The fish motifs were jarring, but all in all Brian liked the way the apartments looked. The security gate and cameras mounted in the alcove gave him peace of mind, even though the thought of being watched unnerved him. The balconies were welcoming and spacious. Unlike his previous place they didn’t resemble prison cells—the wrought iron bars, thick with rust, had suffocated him. The sinister fish statues scattered around the complex, with oddly angled fins and roaming eyes, served as a warning, telling thieves and burglars to stay away. The cameras for those who didn’t heed their advice.
Most of Brian’s belongings were scheduled to arrive later that afternoon. Impatient and curious, he needed to see his apartment, to check out the layout and visualise it with furnishings. The job was long-term even if the apartment was temporary, but Brian knew how easily temporary could become permanent once he settled into his comfort zone. He got out of his car—a maroon Ford Focus he’d owned almost a decade, banged-up but dependable—and checked he had the key in his pocket for the hundredth time.
A pretty woman—long black hair and large stylish sunglasses—rushed through the alcove to the pavement and headed to a car parked a few spaces from his.
Brian nodded at her. She barely smiled, flipped her ponytail at him. He tried not to stare. She was wearing rainbow yoga pants that left little to the imagination. No doubt that glimpse would give him something to think about later, after he’d settled in.
The complex was called Pelagic Court which was an improvement on Grey House in Birmingham, a place that lived down to its moniker. Inside, the apartment was larger than he’d expected and smelled brand new. Fortunately, the aquatic motifs that punctuated much of the buildings’ exterior were absent inside. The furnishings were modern, with off-white walls and light blonde wooden cabinets. Brian pulled the safety strap off the fridge-freezer and opened the door. Two empty ice trays sat on the shelf. He reached for a tray but jumped back when he saw the cockroach on its back. Dark brown hair-covered legs raised up in the air. Brian prodded the bastard, checking it was dead, then pushed it into his hand, and lobbed it out of the window. He rinsed his hands, eyes peeled for other unwelcome visitors.
Brian filled the ice trays from the sink. The ice would go well with whiskey later. Once the movers dropped everything off, he’d want a drink, which reminded him he needed to stock up on essentials. Satisfied for the moment, Brian locked up, then located the closest supermarket on his smartphone, ignoring the distant music from a neighbouring apartment.
His new home was a small seaside town on the South Coast. Emphasis on small, it was a far cry from the Midlands where he’d been spoiled with a multitude of shops and pubs. Still, there was a big Sainsbury’s a twenty-minute drive away, though Brian thought a forty-minute round-trip a bit much for a few provisions, so headed into the town centre to see what it offered. As luck would have it, there was a farmer’s market every last Tuesday of the month. One stall had locally grown fruit and veg—ripe red tomatoes, deep green cucumbers, and apples bigger than Brian’s fist. They let him look and touch without being too snotty.
Brian followed the crowd to the independent supermarket in the corner: ‘Dylan & Son’. According to the sign it had been in business since 1912. If that many people were packing into a place so small it couldn’t be too bad and it sure beat trekking out to Sainsbury’s every time he ran out of bread. Things got off to a rocky start when some bearded bloke wearing a leather jacket and smelling of cigarettes and strong cologne bumped into Brian on his way out of the supermarket. Brian quickly helped him pick up his fallen shopping. They both made mumbled apologies and went their separate ways.
Whilst Brian was at the back of the shop looking for milk, he turned to see a tall man with an unkempt beard and long flowing red robe saunter down the aisle, shaking hands with everyone he approached, stopping for a few minutes to chat with some of the shoppers. Spicy incense perfumed the air. The guy smelt like one of those old goth emporiums that sold dragon figurines and pendants, legal highs and shisha, magic spells and so-called potions. Brian tried not to pay him any attention lest he get drawn into a conversation he didn’t have time for. He pushed his trolley closer, avoiding eye contact with Red Robe.
“Now, don’t trust …” but the conversation between Red Robe and the young couple petered out, as though they didn’t want him to hear.
Perhaps it was just Brian’s imagination because soon they were speaking again, saying their goodbyes. As Brian drew parallel, he looked up at Red Robe who quickly turned away. Spared an awkward conversation, Brian collected his milk and searched for the eggs.
