THIRTY-TWO

As Stephanie stepped off the front path and inside the darkened hallway of the house, the aluminium light of the street shrunk behind her with the closing of the front door. The moment both of her feet were grounded inside the house, she stopped moving, and immediately considered running back outside.

The tall, gangly figure in the dirty puffa jacket that stood at the end of the ground floor passage appeared to have turned its head sharply to greet her entrance with a grimace so aggressive she was sure it had been accompanied by an animal snarl.

Fergal turned his body away from the door, and the fabric of his coat rustled like a serpent in dry grass. Elevating himself to his full height, with his long, bony neck extended in a nasty rebuke, he seemed to tilt the top half of his body towards her. His long arms remained stiff at his sides, the broad white palms confronting her like faces in a gang of bullies. Come on then! She knew the posture from outside pubs and nightclubs in Stoke, but was shocked to have it turned in her direction.

Stephanie moved as calmly as she could to the foot of the stairs. Just once, as she passed out of sight, did she glance through the banisters on her way up to the first floor to see that Fergal had returned his attention to the solitary door. He rested his bloodless forehead upon it now, as if with affection.

At the sight of the girl coming out of the bathroom, Stephanie came to a sudden stop on the first floor landing. The girl jumped. Then relaxed her body, and her face into a broad smile accompanied by a giggle.

Stephanie didn’t know what to react to first: the fact that another female stranger was indoors and that the figure was living and real, or how the woman was dressed. Those just weren’t the kind of shoes you saw anywhere besides nightclubs or strip clubs: white leather platforms with transparent soles and heels; outrageous shoes matched by a tight blue dress that zipped up the front and caught the bathroom’s electric light like oil in water. The dress was made of latex.

The woman’s raven hair was perfectly groomed into a silky torrent that ended in a straight line at her waist, and her skin was evolving from caramel to orange from a great deal of time spent on a sun bed. The girl looked down her body as if to acknowledge Stephanie’s shock. ‘I have date already.’

The girl must be Margaret, Svetlana’s friend.

At least this was something Knacker hadn’t lied about. But the incongruity of two glamorous girls accepting rooms in the wretched house from the ghastly cousins struck her as more surreal than odd. She wished she could accept the house’s unpredictable nature; the tension in her neck and limbs warned her that she could not.

Stephanie laughed nervously, but wasn’t sure why because she found nothing about the situation amusing. It was Sunday afternoon in North Birmingham, so who went on a date looking like that? Unless they were paid to. Stephanie’s blood cooled.

‘Margaret?’

The girl cocked her head in surprise.

Stephanie near choked in the aerosol of perfume that clouded off the girl; a scent that may have been pleasant, but became sickly on the grim and dowdy landing. ‘Svetlana told me.’

‘Oh. Yes. You live too, yes?’

Stephanie frowned in bewilderment.

‘Sorry, my English not so good.’

The addendum to Margaret’s question enabled Stephanie to understand she was being asked whether she lived in the building and not if she were alive. Though neither question, she decided, was inappropriate at 82 Edgehill Road.

Stephanie looked over her shoulder warily, remembering Fergal wasn’t far away or in any kind of mood they would want to engage with.

Margaret said, ‘I go,’ and started to teeter to the stairs to begin a short ascent, fraught with danger, in the heels. If the girl lived on the second floor she would either be in the room of the crying Russian girl, or in the room Stephanie had occupied during her first night.

Stephanie followed the girl to the stairs, eager to keep the conversation going and to warn her. ‘Are you from Lithuania?’

‘Albania.’

‘You moved in today?’

Margaret spoke over her shoulder, smiling. ‘Yes. Yes. Morning.’

‘Can we talk later?’

The girl mounted the stairs, her hips and bottom swaying in a manner that could only be provocative in the latex dress. ‘Er, yes. We talk. Er, later.’

‘After your date?’

‘Of course.’

‘I have coffee too.’

‘You’d probably best drink it yourself. She’s gonna be busy for a bit, like.’ Knacker stood where the stairs met the second floor.

Stephanie never moved beyond the bend in the staircase. Had he been listening? What had she said? Thank God she’d stopped herself in time. But would he still be angry with her?

‘Awright, darling,’ he said to Margaret, his eyes dreamy as he leered at the girl from head to foot. He made little attempt to let her pass, forcing her body to brush against his.

The date! Surely not!

Stephanie dipped her head and retreated down the stairs to the first floor. The thought that a pretty girl like Margaret would even contemplate going out with a weasel like Knacker sickened her. Foreign girls could get into desperate situations; she knew they came to England hoping for a better life, to escape poverty, so had Margaret fallen for Knacker’s lies about his affluence and professional success and been lured here? But lured here for what?

Not that. Please.

Continuing his admiration of Margaret, Knacker’s voice travelled down the stairwell. ‘You look beautiful, darling. Stunning, like.’

Stephanie hurried back to her room and threw herself inside before locking the door.

Within minutes she heard other footsteps ascending the staircase – maybe even two sets of feet – accompanied by Knacker’s horrible cackle and interspersed with his contributions to a conversation she couldn’t make out. Knacker was speaking to another man whose deep voice rumbled in the distance and then passed out of hearing. A voice that seemed too deep to belong to Fergal.

The appearance of strangers in the communal areas of the building should have brought relief, but only succeeded in amplifying her concerns about the nature and purpose of the new tenants.

She left her door open a fraction, so she could see who would eventually come back down the stairs. It hadn’t been open long when the cries began above her head.