The baldy one looks up to me and delivers, ‘I’m very sorry, he’s gone,’ in a way that makes it clear he thinks this information will upset me.
When it doesn’t, I explain. ‘He’s my landlord. I only met him today; I don’t actually know him.’
This makes things easier for them. I am not someone who needs to be consoled alongside all the other tasks they need to complete. ‘You sure you’re OK, darling?’
‘I’m fine. I’ll be alright.’ Death has always been deeply interesting to me. Doesn’t matter what any of our lives are like, our reward for existing is the same: total annihilation. This is what is coming for us all, and as Colin here demonstrates, it could happen at any time. It’s rare to encounter a death so close, and it means less than nothing to me. I can appreciate this for what it is, a little levelling of the playing field. Colin rinsed me for all my money for naught as he’s too dead to enjoy it. I crouch down to get a closer look at his blue-tinged face, his pupils dilated, his mouth agog at his own stupidity at killing himself.
This is the less-than-ideal position the police officers who’ve appeared in my flat catch me in. I jump away from Colin. How they got in is not a mystery. Mrs Neilan did it; she lurks behind the officers’ shoulders trying to peek at the corpse.
‘This your flat, Miss?’ The female officer motions me into the living room away from Colin before I’ve even nodded to confirm it is. Neither of them introduces themselves. The male officer takes out a notebook while the woman gets straight to business, asking me to describe what happened. I do, with one ear tuned to the paramedics’ sounds in the hallway. This is what I get for experiencing pleasure – punished with a police interrogation. Well, not really an interrogation, but the presence of the police does make me feel guilty, despite my having done absolutely nothing wrong.
When my story is over, I’m abandoned on my sofa so they can take pictures of the scene. My stomach grumbles, but I guess getting some food with Colin still lingering wouldn’t be appropriate. I stay where I am until I hear one of the paramedics say, ‘Are we OK to take him away?’
‘Batter in,’ the male officer responds, like Colin’s an empty seat in a full pub.
I get up and have a nosey, because otherwise I’ll miss the excitement and this is my bloody house, for God’s sake. They lift Colin onto the trolley, cover him with a blanket and then strap him in. As they begin pushing him out of the flat, I notice his tools are where he left them. ‘What about his things?’
‘You keep a hold of them. We’ll tell the next of kin,’ the woman says, closing my door and leaving me alone again. I put Colin’s tools in the hall cupboard to join the rest of the forgotten shit in the flat: my old skis, a broken hoover, the meagre mementos from my old desk at work. The light might still be knackered and Colin is dead, but at least I can have my lunch. Which, as it turns out, is rotten. The white bread of my sandwich is claggy, sticking to the roof of my mouth, the plastic rectangles of cheese within it tasteless. My belly isn’t welcoming to the meal. It had accepted there was no food incoming after the Colin-caused delay to my usual schedule and it’s miffed at the late arrival of sustenance. Possibly also a little unsettled by the fact we witnessed a death not ninety minutes ago. Still, I persevere. I can’t afford to waste food.
In the end, one triangle of sandwich is all I can bear. My last bite is timed perfectly with the muffled vibrations of my phone.
‘Hello?’ I move the mouthpiece away so I can chew and swallow.
‘Hi, Jemma, it’s Gavin from the estate agent’s.’ Maybe it’s because they’re not actively crying, but they sound exceptionally cheery. I imagine them preparing to be as jolly as possible for the call to make up for the last time we spoke. ‘Wanted to check the repair went alright?’
It occurs to me I should probably have contacted them with an update myself – in my defence it was past my lunchtime. ‘Well, no, actually.’ Gavin starts to say something. I talk over them. ‘Did you know it was the landlord who was coming to fix it? Well, he wasn’t a trained electrician, so why he thought he could do it, I don’t know. Anyway, he died.’
‘Sorry, I think the line went funny. What died? The electricity? It’s gone off?’
‘No. Colin. He’s dead. He electrocuted himself. The light switch still needs fixed. Not that that’s the priority for today, I guess.’
