It turns out Bible John might have been a better option, as the electrician is not an electrician but Colin, my landlord, as featured onFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer. He’s not in the smart-casual attire he had on for Malcolm. Today he wears a white polo shirt with a pair of navy jogging bottoms that have flecks of white paint – I suspect the same white paint this flat is smothered in – splattered all over them, and he’s holding a bowling bag rattling with tools. Surmounting one flight of stairs is all it’s taken for him to become red in the face; he’s panting as he says, ‘Jemma?’ The whole image does not inspire confidence.
‘Colin?’
‘Aye, that’s me.’ Holding the door, I flatten against the wall to let him into the flat we both think of as ours. I move to let him into the hallway. ‘Hella job getting parked in front of yours. Sorry for being a wee bit late.’
‘Well you’re here now, that’s all that matters.’ What really matters is that he’s unqualified to fix the wiring. I pretend like I don’t know that bit. He’s the man in charge of the roof over my head; I can’t be making an enemy of him by immediately pointing out his failings.
‘It’s this switch here, then?’ He points to the correct light switch, flicks it up and down and, like a Judas, it works perfectly.
‘Some of the time it works, some of the time it takes multiple attempts, others it just doesn’t work at all, which isn’t ideal.’
He turns it off and back on again, and this time it doesn’t spark into action.
‘I did the wiring when we renovated the place.’ This statement is delivered with pride, despite us only being together because his efforts have proven to be deficient. ‘But you know, these older flats have their quirks.’
He flicks the switch again and again and again and again and again until finally there’s light. ‘Hmmmm. It’s a tricky one.’ The way he’s talking I suspect he’s on the brink of telling me this is how tenement toilets have always been; sometimes you get light, sometimes you don’t, and how dare I expect more.
‘You are an electrician, aren’t you? You’ll be able to figure it out, yeah?’
‘Often there’s an easy fix. Getting experts in to do these sorts of little jobs is a con.’
Colin calling anything a con is good coming from him – the man asking for £700 a month for a flat in Hamilton. The bowling bag remains firmly shut. I need to get him to commit to staying.
‘Would you like a tea?’ A hot beverage will keep him here for the duration it holds its warmth or he takes to drink it, which is longer than he seems willing to remain as things stand.
‘I’d love a coffee,’ he tells me, despite that not being what I offered. My irritation eases when he gets onto his knees and starts clanking through his tools. It rises again when I watch him examine then dismiss screwdrivers with the right heads on them to open the switch panel.
‘Can you turn off the fuse for the bathroom while you’re at it?’ He doesn’t even have the decency to look in my direction or use his manners. Prick.
In the kitchen I turn off the electricity to the hallway as well as the bathroom, to be safe. It will be no surprise to you that the fusebox for the flat is a liability. The labels above each switch are, in my opinion, not to be trusted. They’re written in the handwriting you only see the very elderly use, all spidery, as if the writer has the shakes. When they were first added to the switches seventy years ago, they may have been accurate, but who the hell knows how they relate to the present day.
Starting to make the hot drinks, I’m reminded there’s only enough of Nicol’s forsaken, good-quality Fairtrade instant left for one cup. I’ve been saving it, because once it’s gone I’ll have to go down to the cheapest, mankiest stuff Aldi has to offer. I stare at the dregs of granules in the can. Nah, Colin already takes all my money, he’s not getting the last of my coffee, too. I shout through, ‘In good news, the power’s off. In bad news, I’m out of coffee.’
He sighs a bit dramatically for my liking. ‘A tea will do I suppose. Milk and no sugar.’ Again, no pleases, no thank yous. Exactly what I’d expect from one of his lot.
While Colin scratches away in the hallway I put the kettle on to boil and check my phone. Dave has sent me another request:
I want to see your feet nice and dirty.
The logistics of this seem complicated. I will have to go outside and, what, dunk my feet in mud? Then clean myself up, and all in public. I mean, I will absolutely do it, but it needs to be worth my while.
For £150 you can. x
As he’s a landlord, my assumption is Colin would feel personally attacked if I served him his tea in a chipped, stained,Fuck the Toriesmug,so I designate him the last remaining cup from the fancy tableware set me and Nicol bought when we first moved in together, as it’s the only one without a slogan on it. It’s plain, thick earthenware, glazed in an earthy red. It looks like it could have been thrown on a potter’s wheel in an artist’s studio not far from here and not from whatever factory it was made in in China. This is the kind of faux authenticity Nicol laps up. The full set had included four cups, and even though we purchased them 50/50 from the John Lewis in town, he took three of them when he left. I guess he couldn’t envision a scenario where, without him, I’d make a second person a hot drink.
Just then Colin yelps, ‘Bastard!’ I poke my head around the doorframe to see him flapping his hand about as if he’s been injured.
Getting the milk from the fridge, I come to accept it’s likely the light will remain buggered for my tenure here, and I have to understand this is not my fault. That, for me, a fixed light switch is an unattainable dream. Like winning the lottery or being fingered by Jamie Dornan.
The kettle is almost at boiling point, so I open the kitchen window for the steam to escape, hopefully saving myself from the traditional landlord rant about damp from Colin. The sound of the street wafts up to me as I get a teaspoon from the drawer; someone slams a car door, which is followed by an even bigger bang. From my position, it’s difficult to work out if it was an inside or an outside noise. Then I notice the light on the kettle is off, even though it didn’t fully boil. Bloody fuse box. Except when I check, everything is where it should be. The problem must be Colin. Which makes sense.
I put my head back around the door and discover what Colin’s done is given himself an electric shock. A bad one, by the look of it. He’s out cold on the floor, lying in the position dead bodies are always outlined on cement floors in TV programmes, arms splayed at his sides, legs akimbo. Around him are bits from his tool kit – a screwdriver by his side, a small box of screws beside his feet – and the bag itself has toppled, its contents spilling out.
‘Colin?’ I creep towards him like he’s sleeping and my movements might wake him. Louder this time. ‘Colin?’ Then, ‘COLIN?’ as loud as I can, while I give him a shove with my socked foot. When this also yields nothing, I crouch down, noticing the carpet could do with a hoover. Colin won’t care about this, or anything else, because from this angle the stillness of his chest is clear. The absence of breath on my cheek confirms it as I bend down to him and shout, ‘COLIN,’ so loud Mrs Neilan across the hall bangs on our adjoining wall to tell me to keep the noise down: Colin’s dead.
When the 999 operator answers my call, I’m surprised by the thrill that passes through me as I say, ‘My landlord has died.’ It sounds urgent, important. When was the last time anything I said or did meant anything? And now here I am with the operator on loudspeaker next to Colin’s head, talking me through giving him CPR until the paramedics arrive. In this moment I am a significant part of Colin’s destiny. I do as I’m instructed, pressing on his chest, only taking breaks to breathe into his mouth. My arms ache, but I continue until my buzzer goes, and then two men in bulky fluorescent jackets rush inside and take over, doing what I did with more ease and precision.
One of them cuts Colin’s top up the middle, attaches sticky pads onto his chest, which is covered in Brillo-pad-grey hair, and tries to shock his heart into action. It remains resolutely not pumping. No amount of compressions or shocks or anything else brings him back. Eventually they call it, confirming with one another that the time is 1:38 pm.
