Kevin had expected the interior to look as bad as the exterior but he’d been wrong. He’d imagined thick layers of dust, the air to be dank and cloying. Rats or maybe mice scurrying about when he entered. No, it was nothing like that. Although the windows were dirty, the rest of the place was clean, as though someone came along regularly to keep the place tidy. Or had come out here especially to make sure it was aired out and whatnot for his return. The only person who would have done that was his brother, and he was long gone, having died a couple of years ago.
He closed the door and stared around the living room, taking in the fact that everything was in the same place as he’d last seen it. The brown-and-cream hessian couch. The mahogany sideboard. The scratched teak coffee table — minus the newspapers and magazines on the slatted shelf beneath, though, but still covered in tea stain rings, burned deep where the varnish had been wearing thin even back then. They’d picked the table up at some car boot sale or other — the one in Levitt’s Field if he remembered right — and lugged it into the house, reckoning they’d got a right bargain. And they had. For fifty pence, that table had done the job. On the day he’d been killed, Robin had said just that morning he was going to strip it later, make it look like new. A circular scrubbing where there was no varnish shouted loud and clear he’d started the job but hadn’t been able to finish it. Must have started it when Kevin had left to go into the city and pick up some food from the Chinese restaurant. The one at the other end of that alley.
Kevin swallowed. Shifted from foot to foot. Cursed the sting of tears.
Just what the fuck was he doing back here, eh?
Trying to move on, that’s what.
He sighed and scoured some more of the cottage, seeing stuff, noticing how everything was the damn same, the cottage remaining stuck in time, as though it’d been preserved just for this day. So Kevin’s memories matched the reality of now. In the kitchen, though, a cup sat on the draining board, placed as if someone had rinsed it out and left it there to dry. A small sea of water pooled in the dip on the stainless steel where Kevin had dropped a hammer on it when he’d first moved in, clumsy bastard that he was. A box of opened Ritz crackers was on the side, next to the kettle, and a carton of milk had been left out. He lifted it, sniffed the contents.
Fresh.
He scrubbed his chin. Someone was fucking well living here.
Kevin stormed through the rest of the cottage, seeing evidence that someone had washed in the bathroom recently — there were water droplets in the sink and bath, and a cheap red toothbrush lay on its side on the windowsill, a puddle of white liquid beneath the bristles. He saved the main bedroom until last — his and Robin’s — wanting to go in there and see if some fucker was there, yet at the same time not wanting to. That room held all the good memories. Of heated fucks, warm cuddles and talks long into the night. Of him getting dressed while Robin stayed in bed, watching and telling him how enticing his cock looked swinging the way it did.
He clenched his jaw, staved off those useless images that taunted him daily, and pushed the door open. Saw what he expected, but still couldn’t believe it. Some wanker, sprawled out in their bed, the purple cotton sheets half on, half off his body, his tousled black hair splayed on the pillow.
“Oi!” he shouted, lunging forward and grabbing that hair, hefting the young guy up so he was a sitting, blinking-eyed mess of puzzlement. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing in here?”
The man raised his hand to his head, pushed Kevin’s grip away, and rubbed the spot that clearly hurt from Kevin’s assault. He winced then straightened up, levelling his shoulders and puffing out his slender chest. Kevin reckoned he was about twenty-five if he was a day, wet behind the goddamned ears and dense to boot.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Kevin asked. “Or are you fucken deaf?”
The man squinted, and realisation seemed to widen his eyes. “’Ere, you’re that fella! The one in the photos downstairs. Blimey, mate, you’ve aged a bit, ain’t you?”
That London accent came straight out of Oliver Twist, and Kevin bridled at the man’s audacity, ignoring his question as though he hadn’t even asked it.
“Who the fuck are you?” Kevin asked.
“I’m George, and I’d ask who the fuck you are, except I already know.” He got out of bed, breezing past Kevin to grab a pair of dark blue jeans. Putting them on, he said, “Well, you’re either Robin or Kevin, one or the other. Never did work out which face matched which name.”
