The Lamplighters

Chapter Three

Rain pounded on the window, waking Marla from her nightmare. She’d been crushed inside a pram, listening to her bones breaking. Peering through sleep-encrusted eyes she realized she’d left the computer on all night. Wonderful. She’d have to feed the electricity meter before she fed herself, as usual.

Yawning her way across to the kettle, Marla made herself a cup of coffee. She flopped down in front of the laptop and fingered the track pad, ready to shut it down. As the screen lit up in response to her touch, something caught her eye. One new email. She couldn’t help but look, even though she knew it would end in disappointment.

“FAO: Marla Neuborn—employment offer” read the email header.

What the hell? Marla rubbed her eyes, looked again. More junk surely, she thought as she opened the message. She began to wake up as she gulped coffee and scanned the text; Dear Ms. Neuborn—acquired your details from agency—ideal candidate—a paradise of opportunity—immediate start…

Spam. She hit “delete”, turned off the computer and downed the rest of her coffee on the way to the shower room.

Marla tried to keep her soapy skin away from the slimy tiles and mildewed shower curtain. The landlady hadn’t updated the facilities at the “Mansions” in years. And every day, Marla had to run the gauntlet of the hallway outside her room to reach the communal shower room. Sometimes, like today, she got lucky and didn’t run into one of the building’s lecherous inmates.

Marla dropped the shampoo bottle onto her foot. Fuck. As she bent down to retrieve it, the shower curtain clung to her in a vile embrace. Joining the assault, the showerhead began to sputter cold water onto her back. Cursing wildly, she retreated to the safety of the sink and rinsed her hair there. Looking at her reflection in the chipped mirror, Marla spied a pimple forming on her chin. Brushing her teeth angrily, she climbed back into her bathrobe and sloped out into the hallway.

Glinting eyes peered out at her from a crack in her neighbor’s door. The dirty bastard was spying on her again. As she hurried by, she heard pornographic moaning from the TV set inside—the sound made Marla wince. This place was really beginning to get under her skin. She pushed her door. She’d locked herself out. Oh no. Oh please for the love of God no, not again. Now she’d have to face the landlady and get the spare set of keys, which would no doubt be accompanied by a lecture about not losing her keys. That lecture would be followed by the one about paying her rent on time. Marla suddenly felt suicidal. Maybe suicide wasn’t such a bad idea. Just kidding, she reminded herself, but it wasn’t such a bad idea, what she was thinking. The window to her room was still open after all. Strangely amused that her fear of her landlady was so great she’d be willing to risk life and limb to avoid speaking to her, Marla quickly ducked back into the bathroom.

Wrapping her bathrobe tightly around her, she opened the window as wide as it would go and looked out over the ledge. It was certainly wide enough for her to climb across, then she just had a short section of roof to navigate before she could climb in through her window. A pigeon flapped noisily from the eaves above her, egging her on with its dumb show. Marla clambered out, wincing at the chill air as it penetrated her bathrobe and whistled, freezing, around her nethers. Clinging to the arch of roof tiles above her she set off along the ledge, walking sideways like a crab. The wind picked up and her bathrobe rose up, billowing out suddenly and making her shriek like an embarrassed schoolgirl. It wasn’t long before she heard the wolf whistles from below. Great, someone had seen her—and invited his pals along to witness the spectacle too. Let them look, sad bastards. She wished that pimple had been forming on her backside, let them wolf whistle at that for a while. Marla reached the sloping section of the roof as the aural humiliation of hoots and lascivious cries railed on below her. Don’t look down. Don’t. Gasps from below now as her foot slid off the side of the roof, loosening a tile, which smashed noisily on the ground far below. Then loud cheers rang out as she corrected herself and clambered on up the slope to her window. She climbed inside and turned to shut the window. As she did so, she glimpsed a face pressed up against the glass of the window nearest hers. Her neighbor. He was naked. She closed the curtains.

Grabbing clothes from the floor, Marla dressed in a hurry and stuffed her door keys into her pocket vowing never to lock herself out again. Her make-up bag was almost exhausted, so she decided not to bother. She'd save what was left for a hot date. She snorted. Like that’d ever happen.

Minutes later and she was downstairs. Envelopes lay in disarray on the doormat. More damn junk mail. Still, she picked them up and dutifully separated them into neat little piles for the Mansions’ inmates. The landlady would like that. And a happy landlady was a forgiving landlady—she hoped, wincing as she replayed the sound of the roof tile shattering on the ground. Marla’s rent check was going to bounce again this month.

Sighing heavily, Marla saw the logo on the envelope first. It was one of those clunky, important corporate stamps. Then she saw her name, and a single rubber-stamped word in red.

Wincing at the chicory taste of the coffee, Marla put the cup down and added another two sugars. This was the worst café in London, no question, but on quiet days they never hassled her to free up the table. And today she really needed to be away from her crappy bed-sit and out of the rain.

She picked up the letter and read it again, slowly this time.

Marla looked down at the cup. The agency? Surely she'd dropped off their records ages ago.

A sickly beige skin had already begun to form on her coffee.

Marla folded up the letter, paid the waitress, and headed for the nearest phone booth.