Confessions from a Haunted House. Timothy Lea
did not have time to answer because another copper opened the door. ‘Eighteenth floor,’ he said. ‘Good luck. You’re brave men.’ I would like to have disagreed with him but he was already running towards the crowd.
‘At least we’ll be out of the wet,’ said Sid.
I felt no desire to answer that statement and accompanied Sid to the lift. We had been standing in it for a few minutes, reading the graffiti on the walls and trying not to think about the nasty smell in the corner that was definitely not gas, when we realized that the lift was of the non-mobile variety frequently found in council flats. Seventeen storeys later – or it might have been sixteen, by then my knees were beginning to lose count – we staggered into a darkened corridor and I could definitely smell gas. ‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘What a horrible pong!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sid. ‘I should never have had those pilchards after the baked beans.’
‘I wasn’t referring to that,’ I hissed. ‘We’re on the right floor. Somewhere about here is the leak.’
‘Gotcha,’ said Sid. ‘We’ll take a side each. Start hollering when your hooter delivers the goods.’ So saying, he stepped forward briskly and smashed his nut against a fire extinguisher. I was still laughing when I put my foot in a fire bucket. The corridor was dark as forgotten toast. The rain still sluicing down outside. Thunder and lightning sounding off like an artillery barrage. It was difficult to concentrate on anything except being afraid. I had never liked storms ever since I was a little boy and tried to climb into bed with Mum only to find that Dad had got there first. He explained that he was working a magic spell to make the storm go away and that I had to go back to my room or nothing would happen. I had just got to the top of the bannisters when the bed collapsed. The storm went on for another two hours. In that way children’s faith is destroyed. ‘Over here,’ called Sid. ‘Blimey, what a niff! Mind how you go, and get the windows open.’
Nostrils pressed together like the petals of a dead flower, I pushed into the room after Sid and made for the nearest window. The lights were still on in some of the neighbouring blocks and they gave enough illumination for me to dodge the furniture and see that I was in an open-plan flat with a dinette and what must be the bathroom and a bedroom leading off. I forced open the window and took a few breaths of rain for which I was not totally ungrateful, before registering a sight custom-built to raise a third seam down the front of my trousers, It emanated from a window of the flats opposite and concerned a cracking looking bird in what I believe the frogs refer to as the deshabillée or a state of Ursula Undress. She was wearing a filmy black negligée and brushing her tawny hair like she had surplus energy to burn. Behind me I could hear Sid making excited noises although over something far less exciting. ‘I think it’s down here somewhere. By the stove.’
I made a humouring ‘uhm’ noise and continued to clock the feast of feisty flesh opposite. After another half-dozen strokes the bird got bored with brushing her hair and, pushing it back over her shoulders, gracefully shrugged her way out of her negligée. Beneath it she was wearing a black bra that contributed more uplift than you would get on six weeks of Stars on Sundays and a pair of lace-trimmed black cami-knickers.
‘Timmy! I found it. Pass us the light.’ Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sid’s bum wiggling in the air and his hand groping for the torch which was somewhere behind him. I quickly decided that the sight was not worth a corner of my eye. There were better things to concentrate on. The girl had now arched her back and was unpopping her bra. My eyeballs beat her to the unpopping by a couple of seconds. What a lovely pair of bristols. She must have had strong back muscles or her nut would have cracked against something every time she bent over. She reached forward to her dressing table and picked up a jar. I don’t know what was in it but it clearly was not strawberry jam because she started massaging it into her breasts. Oh dear, nobody can understand the pain it causes me to see a woman doing a man’s job. I watched for a few more Y-front-straining moments.
‘Light!’ Sid snapped his fingers and my hand dutifully moved to my breast pocket. I don’t smoke but I am always prepared to help somebody to kill himself. The girl had now rubbed her hands over her belly and hitched her thumbs over the edge of her panties. With a delicious shimmy she wriggled them down to ankle level and stepped out of them. I wondered why it had gone misty outside and then realized that it was my breath steaming up the window pane.
‘Light!’ The niff of gas was pretty potent by this time but I was not thinking about that as I unbuttoned the pocket and pulled out the battered lighter I found on a 49 bus. I flipped back the top and pressed my finger against the flint. Opposite the bird was down to what she was born in but looking much better in it. My finger pressed tighter against the flint. I would not half of minded striking a few sparks off her. As I watched mesmerized, she straddled a chair that had its back to the dressing table and then picked up her hairbrush, but by the brush end. Curious and fascinated I leant forward eagerly. The window was starting to steam up again.
‘Light!!’ I flicked the lighter a couple of times and rubbed the window. The girl spread her legs wide and then inserted the handle of the brush through the back of the chair frame. Not only through the chair frame. Blimey! In my excitement I flicked double hard at the lighter and a flame appeared.
‘NO!!!!’
Funny, I can remember the scene as if it was yesterday. The look on Sid’s face, the smell of gas, the flame, the sudden realization that I had done something rather silly. And then – BOOM!!
CHAPTER TWO
If I have to select a moment when my relationship with Sid really started going downhill fast it must be when he came round and saw me sitting beside the bed. His eyes opened and he slowly began to focus. ‘It’s me, Sid,’ I said gently. ‘Fancy a fag?’
I suppose, on reflection, I rushed the gesture a bit. I should have guessed that he might still feel a bit touchy about the sight of my lighter stretching out towards him. Especially as he had not woken up since he last saw it. His eyes seemed to catch light and then his head jerked back so fast that his turban of bandages nearly fell off. He let out a strange strangulated cry and threw himself at my throat. It was a stupid thing to do at the best of times but doubly so with his leg in traction. Something went wrong with the balance of the weights and he was whipped up to the ceiling. Poor Sid, I did feel sorry for him. Especially after what that stupid nurse did. Rosie Dixon, I think she was called. I know she meant well but what a stupid place to leave a bed pan. If she had wanted to fiddle with the weights she should have left it underneath the bed. As it was of course – whoosh! One minute Sid is dangling over the chipped enamel, the next, everybody is locking shoulders in the swing doors. I only looked back once. I mean, you don’t need a description, do you? It was worse than when Aunty Flo nudged the chocolate blancmange into the electric fan. At least it ensured that poor Sid got a private room. In fact he said that nobody came near him for three days. They used to push the thermometer through the door wedged in the end of a cleft stick.
What was so unjust about the incident was that he blamed me for everything. It made me glad that I had taken his grapes with me when I left. Sid can be very petty sometimes. He was still sulking when he dropped in for a cup of tea at 17, Scraggs Lane. That was a few weeks later of course. After he had been discharged. He was still wearing the head bandage and I think he had begun to fancy himself in it. The wounded hero touch. It also warded off evil in the shape of Dad. Dad could hardly chuck Sid down the steps when he was convalescing. That was what Sid thought, anyway.
‘Another cup of tea, Sid?’
Sid’s hand darted over his cup. Few men can stand more than one of Mum’s cups of tea in a four or five hour period without hearing from their Newingtons. Sometimes I think of those pictures of nice Indian ladies with sheets round their heads plucking away at the leaves with the Assam hills in the background and feel glad that they don’t have to taste their handiwork once it gets into Mum’s hands. If they did they would probably chuck it all in and become snake charmers.
‘No thanks,’ said Sid. He let out a slight groan and touched the side of his bandage with an exaggerated