Page 22
I flick a fragrant snub of faeces from the plunger and flush. Climbing to my feet with a resounding oof that echoes off the marble flooring.
My new home is panning out to be a bit of a shitshow, and work is no different. There’s no relief. Today is going about as well as I’d expected it would. So far, Delilah has commissioned me with relocating a precariously placed fire-pixie nest from its home next to the historical tomes collection on the library’s third floor, disbanding a fight club of sentient rats in the basement, and now here I am soaking in the fetid aromas of the men’s bathroom, which is arguably worse than anything else I’ve had to face today – purely because men are disgusting and having to scrub their toilets feels kind of like I’m spitting on feminism.
But at least I have a job. Yay for employment!
Walking back to the cleaner’s cupboard, I’m hit from behind. A spray bottle lands on the floor next to my feet.
‘Miller! Go check on the Mouldies on floor four. They’re allowed in the public section but not in the computer lab. Spray them with bleach if they’re loitering where they shouldn’t.’
‘Sure thing, boss!’ I call to Delilah’s retreating form as she flicks her hair at me and turns.
Sure thing, you ungrateful ginger Fae fuck, I mumble under my breath.
‘What?’ she snaps, turning back to pin me with a glare.
‘What?’ I look around the room as if I’m not sure where the words came from.
Delilah grunts, relights her jay, and takes a long drag. With an exhaled huff through her nostrils, she beats her heavy wings and flies back down to reception, looking every bit the dragon I’ve come to associate with her forked tongue.
I pick up the spray.
The fourth floor is mostly empty apart from a small group of residents from a local nursing home that dot the aisles like wraiths drifting between rows. No mould thus far.
I walk towards the southern set of stairs and the residents scatter like ants under the threat of a hose. The closer I get, I hear a slew of truly obscene remarks emanating from the lab.
I crack open the door and hear a sharp hoot-hoot coming from the shelving behind me. A man with glasses as thick as my thighs quickly ducks down the aisle. I frown and look back at a granny, head-to-toe dressed in green, raise her hands like a criminal and scrunch her wrinkled face, eyes shut tight.
‘Please, don’t spray! I’ll go quiet without a fight, I promise!’
‘What in the Stars?’
‘I got lost, I swear it!’
‘I don’t care that you’re in here.’
Granny cracks one eye open, her hands are slow to lower. Hands, I now see, that have a fistful of scrunched paper and smudged ink covering them.
‘Do you… need a hand with that?’ I nod at the paper.
‘What are you doing with that spray bottle?’ she asks me wearily, still eyeing me with distrust.
I look down at the bottle and set it on top of the printer to the left.
‘The bitch on the front desk sent me in here to spray for “mouldies”.’
Granny’s shoulders lower and she lets out a reluctant laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’m the mould she sent you to spray.’
Bloody Fae. I shake my head. None are immune to the extent of their fuckery.
‘Well, it would appear then, we have a common enemy,’ I say, hands fisted on my hips. ‘What are you working on?’
‘It’s been a project of sorts. A group effort, of course. We started a writing group over at Ashgrove. We’ve been trying to get it all compiled and printed so we can send it into Keninburgh Publishing for submissions at the end of month, but we have no access, and the deadlines almost passed.’ She huffs, and a strand of straight grey hair blows like a balloon man and lands back in her eyes. Looking crestfallen, she grips the pages in her hands and sighs. ‘Maybe there’s not much point anyway. Who wants to listen to the ramblings of the elderly?’ She releases a self-deprecating laugh, and it just about cracks my heart in two. Watching her ramble and try to explain and then hinder herself does something to me. I feel a swelling in my chest, a certain type of similitude found in being pushed aside and forgotten. I know that feeling – in a different setting, sure. But I know it well. I know it well enough. Enough that I say,
‘Me.’ Quietly, and then more forcefully. ‘I do. Let me see these.’ I raise my hand to take the smudged pages from her.
‘I’m not sure there’s much point sharing them. I doubt there’d be much of a market.’
‘I think a good story is always worth telling, regardless of who listens. Sometimes things just need to be said. But for the record, I think you’re very interesting. And I think your ramblings are definitely worth reading.’
