‘Exclusive? What is this, an American teen drama? You’re the only person I’m seeing if that’s what you mean.’
They nod to themself, like they knew this was the answer the whole time and hadn’t needed to humiliate themself by asking but had anyway.
Gavin knows something is up, they’re just not sure what exactly it is. They don’t say this to me, I just know. The whole evening, the static of their brain considering who and what I am clouds the air between us. I feel it the way I used to be able to sense if our television was on in the house as a child. It crackles between us over dinner, while we watch a movie cuddling on the sofa. It’s still there when they slip into bed behind me and make themself the big spoon.
Things are no clearer by the time we’re at work the next day. The atmosphere is charged. Not in that fun, sexual way it was before, when Gavin might appear behind me in the kitchen if Brian was out and grab onto a buttock or graze their body against my back while explaining something to me on the computer. The feeling which now fills the room is what I would call ‘pissed off but pretending not to be’. This is not helped by the fact Brian is also miffed at me, although he’s done the decent thing of disappearing to his lover’s place to chill out. There was a little confusion about the location of his phone – it was in his car where I left it for him the whole time – and he only found it after Leanne had screamed at him for a quarter of an hour on his office landline.
Gavin is going about their business as usual, but several times I’ve caught them looking at me – no, examining me, as if trying to detect a flaw. It has ruined me being able to enjoy my post-kill glow. Which is a huge shame. The news of Harry has already broken, a volunteer at the sanctuary found him less than an hour after I left. Well done me on my timings. It’s only a side story on the Scottish news tabs but it’s there. ‘Man bludgeoned to death at animal shelter.’ I allowed myself five minutes of browsing Facebook for reaction. Someone called Roscoe Della Croce said:
Gang related, I heard. Those quiet bits on the outskirts of all the towns around here are full of gangster types.Rumour has it the CCTV was wiped so feels like someone who knew a bit about him did it.
This is backed up by Maggie Irvine, who replied:
He had loads of money but no obvious job. Wouldn’t be surprised at all, there was always a want about him.
I can’t get more immersed in anything to do with Harry because I’m updating my CV to include this role so I can begin the hunt for jobs which will not involve being around anyone I have let lick my nipples. What happened last night taught me that Gavin and I cannot spend this much time together. Space is required for us to survive and I want us to endure.
After scouring job sites for a position with a description that doesn’t make me want to take my own life through boredom, I find a role I am qualified for reception and light secretarial duties at a family law firm in Hamilton. My cover email with attached CV is sent; my Gmail account asks if I want to take it back for ten seconds before it confirms it is now with them. Knowing I am making moves to improve my situation fills me with calm. One day soon I won’t be here anymore.
The peace I experience doesn’t last long. Brian’s phone, which was returned to me no more than ten minutes after its discovery, vibrates against my desk.Buzz,buzz,buuuuzz. A call. As a rule, I don’t generally answer calls on this phone unless it’s his wife, and even then only if she’s rung multiple times. The caller ID on this one, though, means I absolutely cannot help myself from answering: Pippa Smedley, Fixer Uppers Producer.
‘Hi, Brian’s phone. He’s out at a viewing right now, can I take a message?’
Gavin is watching me. They know this isn’t the usual way of things.
‘Oh, hi.’ Pippa is what one would expect of a woman called Pippa. Posh, English, that flustered way of talking Hugh Grant has which wouldn’t be acceptable in lower-class people as it would be taken as a sign of weakness. ‘Right. Bugger. So he’s not there? I don’t suppose you know whether he’s available to do an evaluation forFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammerfor me on Thursday?’
‘I do have access to his diary, so let me check. It’ll just take a second to open it up.’ I minimise my emails and the job sites and am opening Brian’s calendar – the real one, which is not as exciting to view as the fake one with its many pieces of fiction – when Pippa asks, ‘Actually, are you an estate agent?’
I can’t hear the exact words of the calls Gavin takes at their desk; still, I’m compelled to look over at them to check if they’ve heard the question. Their ignorance confirmed, I say, ‘Yes, I am.’
‘See, we need a better gender mix on the show. It’s been a lot of blokes this series.’ I try to ignore that the word ‘blokes’ coming from her hoity-toity accent sounds like someone pretending to be normal. ‘Don’t suppose you’d be up for getting filmed?’
‘Yes,’ I say, never more certain about anything.
36
It is Tuesday morning, still forty-eight hours of waiting and longing until I become part of theFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammeruniverse. I’m on Reddit at my desk, on the FUGUTH board, trying to get an idea of what the experience on the day will be like. Someone who appeared as an estate agent put up a post a while ago inviting folk to ask him anything about the experience. His most upvoted answer is:
Felt a bit of a tit pretending to look at the walls over and over again.
No information is provided I wouldn’t have been able to work out for myself, except this important nugget:
Malcolm was there on the day I was, which I don’t think is usual. He certainly didn’t seem like he was used to talking to estate agents. He was, well, quite an odd man. He asked the people who had bought the property if he could take away the fridge the old owners had left. Thought it was a joke until I saw him later on that day driving through town with a fridge hanging out the back of his car.
I click out and see the latest post on the board ‘Are FUGUTH landlords being murdered?’My blood freezes in my veins. There’s no way it could have been worked out, not yet. There aren’t enough victims for a pattern to be deduced, surely?
Maybe I’ve too much time on my hands, but I like to keep up with the landlords on the show to see what they get up to so I set up Google alerts for them. (I know, I know. I have ADHD and get hyperfixated on stuff. Better FUGUTH than crack though, eh?) I’ve been doing this for years. Occasionally I’ll get alerts that one of them has passed, I think it’s only happened three times before. In the last two months five have died and two have been injured in weird circumstances.
– Colin O’Donnell in Hamilton, South Lanarkshire : electrocuted, dead.
– Emily Best in Sheffield, Yorkshire : house set on fire by arsonists, lived but badly injured by falling debris.
– Peter Smeaton in Glasgow : straight up murdered.
– Ma Anh in Cardiff : stabbed in a robbery gone wrong, dead.
– Ron Robbins in Leeds : burned in freak accident at his restaurant, dead.
