I don’t know how it is for other single women, but around here, it’s always the weirdest things that come knocking. Last night, for instance, there I was, sprawled on my bed, sighing like a tragic heroine. Too many headlines read, too many pork chops eaten—wallowing in my own melodrama, basically.
Then I heard it—a faint, pitiful whine creeping from behind the wardrobe.
“Fleas?” I wondered. “There was that article about a proper flea infestation in Paris. Surely they haven’t made it to Sheffield? Tired little buggers, must be.”
Ten minutes later, the “fleas” gave up whining and started scritching at the floorboards.
“Right, I’m getting up to bash your heads in,” I lied.
No chance. Not after that plate of chops. If nature called tonight, I’d have to roll to the loo like a barrel.
“Please don’t bash,” the “fleas” pleaded politely.
“Talking fleas,” I mused through my meat haze. “So not fleas. So the neighbour’s lost it. Then again, who hasn’t these days? Fine, me. Nothing to lose my mind over, but everyone else is suffering.”
Then the scritching stopped, and in the gloom, something long and shaggy began slinking toward me. My eyesight’s garbage, so I squinted, struggling with three burning questions: Were those pork chops laced with sleeping pills? Was that three ears or three horns? And since when did our building have an unaccounted-for giant? I keep a notebook of all the tall ones—it’s a hobby.
“Walter Geoffrey?” I ventured.
“Cold,” the lamppost of a creature replied, promptly smacking its forehead on the ceiling light. “OWW!”
“Who, then?”
“Granddad Pook,” it snickered, stretching grotesquely long black claws toward me. “BOOO!”
“I used to paint mine black too, back in Hull. Gel or natural?”
“Natural,” it huffed, offended.
“Must be a nightmare picking your nose with those.”
“Are you not scared?!”
It leaned in, shoving its grotesque mug right up to mine, revealing three ears—two normal, one lumpy monstrosity on its temple, like a swollen knob.
“I’ve got a book due next week and only three pages written. Plus the mortgage. Plus the divorce. I’m a grown woman, love. Flap your jowls all you like.”
“Our lot say you didn’t even scream at five. Clobbered one with a vase. His head still lists to port.”
“So why’re you here?”
“Cosy.”
“That’s the pork chops. Fancy one?”
“Alright.”
“Fetch ’em yourself, then. I’m not moving.”
The ghoul shot off like a shadow, returning with tea (poured into my favourite mug, no less!), chops, and sandwiches. An apple was jammed in its maw—just like me, only hairier.
“‘S’good?” It shoved a plate at me.
“Eh?”
“You havin’ some? Plenty here.”
“Would if I could. No room.”
“Look at you, built like a python in spectacles.”
“Ta. Lie down, then.”
I shuffled over, and we lay there a while, just chewing, sighing, stewing in our own miseries. Night, the sound of munching, the greasy scent of pork fat—what more does a soul need?
“Fancy bothering Mrs. Higgins on the third floor? She’s ancient. Won’t mind.”
“Went yesterday. She lobbed a stool at me.”
“Ah. That’s the lump, then.”
“Yeah.”
We lay another half-hour, lost in thought.
Might ask to join them, honestly. Sounds brilliant, drifting through strangers’ flats, scarfing free food. Just need something sturdy for the noggin. A saucepan, maybe.
