‘I was thinking three hundred.’
Cher’s face colours. ‘I… are you serious?’
If there’s one thing the Landlord likes more than a young girl, it’s a young girl over a barrel. ‘You can always go somewhere else,’ he says. ‘No skin off my nose. There’s people queuing up for a room like this.’
‘But you can’t just… it’s not legal.’
The Landlord raises his eyebrows and smirks. ‘I think you need a contract for something to be legal, Cher, dear. And I’m sure you’ve got your pick of places that take tenants without a reference or a direct debit. It’s all the rage, in this day and age. Still, if you want to report me…’
He lets the sentence hang in the air as her blush spreads. She knows she’s stuck. Doesn’t stand a chance.
‘The council, perhaps?’
She looks away, covers her stomach with her arm and takes another puff of her cigarette.
‘Social services?’
She glares at him, defiant in defeat.
‘We could call them now, if you like,’ he offers, to ram his advantage home. ‘Give them your details?’
‘No, that’s okay.’ Her voice is dull, stripped of the lilt he found so irritating.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘That’s settled, then. Don’t worry. It’s only starting next month. Plenty of time. How is everything? You comfortable?’
Cher shrugs. ‘Whatever,’ she says.
He’s not going to get any more from her today. Launches himself off the kitchen counter and lumbers to the door. ‘Well, I’m always at the end of the phone, if you, you know, need anything.’
He turns in the doorway, and smiles at her. ‘Oh, and you really shouldn’t be smoking at your age,’ he says. ‘It’s not good for you.’
She doesn’t answer.
Out on the landing, he gets out his keys again and checks the house for noises. There’s music from the downstairs front, but otherwise the place is quiet. There’s not a sound from behind Cher’s door. He imagines her standing where he left her with her face in her hands, and smiles.
He goes over to his cupboard door. Undoes the padlock and lays it on the carpet, pulls the door wide to allow himself to pass through. It’s a tiny space – a triangle beneath the stairs, four feet deep, the street window, whitewashed, saving him from having to pay to light it – and there’s barely room for him, but the Landlord is skilled at manoeuvring his bulk through a thin man’s world. He squeezes in, plops himself into the old office chair – no arms, because there’s too much Landlord to fit between them – that sits inside, and pulls the door to behind him.
On shelves built neatly into the underside of the staircase treads, red lights blink at him. One disc has filled itself and popped out of its slot. The Landlord unzips the leather case that holds the rent book, and swaps the disc for a blank one in a slot in the side of the case. Entertainment for later. It’s going to be a good night.
Chapter Eleven
‘Hola, chica.’
Oh, Christ, he thinks he’s so witty. When she had a French SIM, it was ‘bonjour, chérie’, in Italy ‘ciao, bella’, Switzerland ‘grüss Gott’. Everywhere she hides, they find her, and every time he does, he announces himself in the local language.
But at least he doesn’t know where I’ve gone to, yet, she thinks, not if he’s still saying hello in Spanish, reminding herself to buy a British SIM.
‘Carrer de la Ciutat,’ he says. ‘Nice. Classy. Glad to know you’re still in the money, anyway. Shame it’s my money.’
Collette doesn’t speak. She always hopes, somehow, that if he doesn’t hear her voice he’ll think he’s mistaken. She’s cleared out just in time. That clearly was Burim she saw in the street, not a figment of her imagination. Six whole months she managed in Barcelona. One of her better runs. She wonders if she’s brushed up against whoever it was who tracked her down as she walked down the street, as she locked and unlocked the flats’ front door, sat at a table in Catedral. It’s the worst thing about her situation: that every stranger on every corner could be the man who’s watching out for her.
Tony waits for her to speak. Cat and mouse: a game that’s been going on for three years. Collette hiding away, scrabbling herself into dark corners, and Tony toying, pretending to have turned his back and lost interest, letting her think she might, this time, have escaped, and all the time ready to pounce the moment she allows herself to breathe.
How is he getting my numbers? How? They’re pay as you go, for God’s sake. I buy them in station booths.