Brian got lost returning to the apartment—unable to shift the image of Red Robe parading up and down the aisles like a fucking celebrity—and ended up putting his address into the phone’s SatNav. He didn’t want to rely on it—and hated the robotic voice with its sickly sarcasm—but it was better than driving in circles. To top things off, a swift moving train caught him at a level crossing. By the time he made it home, the movers were waiting for him, their giant removal van backed close to the apartment’s entrance. Brian left his things in the car whilst he unlocked the front door, grateful he was only on the first floor.
“You made it in record time,” he told the driver—a gruff man with yellow teeth. He handed Brian the invoice to sign.
“Guess the rent here is high,” the driver said, grinning like he knew something he wasn’t sharing.
“Good thing my job pays well.” Brian signed the paper, getting a whiff of stale cigarettes and body odour.
“Can’t all be rich and stuck-up,” the driver mumbled.
Stuck-up? Brian didn’t say anything—he’d seen the size of the driver’s biceps. His two skinhead colleagues were no layabouts either. Brian grabbed the groceries from the car and put them away. He got out of the way of the removal men and went for a wander around the block. There was a whole lot of nothing, but eventually he stumbled upon a corner shop where he picked up some beer for the removal men. He grabbed the cheapest crate he could find, not because of the money, but because he feared they’d think he was even more ‘rich and stuck-up’ if he bought the fancy stuff.
Back at the apartment, the lads appreciated it, busting open their cans and sucking foam from the top. Brian joined them, chugging a can of his own. He wasn’t much of a beer man, but he had to admit it felt right drinking a few with these guys. On the way out the driver held back, whilst his colleagues rushed to the van. Brian stuffed his hands in his pockets. Was the driver waiting for an apology? Eventually Brian. relented.
“Listen, about earlier, I wasn’t being a dick when I—”
The driver cast his hand aside. “Don’t worry about it, mate. Water under the bridge and all that.”
They continued to stare at each other. When the driver raised his hand to scratch his skull, Brian actually flinched. Brian then cleared his throat and scratched his own head as if the visual equivalent of autocorrect.
“It’s just …” the driver said, then trailed off. “You’ll be all right here, yeah?”
Now it was Brian’s turn to look confused. “You’ve moved everything inside, so …”
“Of course, of course. You seem like a good kid is all.” The driver backed towards the van. “Look after yourself and thanks for the beer.”
The driver practically ran to his van, much as his colleagues had. Soon after, it bolted off down the road, leaving Brian alone on his doorstep.
Look after yourself … ?
Brian appraised the car park. His was the only vehicle. Where was the young lady he’d seen earlier? Maybe she didn’t live here—probably the girlfriend of the other tenant.
And who was the other tenant? Brian imagined a young chap, blonde hair, total gym rat into his exercise. Maybe he’d return in the evening with Yoga Pants. Just how soundproof was the apartment? He’d heard music earlier and wondered if he’d hear the two of them going at it, shagging long into the night? The last place he’d lived the walls were practically rice paper, there’d been this young couple next door with a lot of stamina who believed louder sex was better sex.
Brian wandered into the kitchen where he poured himself a large Maker’s Mark and cola, ready to call his sister, Helen. She’d been happy about his move: a fresh start will be good for you. You need to get out more and mingle. Not very subtle code for ‘find a girlfriend and settle down for Christ’s sake.’ At any rate, Brian needed to tell her he’d made it down here safely but knew she’d have too many questions about everything and nothing. The thought of talking on the phone for hours when he had so much to do made him queasy. Helen meant well, loved him more than he likely deserved, but the whiskey provided a mild numbness, it took the edge off her constant badgering.
He was about to call when the folded scrap of paper was shoved through the door.
Brian opened it—blue ink on white paper. Two words: “Get Out.”
Who the …?
He opened the apartment door. “Hello?”
His voice echoed in the empty hall.
Brian rushed into the bedroom and peered out of the window. Whoever had left the note was either out of sight or in hiding. But who the hell would leave such a thing in the first place? And why?
“Get out …” He’d barely got in the damn place.
Brian rubbed his forehead. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity. Someone had had beef with an old tenant and left the note for them. Though Brian had thought the estate agent had said he was the first to live here—the dead cockroach in the fridge-freezer suggested otherwise. Perhaps the note had been meant for his neighbour? The mystery sender had posted it through the wrong door—a simple enough mistake to make. Still, Brian didn’t fancy living in a place where people left passive-aggressive notes. And how did they get into the building in the first place? Wouldn’t they need a key?
