Cher doesn’t reply; just lies on her side and stares at the bedside table.
‘She’s just had her pills,’ she tells Collette. ‘And she’s had a little sleep. Hopefully she’ll drop off again soon.’
‘And how does she seem?’
‘In a lot of pain. But I think it’s okay. I don’t think anything’s broken. Not badly, anyway.’
Apart from her skin, and her heart, and her spirit, she thinks. But all those things can mend. Scars, yes, but they’ll mend, if she lets them.
Collette advances into the room. She’s got a bunch of flowers – carnations, cheap things that Vesta associates with graveyards – and a bag of tins and packets. ‘Soup,’ she says. ‘I thought soup would be good. And I got some bread. And some grapes. You should eat something, Cher.’
‘Not hungry,’ says Cher.
‘Well, maybe later,’ she says. ‘I got Ribena, as well. Everyone likes Ribena, right?’
Cher looks up, her eyes full of tears again. ‘Yeah. I like Ribena.’
Collette grins. Gosh, she’s lovely when she smiles, thinks Vesta. All that pinchedness drops away and she’s just – pretty. She goes over to the sink and fills the pint glass. Puts the flowers in it and makes a show of trying to arrange them. ‘Hossein sent these,’ she says.
‘There, you see?’ says Vesta, trying to jolly the atmosphere up. ‘Isn’t that nice? Everyone’s done their best, haven’t they?’
‘Big whoop,’ says Cher, and closes her eye.
Vesta closes the door and lets her face drop. The strain of keeping up a good front, of projecting reassurance for all these hours, has drained her. That bloody man, she thinks. I’m going to have a rest for a couple of hours, but then I’m right round there. I can’t believe he’s got the gall. Utter bastard. I’m going to go round there and tell him. Just because they’ve done away with tenant rights doesn’t mean he can just bully people. I’ve had enough. Really, I’ve had enough.
She’s so stiff she has to hold on to the banisters all the way down the stairs, take them one at a time with her right foot first. She feels old today, and hates it when she’s forced to remember that nearly seventy is old. She has always taken such pride in staying young, in fighting all those generational attitudes when they’ve tried to creep up on her, and the thought that in the end it’s all inevitable fills her with dread. She wishes she’d remembered to neck one of Cher’s tramadol while she was up there, but there’s plenty of ibuprofen in the flat. A couple of those, a cup of tea and a lie-down, and I’ll be right round there, she thinks. I’ll bloody well tell him he can’t bully people.
The stink hits her the moment she opens the flat door. Like the rat – rotten and foetid and old – but far, far worse. It’s a thick, viscous smell, and it’s huge.
‘Oh, God,’ says Vesta. What now? Haven’t I had enough already? Really, today, over the last few weeks? Haven’t I?
She turns on the light and goes in, covering her face with the sleeve of her cardy. It’s sewage. She knows it is. It’s not hard to tell the smell of shit and fat and urine, even if it’s not a stench you smell every day.
The carpet is damp and sludgy beneath her feet. Vesta gags, and forges forward. It’s the drains. Those bloody drains she’s been asking him and asking him to sort out. Something has gone terribly wrong, and now it’s all over her kitchen.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘I told you. I told you! How many times have I asked you to sort it out? And now look!’
The Landlord sits up and puts on his specs.
‘Who is this?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who this is. It’s Vesta Collins! And my bathroom’s all over shit! I told you that you needed to do something about those drains!’
‘Calm down, dear,’ he says, and hears a shriek of rage.
‘Don’t tell me to calm down! Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! And don’t bloody call me dear. I am not your dear.’
Someone’s set fire to her bra, he thinks. I’m taking that phone out of the hall, first chance I get. I’m not paying line rental to have her shout at me.
‘You’re a lazy, greedy little man, Roy Preece! You were like that when you were a kiddy, and you’re worse now! My flat’s ruined! It’s ruined! There’s sewage all over the bathroom, and it’s coming out into the kitchen, and it’s all your fault!’
‘Well, I don’t know how you work that out,’ he says, sulkily.
‘Because you’ve stalled and stalled on getting the drain people out, and now every time someone flushes upstairs, or uses the water, there’s more sewage coming out of my loo! You need to get Dyno-Rod, and you need to get them now. Do you hear me?’
Like that’s going to happen. I’m not made of money, even if she thinks I am.
‘I’ll come over and have a look in a bit,’ he says.
‘No! No! No! You need to get it sorted out now! Hossein’s been up to his shoulder in kaka for the last hour, and he’s got nowhere. There’s some sort of fatty stuff clogging it all up. It needs a professional with a bunch of rods, not you and a bottle of bleach!’
‘I said,’ he repeats, ‘that I’ll come in a bit.’
‘And what are we meant to do in the meantime? No one can use the bathrooms without it all coming straight back out again. And I can’t use my flat. It’s unusable. I can’t wash, and I can’t cook. If I try and make anything to eat in here, I’ll probably die.’
And wouldn’t that be a tragedy, you horrible old bat, he thinks. You’ve been around quite long enough, in my opinion.
‘I swear, this is your last chance,’ she says. ‘If you don’t get this sorted out, I’m calling the council tomorrow. Then you’ll not just be looking at the drains, you’ll be having to replace all those manky water heaters, and probably putting in heating, as well, and the fire provisions. And doing something about the door locks, and dealing with the damp down here, and all the other things I’ve let you get away with. I’ve had it up to here with it. This is the final blimmin’ straw. I’m going to stay in a hotel till it’s sorted out, and you’re footing the bill.’
‘Now, hang on! Nobody said anything about hotels.’
‘Well, what do you want me to do? You want me to report you? Do you? I’m sure they’d be interested. Rats and sewage and that poor kid up in her room, all covered in cuts because of you.’
‘You what?’
‘Oh, yeah. Don’t think I don’t know about you and your random rent rises.’
Cher Farrell. Something to do with Cher Farrell. ‘What are you on about now?’
‘And she can’t even wash, for God’s sake. It’s disgusting! I’ve a mind to report you anyway, greedy-guts. I suppose you think you can get her to… to whatever. You disgust me, Roy Preece. And I’m not taking any more of it. I’m living in a slum.’
‘Well, you get what you pay for,’ he replies, triumphantly. ‘You wouldn’t even get a slum for the rent you pay me. You could always move somewhere else, if you don’t like it. Be my guest. Because I’ll come in my own good time.’
Vesta goes silent. When she speaks, she seems to have regained her control, as though someone’s thrown a switch.
‘Would you care to repeat that?’
‘I said,’ he says, slowly, so she can’t mishear, ‘that I’ll come in my own good time.’
‘So you’re refusing to make the property habitable?’
‘I didn’t say that. I said you’d have to wait until I can get there.’
‘I don’t, you know. Shall I call out Dyno-Rod myself? I could do that, and give you the bill. Only I don’t have any money.’
Well why don’t you pay them out of all the cash you’ve saved by paying me a peppercorn rent all these years, he thinks. Christ, why can’t you just die?