The Flatshare(24)

‘“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.





16


Leon

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?

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