The Killer Next Door

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?

‘Oh, just go to your hotel,’ he snaps. ‘Whatever. Who cares what you do, anyway?’

‘I’m sure the council will care.’

‘You seem to think the council has magical powers,’ he says. ‘It’s a local council, not the United Bloody Federation of Planets.’

‘Don’t you dare swear at me! If you want to go on the bad landlord register -’

‘There’s no such thing,’ he snaps, and hangs up.

He takes his specs off and polishes them with the hem of his T-shirt. Bloody Vesta Collins. I’m forty-six years old and she’s still talking to me like she did when I was twelve. Busybodying about, telling me what to do and forgetting whose house it is.

I wish she’d bloody die, he thinks. She’s old enough, for God’s sake. She’s been retired and hanging about the place all day for bloody ever. Never been anywhere, never done anything, just sat there in my basement wagging her finger. There’s no use for her. Bloody old woman and her sensible shoes and antimacassars. Why can’t she just take the eight grand and bugger off? Nobody wants her. It’s not like she’s got any reason for staying round here. No family, no kids, no job. Nothing. It’s just pure selfishness.

He hauls himself off the couch and groans as he does so. His weight is really getting to him, these days. He hasn’t been near a doctor or a set of scales in years. The last time he did, he had passed the twenty stone mark and he knows that nothing has come off since. His arches fell years ago, and his knees seem to bend and unbend more slowly with each passing month. I’ll be on a stick soon, he thinks, and I’ll still be subsidising that old bag to go on her holidays in Ilfracombe. Says she doesn’t have the money for a plumber, but she’s never short of cash for a wash-and-set on a Wednesday, is she?

The old bitch has given him indigestion. He stomps through to the bathroom and swigs a tablespoon of Gaviscon straight from the bottle, waits for the advertised cooling that never comes, takes another swig and lets out a burp. Right, he thinks. I suppose I’d better call Dyno-Rod. I don’t want her calling the council on me.

He goes to the computer to look up the number, Vesta nagging at the back of his mind. She doesn’t seem to be able to take a hint, he thinks. I’ve given her enough, over the last couple of years. The cockroaches and the leaking bathtub upstairs, the burglary, the Weedol in the herbery… that rat was a stroke of genius. Why on earth does she stay? I wouldn’t. I’d’ve been gone months ago. She’s stubborn, just bloody stubborn. Looks like I’m going to have to step up my game before I end up having to lay out a grand on a new boiler for the old bitch.

I wish she’d just bloody die and get out of my hair, he thinks again as he picks up the phone to dial, then his finger stills over the keypad. The water heater, he thinks. Bloody ancient. The Corgi man said as much the last time he was in for servicing. Said it wasn’t far off failing its MOT completely.

Maybe, he thinks, I can help it on its way.