‘It’s Clive.’
‘Oh, no,’ I groaned theatrically.
‘He’s back tomorrow. We’ve got to sort out what we’re going to say.’
‘Maybe we should just give it a bit longer.’
‘It’s been four months and it’s getting worse. The guy’s a total prat.’
‘We could change the locks,’ I giggled. ‘Oh, I don’t know, he did make an effort after the last meeting.’
‘Yeah, for all of twenty-four hours.’
‘It’s not just the practical things though, is it?’ I turned to Ray.
‘Nope.’ He sipped his drink.
‘I mean, even if he remembered to clear up after himself and keep the music down…’
‘…and stop drinking all the milk, and treat the kids like human beings…’
‘…and pay the rent on time,’
‘He’d still be a prat,’ Ray concluded.
‘What is it though?’ I asked. ‘What defines his pratness?’
‘Pseudy, unreliable, doesn’t like women for starters.’
‘He seemed so nice when he came round about the advert.’
‘And he was the only person we’d seen,’ Ray reminded me, ‘and you were panicking about the rent.’
I squirmed. ‘He gives me the creeps. You know, he can’t talk about anyone without putting them down. It’s horrible.’ I drained my glass. ‘What are we going to say? Sorry Clive, we want you to move out. We think you’re a prat.’
‘We could say we don’t like his attitude,’ said Ray.
‘I’d rather not have to give any reasons. It could just become a horrible slanging match. It’d be so embarrassing, Ray, and hurtful to him. We should simply ask him to leave.’
‘What if he won’t? I can imagine him digging his heels in.’
We carried on the conversation over dinner, bitching and worrying. The upshot was that we agreed to tackle Clive some time over the coming weekend. Give him a month’s notice, be vague about reasons but, if pressed, explain we wanted someone more suited to communal living.
Ray went out that evening. Quiz night at the local. I’d gone along once to see what the attraction was. It was a dead loss for me, as nearly half the questions were about sport, an activity I loathe.
I ran a hot bath and chucked in some scented oil. My shoulder was aching and my back stiff from honest toil. I rubbed olive oil into the scar above my left breast. I’d been stabbed. My one and only murder investigation. I’d unwittingly stumbled close to solving it and the murderer had tried to silence me. The memory still panicked me. I was jumpier these days. I avoided violent plays and films. For a while, even the sight of knives in the kitchen had brought me out in a sweat.
