NEW HOUSE

He had a set of four keys on the ring, and couldn’t remember how to use them. He leaned against the wall outside and a cobweb brushed off into his hair. Four keys - where did they all go? He tried to remember again. Ah! The garage. That explained the fourth, leaving only three to cope with. He ran his fingers through the thinning hair on the right side of his head, noticed that it still stuck out in three spikes and swore. He spat on the ground, spat the gin dryness out of his mouth and pawed at it with his foot. He looked around guiltily, feeling like the new boy at school. At thirty-five for god’s sake. Still nervous of eyes, people behind curtains. Shit, he thought.

One of the keys must fit the front door, he decided, and tried to look at them. The metal colours buzzed at him, blurred, and the pain came back into his head. Shit! He put his free hand over his forehead and tried to smooth the pain out of his temples with his thumb and fingers. It seemed to slacken off a bit so he waited a minute then looked at the keys again. He matched the name on one of the keys with the name on the lock and tried it, feeling pretty sharp. It didn’t fit. All the other keys had the same name on. He tried them all. The third one fitted and he let himself in. Nice, he thought, white. Clean. The lino almost squeaked under his trainers, despite their filthiness. He looked at them and thought he remembered something about running through grass. Or hay. Had he gone to a barn? He would phone Joe and find out. Joe always remembered. Even that time he had had to fish Joe out from a ditch because the bastard thought he had seen a mermaid. It turned out to be…what did it turn out to be?

He saw a kind of chart or table on the wall in front of him. It looked good: little slats of wood slotted in with names, numbers. He jumped when he saw his own name among them, then settled down again. Amazing how guilty he felt the whole time. And looked, probably. All of us are born guilty - can you believe Hesse swallowed that one? Beautiful writing though; fuck you, Bukowski. He tried to focus, guiltily, on the numbers. Eventually he gave up and got out his glasses, reaching down deep into the long coat pocket. Just a switchblade, has Mack Heath dear. And he keeps it, way out of sight… He looked at the board again and found his name. Neatly engraved on its own wooden slat. A good name, Brian Lewis. A solid, man’s name. Not too many damn syllables. He still felt a mess though. He had a quick look in the huge mirror and nearly vomited.

Leonard Wilkins, he read from the slat. OK. Lena Andersson. Ah. A Swede. He had been to Sweden fifteen years ago. But that wasn’t the point. The point was……. His head started hurting again. Reception, he read and decided that was the point. First floor. He walked up the stairs: one floor wouldn’t kill him. It nearly did though, and he stumbled, panting, into the landlord. At least, he realised a moment later that the guy was the landlord. Small guy with black hair and clever eyes. "Ah Mr Lewis," he said, "Ah, Mr Lewis". Crazy bastard. "We were wondering when you’d arrive!". We? Mr Lewis looked round. The landlord was the only person there. Mr Lewis all but ran out the door. Instead he said "uhh". "Good," said the landlord, rubbing his hands, "good".

"I’m - uh - looking for my room," he told the landlord intelligently, and limply waved the bunch of keys at the man. Of course the landlord fell for it and took them. He found the right key straight away and flew up the stairs, leaving Mr Lewis staring at his trainers. "COME ON MR LEWIS!" he shouted from what seemed like 2 inches away. Mr Lewis looked up and found himself staring up at the guy’s red face which had hooked itself somehow over the balcony. The guy laughed loudly; "Ho ho!" he said. "Ha ha!". Trudging up the stairs, Lewis thought "If I can get a punch in fast, before he moves…" but the landlord had already bounded over to a door. It had another of those wooden slat jobs on it. "Mr B Lewis" it said. The little guy brought out the key, unlocked the door, opened it and stepped in with one movement. Mr B Lewis stomped in behind him, annoyed.

The room looked familiar. Lewis had seen it before, he thought, but the landlord said, "How do you like it Mr Lewis?". He asked the question then just stared, as though they were both about to take off into space. Lewis still couldn’t remember his name. Lewis did not look around again; he was too tired.

"It looks great. Thanks, Mr - "

"Balders!" said the landlord. "BALDERS!"

"Uhh?" said Lewis, tensing to fight. But the landlord just stood there.

"my name is ‘BALDERS’!"

Lewis could not really think of anything to say.

"Thanks, Mr Balders," he said. "If I have any questions for you I’ll - "

"Don’t hesitate!!!" interrupted Balders. "Don’t hesitate to ask!"

Balders flew out the door and down the stairs with a whirring sound. The bastard. Lewis walked around the room, pausing when he ended up facing a white wall. He turned and walked around the room the other way, until he came to the bed. He found that he could not fit his feet on it, so he bent his legs into a frog-like position, scraping one of his knees against the wall. There was no blood. He turned onto his front, letting his feet hang off the edge of the bed. Then he turned over again. He just got to the bathroom in time.

Lewis drank some water out of the basin and got his toothbrush out of his bag and brushed his teeth. Then he remembered to flush the cistern. He returned to the bed and pulled the blankets up over him. Rough, scratching blankets. He closed his eyes. Someone knocked on the door. Two, three, four, five times. "What?" he said. "MR LEWIS!" said a woman’s voice. Then she remembered that he had answered already, and said more quietly, "I’ve come about the cleaning." "Come in." The handle rattled.

"The door is locked, Mr Lewis!".

"Oh - shit."

"Sorry, Mr Lewis?"

He got out of bed slowly and crawled to the door. He stood up and opened it. The woman was small, forty, dark.

"Hello," she said, softly.

"Yeah. Hi."

"I just wanted to tell you that I clean your room every Wednesday, so leave your key at reception. I mean, if that’s OK."

"That’s fine."

She walked away. He just stood there - well, he had managed to stand up, now. He didn’t want to blow it. After a minute or two the door to the right of Lewis’ opened and a woman walked out. About six foot two, very thin, in tight black trousers and a blouse. She had breasts, too. She turned to the left and Lewis saw her face. He didn’t move or say anything. He managed to keep on breathing. She looked at him, ran her eyes up and down - he was as tall as her, just about. Her expression did not change at all.

"Hallo," she said, with a slight American accent. "I’m Lena".

She held out her hand. Long, thin fingers. Lewis shook it apologetically.

He said, "Brian. I’m Brian".

"Nice to meet you, Brian," she said.

She walked slowly down the stairs. Lewis tried to get back into his room but still couldn’t move. Eventually he got to the bed. He took off his jacket and reached for the pills in the inside pocket. He found them and unscrewed the lid. After pouring them onto the pillow he counted them, dropping them one by one back into the jar. Thirty-four…easily enough. He breathed, slowly, alone in the room.

After a few minutes. Lewis poured the pills onto the pillow again and repeated the process, dropping them into the jar one by one. Still thirty-four. He noticed how cold the room was and pulled the blankets up over his chest. Then Lewis rolled to his side and placed the jar of pills on the bedside table. The alarm clock would ring at six the next morning.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and felt his exhaustion. Soon he would fall asleep.

He realised that he had made another day.