Anger threatened to pitch Kevin over — have him lashing out, grabbing the little git by his hair again and tossing him out on his ass.
“So how come you’re back then, after all this time?” The man shrugged into a black t-shirt and pulled it down so the hem reached his crotch. “I mean, I’ve been living here nigh on two years now. No sign of anyone. So why the sudden return?”
It seemed nothing fazed this character. Not the filthy look Kevin was giving him, Kevin’s hands clenched into fists, or his heavy breathing. Nothing at all.
“This is my fucking cottage,” Kevin managed. “And you don’t belong here. Get your shit together and get the fuck out.”
The man — George or whatever the hell he’d said his name was — stared at Kevin, his full lips parted, his green eyes wide. “Hang on a bloody minute, chap. I’ve kept this place all clean, like. Made sure it was safe from people breaking in. You can’t just tell me to sod off!”
“I can — I did — and you are sodding off. Now.”
Kevin turned away, went downstairs to distance himself, because if he’d stayed where he was, he’d have done the guy some damage. He wanted to punch something, hurt someone, and had to put space between them in case that someone turned out to be the man upstairs.
Or the man who now stood behind him, breath hot on Kevin’s neck.
Kevin turned to face him. “Look, pal, I appreciate you looking after this place and all that, but you’ve got to go. I won’t ask how you got in, how you’ve managed to stay here without anyone noticing, or where you plan on going next. You just have to leave. You don’t belong here. No one does.”
George cocked his head. “What, not even you?”
“No, not even me.”
“So why are you here? Come to get it ready for sale or something?”
Kevin found himself wanting to answer, even though it was none of the little turd’s business. “Because I’ve got no where else to go, if you must know. Once I have, yeah, I reckon I’ll be selling it.”
George nodded knowingly. “I see. Can I claim squatter’s rights?” He widened his eyes at Kevin, must have seen the anger on his face. “Or not. No, maybe not.” He lifted one hand as though to ward Kevin off. “It was just a joke, all right? I’ll go. But do me a favour, yeah?”
Kevin almost laughed. “Do you a favour? Hit the road, now!”
“No, no,” George said, flapping one hand. “I just want you to answer a question, that’s all. It’s been bugging me for fucking ages. Is that you who’s been paying the electric bill, the water and whatnot? Only, it never goes off, and the only bills that have come through the past two years are to say not to pay anything and that the monthly payment plan is still adequate — their word, not mine.” He rolled his eyes and moved over to the kettle, taking it from its base and filling it at the sink. “Want a cuppa?” he asked, turning to look at Kevin over his shoulder.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Kevin stared, seeing how much this guy wasn’t kidding. He was going to make a damn cup of tea before he left, no doubt about it.
“Nope. I’m thirsty, thought you might be an’ all.” He smiled brightly. “So, d’you want one then?”
Kevin turned away, mind whirling, feet unsteady. He had to go and sit the hell down before he fell down. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, walking out of the kitchen. He sat on the couch in the living room, propped his elbows on his knees and glared at the floor, bringing his hands up to clasp them behind his neck.
There was a person in his kitchen — in Robin’s kitchen. A man in Robin’s house. One who shouldn’t be here but who didn’t seem in any rush to leave.
“D’you have sugar, or what?” George called. “And if you do, how many? Hope it isn’t more than two, because we’re running low.”
We’re? We’re running low?
Kevin lifted his head. Let go of his neck to drag his hands down his face. Wondered why the fuck he was about to answer but answered all the same. “One’ll do.”
“Good stuff!”
George wandered in, placing a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of Kevin then curling up in the chair opposite, one that matched the couch. “So, you going to do that favour for me, then? I mean, I’ve had a long time to think about it, and when you’ve got time on your hands, there’s nothing to do but think sometimes, know what I mean?”
God did Kevin know what he meant. He nodded.
