Flatshare
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: He wanted a place on his own. No one told him about his flatmate.
_____________________________________________________________________
He wanted a place on his own. He got one, a nine square metre basement on the side of a hill. A marble pathway ran along the front. If he stood on tiptoe he could see the roof of a church. There was a kitchen and toilet through a sliding door. The first thing he did was throw out a lump of corrugated iron that was wedged behind the toilet bowl. The landlord was an idiot. Who wants shards of scrap metal in their toilet? He chipped it over the wall. He didn't hear it land.
Within a week, the situation was out of control. The state of the place. Filthy; tread marks everywhere. He didn’t know where to begin, although the toilet would have been the obvious starting point. The toilet and shower were part of the same cramped space – a dirty cubicle. There was a stool under the wash hand basin. It seemed to be shedding rust. Every time he looked, there were small brown pellets on the floor. The legs were hollow, and the rubber caps that should have gone over the ends were missing. He thought about hoisting it down the hill, but decided to throw it into the skip on the street. It was a poor neighbourhood. Maybe a scavenger would find a use for it.
He set-to with his mop. That and the bucket had been hidden in the rockery at the end of the path. He assumed the cleaning utensils belonged to the block of flats as a whole. Unfortunately, he didn’t have bleach, but it didn’t matter. He gave the toilet a good going over, then continued along the narrow corridor which also served as the kitchen. He did the five small steps that led down to his room, careful not to nudge the pile of washing on the chair near the door. He tipped the dirty water – it was almost black – into the rockery.
He went back to admire his work. The floor shone – it was wet. Apart from that there wasn’t much difference. The flat was still tiny. But it looked clean, that was the main thing.
He got back at three the next afternoon. He needed a shower badly. He was sticky with sweat, and his feet were swimming around inside his shoes, even though he had decided not to wear socks. He kicked the shoes off before heading through to the toilet. He didn’t want to make a mess. When he reached up to switch on the immersion heater he heard something shuffling behind him. A large rat, like a brown slinky, was sliding down the steps. It stopped at the bottom, turned, and looked at him. He was suddenly aware of his bare feet. He still had his thumb on the switch. He looked into the toilet. Little brown pellets. More scuttling, and the rat shimmied to the pile of clothes. It stopped again and raised itself onto its back legs, sniffing.
He managed to lower his arm from the wall. Something was surging through him, he didn’t know what. Fear? Whatever it was, he had to get into the room before the rat. If it got in under the bed he would never be able to get it out. He took a deep breath and stepped forward. His feet. The rat craned its neck and looked at him, its little paws held in front, like a wee pet, begging. He tried not to make eye contact and moved along the wall, down the steps and into the room. He quickly slid the door shut.
What could he do? He opened the door a fraction and peered into the corridor. The rat was sniffing again. It started nibbling the corner of a sock. Then it started hopping, trying to get in amongst the other clothes. He would have to do something – he would have to kill it. His eyes darted round the room. His shoes. He picked one up, feeling the weight in his hand. If he held it at the top, the heel could do a lot of damage. He put an eye to the space. The rat turned – it seemed to be looking at him. The wee paws. He slid the door fully open and drew the shoe over his shoulder. Immediately, the rat freaked, as if it had been plugged into the mains, jerking, hopping, leaping up the wall to get to the window. Screaming. He launched the shoe. The heel caught it square on the back of the head and ricocheted off the wall back into the room. The screaming stopped. He waited a moment. Did rats, like some animals, play dead? He pulled on his shoes and laced them up tight. The rat wasn’t moving at all. He stepped into the corridor and carefully nudged it. Nothing, not a twitch. He pressed a toe into the soft belly.
He stood there, looking down at it. The slick brown fur, and the tail, Christ that was disgusting, the same length as the body, translucent, like something that had been unsheathed. There was a thick droplet of blood on the end of the snout. The little yellow teeth were like needles, and the eyes were shut tight. He got a plastic bag from his room and slipped it over his hand, like a gauntlet. But he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. What if there was a hole in the bag? He got a clothes peg off the line and secured it to the tail. Holding the rat at arm’s length, he took it slowly outside and threw it over the wall. He removed the plastic bag carefully, and threw that over the wall as well.
The toilet was a mess. There were pellets – shit – all over the floor. There was shit in the wash hand basin, too, along with scratch marks in the soap. How did it happen? The only way it could have got in was by swimming up through the toilet, but that was something you only heard about...he looked behind the bowl. There was a crack in the pipe, about the size of a matchbox. He got two large, jagged stones outside. He wedged one of them into the crack then placed the other on top. There was no way they could be dislodged from below.
The doorbell. It was the landlord. He looked upset, his chest puffed up, his hands behind his back. ‘Mr Karpov...’ he said. He was talking about the Russian on the third floor.
‘What about him?’
‘He say he see you yesterday. You throw furnitures in the trash.’ His left arm swung out. He had a grip of the stool, brandishing it. ‘You no do that again. I put it on the rent!’
This was madness. He threw the door shut and collapsed onto the bed. Bleach. That was what he needed. Bleach, or poison. Bleach, poison and a flamethrower. The landlord was pounding on the door. How long would it last? The bastard probably had a key. In fact he knew he did.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: He wanted a place on his own. No one told him about his flatmate.
