Nicci French - Until it's Over

‘Cheers,’ she said, taking a sip of her beer and wiping foam from her upper lip. ‘So, you’re looking for somewhere to live.’

‘Yes,’ I managed. ‘The place I’ve been staying in isn’t available any longer. I need to be out of there as soon as possible.’

‘This is a house in Hackney – is Hackney central enough for you? It’s a lovely house, really, a bit run-down maybe, with a big garden. There are six of us at the moment and we’re looking for a seventh.’

‘Is it you who owns it?’

She laughed at that, throwing her head back. I saw her white teeth and the pink inside of her mouth. ‘Do I look like I own a seven-bedroom house? I’m a despatch rider, for God’s sake. All I own is my bike and a few changes of clothes. No, it belongs to Miles. He’s got a real job but you don’t need to be alarmed. He’s cool. Or coolish.’

I tried to think of grown-up questions to ask. ‘How much does it cost?’

‘Fifty a week. Which is nothing. But we share the upkeep, the bills, stuff like that. Even some decorating. Gentlemen’s agreement. Could you hack that?’

‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘What about things like mealtimes? Do you eat together?’

‘It’s not like the army. There aren’t many rules… Perhaps there ought to be more. But it’s worked so far. And it’s fun. Mainly. Are you interested?’

‘Yeah, definitely.’

‘You’d have to meet everyone, of course. First, though, can I ask you a few questions?’

‘Like what?’ I felt nervous and dry-mouthed, but I tried to appear relaxed, pretending to take a sip of my beer. I didn’t want any more to drink just yet. I needed to be alert, vigilant.

‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘I’ve not been in London that long. I’ve been doing odd bits of -’

Just then her mobile rang. She took it out of her pocket and flicked it open. ‘Hi, Miles.’

She looked at me and smiled. ‘I think I’ve found someone for the room. Yes. I’m with him now in the Rising Sun… That’s the one – down by the canal… He seems all right to me, on the whole.’ She looked at me again. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think so.’

‘Trustworthy?’

‘For what?’

She laughed and resumed talking into the phone. ‘Why don’t you come and meet him?’ She raised her eyebrows questioningly at me, and I nodded vigorously. ‘Ten minutes, then.’ There was a pause and she listened, frowning. ‘Better and better. Bring her along. ’Bye.’

She shut her phone and turned to me. ‘There. The big boss is stopping by. I hope that’s all right with you.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Is someone else coming?’

‘Pippa. She lives in the house. The three of us – Pippa, Miles and I – have been there from the beginning. Everyone else kind of comes and goes, but we endure.’

‘So it’s like an interview?’

‘We’re not very frightening.’

But she was wrong. She didn’t understand how someone like her could make a person feel small and scared.

I knew it was them as soon as they came in. He was tall and rangy, with a closely trimmed beard, more like stubble, and a bald head that shone beneath the lights. He was wearing a suit of soft, dark material that looked expensive, with an overcoat on top, and carried a slim briefcase. He had a firm handshake, but his eyes only met mine for a second before he glanced at Astrid. He kissed her cheek and I saw how his face softened. I stored away the information: he fancied her. It was written all over him. But she didn’t fancy him. I was sure of it.

The woman – Pippa – didn’t bother to shake my hand. Instead she touched my arm with the tips of her fingers and widened her eyes, smiling with perfectly painted pink lips. I could smell her perfume. I’m good at smells. I remember them. My mother smelled of grass. Pippa was as tall as Astrid, maybe taller, but fairer, slimmer, breakable like porcelain. She was wearing a cream suit and high heels. Her long hair was coiled on top of her head and every so often she would touch it delicately, checking it was still in place. She looked so demure, but ‘You must be fucking crazy,’ were her first words.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘To want to live in our madhouse.’

‘Don’t pay any attention to her,’ said Astrid.

I offered to buy them a drink, thinking it would be money spent in a good cause, and as I stood at the bar I cast glances back at them. They leaned towards each other round the table and I heard a burst of laughter. Were they talking about me? Laughing at me?

They asked me questions. I smiled and nodded and told them the things they wanted to hear. Yes, I was pretty easy-going. Yes, I had friends in London. Yes, I could pay the rent each month. No, I didn’t mind clearing up. And no, I had no intention of moving on in a few months’ time.

‘Do you like curry?’ asked Pippa, abruptly.

‘Yes. Love it,’ I replied, though I don’t. Too greasy and salty.

‘Let’s get a takeaway and go back to Maitland Road,’ she said. ‘Then you can meet the others. What do you say?’

‘Have I passed?’

‘She was meant to consult with Astrid and me first,’ said Miles, in a bit of a sour voice.

‘Sorry,’ said Pippa, and winked at me.

‘Shall I leave you to talk about me among yourselves for a few minutes?’

‘No need,’ said Astrid, standing up and pulling on a leather jacket. ‘You three go ahead. I’ll bike and meet you at the house.’

We walked outside, into the darkness. I watched Astrid as she stood under the street-lamp to unlock her bike. She clipped on her helmet, hung her canvas satchel over her shoulder and swung one slim leg over the cross-bar. Her breath smoked in the air. Everything about her was fluid and streamlined. Then I saw that Miles was watching her too.

We took a cab. Miles phoned for the takeaway from the taxi, and we stopped a few streets from the house to collect it. We walked back together with two paper carrier-bags steaming with food and two bottles of wine that I insisted on buying from a shop we passed. I had never been to this part of London before and I looked around me, trying to get a sense of it. The road we were on was one of those arterial routes that cut through the city, full of traffic-lights and clogged with cars and lorries. I could tell at once that it was a run-down area, the kind I’d come to London to get away from. The shops were strange and old and several were boarded-up; there were high-rise blocks on either side of us. I noticed that many faces were black. But the streets running off this road looked a mixture of raffish and rich, lined with tall old houses behind their iron gates and little front gardens.

‘Nearly there,’ said Pippa.

We turned down a long, tree-shaded street, then off it on to another, where a group of teenage boys were kicking a ball in and out of pools of light and parked cars. Ahead, a high-rise cut off the horizon. To the left was the entrance to a scruffy park.

‘Here we are!’

The house must have been grand when it was built. It was three storeys high and double-fronted, with bay windows, a small garden at the front and wide steps leading up to the door. But I could tell at once that it needed a lot of work doing to it. Pointing, for a start. And slates were coming off the roof. The window-frames were cracked, the paint peeling. Years of neglect had eaten into the structure, rotting the house like an illness. I saw all of this even as I was saying, in a polite voice, what a great place it was.

‘Don’t mind the mess,’ said Miles, as he opened the front door.

‘We’re here!’ yelled Pippa. ‘With food!’

Astrid came down the stairs. She had changed into jeans and a pale green T-shirt. Her feet were bare and I saw that her toenails were painted orange and she had a silver chain round her left ankle. ‘I beat you to it,’ she said. ‘And everyone’s here. I’ve told them about you.’