THREE

The bathroom was cold enough to make her think twice about a shower. The air bit her face, her ankles and feet. Even with the water splashing hot inside the tub and creating steam, the mere thought of removing her gown was an anticipation of pain.

Grit and fluff had stuck to the soles of her feet when she’d flitted down one flight of stairs to the communal bathroom on the first floor. She wished she’d worn her trainers, or ended her resistance to slippers; they had their uses.

She checked the radiator. It burned red hot but failed to transfer any heat into the cramped space.

The room was bone dry and dusty. A red carpet, as stiff and desiccated as the rug in her room, crackled under her feet. Plain paper painted a watery yellow covered the walls. In the corners above the toilet and sink, a rash of black spores erupted from damp plaster. Around the sink, old black whiskers had fossilized under the overflow hole. She wondered if she would have become a resident if she’d properly inspected the bathroom during her tour yesterday. Though to be honest, she’d used worse.

Sitting on the toilet to pee, she sensed being on the edge of a bad smell that wouldn’t fully reveal its source. There was a strong odour of damp and old carpet in the air of the bathroom, but the ripe sweetness of meat in deep bins suggested itself too.

Wiping the grimy and discoloured enamel of the bath with sodden toilet paper was a delaying tactic for actually stepping into the shower. When was the last time the bath had been cleaned?

Up on the second floor there was only a toilet on the landing, without a sink, so there was no alternative to this bathroom in such a large building. But the sink and the toilet seat had been dusty before she used them, which was odd because she had heard this toilet flush a little while ago, so someone must have been in here.

As far as she could tell there was a self-contained flat on the ground floor, another on the third floor, and six bedrooms in the communal section of the building: three bedrooms on the first floor, three on the second floor, but only one complete bathroom. Grim. The idea of someone not washing their hands after using the toilet this morning made her wince. What sort of people lived here?

She checked the time on her phone. Better get a move on.

She laid her shampoo and conditioner bottles behind the blotchy taps at the top of the bath. When the room was sufficiently cloudy with steam to give an impression of heat, she braved the cold and removed her robe, her t-shirt and underwear. She didn’t shiver as much as shake. By the time she stepped into the cascade of water, her feet and fingers were numb.

The window was closed, the heating was on. How could it be so cold?

As dawn struggled through a cleaner portion of the window, daylight revealed an aperture blocked with painted iron bars, fixed to the exterior wall.

What would you do in a fire?

The windows in her room were not barred, so maybe this was a security feature of the lower floors – something else she hadn’t noticed yesterday in her determination to get out of the cell. But it was yet another reason to get out of here. The very idea of moving again was exhausting, but she couldn’t remain here. She wanted to run someplace familiar.

Ryan.

Whenever fear and anxiety had overrun her since she’d arrived in Birmingham, her first thought was always to call her ex, Ryan, and ask him if she could return to his room – at least until she found work in Coventry, or somewhere nearby. But that wouldn’t be possible until the weekend, because she needed the next three days’ work giving out the samples. She’d make £120. And a return to Coventry would also be an act of outright desperation; the very idea made her feelings crawl around on all fours in the form of guilt and grief.

She didn’t want to go through all that again. She didn’t want to be with Ryan. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind about that. Her being at his place would be inappropriate and near unbearable. And a sorry-faced return to Ryan’s life would involve her sleeping on Ryan’s bed again, while he fidgeted on the floor in a sleeping bag.

Going back to his room, but not back to him, would mean tears, mostly his, and a revival of the discomfort and awkwardness that would overwhelm a few nights in his room. His desperate need for them to get back together would take him over. It was one of the main reasons she’d shifted down to Birmingham to find work: to cut them off from each other.

Stephanie thought herself into brief surges of hope, which sank into a familiar cycle of stifling frustrations and ended in dread. Nothing new there. She always seemed to be inside houses owned by other people, restless with anxiety or paralyzed by regret. How could she have been so foolish as to believe she could make it on her own in a strange city?

Conscious of the time, she washed her hair quickly, constantly rotating her body under the water that struggled to escape the limescale-encrusted shower head. After a few uncomfortable minutes, she climbed out of the bathtub and wrapped herself in the towel while her teeth chattered.

Not having to use the bathroom for much longer was the only relief she could draw from the experience. She could pick up a scourer and cleaning spray on her way home from work, from a pound shop, and just use the sink until she moved out. No one need know. As she thought about how bearable she could make her time at 82 Edgehill Road, she heard a voice.

The cold forgotten for a moment, Stephanie stepped away from the bath, because she was sure the voice had come from the tub.

Steam clouded to the ceiling. She swiped her hands before her face to clear her vision.

Silence.

And then she heard it again: a faint voice down by the floor. But not one directed at her; the speaker seemed to be talking into a corner, or even at the floor. Maybe from under the floor?

She followed the direction of the voice and wondered if there were tenants on the ground floor and some weird acoustic or cavity in the building was throwing voices into the nearby rooms.

She lowered herself to her hands and knees. But the carpet was filthy enough to make her rear back to her heels and bat the gathered hairs and grit from her damp hands.

‘What is my name?’

Stephanie stood up and backed against the nearest wall. Opened the bathroom door to let the steam escape so she could see the woman who had spoken, and only a few feet from her face at that.

What is my name? The question had risen as if someone lying inside the tub had spoken out loud.

And whoever was speaking now continued to mumble as if they were drifting away. Stephanie could almost catch the words that appeared to originate, impossibly, from beneath the bathtub. She moved closer, swallowed the constriction in her throat, and knocked on the bath, hoping that would make it stop. ‘Hello? Can you—’

The speaker either didn’t hear her or ignored her and continued to talk in a quick stream of words, to herself, or to someone else she could not see. It was a woman urgently communicating something to someone that wasn’t Stephanie.

On all fours, Stephanie moved her hands around the carpet at the base of the bath, though she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. A waft of wet rags and a hint of sewage buffeted her face. The room below must have a hole in the ceiling and she was overhearing a one-sided conversation or a television.

Stephanie’s ear touched the side panel of the bath’s surround.

‘. . . before here . . . that time. Nowhere . . . to where the other . . . the cold . . . is my name?’

A television, it must be, or a radio play, overheard from a room beneath the bathroom. The voice had to be coming from below. She didn’t want to believe it could be coming from anywhere else.

Stephanie gathered up her things and hurried into the warmer corridor of the first floor. She came to a standstill on the landing, sluggish with shock and bewilderment, and wondered what on God’s earth she had moved into.