Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

A landline! Who knew! I thought landlines were just relics you paid for in order to get broadband.

‘Hello?’ I try tentatively.

‘Oh, hey,’ says the guy at the other end. He sounds surprised (presumably I am more female than he had expected) and has a weird accent — kind of half Irish, half Londoner.

‘It’s Tiffy,’ I offer. ‘Leon’s flatmate.’

‘Ey! Hi!’ He seems to have been greatly cheered by this fact. ‘And don’t you mean bedmate?’

‘We prefer flatmate,’ I say, wincing.

‘Fair play,’ he says, and somehow I can sort of hear that he’s grinning. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Tiffy. I’m Richie. Leon’s brother.’

‘Pleased to meet you too, Richie.’ I didn’t know Leon had a brother. But then I suppose there are probably an enormous number of things I don’t know about Leon, even if I do know what he’s reading before bed at the moment ( The Bell Jar , very slowly). ‘You just missed Leon, I guess. I got in half an hour ago and he was already gone.’

‘The man works too hard,’ Richie says. ‘I didn’t realise it was half five already. What’s your tap-in-tap-out time?’

‘Six, usually, but I got out of work early,’ I say. ‘You could try him on his mobile?’

‘Ah, now you see, Tiffy, I can’t do that,’ Richie says.

I frown. ‘You can’t call his mobile?’

‘To be honest with you, it’s a bit of a long story.’ Richie pauses. ‘Short version is, I’m in a high-security prison, and the only phone number I’ve managed to get set up for me to call is Leon’s home line. Mobiles cost twice as much to call, too, and I earn about fourteen pounds a week in my job cleaning the wing, which by the way I had to pay someone to get me . . . so that doesn’t get me very far.’

I feel a little shell-shocked. ‘Shit!’ I say. ‘That’s awful. Are you all right?’

It just comes out. It’s almost certainly not the right thing to say in the circumstance, but there we are — that’s what I’m thinking, and that’s what comes out of my mouth.

To my surprise — and maybe to his too — Richie starts laughing.

‘I’m all right,’ he says, after a moment. ‘Cheers, though. It’s been seven months now. I guess I’m . . . what is it Leon calls it? Acclimatising . Learning how to live, as well as just get through each minute.’

I nod. ‘Well, that’s something, at least. How is it? On the scale of, you know, Alcatraz to the Hilton?’

He laughs again. ‘Definitely somewhere on that scale, yeah. Whereabouts depends on how I’m feeling day to day. But I’m pretty lucky compared to lots of people, let me tell you that. I have my own cell now, and I can see visitors twice a month.’

It doesn’t seem like he’s lucky from where I’m standing. ‘I don’t want to keep you on the phone if it’s costing you. Did you have a message for Leon?’

There’s a rattling sort of silence at the other end, just the sound of echoing background noise.

‘Aren’t you going to ask what I’m in for, Tiffy?’

‘No,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Do you want to tell me?’

‘Yeah, a bit. But normally people ask.’

I shrug. ‘It’s not my place to judge — you’re Leon’s brother, and you rang to talk to him. And anyway, we were talking about how horrible prison is, and that’s true regardless of what you did. Everyone knows prison doesn’t work. Right?’

‘Right — I mean, do they?’

‘Oh, sure.’

More silence.

‘I’m in for armed robbery. But I didn’t do it.’

‘God. I’m sorry. This is really shit, then.’

‘Pretty much, yeah,’ Richie says. He waits. And then he asks, ‘Do you believe me?’

‘I don’t even know you. Why does it matter?’

‘I don’t know. It just . . . does.’

‘Well, I need some of the facts before I say I believe you. It wouldn’t mean much otherwise, would it?’

‘That’s my message for Leon then. Tell him I’d like him to give you the facts, so you can tell me if you believe me.’

‘Hang on.’ I reach for a pad of Post-its and a pen. ‘ Hi Leon, ’ I say, reading as I write. ‘ This is a message from Richie. He says . . . ’

‘I’d like Tiffy to know what happened to me. I want her to believe I didn’t do it. She seems like a very nice lady, and I bet she’s pretty to boot, you can just tell man, she’s got that kind of voice — deep and sexy, you know the—’

I’m laughing. ‘I’m not writing that!’

‘How far did you get?’

‘“Sexy”,’ I admit, and Richie laughs.

‘All right. You can sign the note off now. But leave that last bit, if you don’t mind — it’ll make Leon smile.’

I shake my head, but I’m smiling too. ‘Fine. I’ll leave it. It was good to meet you, Richie.’

‘You too, Tiffy. You look after my brother for me, all right?’

I pause, surprised at the request. For starters, it seems like Richie’s the one who needs looking after, and for seconds, I’m really not best placed for looking after any of the Twomey family, given that I’ve never met a single one of them. But by the time I open my mouth to respond, Richie’s hung up the phone, and all I can hear is the dial tone.

Can’t help laughing. This is typical. He’s trying to charm his way into the affections of my flatmate even from a prison yard.

Kay leans over my shoulder, reading the note.

Kay: Richie is still his old self, I see.

I stiffen. She feels it and tenses too, but doesn’t backtrack or say sorry.

Me: He’s trying to keep things light. Keep everyone laughing. It’s Richie’s way.

Kay: Well, is Tiffy on the market?

Me: She’s a human, not a cow, Kay.

Kay: You’re so principled , Leon! It was an expression, ‘on the market’. You know I’m not actually trying to sell the poor girl to Richie.

There’s something else wrong with that sentence, but am too tired to trace it.

Me: She’s single, but in love with her ex still.

Kay, interested now: Really?

Can’t fathom why she’d care — whenever I mention Tiffy she switches off or gets grumpy. This is first time we’ve been in my flat for months, actually. Kay has the morning off work so came to see me for brinner before bed. She got a bit prickly about the notes stuck everywhere, for some reason.

Me: Ex seems average. Far inferior to bricklayer-turned—

Kay rolls eyes.

Kay: Will you stop talking about that bloody bricklayer book!

She wouldn’t be so judgemental if she’d read it.

A few weeks on and it’s the sort of sunny day that normally only happens abroad. England is unaccustomed to such warmth, especially when it strikes so suddenly. It’s only June, barely summer yet. Commuters hurry around corners, heads still down as if it’s raining, backs of pale-blue shirts stained dark with Vs of sweat. Teenage boys whip off T-shirts until there are stark white limbs and chests and gawky sticking-out elbows all over the place. Can barely move without being confronted with sunburnt skin and/or unpleasant body heat emanating from man in suit.

Am on my way back from visit to Imperial War Museum Research Room, following a final lead on the hunt for Johnny White. In my backpack, I have a list of eight names and addresses. Addresses were gathered through endless record-office riffling, contacting relatives, and online stalking, so not exactly foolproof, but it’s a start — or rather, eight starts. Mr Prior gave me plenty to bulk out my research in the end. Get the man talking and he remembers a lot more than he claims to.

Every man on list is called Johnny White. Unsure where to start. Pick favourite Johnny? Nearest Johnny?