How Not to Die Alone

— CHAPTER 22 —

His name was Warren, he was fifty-seven years old, and it had taken eleven months and twenty-three days for anyone to realize he was dead. The last record of his being alive was when he’d been to the bank to deposit a check, whereafter he’d returned home, died, and rotted away apologetically on a sofa under a throw patterned with hummingbirds.

The only other flat in the building was unoccupied, which explained the fact that the smell, which was currently causing Andrew to gag even before he’d set foot in the flat itself, hadn’t been the thing to alert someone to Warren’s death. In fact, the only reason it hadn’t been longer before his body had been discovered was that direct debits for his rent and energy bills had bounced back at the same time. An unfortunate debt collector—who’d apparently been scrambled to the property with the urgency of a counterterrorist operative—had peered through the building’s letterbox only to be met by a volley of flies.

Peggy had messaged him on Sunday evening, the day after they’d returned from Northumberland, to say she’d developed “a stinking cold” and wouldn’t be coming into work the next day. In truth, Andrew was quite relieved she wasn’t with him. He wasn’t sure how he’d be able to act normally around her after all that had happened. And so it was that he found himself at his first solo property inspection in weeks, a heavily aftershave-soaked mask pressed to his face, bracing himself to enter. Though he’d tried to prepare himself as best he could, he was still unable to stop himself from dry-heaving. He dropped his bag to the floor and batted away the flies excited from the disturbance. He worked as quickly as he could, separating trash bags of indiscriminate rotting food and soiled clothes as he looked for any sign of a next of kin. He searched for nearly two hours without finding anything. With all the usual places covered, he even forced himself to look inside the oven, which was caked in congealed fat, and the fridge, which was empty save for a single summer fruits Petits Filous yogurt. When he finally left, not having found a single trace of evidence that Warren had family, or any concealed cash, he headed to his flat rather than the office. As soon as he was inside he tore off his clothes and showered, turning the water as hot as he could bear and scrubbing feverishly at his skin, using a whole bottle of shower gel. All the while he struggled to think of anything other than Warren. What must his last few weeks before he’d died have been like, living in all that filth? He’d always thought he preferred the chaos to the sterile, but on a purely sensory level it was hard to reconcile how someone could have lived like that. Surely he must have been of unsound mind not to know how bad it was. It made Andrew think of the frog boiling to death, unaware that the water’s getting hotter.

Later, he headed back to the office smelling like the Body Shop had vomited on him, and arrived to find Cameron sitting on Meredith’s yoga ball, his eyes closed in contemplation, a mug of what looked like swamp water steaming away next to him.

“Hello, Cameron,” Andrew said.

Cameron kept his eyes closed and showed Andrew the flat of his hand, like a sleepwalking traffic cop halting imaginary cars. There wasn’t enough space for Andrew to squeeze around the exercise ball to his desk, so he had to wait while Cameron finished whatever the hell it was he was doing. Eventually, he let out such a long, powerful breath that Andrew thought at first the ball had developed a puncture.

“Good afternoon, Andrew,” Cameron said, rising with as much dignity as is possible when clambering off an oversized plastic testicle. “And how was the property inspection?”

“Truthfully, it was probably the worst one I’ve ever had to do,” Andrew said.

“I see. And how does that make you feel?”

Andrew wondered if this was a trick question.

“Well . . . bad.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Cameron said, rolling his shirtsleeves up to the elbow before changing his mind and rolling them back down again. “No Peggy today then, poor thing.”

“No,” Andrew said, slumping down into his chair.

“Meredith and Keith are off on their hols,” Cameron said, running his finger along the top of Andrew’s screen.

“Uh-huh.”

“So that means it’s just us two here . . . holding the old fort.”

“Yep,” Andrew said, unsure where this was going, wondering if he should suggest that Cameron’s next move toward enlightenment should be an enforced period of silence. It was horribly clear, though, that Cameron had some sort of an agenda. Andrew watched him go to walk away before making a big show of changing his mind, snapping his fingers as he turned back.

“Actually, do you mind if we have a quick chat? I can make you some herbal tea if you want?”

The break-out area had evolved since Andrew had been away. There were blue and purple throws over the sofas and a coffee table book about transcendental meditation artfully placed on a beanbag where the coffee table used to be. Andrew was just glad that there weren’t any obvious hooks to hang wind chimes from.

