Take My Breath Away by Ali Ryecart

Chapter Nine

JAMES

Perry’s a determined little bugger, I’ll give him that.

He’s been staying with me for exactly one week, and he’s already got places lined up to look at. He feels he has to assert his independence, and be proactive. I understand that, and admire him for it. But I wish he wouldn’t, at least not yet. What he needs is to take time and not make any rash decisions, but it seems he’s going to have to discover that for himself.

When I insisted I’d come with him, telling him an impartial opinion could only help, he at least didn’t give me any pushback. I’ve got opinions, all right. On a late Friday afternoon, I can think of better things to do than traipse around grim ramshackle shared houses that smell of damp and mould.

We’re on the third viewing. The place is disgusting, yet it’s the best of a desperate bunch.

“… and this would be your room. It’s nice and cosy,” the would-be landlord says.

I peer into the bedroom and wrinkle my nose.

“Room? Don’t you think that’s something of an overstatement? It’s little more than a cupboard.” I cast a glance at Perry, but he’s a polite boy and keeps his neutral smile in place.

“It’s cosy, like I say. The former tenant had no complaints.”

The middle-aged guy giving us the tour of the tatty pair of semi-detached houses which have been knocked into one scowls at me, at the same time he scratches at an impressive patch of acne on his sparsely stubbled chin. A flake of dry skin floats down and lands on his T-shirt, stained with what looks like the ghosts of many a meal. Or at least that’s what I hope it’s stained with.

“It’s a little smaller than I was lead to believe from the details.” Perry steps into the room, and I follow. “And, erm, very — red.”

I snort, and Perry throws me a pained glance. Oh, yes, it’s very red all right. Red walls, red ceiling, red curtains, red threadbare carpet. It looks like there’s been a massacre. A very bloody massacre.

“Animal pens have more room in them. I’m sure this must be illegal.”

There’s barely room to move. The bed, which sinks in the middle, is wedged up against the wall, with about a foot of space at the bottom. The open shelving is just a small built-in cupboard that’s had the door wrenched off.

“Where’s the wardrobe?” I swing around and almost knock Perry off his feet.

Acne Man, who hasn’t come in because if he did we’d have to be shoehorned out, jerks his head to a battered cupboard on the other side of the hallway.

“Perry, this is ridiculous. You can’t be considering living in this dump?”

“I don’t need much space because I won’t be bringing a lot with me…” He looks around at the nasty little room, his polite smile slipping.

Irritation wells up in me. Why in God’s name are we here, looking at this bloody hell hole, when he can stay with me for as long as he wants? I know why. It’s because he’s proud, he wants to prove to himself he can ‘move on’. But to this?

I ball my hands into fists, fighting the urge to drag him out and back home. He needs to come to his senses, and if the journey entails looking at dumps like this, then so be it.

“I can show you the kitchen.” Acne Man’s fingers are scratching again, this time terrifyingly near to his crotch. I make a note not to shake his hand on the way out. “You have your own space in the fridge, and you’ve got a locker. You supply your own padlock, and—”

The door to the next room crashes open. A huge bald man waddles out, zipping up his jeans. Perry and I gag as a noxious cloud of poisonous gas fills the air.

“Toilet’s blocked again. That’s the third time this week. It’s not going down at all.” He throws a disinterested glance our way, and thumps down the stairs.

“That’s wet wipes,” Acne Man says, his face contorting into a scowl. “I put a sign up: No Wet Wipes.” He glares at me and Perry as though we’re responsible for the lavatorial crisis. He makes his way downstairs and we follow.

“I do like the look of your new housemates. Charming and civilised, I think you’ll be very at home here.”

Perry looks at me over his shoulder. “It’s not ideal, but it’s cheap,” he whispers.

His shoulders sag, and I bite back. He needs to do this, needs to demonstrate to himself that he’s not reliant on anybody. I grind my teeth. There’s no way on earth I’m going to let him come to a place like this, but he has to see that for himself.

“This is yours.” Acne Man nods to a locker bolted to the wall. It’s got scorch marks on it, and a broken hasp for a padlock. “And you get a shelf in the fridge.” He opens one of two fridges that were all the rage, in 1972, and a stench that makes the stink from the toilet smell like angels’ breath wafts out.

Perry covers his mouth with his hand, and I swear he’s gone green.

“I think something might have gone off—”

“Gone off?” I say, coughing hard. “Something’s more than gone off, something’s died in that thing.”

Acne Man has the grace to look embarrassed, but he doesn’t offer an explanation.

“Anything else you want to see?”

“Oh, I think we’ve seen everything we need to — don’t you agree, Perry?”

Perry nods. He looks like he’s ready to throw up.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, switching his attention from me to Acne Man, who’s now scratching at the back of his ear, like a mangy dog. He looks at his nails, and digs something out from under them.

“Don’t think about it too long, there’s demand for rooms around here. This area’s on the up.”

“On the up from where? The sewer?”

“James,” Perry hisses at me, but I don’t care.

I’ve had enough of looking at shitty rooms in even shittier houses inhabited by the sorts of people you cross the road to avoid.

“Thank you for showing us around. I, erm… It’s not quite what I’m looking for—”

“Yes, we really are sorry, but blocked toilets, box rooms which look like the walls have been painted in blood, and dead rats in the fridge really aren’t on my friend’s list of desirables in a new home.”

I smile at Acne Man but it just seems to confuse him.

“So you don’t want the room? You’d be lucky to get anything for the price around here.”

“The only thing you’ll get here is a case of diphtheria, cholera and possibly the Black Death.”

Perry groans, and gives me his pained look again.

“Thank you but no, it’s not really for me.”

“It really isn’t for anybody who doesn’t want to get a nasty rash on their—”

“Goodbye and thank you,” Perry blurts as he shoves me towards the kitchen door.

A moment later we’re out, on the cracked and broken path.

“God, that smell…” He’s gone a deeper shade of green, I’m sure of it.

“There isn’t anywhere else to see, is there?” I ask, as we head along the litter-strewn street. With graffiti-covered, closed-up shops, the place is like a war zone.

“No, that’s it. I didn’t realise they’d be so—

“Filthy, stinking, nasty, a threat to human health?”

Perry sighs, and shakes his head. “I suppose I’ve been lucky in where I’ve lived. But there must be something better out there?” He looks at me with downcast eyes, and I want to shout yes, there is, you’re bloody well there now… But I don’t say anything, not yet. He had to do this, to see what the alternative is.

“I feel like I need to have a good scrub and soak in the bath for a few hours.” He pushes his fingers through his hair, and pulls them out sharp. “God, you don’t think I’ve picked up anything from there do you?” His eyes are wide, and horrified.

I shrug. “Fleas, probably. Maybe even lice.” And a large dose of reality.

“Oh, God…” He shudders, and I can’t help smiling.

“I’ll have to start looking again tomorrow. Maybe be a bit more specific.”

My smile disappears.

“Let’s forget about that for now. We’ll go home and you can have that scrub in the bath whilst I order a takeaway. Pizza from Angelo’s okay?”

The thinnest, crispiest pizza from the excellent little Italian just five minutes from the house. It puts a smile on his face, and brings mine back. It’s the first thing we’ve had to smile about in the last three hours as we’d trudged from one slum to the next. But I’m going to make sure I put an even bigger smile on his face when we’re home, because I’m going to make him an offer I’m determined he won’t refuse.