water receptacle in the shape of the Virgin Mary; his own Irish grandmother had had one. He remembered with an upspring of old grief her home with its profusion of religious iconography. He had been in enough Irish Catholic households to be able to fill in the blanks left by picture frames: first Holy Communion photographs, a painting of a blue-eyed Christ holding a glowing Sacred Heart.
The ghost of another crucifix was printed on the wall of the only bedroom, which looked onto the street.
‘I think this used to be a second bedroom,’ said Charlene as they stepped into a slanted bathroom at the back of the house. ‘Look, there’s still an outside toilet.’ They peered through the net-curtained window onto a tiny brick yard. As well as a little outhouse there were dozens of flowerpots, shoots already shrivelling inside. The only colour came from a raised flowerbed, the size and shape of a large bathtub, in which geraniums in full red bloom jostled for space.
Downstairs, Charlene was all puckered brow and dark mutterings.
‘We can’t let this place. It doesn’t come anywhere near Mr Grand’s standards. I’m not sure it’s even legal.’ She looked at the gas cooker, with its eye-level grill, and the spin-dryer. ‘Who lives like this, in this day and age? I’ll find a washboard and a mangle in a minute.’
‘I could live here,’ said Luke. ‘I could write here.’
‘Not without housing standards breathing down our necks, you couldn’t. I mean, what were we charging her for this?’ She tipped the contents of the folder onto the table. ‘Usually when a property comes back on the books, Mr Grand likes to make sure the rent’s in keeping with the current market, but he’d want to refurbish this place completely before we did that. Depends really what she was paying.’ She held up a recent rent book. ‘I could’ve told you she was old just by the fact she had one of these. We let the old ones keep them on sometimes because it’s what they’re used to. Well, at least it’s up to date . . . hang on, what the fuck?’
‘What’s up?’ said Luke.
‘She was paying three pounds a month,’ said Charlene, showing Luke the relevant page, filled out in a rickety hand. ‘No one’s raised the rent in, what . . .’ now she pulled a ragged brown rent book from the bottom of the pile. ‘She’s been paying the same rent since 1968. I don’t get it.’
The date was rich with associations for Luke. The year that the Kray twins were finally arrested, it was like 1066 or 1914 to him.
‘I’m going to have to get to the bottom of this.’
‘You could just let me crash here for a few nights. Off the books.’
‘Mr Grand doesn’t do “off the books”,’ said Charlene.
‘Doesn’t he? Why isn’t this place on your system then? I reckon someone forgot to upload it or input it or whatever when your records went digital and that old lady was just sitting here laughing her head off ever since. How’s anyone even going to know?’
She didn’t have an answer for that. She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘All right, OK, you can stay but only while you get settled and while I find out what Mr Grand wants to do with the property.’
Luke threw his arms around her.
‘Don’t get too comfy. I might have to move you on tomorrow. Here, have one of these.’
She wrestled the front door key onto a fob in the shape of the JGP logo. Luke traced the gold letters under his thumb.
‘We give all our tenants one of those,’ said Charlene. ‘It’s a bit of a Brighton thing. You watch, now you’ve got one, you’ll start seeing them everywhere you go. And there should be a spare set next to the gas meter, if you ever need it. Let’s check.’
There was no key, just a little gold plaque that read:
A Jocelyn Grand Property
Lettings and Management
Telephone Brighton 25445
‘That’s another one of Mr Grand’s little finishing touches. He has one put in all his properties as soon as they’re
The ghost of another crucifix was printed on the wall of the only bedroom, which looked onto the street.
‘I think this used to be a second bedroom,’ said Charlene as they stepped into a slanted bathroom at the back of the house. ‘Look, there’s still an outside toilet.’ They peered through the net-curtained window onto a tiny brick yard. As well as a little outhouse there were dozens of flowerpots, shoots already shrivelling inside. The only colour came from a raised flowerbed, the size and shape of a large bathtub, in which geraniums in full red bloom jostled for space.
Downstairs, Charlene was all puckered brow and dark mutterings.
‘We can’t let this place. It doesn’t come anywhere near Mr Grand’s standards. I’m not sure it’s even legal.’ She looked at the gas cooker, with its eye-level grill, and the spin-dryer. ‘Who lives like this, in this day and age? I’ll find a washboard and a mangle in a minute.’
‘I could live here,’ said Luke. ‘I could write here.’
‘Not without housing standards breathing down our necks, you couldn’t. I mean, what were we charging her for this?’ She tipped the contents of the folder onto the table. ‘Usually when a property comes back on the books, Mr Grand likes to make sure the rent’s in keeping with the current market, but he’d want to refurbish this place completely before we did that. Depends really what she was paying.’ She held up a recent rent book. ‘I could’ve told you she was old just by the fact she had one of these. We let the old ones keep them on sometimes because it’s what they’re used to. Well, at least it’s up to date . . . hang on, what the fuck?’
‘What’s up?’ said Luke.
‘She was paying three pounds a month,’ said Charlene, showing Luke the relevant page, filled out in a rickety hand. ‘No one’s raised the rent in, what . . .’ now she pulled a ragged brown rent book from the bottom of the pile. ‘She’s been paying the same rent since 1968. I don’t get it.’
The date was rich with associations for Luke. The year that the Kray twins were finally arrested, it was like 1066 or 1914 to him.
‘I’m going to have to get to the bottom of this.’
‘You could just let me crash here for a few nights. Off the books.’
‘Mr Grand doesn’t do “off the books”,’ said Charlene.
‘Doesn’t he? Why isn’t this place on your system then? I reckon someone forgot to upload it or input it or whatever when your records went digital and that old lady was just sitting here laughing her head off ever since. How’s anyone even going to know?’
She didn’t have an answer for that. She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘All right, OK, you can stay but only while you get settled and while I find out what Mr Grand wants to do with the property.’
Luke threw his arms around her.
‘Don’t get too comfy. I might have to move you on tomorrow. Here, have one of these.’
She wrestled the front door key onto a fob in the shape of the JGP logo. Luke traced the gold letters under his thumb.
‘We give all our tenants one of those,’ said Charlene. ‘It’s a bit of a Brighton thing. You watch, now you’ve got one, you’ll start seeing them everywhere you go. And there should be a spare set next to the gas meter, if you ever need it. Let’s check.’
There was no key, just a little gold plaque that read:
A Jocelyn Grand Property
Lettings and Management
Telephone Brighton 25445
‘That’s another one of Mr Grand’s little finishing touches. He has one put in all his properties as soon as they’re
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