This Bloody Country

The front door to the flats was ajar again. It was entirely Ollie’s friend Mayhew’s fault. Another boozy night out and, in their rush to eat their recently purchased saveloys and chips, Ollie’s Territorial Army buddies, a group of individuals not renowned for their patience and forethought, decided to kick the door open rather than wait to be let in. Everything had been ‘kind of’ repaired; new glass ‘kind of’ put in, an electric or magnetic dongle thingy to ‘kind of’ buzz it open, when it worked, and Mayhew’s snapped fibula put in a cast so now he ‘kind of’ walked straight. After all, they were too impatient to realise that the door opened outwards. The hinges were still faulty and Mayhew – since promoted, by the way – got a lot of traction retelling the story of how he got his limp.

Through that communal entrance were the stairs, where Chelsea and I had once shared an awkward, post-pub snog before Ollie came into the picture. The faded, musty carpet could tell a hundred stories just like ours, could it talk. If it could talk, of course, the carpet would probably have a distinct, husky, cancerous voice, like Joe Cocker in a pool hall, if the fag burns and indistinct stains were anything to go by.

The flat itself, on the first floor, was, according to the investigating officer, an absolutely ideal target for thieves. Fortunately, the intruder only made off with a bike and a couple of old phones. Easy to carry, less likely to be noticed, and easy to sell, she’d said, without any hint of reassurance. I used the key, of course, although it would only have taken a moderate Van Damme-style front kick to lift the pine and MDF door off of its frame, which seemed to be precisely how the burglar had got in. What were the chances of both of our doors being broken? Actually, in this part of town, high. Clicking it shut (‘kind of’) behind me, I dumped a carrier bag full of shopping on the kitchen counter and unpacked it. Tins of soup. Microwave noodles. Tea bags. Nothing to suggest a life of luxury. I couldn’t help but notice Chelsea’s cupboard, the door unable to close, with the range of opulent teas, the aromatic array of spices, and her fashionable, Belgian chocolates. That’s what family money can buy you. Nothing like the more modest wages I collected from Scintilla.

“You don’t know how lucky you’ve got it,” my mother’s voice would replay at times like this. “Your Papá and I came here with less than fifty pounds and we made a life for all of us. We had saved up every penny for so long that we thought, when we’d get here, there would be a welcoming party for us!” I used to comment sarcastically about that being enough money to buy a house back in the fifties which was met with a barrage of colourful language delivered in her mother tongue with all the grace of a JCB dumping gravel on a convertible. Apparently, she could make fun of their situation but not me.

I dumped a second carrier on the work surface, closely followed by my phone, wallet, and keys. The jingle must have given me away.

“That you, Frankie?” Chelsea had called an emergency flatmate meeting this evening so it made sense that she would tell Ollie first – and then be fashionably late for her own soiree.

“Yeah. Got supplies.”

“Beers?”

“Yeah.” Inevitably, it would be a boozy night. As I unpacked the carrier bags, I worried about Ollie; he would have too many drinks, as usual, and then start an argument about politics. In truth, he couldn’t have cared less about ethics, elections, MPs, etc; he just did it because Chelsea cared and I got drawn into it. When we first moved in, the arguments got pretty angry but that was before I realised Ollie was only being controversial to get reactions from Chelsea and me. It didn’t matter if it was electoral reform, funding for schools, or what day the bins went out. They’d end up rowing until both sides committed to a de-escalation of hostilities - or were physically separated because Chelsea would dramatically sigh and sulk away to their bedroom, eventually texting Ollie, who would still be sat in front of the TV, when she was ready to accept him into their bed. We were friends as well as flatmates but it probably seemed like a strange relationship to outsiders. The rowing and needling; I’m sure their make up sex made up for it all but because I would end up feeling compelled to intervene in the debate, I definitely felt like I was getting the short straw as there was no reward afterwards for me. I had nobody to make up with so, well, so there it is.

“You haven’t got a clue!” Chelsea would bawl at him. “There are innocent children washing up on the beach… dead!”

“How do you expect anyone to police a border that’s thousands of miles long?” Ollie knew just when to respond with facts and statistics – whether they were credible, relevant, or not – and when to throw in a dismissive comment that made him out to be an educated expert deigning to scrap in the slums with his intellectual inferiors. He wasn’t though; not in the academic sense. He didn’t want to go to Uni after college so he joined the army. ‘School of Hard Knocks’ he called it. I wonder how many of those were to the head?

“So the parents should be charged with manslaughter, right? We live in a democratic society so, if they want to live here, they should follow our rules. That, of course, means they get a roof over their heads in prison…” Chelsea used to be the first to take the bait.

“But that’s not what we’re saying… we’re saying…”

“I know – you’re telling me that Europe should just welcome as many people as possible…” He and I knew just where this was headed but it was like watching the opening scenes from an episode of Casualty. First up, a phone zombie on a zebra crossing texting ‘B their L8r - love u’; then the camera takes you to the interior of the flashy sports car with the driver fiddling with the radio; then the guy on their phone; then back to the car, where he’s still trying to find the right station; the car’s still coming and you see the pedestrian just gazing into the LCD abyss take that fatal step off the kerb…

“No, no, I’m not saying that…”

“Okay, so you think there should be some way to count or limit refugee numbers? Or do you just think these people don’t have to obey the law? I’m not clear.”