“Are you looking forward to Thursday night?” Cameron asked.

Andrew looked blankly back at him.

“It’s Meredith’s turn to host us for dinner,” Cameron said, clearly disappointed that Andrew had forgotten.

“Oh, yes, of course. Should be . . . fun.”

“You think? Look, I know it was a bit of a funny old evening when Clara and I hosted . . .”

Andrew wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to agree with this or not, so he kept his mouth shut.

“But I’m sure it’ll be a more chilled-out evening this time around,” Cameron said.

They sipped their tea and Andrew chanced a look at his watch.

“I’m glad it’s just us two, actually,” Cameron said. “It gives me a chance to touch base with you about something.”

“Right,” Andrew said, resisting the temptation to scream, IF YOU MEAN “TALK” JUST SAY “TALK,” at him.

“You’ll remember my presentation a little while back, where a certain notification appeared on the screen.”

Cutbacks. With all that had been going on, Andrew had barely had time to think about that.

“The truth is,” Cameron continued, “I just don’t know yet whether it’s going to be us that’ll need to have fewer people wearing more hats, or another department.”

Andrew fidgeted in his seat. “Why are you telling me this, Cameron?”

Cameron flashed him a particularly desperate grin, his teeth on full display.

“Because, Andrew, it’s been playing on my mind to the point of distraction, and I just felt I had to say something to someone here and because . . . we’re mates, right?”

“Sure,” Andrew said, guiltily avoiding Cameron’s eye. If Cameron was telling him this, did it mean he would be safe? His optimism quickly vanished when he realized that meant that Peggy could be the one to go.

“Thanks, mate,” Cameron said. “Feels loads better getting that off my chest.”

“Good,” Andrew said, wondering if perhaps he should try to make the case for Peggy now.

“So how’s the old fam-fam, then?” Cameron said.

The question caught Andrew off guard. Troublingly, it took a moment for him to realize Cameron meant Diane and the children. He made to reply but his mind was blank, no false anecdotes or news coming to mind as usual. Come on, think! Just make something up like you normally do.

“Um . . . ,” he said, then, panicking that Cameron would take his hesitation to mean something might be wrong, quickly followed up with, “They’re fine. Just all good, really. Listen . . .” He got to his feet. “. . . I’ve actually got loads to do, so I better get back to it. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, well if you’re—”

“Sorry,” Andrew said again, nearly tripping over an errant throw on the floor as he hurried away, feeling suddenly short of breath, just making it to the toilets in time to cough up bile into the sink.

—

That evening, he chatted with BamBam, TinkerAl, and BroadGaugeJim, and tried not to think about what had happened with Cameron. It had been terrifying to go blank like that. Maybe he was just rustier than usual because his focus had been on Peggy. The closer he’d gotten to her, the more distant Diane had become. He’d neglected his “family,” the people he relied on for support, and the guilt he felt was deep and real. The strength of the feeling was horribly troubling. This. Isn’t. Normal, he told himself, digging his fingernails into his thigh.

He felt bad for interrupting the current subforum conversation (Which type of rubberized horsehair is best for creating bush scenery?), but there was nowhere else for him to turn.

Chaps, not to bring the mood down, but remember when I told you about that person who I was starting to get along with really well? It turns out there was something more than just friendship there, but now I’ve blown it.

BroadGaugeJim: Sorry to hear that, T. What happened?

Tracker: It’s a bit complicated. There’s someone else in her life. But that’s not even the main problem. Basically, I’ve been holding something back from her, and I know that if I come clean she’ll probably never talk to me again.

BamBam67: Yikes, that does sound rather serious.

TinkerAl: Tricky one, mate. What I would say is maybe you should just be honest with her? Maybe you’re right—she might never talk to you again, but if there’s even the smallest chance she’ll be okay with it, then isn’t that worth fighting for? This time in a week you could be together! Bit of a cliché I know, but isn’t it better to have loved and lost, and all that???

The discordant “Blue Moon” arrived in an instant, and the screeching feedback and stabbing at Andrew’s temples was so severe that he had to slide to the floor and clap his hands to his head, drawing his knees up to his chest, waiting for the pain to subside.

—

He slept fitfully that night. He’d developed an earache and a raw, scratchy throat, and his body was starting to ache all over. As he lay awake in the early morning, listening to the rain hammering at the window, he thought of Peggy, and wondered whether he’d caught this cold off her, or just a stranger.