_____________________________________________________________________
He wanted a place on his own. He got one, a nine square metre basement on the side of a hill. A marble pathway ran along the front. If he stood on tiptoe he could see the roof of a church. There was a kitchen and toilet through a sliding door. The first thing he did was throw out a lump of corrugated iron that was wedged behind the toilet bowl. The landlord was an idiot. Who wants shards of scrap metal in their toilet? He chipped it over the wall. He didn't hear it land.
Within a week, the situation was out of control. The state of the place. Filthy; tread marks everywhere. He didn’t know where to begin, although the toilet would have been the obvious starting point. The toilet and shower were part of the same cramped space – a dirty cubicle. There was a stool under the wash hand basin. It seemed to be shedding rust. Every time he looked, there were small brown pellets on the floor. The legs were hollow, and the rubber caps that should have gone over the ends were missing. He thought about hoisting it down the hill, but decided to throw it into the skip on the street. It was a poor neighbourhood. Maybe a scavenger would find a use for it.
He set-to with his mop. That and the bucket had been hidden in the rockery at the end of the path. He assumed the cleaning utensils belonged to the block of flats as a whole. Unfortunately, he didn’t have bleach, but it didn’t matter. He gave the toilet a good going over, then continued along the narrow corridor which also served as the kitchen. He did the five small steps that led down to his room, careful not to nudge the pile of washing on the chair near the door. He tipped the dirty water – it was almost black – into the rockery.
He went back to admire his work. The floor shone – it was wet. Apart from that there wasn’t much difference. The flat was still tiny. But it looked clean, that was the main thing.
He got back at three the next afternoon. He needed a shower badly. He was sticky with sweat, and his feet were swimming around inside his shoes, even though he had decided not to wear socks. He kicked the shoes off before heading through to the toilet. He didn’t want to make a mess. When he reached up to switch on the immersion heater he heard something shuffling behind him. A large rat, like a brown slinky, was sliding down the steps. It stopped at the bottom, turned, and looked at him. He was suddenly aware of his bare feet. He still had his thumb on the switch. He looked into the toilet. Little brown pellets. More scuttling, and the rat shimmied to the pile of clothes. It stopped again and raised itself onto its back legs, sniffing.
He managed to lower his arm from the wall. Something was surging through him, he didn’t know what. Fear? Whatever it was, he had to get into the room before the rat. If it got in under the bed he would never be able to get it out. He took a deep breath and stepped forward. His feet. The rat craned its neck and looked at him, its little paws held in front, like a wee pet, begging. He tried not to make eye contact and moved along the wall, down the steps and into the room. He quickly slid the door shut.
What could he do? He opened the door a fraction and peered into the corridor. The rat was sniffing again. It started nibbling the corner of a sock. Then it started hopping, trying to get in amongst the other clothes. He would have to do something – he would have to kill it. His eyes darted round the room. His shoes. He picked one up, feeling the weight in his hand. If he held it at the top, the heel could do a lot of damage. He put an eye to the space. The rat turned – it seemed to be looking at him. The wee paws. He slid the door fully open and drew the shoe over his shoulder. Immediately, the rat freaked, as if it had been plugged into the mains, jerking, hopping, leaping up the wall to get to the window. Screaming. He launched the shoe. The heel caught it square on the back of the head and ricocheted off the wall back into the room. The screaming stopped. He waited a moment. Did rats, like some animals, play dead? He pulled on his shoes and laced them up tight. The rat wasn’t moving at all. He stepped into the corridor and carefully nudged it. Nothing, not a twitch. He pressed a toe into the soft belly.
He stood there, looking down at it. The slick brown fur, and the tail, Christ that was disgusting, the same length as the body, translucent, like something that had been unsheathed. There was a thick droplet of blood on the end of the snout. The little yellow teeth were like needles, and the eyes were shut tight. He got a plastic bag from his room and slipped it over his hand, like a gauntlet. But he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. What if there was a hole in the bag? He got a clothes peg off the line and secured it to the tail. Holding the rat at arm’s length, he took it slowly outside and threw it over the wall. He removed the plastic bag carefully, and threw that over the wall as well.
The toilet was a mess. There were pellets – shit – all over the floor. There was shit in the wash hand basin, too, along with scratch marks in the soap. How did it happen? The only way it could have got in was by swimming up through the toilet, but that was something you only heard about...he looked behind the bowl. There was a crack in the pipe, about the size of a matchbox. He got two large, jagged stones outside. He wedged one of them into the crack then placed the other on top. There was no way they could be dislodged from below.
The doorbell. It was the landlord. He looked upset, his chest puffed up, his hands behind his back. ‘Mr Karpov...’ he said. He was talking about the Russian on the third floor.
‘What about him?’
‘He say he see you yesterday. You throw furnitures in the trash.’ His left arm swung out. He had a grip of the stool, brandishing it. ‘You no do that again. I put it on the rent!’
This was madness. He threw the door shut and collapsed onto the bed. Bleach. That was what he needed. Bleach, or poison. Bleach, poison and a flamethrower. The landlord was pounding on the door. How long would it last? The bastard probably had a key. In fact he knew he did.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford was born in Grangemouth and now lives in Greece. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, Junk Junction, The Athens News and Ink Sweat and Tears. His first novel, Drive! – a story of 1980’s Edinburgh pub rock, attempted patricide and arson – was published last year.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.