“I have no idea who’s been paying the bills.” Kevin assumed Robin must have had money in his account — must still have it. He wondered why it hadn’t been seized or whatever the hell happened to people’s cash when they died and no one claimed it. Decided he couldn’t cope with the thought and shrugged.
“Oh, right ho.” George took a sip of his tea. Swallowed. Smiled again. “So you don’t fancy a lodger then? Not that I can pay you much rent or anything. On Jobseeker’s allowance, me. Been trying to get a job for ages. Nothing doing. No one wants a queer working in their bar. Only thing I’m good at, see. Well, that and the other. Although...” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Although I do a bit of moonlighting at this club. You know, a bit of this and that.”
Kevin didn’t know, didn’t care. Instead of answering he gave a quick nod then lowered his head again.
“One of those clubs,” George went on.
Kevin decided to bite. “What clubs?” he said on a sigh, ruffling the back of his hair.
“You know!” George said. “A gay club.”
“Oh right.” Like I give a fuck.
“There’s this guy there, sees me regular. Says his name’s Tommy Steel but I reckon he’s pulling my leg. Anyway —”
Kevin snapped his head up. “Hang on. Say that name again.”
George obliged.
“Where is this club?” Kevin asked.
“In the city. Handguard Road. Know it?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know it.” Kevin narrowed his eyes. “How often does he go there?”
“Often, by all accounts. I only ever see him on a Friday night, though. Hey, that’s today, isn’t it?”
“Will you take me?” Kevin asked.
“I would,” George said. “But some bloke burst in here and said I had to leave. I’d better be going after my tea.” He smiled.
“You don’t have to go. Not yet, anyway.” What the hell are you playing at?
“Oh, right. Can I have that in writing?” George winked.
“You can if you’re not bullshitting me and Tommy Steel is at that club tonight.”
“Oh, he will be. Loves my kinky ass, that one.” George sipped some more tea, then said, “Know him, do you?”
Kevin shook his head. “I know of him. Need to speak to him.” Need to rip his fucking head off.
“You ought to be careful, unless, of course, you know what he’s about. A right rough one, him. Likes hurting me, slapping me about a bit, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He won’t be slapping you about for long.
Kevin stood, wandering out of the living room and into the kitchen. His heart hurt, beating too fast, and his body felt weak. A bit of a shock, that, hearing Tommy’s name so soon. Oh, he heard it in his head, a mantra, nearly always there, but for someone else to say it... Odd.
He opened cupboards, finding some canned soup, half a loaf of bread, and an unopened block of butter in the fridge. “Mind if I help myself to some food?” he called.
“Nope.”
Kevin jumped — George was right behind him.
“You don’t want to be coming up on me like that,” Kevin warned. Not when I’ve been where I’ve been. Seen what I’ve seen when people sneak about.
“Hey, chill out!” George said, looking indignant.
“No.” Kevin dashed out one hand and gripped the man’s wrist. “You chill out. Stop being so hyper. I don’t need it, don’t like it. I need...some peace and quiet.”
“Okay, I get it. I’ll fuck off for a bit, all right? I have to go into the city anyway. Tommy wants me to wear this eye mask tonight. Very specific as to what it must look like. I’ll have to go Cupid’s Cupboard and pick one up, but what the fuck, eh?”
“How do you get there?” Kevin asked.
“By using the car in the garage. It isn’t taxed or insured, but I’m careful. Park it out of the way. Drive at a steady pace. No bugger takes any notice of it.”
Kevin beat back irritation that this man had also bagged use of Robin’s car. “Right, well, off you go then.”
George swilled his cup out and placed it on the drainer. “I usually climb in through the living room window, leave it on the latch, but now you’re here... You will let me in when I get back, won’t you?” He eyed Kevin warily.
“Yes. Just...just fucking go, all right?”
George scuttled out, leaving Kevin to finally have a bit of time to call his own. Time to process the fact that his plan had almost come to fruition far quicker than he’d intended.