CLEANER: Chapter Four - Part Four

MELISSA

I’d had a hell of a day.

The school had been filthy. It had taken forever to get it all done. The younger members of the cleaning team didn’t pull their weight and I’d made the mistake of telling one of them. Now they kept making fun of me, calling me names like they were ten years old.

Wankers.

I took the bus from Corbridge up to Hillfort when it finally came but I missed the first one because I decided to start walking, it was so late. Obviously it waited until I was a hundred yards up the road then sailed past. It was the story of my life in microcosm.

I was starving hungry and really pissed off when I got off the bus on Hillfort high street. Hillfort was the highest point of Barton but you wouldn’t have known. Back before the town sprung up there would have been views all down the valley but now the houses crowded in tightly enough that you could easily forget you were even on a hill.

I bought some fish fingers, oven chips and a bottle of white cider from Iceland and trudged back home, eyes down on the pavement. I sighed loudly when I saw that the flats in the house next door to ours still hadn’t cleared the bin bags they had piled up high on the flag stoned front garden. More than half of them were split and more bags were piled on the pavement. It was disgusting. I was sick of living in Barton. Really sick of it. That was the trouble. Too many of the houses had been made into flats now. They weren’t home owners. They didn’t give a shit.

Our house wasn’t a whole lot better. The front needed re-rendering and the paintwork on the windows was splitting. The garden was a carpet of weeds. I knew I should get out there and sort it out but I didn’t have any energy left after I’d finished work. And why should I do it by myself?

I let myself in. The hall was in darkness. I couldn't hear anything upstairs or down. The TV was off for a change.

“Robert?”

No answer. I hung my handbag on the bottom of the banister and took my shopping through to the kitchen. The strip light flickered and came on dully. After a further ten seconds it clicked to full brightness; far too dazzling for the little room.

I sighed loudly. There was mess everywhere: dirty pots on the side; the oven open, a crusted baking tray discarded on the door flap.

“Robert? Are you in?”

No answer. The oven was still warm. I put enough fish fingers and chips out as I needed for me. He must have already eaten. I used the same baking tray he had. The charred remnants of what looked like a pie was stuck fast. I didn’t care.

I grumbled to myself as I poured a mug full of cider, thinking back to Dahlia Western and her insipid expression as she told me we couldn’t switch places again.

I took a long draught of white cider – which was bitter but electrifying – and carried it down the hall and entered the lounge. The blinds and curtains were shut. It was pitch dark. I reached for the switch.

“Leave it.”

I jumped, making a tiny yelp in my throat. “God, Robert? What are you sitting in the dark for?”

He didn’t answer. I couldn’t make him out anywhere in there, though the sound of his voice had probably come from the chair near the window. I reached for the light switch again.

“I said leave it.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

He made no sound. I stood there, peering into the dark, trying to pick him out of it, but with my vision I could see nothing.

Robert said nothing. I lowered my hand.

He had to be watching me but I couldn't see him; not even a hint of reflection in his eyes.

I waited the better part of three minutes, then feeling disconcerted, I backed out of the room and went back through to the kitchen.