed to the Chinese in general and Marco Polo in particular.

In the lounge, I stuck the information channel on. The newsreader was describing the mildest winter ever, somewhere, caused by you know what, so I went ‘LA LA LA’ very loudly and turned the TV off.

Post-lunch anti-climax hit me soon after. I would be depressed until about 3 pm, then things would look up of their own accord. There was no need to fight it. What I wanted to do then and there was to read my book, the latest Rukiha Ramikura. It was so good that I was rationing the amount I allowed myself to read each day. I knew that I’d be at a loss over what to read next. But now wasn’t the time to read, anyway, so I dragged myself to my laptop and went onto the Mega Pets website. Essential accessories for pets and related products: You know your pet needs it! Slimming pills for obese dogs, nail varnish for parrots, training nappies for kittens.

I thought about the products displayed on my screen for an instant and wondered if the world needed anti-fart suppositories for old dogs. Something told me people in emerging countries would disagree – but then again, the owners of old, flatulent dogs might have different ideas. I rubbed the bridge of my nose and my eyes caught sight of a late council bill resting on the desk. Who knew? Maybe fish did suffer from panic attacks and could do with anti-depressant pills. Who was I to judge? I shrugged and got on with checking the word count. It could have been worse; at least I wasn’t translating a text about target acquisition systems.

I turned my attention to the second ASAP and dialled my ex-boyfriend’s mobile, but this time I was unable to psych myself up for any kind of positive mood. He probably wanted to talk about all the things we’d acquired in the course of our seven years together and how we needed to divide them between us now that we were separated.

I had met Mac in Scotland while spending a couple of months picking raspberries. The aim was to make a bit of money and practise my English during the summer. Picking raspberries isn’t very lucrative, but I had found a boyfriend. I liked his hazelnut eyes and his free spirit; we talked about politics and travelling the world. Things were simple. After finishing my degree in France, I moved to England with him. He thought I was The One and I had no reason to think otherwise. But one drunken night, after about four years together, he told me I would get bored with him. I was angry at the time, but soon afterwards I started fantasizing about other men, imagining what it would be like to sleep with Tom, who looked a bit like Freddy Mercury, or Jaap, the Dutch guru, and so on. For two more years, I led a double life. I kept up a happy face, but all sort of things were going on in my head and sometimes these two lives would overlap and we would argue about mundane things, which had nothing to do with the real issue of me not loving him anymore. Still, we had big plans and I kept going with them, because I was a coward and I couldn’t imagine myself alone. Like everybody else, we went through the motions of general living and we found a house to buy. But when it came to signing the mortgage, panic engulfed me like a wave of epic proportion. Mac was upset for a few months and now he’s angry. Very angry.

‘Hi,’ I said neutrally.

‘You took your time.’

‘I was busy.’

‘Lucky you! You know why I’m calling...’

There was a pause, before the hostilities began.

‘As much as I’d like to avoid you,’ he said, ‘we still need to sort some stuff out.’

‘I can’t see you at the moment,’ I lied.

‘You can never see me.’

‘Look, it’s easy, you can keep the furniture and I’ll keep the computer stuff.’

‘Great, this isn’t what I need from you. I’ll call you later. Hopefully you’ll be in a better mood.’

‘Fine, whatever.’

I was sure I heard his mobile slamming down and I didn’t care if he had broken it, but I put my own phone down gingerly. We used to be in love: properly, madly. Now those feelings were just a vague memory and all we did was bring out the worst in each other. For a second, I wondered if we should have bought that house and got a cat, but I dismissed the idea straight away. The thought of us together – his annoying habits, like his constant coughing, or worse, his hands on me – was enough to make me shudder.

I stared out of the window, my mind a blank. There wasn’t much in my small garden: a patch of short grass, a few yellow flowers planted at random, all of it fenced off by brown wood panels. Little bits of white pollen floated by like ugly pieces of candyfloss. My motivation was at an all-time low and I felt I could be blown away like the pollen outside my window. Fortunately I sneezed three times in a row and snapped out of my zombie-like reverie. I turned away from the window, giddy with boredom. It seemed only natural to go and lie down on the enticing black leather sofa and close my eyes. It wasn’t long before I saw myself sinking to the bottom of a deep, narrow, subterranean abyss, my pale arms stretched out in the dark.