The Flatshare: A Novel

Kay: She’s ideal.

Am doing some slow blinking on the bus. Delicious slow blinks which are really just short naps.

Me: Really? Not annoying?

Kay, sounding irritated: Does that matter? She’ll be clean and tidy and she can move in immediately. If you’re really determined to do this then you can’t expect much better than that.

Me: She wasn’t bothered by the weird man living in Flat 5? Or the fox family?

Slight pause.

Kay: She didn’t mention either being a problem.

Delicious slow blink. Really long one. Got to be careful – can’t face waking up at the end of the bus route and having to come all the way back in again. Always a danger after a long week.

Me: What’s she like, then?

Kay: She’s . . . quirky. Larger than life. She was wearing these big horn-rimmed sunglasses even though it’s basically still winter, and had painted flowers all over her boots. But the point is that she’s skint and happy to find a room this cheap!

‘Larger than life’ is Kay-speak for overweight. Wish she wouldn’t say things like that.

Kay: Look, you’re on your way, aren’t you? We can talk about it when you get here.

My plan for arrival was to greet Kay with customary kiss, remove work clothes, drink water, fall into Kay’s bed, sleep for all eternity.

Me: Maybe tonight? When I’ve slept?

Silence. Deeply irritated silence. (I’m an expert at Kay silences.)

Kay: So you’re just going straight to bed when you get in.

Bite tongue. Resist urge to give blow-by-blow account of my week.

Me: I can stay up if you want to talk.

Kay: No, no, you need your sleep.

I’m clearly staying up. Best make the most of these blink-naps until bus gets to Islington.

*

Frosty welcome from Kay. Make mistake of mentioning Richie, which turns temperature dial down even further. My fault, probably. Just can’t talk to her about him without hearing The Argument, like she hits replay every time she says Richie’s name. As she busies herself cooking brinner (combination of breakfast and dinner, suitable for both night and day dwellers), tell myself on repeat that I should remember how The Argument ended. That she said sorry.

Kay: So, are you going to ask me about weekends?

Stare at her, slow to answer. Sometimes find it hard to talk after a long night. Just opening my mouth to form comprehensible thoughts is like lifting a very heavy thing, or like one of those dreams where you need to run but your legs are moving through treacle.

Me: Ask you what?

Kay pauses, omelette pan in hand. She is very pretty against wintery sunlight through kitchen window.

Kay: The weekends. Where were you planning to stay, with Tiffy in your flat?

Oh. I see.

Me: Hoped I would stay here. As I’m here every weekend I’m not working anyway?

Kay smiles. Get that satisfying feeling of having said the right thing, followed quickly by a squeeze of anxiety.

Kay: I know you were planning on staying here, you know. I just wanted to hear you say it.

She sees my bemused expression.

Kay: Normally you’re just here on weekends by coincidence, not because you’ve planned for it. Not because it’s our life plan.

Word ‘plan’ is much less pleasant with ‘life’ in front of it. Suddenly very busy eating omelette. Kay squeezes my shoulder, runs her fingers up and down the back of my neck, tugs my hair.

Kay: Thank you.

I feel guilty, though I haven’t exactly misled her – I did assume I’d be here every weekend, did factor that into plan with renting out room. Just didn’t . . . think about it that way. The life-plan way.

*

Two in the morning. When I first joined the hospice nights team, nights coming off shift seemed useless – would sit awake, wishing for sunlight. But now this is my time, the muffled quiet, the rest of London sleeping or getting very drunk. I’m taking every locum night shift the hospice rota coordinator will give me – they’re the highest paid, excluding weekend nights, which I’ve told Kay I won’t take. Plus, it’s the only way this flatshare plan will work. Not sure it’ll even be worth recalibrating for weekends, now – will work five in seven nights. Might just stay nocturnal.

Generally use this 2 a.m. time to write to Richie. His phone calls are limited, but he can receive as many letters as I can send him.

It’s been three months as of last Tuesday since he was sentenced. Hard to know how to mark an anniversary like that – raising a glass? Striking another tally on the wall? Richie took it well, considering, but when he went in Sal had told him he’d have him out of there by February, so this one was especially bad.

Sal. He’s trying his best, presumably, but Richie is innocent and in prison, so can’t help but feel a little resentful towards his lawyer. Sal isn’t bad. Uses big words, carries a briefcase, never doubts himself – all seem classic reassuring lawyer things? But mistakes keep happening. Like unexpected guilty verdicts.

What are our options, though? No other lawyers sufficiently interested to take Richie on for reduced fee. No other lawyers familiar with his case, no other lawyers already all set up to speak to Richie in prison . . . no time to find someone new. Every day that goes by, Richie sinks further away.

Has to be me that deals with Sal all the time, too, never Mam, which means endless exhausting phone calls chasing him. But Mam is shouty and blamey. Sal is sensitive, easily put off from actually working on Richie’s case, and completely indispensable.

This is doing me no good. Two a.m. is terrible time for dwelling on legal issues. Worst of all the times. If midnight is witching hour, 2 a.m. is dwelling hour.

Idly reaching for distraction, I find myself googling Johnny White. Mr Prior’s Hollywood-jawed, long-lost love.

There are many Johnny Whites. One is a leading figure in Canadian dance music. Another is an American footballer. Both were definitely not around during World War Two, falling in love with charming English gentlemen.

Still. Internet was made for situations like this, no?

Try Johnny White war casualties, then hate myself a bit. Feels like betraying Mr Prior to assume Johnny’s dead. But it’s worth trying to eliminate those options first.

Find a website called Find War Dead. Am initially slightly horrified, but decide actually it’s amazing – everyone’s remembered here. Like digital, searchable tombstones. I can search by name, regiment, which war, dates of birth . . . I type in Johnny White, and specify World War Two, but don’t have any more to give them.

Seventy-eight Johnny Whites died in armed forces in World War Two.

Sit back. Stare at the list of names. John K. White. James Dudley Jonathan White. John White. John George White. Jon R. L. White. Jonathan Reginald White. John—

All right. Feel suddenly overwhelmingly sure that Mr Prior’s lovely Johnny White is dead, and wish there was a similar database for those who fought but did not die in the war. That would be nice. A survivors list. Struck, as one is at 2 a.m., by the horror of humanity and its inclination to terrible acts of mass murder.

Kay: Leon! Your bleep is going! In my ear!

Leave laptop on sofa after hitting print, and then open bedroom door to find Kay lying on side, duvet over head, one arm up in the air holding my bleep.

Grab bleep. Grab phone. I’m not working, of course, but the team wouldn’t bleep me if it wasn’t important.

Socha, Junior Doctor: Leon, it’s Holly.

Am pulling on shoes.

Me: How bad?

Keys! Keys! Where are keys?

Socha: She’s got an infection – obs are not looking good. She’s asking for you. I don’t know what to do, Leon, and Dr Patel isn’t answering her bleep, and the reg is skiing and June couldn’t get cover organised so there’s nobody else to call . . .

Located keys in bottom of washing basket. Inspired place to keep them. Heading for the door, Socha talking white blood cell counts in my ear, shoelaces flapping—

Kay: Leon! You’re still wearing your pyjamas!

Damn. Thought I’d managed to get to the door faster than usual.