Brian puzzled over the matter a little longer until his laptop started singing in the living room. On Skype, Helen’s display picture lit up the computer screen—side-parted golden locks teased her shoulders, light makeup, a soft smile. He quickly put on The Ocean’s Heliocentric, grabbed the glass of Maker’s Mark from the kitchen, and slouched back on the sofa—making as though he was having a good time and not shaken up from a vaguely threatening note, barely hours after moving in. He answered the call, deliberately selecting audio only as he scanned the living room for anything untoward. Mostly it was just cardboard boxes. Aside from the Bose speakers and whiskey glasses, Brian had yet to unbox anything, and he’d only unboxed them because he’d marked the packages appropriately: ‘fragile’ and ‘important music shit’.
“Hey!” Helen’s voice came through first, followed by her well-lit kitchen. She was chopping up vegetables, hair scrunched back in a bun, some pop hit playing in the background. “I was worried about you. Thought you’d have called by now.”
He rubbed sleep out of his eyes, brushed a hand through his dishevelled hair, and turned on video.
“Sorry, I got distracted.” Brian sat up straight on the sofa, forced a smile like ‘hey, sis, everything’s cool here, definitely not freaking out.’
Helen was frowning.
“It was a long drive down here,” Brian said. “Then there were the removal men, shopping, checking out the neighbourhood. I’ve barely had time to sit down.” He got up and started pacing the living room as if to make his point.
“It looks dark in there, everything okay?”
Brian turned on the light. The sun going down as the evening drew near. “See what I mean? So preoccupied I forgot to switch the lights on.”
“But you’re okay? You seem … distant.”
“I’m tired, that’s all. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
The sound of a baby wailing in the background made Helen put the vegetable knife down and look off-camera. “It’s okay, honey—shh, shh.” As if by magic, Helen’s words settled the kid. Brian wished his words were half as effective, these days he could barely get his subordinates to listen to him at work. It was just as well he’d been relocated and reassigned to a new department. A fresh opportunity to present himself as an employee who carried clout. Which he had to be, they weren’t just going to move anyone from the Midlands down to the South Coast, especially when they’d taken care of much of the costs and kitted him out with a fancy new apartment.
“Gracie’s not been sleeping well,” Helen said. “She’s teething.”
Brian nodded. He didn’t have much experience with children but knew enough parents with young kids to understand it was hard work. Gracie started wailing again, louder, more like caterwauling. Guess Helen doesn’t have the magic touch after all.
“Sorry about this, I’d better go,” she said. “But you are okay, aren’t you?”
“I’m good, Helen. But what about you?”
She forced a smile. “Oh, you know me, I’m surviving. Keith will be round in a few hours to help with Gracie, so …”
Keith was Gracie’s paternal grandfather and unlike his son, Mike, he was a constant in Gracie’s life. Mike had bailed before Gracie’s birth and as far as Brian understood, they’d barely spoken since. He knew the relationship had ended badly, though Helen had been vague with the details, and Brian had elected not to ask.
Brian closed the laptop. There was something about speaking with Helen that made him feel insignificant. She had the high-powered job, the fancy house, the nice car, and seemingly did everything from making a sandwich to defending a client to the highest standard. And all of this as a single mother, five years Brian’s junior. Their parents, two years gone from this world, had always maintained they didn’t have a favourite, but in Brian’s mind the better of the siblings was glaringly obvious. He picked up the half-full whiskey glass and sank it, then poured himself another, this time straight, and sank that, too. Get a hold of yourself, man. You’re doing well, this move is your making, and you know it.
He headed to the bedroom where he unpacked some of the basics: clothes, toiletries, towels and tea towels, bathroom products. But he lacked the energy and concentration to get much of it done. He flopped back on the bed and examined the ‘Get Out’ note. Brian told himself he was in control and drank whiskey until he believed it.
Re-energised, Brian resumed the music, this time opting for Mastodon’s Leviathan, and began unpacking whilst thrashing his head to ‘Blood and Thunder’.
Brian wasn’t sure how long it took him to unpack the boxes in the living room but by the time he was done Leviathan was long over and his media player was selecting songs at random. There was a moment he thought his player was malfunctioning. As though two songs were playing at once. He muted his music, the other song’s tempo now easier to hear. It came from next door. Strange, hypnotic music flowed softly from the walls.
His neighbours were finally home.