Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

Get out phone and text Tiffy. Filled her in on the search for Mr Prior’s Johnny White last month. Was after a lengthy letter from her about ups and downs of book about crochet; I was obviously in a sharing sort of mood. It’s peculiar. Like Tiffy’s compulsive oversharing is contagious. Always feel slightly embarrassed when I get to the hospice and remember whatever I ended up revealing in that evening’s scribbled note written with coffee before heading to the door.

Hi. Got eight Johnnies (sing. Johnny) to choose from. How to pick where to start? Leon

Response comes five minutes or so later. She’s working on the crazy crochet author’s book full-time, and it appears her concentration is low. I’m not surprised. Crochet is weird and boring. Even tried reading some of the manuscript when she left it on the coffee table, to check was not like bricklayer book, but no. It’s just a book of detailed crochet instructions, with end results that look very difficult to achieve.

That’s easy. Eenie meenie mini emo, catch a tiger by its toe . . . xx

And then, two seconds later,

Eenie meenie MINIE MO. Autocorrect. I don’t think you’d gain much by getting any small emos involved xx

Peculiar woman. Nonetheless, dutifully pause in patch of shade under bus stop to get out list of names and do eenie meenie. Land on Johnny White (obviously). It’s the one who lives up near Birmingham.

Good choice. Can visit this one when next visiting Richie — he’s in Birmingham area. Thanks. Leon.

A few minutes of silence. Walk through busy, sweaty London as it basks in the heat, sunglasses turned up to the sky. I’m knackered. Should have been in bed hours ago. But I spend so little actual daylight time out here in the open air these days, and miss the feel of sun on skin. Consider idly whether I might be vitamin D deficient, then thoughts shift, and I’m wondering how much open-air time Richie got this week. According to government, he should be let outside for thirty minutes a day. That rarely happens. Prison guards are low on numbers; time unlocked is even more limited than usual.

Did you get my note about Richie, by the way? And telling me what happened to him? I don’t want to push but it was over a month ago now, and I just want you to know I would like to hear it, if you want to tell it. xx

I stare down at her text, sun bleaching my screen until the words are almost invisible. I shade it with one hand and reread. It’s odd, how it came like that, just as I was thinking of Richie.

Wasn’t sure what to make of Richie’s note about telling Tiffy. As soon as I knew they’d spoken I found myself wondering if Tiffy thinks he’s innocent, even though she doesn’t know him and doesn’t know a thing about the case. Ridiculous. Even if she knew everything, it shouldn’t matter if she believes him. Haven’t even met her. But it’s always like this — a constant nagging that you feel with everybody, no matter who they are. You’re conversing perfectly normally, and then, next moment, you’re thinking, ‘Would you believe my brother is innocent?’

Can’t ask people, though. Is a horrible conversation to have and a horrible thing to be asked on the spot, as Kay will testify.

Reply via note when I get home. Don’t really text Tiffy much; feels a bit weird. Like emailing Mam. Notes are just . . . how we talk.

On wardrobe (latest note trail stops here):

I’ll ask Richie to write to you, if that’s OK. He can tell it best.

Also, a thought: could your crochet author come to St Marks (where I work) sometime? We’re looking to put on more entertainment for patients. Strikes me that crochet, though dull, may interest ill elderly people. x

Hey Leon,

Of course. Whenever Richie’s ready.

And yes! Please! PR are always looking for opportunities like that. Can I just say, though, you’ve timed this very well, because Katherin has just become A CELEBRITY. Check out this tweet she did.

Printed-out screenshot from Twitter, pasted below note:

Katherin Rosen @KnittingKatherin

One of the fantastic scarves you can make from my upcoming book, Crochet Your Way. Take time out for mindfulness, and create something beautiful!

117 comments, 8k retweets, 23k likes.

New Post-it below that:

Yeah. EIGHT THOUSAND RETWEETS. (For one of Mr Prior’s scarves, too — be sure to tell him!)

Next Post-it:

I’m assuming you don’t know much about Twitter because your laptop hasn’t even moved for several months, let alone been charged, but that is a lot of retweets, Leon. A LOT. And it all happened because this amazing DIY Youtuber called Tasha Chai-Latte retweeted it and said this:

Printed-out screenshot from Twitter (now so low down the wardrobe door I have to crouch to read it):

Tasha Chai-Latte @ChaiLatteDIY

Crochet is totally the new colouring-in! So much awe for @KnittingKatherin for her amazing designs. #bemindful #crochetyourway

69 comments, 32k retweets, 67k likes.

Another two Post-it notes beneath:

She has 15 million followers. The marketing and PR teams are basically peeing themselves with excitement. Unfortunately this means I’ve had to explain YouTube to Katherin, and she’s even worse than you with technology (she has one of those old Nokias that only drug dealers use), plus odious Martin from PR ‘live tweets’ from all Katherin’s events now, but still. It’s exciting! My lovely oddball Katherin might actually be in with a shot at a bestsellers list! Not the bestsellers list, obviously, but one of the niche ones on Amazon. Like, you know, number one in crafts and origami, or something. xx

. . . Will wait until I’ve slept before attempting to reply to this one.

It’s still light when I get home. I love summer. Leon’s trainers are missing, so I guess he walked to work today — I’m so jealous he can do that. The tube is even more gross when it’s hot.

I scan the flat for new notes. They’re not always that easy to spot these days — there’s usually Post-its on pretty much everything, unless one of us has got around to doing a clear-up.

I spot it on the kitchen counter eventually: an envelope, with Richie’s name and prisoner number on one side and our address on the other. There’s a short note in Leon’s handwriting next to the address.

The letter from Richie is here.

And then, inside:

Dear Tiffy,

Twas a dark and stormy night . . .

All right, OK, no it wasn’t. It was a dark and grotty night at Daffie’s Nightclub in Clapham. I was already plastered when I got there — we were coming from a friend’s housewarming.

I danced with a few girls that night. You’ll get why I’m telling you that later. It was a really mixed crowd, lots of young guys out of uni, lots of those creepy types who hang around the edges of the dance floor waiting for girls to get too drunk so they can make their move. But right at the back, at one of the tables, there were a few guys who looked like they belonged somewhere else.

It’s hard to explain. They looked like they were there for a different reason from everyone else. They didn’t want to pull, they didn’t want to get drunk, they didn’t want to dance.

So I know now they wanted to do business. They’re known as the Bloods, apparently. I only found that out much later, when I was inside and telling guys here my story, so I’m guessing you’ve never heard of them either. If you’re a pretty much middle-class person who just happens to live in London and goes about their business going to work and everything, you’ll probably never know gangs like this exist.

But they’re important. I think even then I could tell that, looking at them. But I was also very drunk.