The Flatshare: A Novel

Conversation re flat not at all as predicted. Kay was unusually angry. Seemed upset at idea of someone else sleeping in my bed besides her? But she never comes round. Hates the dark-green walls and elderly neighbours – is part of her ‘you spend too much time with old people’ thing. We’re always at hers (light-grey walls, cool young neighbours).

Argument ends at weary impasse. She wants me to pull down ad and cancel Essex woman; I’m not changing my mind. It’s the best idea for getting easy cash every month that I’ve thought of, bar lottery winning, which cannot be factored in to financial planning. Do not want to go back to borrowing that £350. Kay was the one who said it: it wasn’t good for our relationship.

She’s come that far, so. She’ll come around.

*

Slow night. Holly couldn’t sleep; we played checkers. She lifts her fingers and dances them over the board like she’s weaving a magic spell before she touches a counter. Apparently it’s a mind game – makes the other player watch where you’re going instead of planning their next move. Where did a seven-year-old learn mind games?

Ask the question.

Holly: You’re quite naïve, Leon, aren’t you?

Pronounces it ‘knave’. Probably never said it out loud before, just read it in one of her books.

Me: I’m very worldly wise, thank you, Holly!

Gives me patronising look.

Holly: It’s OK, Leon. You’re just too nice. I bet people walk all over you like a doormat.

She picked that up from somewhere, definitely. Probably her father, who visits every other week in a sharp grey suit, bringing poorly chosen sweets and the sour smell of cigarette smoke.

Me: Being nice is a good thing. You can be strong and nice. You don’t have to be one or the other.

The patronising look again.

Holly: Look. It’s like how . . . Kay’s strong, you’re nice.

She spreads her hands, like, it’s the way of the world. Am startled. Didn’t know she knew Kay’s name.

*

Richie rings just as I get in. Have to sprint to get to the landline – I know it’ll be him, it only ever is – and hit head on low-hanging pendant light in kitchen. Least favourite thing about excellent flat.

Rub head. Close eyes. Listen closely to Richie’s voice for tremors and clues to how he really is, and just for hearing a real, living, breathing, still-OK Richie.

Richie: Tell me a good story.

Close eyes tighter. It’s not been a good weekend for him, then. Weekends are bad – they’re banged up for longer. I can tell he’s down from that accent, so peculiar to the two of us. Always part London, part County Cork, it’s more Irish when he’s sad.

I tell him about Holly. Her checkers skills. Her accusations of knavety. Richie listens, and then:

Richie: Is she going to die?

It’s difficult. People struggle to see it’s not about whether she’s going to die – palliative care isn’t just a place you go to slowly slip away. More people live and leave than die on our wards. Is about being comfortable for the duration of something necessary and painful. Making bad times easier.

Holly, though . . . she might die. She is very sick. Lovely, precocious, and very sick.

Me: Leukaemia statistics are pretty good for kids her age.

Richie: I don’t want statistics, man. I want a good story.

I smile, reminded of when we were kids, acting out the plot of Neighbours in the month when the TV broke. Richie’s always liked a good story.

Me: She’ll be fine. She’ll grow up to be a . . . coder. Professional coder. Using all her checkers skills to develop new digitally generated food that’ll stop anyone going hungry and put Bono out of work around Christmas times.

Richie laughs. Not much of one, but enough to ease the worried knot in my stomach.

Silence for a while. Companionable, maybe, or just an absence of suitably expressive words.

Richie: It’s hell in here, man.

The words hit like a punch in the gut. Too often this last year I’ve felt that connection in my stomach like a bunched fist. Always at times like this, when reality hits afresh after days of blocking it out.

Me: Appeal’s not far off. We’re getting there. Sal says—

Richie: Ey, Sal says he wants paying. I know the score, Lee. It can’t be done.

Voice heavy, slow, almost slurred.

Me: What is this? What, have you lost faith in your big brother? You used to tell me I’d be a billionaire!

I hear a reluctant smile.

Richie: You’ve given enough.

Never. That’s impossible. I will never give enough, not for this, though I’ve wished enough times that I could have swapped places to save him from it.

Me: I’ve got a scheme. A money-making scheme. You’re going to love it.

Scuffle.

Richie: Hey, man, ah, give me one sec—

Muffled voices. My heart beats faster. When on the phone to him it’s easy to think he is somewhere safe and quiet, with only his voice and mine. But there he is, in the yard, with a queue behind him, having made the choice between using this half hour out of his prison cell to make a phone call or to have his only shot at a shower.

Richie: Got to go, Lee. Love you.

Dial tone.

*

Half eight on Saturday. Even leaving now, I’ll be late. And am not leaving now, evidently. Am changing dirty sheets on Dorsal Ward, according to Doctor Patel; according to the ward nurse on Coral Ward, I am taking blood from Mr Prior; according to Socha the junior doctor, I am helping her with the patient dying on Kelp Ward.

Socha wins. Call Kay as I run.

Kay, on picking up: You’re stuck at work, aren’t you?

Too out of breath for proper explanation. Wards too far apart for emergency situations. Hospice board of trustees should invest in shorter corridors.

Kay: It’s OK. I’ll meet that girl for you.

Stumble. Surprised. I’d planned to ask, obviously – that’s why I called Kay and not Essex woman herself, to cancel. But . . . was very easy.

Kay: Look, I don’t like this flatsharing plan, but I know you need the money, and I get it. However. If I’m going to feel OK about this, I think everything should go through me. I’ll meet this Tiffy person, I’ll handle the arrangements, and that way the random woman sleeping in your bed isn’t someone that you actually interact with. Then I don’t feel quite as weird about it, and you don’t have to deal with it, which, let’s be honest, you do not have time to do.

Pang of love. Could be stitch, of course, hard to be sure at this stage of relationship, but still.

Me: You . . . you sure?

Kay, firmly: Yes. This is the plan. And no working weekends. OK? Weekends are for me.

Seems fair.

Me: Thanks. Thank you. And – would you mind – tell her . . .

Kay: Yep, yep, tell her about the weird guy in Flat 5 and warn her about the foxes.

Definite love-pang.

Kay: I know you think I don’t listen, but I actually do.

Still a good minute’s running before I reach Kelp Ward. Have not paced self adequately. Rookie mistake. I’m thrown by the horrible nowness of this shift, with all its dying people and bed sores and tricksy dementia patients, and am forgetting basic rules of surviving in hospice setting. Jog, don’t run. Always know the time. Never lose your pen.

Kay: Leon?

Forgot about talking out loud. Was just heavy breathing. Probably quite sinister.

Me: Thanks. Love you.