The house was silent, the air heavy and rancid with stale cooking. Elsie the landlady opened the door of the parlour and peered into the hallway. The permanent blackout over the front door skylight made it hard to see, even in daytime. She could just make out the row of stuffed creatures cowering in their glass cases, coats matted and eyes opaque with dust. She padded past them to the bottom of the stairs and stood staring upwards, one plump hand curled round the greasy banister.
Elsie sniffed and looked at the clock. Half past nine. ‘Something’s not right,’ she announced. ‘Not right at all.’ She turned and marched off to fetch her husband.
‘Eh? Eh?’ Bert sat up in bed and looked round wildly, hair askew, turkey-necked in striped pyjamas.
‘I said, she’s gone. Two weeks, she’s owing, and I’ve not had a sight of her since Thursday morning. I’ve told you I don’t want that sort in my house.’ Muttering, he cast around for his glasses. ‘Here,’ she said, dropping them into his lap. ‘You can put this on, too.’ She held out his mackintosh like a bullfighter. ‘And you can just get upstairs and see about it. I’ve had enough.’ She herded him through the parlour and up the stairs, crowding up close behind so he couldn’t turn tail and escape. ‘I knew she’d be trouble the moment I laid eyes on her.’
On the second landing he stopped, wheezing slightly.
‘Go on, then.’
He knocked on the door. ‘Miss Parker?’ No reply. He coughed and tried again. ‘Miss Parker? Edie? Are you in there, dear?’
‘Never you mind “dear”!’ hissed his wife. ‘Try the door.’
‘It’s no good. She’s locked it.’
‘Break it down, then.’
He hesitated.
‘Oh here,’ she said, impatiently. She marched across the landing. ‘Stand back.’
Obediently, he flattened himself against the wall, and she thundered across the lino in a blur of curlers and candlewick, and burst through the door.
‘Now then—’ She stopped, and lowered her voice. ‘There’s someone in there.’
Her husband peered over her shoulder. The blinds were drawn, but they could make out a humped shape on the bed, beneath blankets that were pulled up so high that only the top of a head was visible on the pillow.
‘Well,’ said her husband, more loudly, ‘she can’t be asleep. Not after that.’
They began to advance on the bed. There was a sharp crack, and the landlady staggered slightly, righting herself on the mantelpiece. ‘What’s that?’
‘Her top set, look. You’ve trod on it, Else. Broke it right in half.’ He thought she was going to make some remark about the floor being no place for a good set of teeth, but she turned and clutched his arm.
‘I don’t like the look of this, Bert. I don’t like it at all.’ Her touch was light, like a child’s, and fearful. It made him suddenly bold and he took her hand, leaned forwards, and jerked away the bedclothes. He felt the clammy pressure of her fingers against his as they stared through the half-light at the curled white body with its livid face, gagged mouth, and the black thing protruding from the pool of blood between the parted legs like, like—
Elsie shrieked and fell against him and he took her in his arms and bundled her out of the room and down the stairs, while all the time she was screaming the same thing, over and over, ‘The poker! The poker!’ right out into the street, and she didn’t stop and then there were people crowding the door and policemen and everyone was shouting and rushing about and Elsie was shaking against his chest, sobbing and sobbing. And later, at the neighbours’, still she kept her hand in his. That was what he remembered most clearly, when the rest had become a terrible blur with the only clear detail being the poker, black and stiff, sticking out of what had been…he could not bring himself to think the word for what it had been. The bottom part of her. That’s what he’d said to the police, and they’d understood. Men of the world. Not like him, except…except… that Elsie had turned to him when she was frightened; she’d touched his arm for comfort, before they’d seen the…thing… that was in the bed.
And—God bless her—she’d never once asked him why he’d called Miss Parker ‘dear’ when he’d shouted through the door. Poor, pathetic Edie Parker, who’d met such a terrible end, and who’d let him kiss her on the landing when no one was there, who’d let him put his hand inside her dress and feel her skinny body. He’d known what she’d done for a living, all right, seen her on the street once, seen the way she was with men, anxious, cringing, not flaunting, so that paying to go with her would almost have been an act of charity, and he knew that that was why she’d stood there, defeated, and let him touch her, perhaps with some dim, pitiful hope that it would lead to something off the rent. He’d often wondered if she’d let him do more—do what his wife would no longer allow—but he’d never dared ask her and he knew that made him as pathetic as she was, so he’d cancelled the memory. Then, turning to Elsie, he’d seen a new look in her eyes, something like respect.
‘Don’t worry,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll look after you.’
‘Thank you, Bert,’ she’d said.
Again, he felt the soft, warm pressure of her fingers on his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, he leaned over and gave her a kiss.