That last bit probably doesn’t make its way to Gavin as they’re full-on sobbing, repeating, ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ in different intonations, before switching that phrase out for, ‘This is all my fault. This is all MY fault.’
This is really taking the edge off my Colin-is-dead-but-I-am-alive buzz. I need Gavin to stop crying so they don’t bring me down with them. ‘Did you tell Colin he should fix the electrics himself rather than get a qualified person to sort it?’
Gavin pauses their sobs to say, ‘Well, no. Part of the rental agreement is they get qualified persons in.’ For a second it sounds like they’ve realised it’s not their fault, but then they try to claim Colin’s fatal error as their own. ‘But I should have checked who he was getting to do the work. I assumed when he said he’d fix it that he was calling an electrician, not thathe’dfix it.’
They cry so solidly it’s impossible to find a break in the noise to excuse myself and end the call. Hanging up would be an inflammatory act; you can’t be hanging up on someone who is distraught – even if they are an estate agent. Holding the phone away from my ear, I wander the flat for something to do, finding myself drawn to the spot where Colin perished while I listen to Gavin sniffing and snorting their tears.
After a while Gavin’s cries ease. ‘Is there anyone in the office with you?’ I ask. ‘You sound like you need some support.’
‘The new girl quit, and Brian’s fucked off God knows where. Sorry, Brian’s away somewhere. Please pretend you didn’t hear me swear.’
‘You don’t need to apologise. You’ve just received shocking news.’ If they notice the pun, they don’t find it amusing.
We stay on the line, listening to one another breathe. As I was compelled to be at Colin’s death site, I feel a pull to Gavin too. It keeps me on the line. After minutes spent in this stasis, I find myself offering, ‘Do you want me to come down and be with you?’
‘Yes, please.’ Before I can double-check if I, a total stranger, am the best option for consoling them they break down again. I guess then, whether it’s a good idea or not, I’m going to comfort them.
4
When I get to the estate agent’s a steadying breath is necessary before entering. The entire walk here, my only thoughts have been about how ill-prepared I am for this task. Through the window I can see only one person in the office, and they are crying so they must be Gavin.
Really, why did I think I could help them? I’m a fucking state. The nearest I’ve come to being consoled in recent memory is a random woman on the street asking if I was alright while I stood in an alleyway and cried silently. I’d stormed off from Nicol, who had chosen our Valentine’s meal as the perfect event to list all of the things I’d done to upset him in the last six months. All because I mentioned he’d hurt my feelings when he said I was too dolled up for a Saturday lunch date but then refused to let me change before we left the house. When we made up, he confessed he’d felt ‘emotionally off’ because whenever I put in an effort with my appearance he would notice other men looking at me. He loved the low-maintenance, makeup-free me who was unconventionally charming. It made him sick that these men were enamoured with the fake Jemma who, due to creams and lotions, now met modern beauty standards. Nicol lusted after my soul. How dare strangers covet my packaging because it was what the media they consumed told them to do.
None of this matters, because as soon as I see Gavin, for the first time in a long time, Nicol is forgotten. They are the kind of person my mum would call‘strapping’: tall, broad-shouldered, clearly in shape. Their brown curly hair is shaved at the sides and allowed to run free on top. There is an eccentricity to their aesthetic: they have a waxed moustache on their angular face, their suit is a well-tailored tweed one, their fingernails are painted a shiny French manicure shade of pink, giving a subtle nod to the feminine. For Hamilton, they are unusually handsome and intriguing. The Gavin I have dealt with did not present as attractive. If I’d had an inkling they were like this I would have made an effort. I’m no stunner, but I’m not hideous either; I could have presented as a better version of myself than the one that’s here. As if it will make any meaningful difference, I straighten my unironed fifteen-year-old Biffy Clyro T-shirt, and am relieved that my grey jogging bottoms are not obviously dirty when I examine them. Trying to think positively, I remind myself that my skin is clear today and the round neck of my top gives the impression of my having larger breasts than I actually do – this could have been worse. Not by much, but still.
Even though a bell above the door announces my arrival, it takes me saying ‘Gavin?’ for them to acknowledge I am there in front of their desk. They jolt their head upwards. ‘Can I help you?’