“It’s not black and white,” she would contest. “You’re simplifying everything!”

“Well simplify it for me, if I’m not smart enough to understand you academic types.” The arguments would continue like that for over an hour. Hopefully, tonight would be different but, having lived together for nine months, that seemed unlikely. The clunk of the front door signalled Chelsea’s arrival.

We had met at one of last year’s Freshers’ events. She approached me, of course – not to say that I’m self-centred enough to think I warrant an approach from an attractive stranger but I mean to say that she approached me because she’s that type. You know, forward, confident, bordering on oblivious, innocent perhaps, but someone who’s never been slapped in the face at 2am in a sticky-floored nightclub. Initially at least, I had thought she was interested in me beyond my hunky good looks and blistering intellect - sarcasm doesn’t work so well when it’s written, by the way, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be giving it a try. Her advance was to canvas support for one of her single-issue groups, the objective of which I can’t quite remember, now I think about it. I closed the cupboard door on the last of my food, which needed to last the week, maybe longer.

“Chels?” came Ollie’s voice from the bedroom.

“The one and only!” she replied with her characteristic upbeat demeanour. The three of us got busy getting comfortable; changing, washing her face, tying up her hair, and tidying up after Ollie in Chelsea’s case. Slipping on some jogging bottoms and cracking open a beer in Ollie’s. I, on the other hand, went into my bedroom before emerging in an old t-shirt, shorts, and flip flops a good half an hour later. I don’t think they knew I noticed but whenever I spent more than five minutes away from them, I sensed the occasional weird look. Sure, I have secrets, don’t we all, but I don’t think it’s normal to be so obsessed by what goes on behind someone’s locked bedroom door. It does seem suspicious to me that they appear so concerned by it but don’t have the compulsion to actually ask me, not that I would necessarily tell them of course. My personal life is personal.

Settled into our usual seats, Chelsea clinked her wine glass with a fingernail adorned with chipped purple varnish. Ollie rubbed a hand through his dirty blonde hair and made satisfied noises as he slurped back his first lager.

“I formally declare this House Board Meeting open.” Everyone took a solemn drink, switching eye contact to one another whilst drinking to signal their deeply held respect for the process. “We are now quorate so, as Chair, I call this meeting to order.” Ollie usually rolled his eyes, affectionately, at her excessive efforts at playful formality but strangely not tonight. He once commented that she needed a white wig, to which she said that was only for judges. He then suggested a black square of material would be more appropriate as she was boring him to death but she abstained from responding.

“Frankie, C’s already told me what this is about.”

“Yes – don’t hurry me, Ollie – Frankie, the landlord called me and has told me that he’s had to make some significant financial sacrifices, his words, of course, but now has no choice but to increase the monthly rent.”

“How much by?”

“Thirty quid a week,” she said, before pre-empting our responses. “Each.”

“Fucking hell.” I did not need this right now. “I’ve been paying down my debts with my money from Scintilla but this will only make it worse.” My flatmates nervously drank some of their drinks. It wasn’t out of solidarity.

“You can always get more shifts,” recommended Ollie.

“Why not think about extending your overdraft?” endorsed Chelsea.

“I’ve picked up a couple of extra shifts but I’ll need more.” Chelsea looked at Ollie for another suggestion but he wordlessly urged her to say something. They could see I was annoyed and both of them knew that I didn’t have the resources they did, with my parents no longer around. “I’ve still got to fit in studying around them too…”

“I can lend you some money, if you need it,” offered Chelsea, eager to help. Or rather, eager to help by offering to put her parents’ money at my disposal. She was sincere but, deep down, she knew that I’d never accept. I can’t spend money that’s not my own, it makes me feel sort of itchy, being indebted to someone else; a bad business brain, according to Ollie, but then he couldn’t talk as most of the money he spent was Chelsea’s anyway. I needed a moment to think so I drank my beer and got up to put the can in the recycling.

“Did he say what sacrifices he’s made?” I ventured, over the breakfast bar.

“Pardon?”

“Did the landlord tell you what significant financial sacrifices he’s had to make?” Chelsea didn’t like to be questioned and, especially when it related to money, she often looked for a way to deflect any enquiries. I didn’t like to stick my head above the parapet and ask these kinds of questions, but my back was against the wall when it came to money.

“No, not specifically. I didn’t like to ask.” She nibbled her bottom lip, child-like, and flicked the hair away from her forehead.

“Can we not tell him we can’t afford it and see if he can bring it down a bit?” My suggestion was met with a bemused look from Chelsea and a poor imitation of consideration by Ollie. “I can get a few extra shifts this month, maybe not next month though, but I don’t know what it will be like after that. How can I find the money before the Summer holidays?”

“Look, rents in Birmingham have been going up about 10% every year. Some of the lads at the Museum are paying nearly a grand a month. We’ve been lucky until now, so I think we just have to take it on the chin.” You can afford to, I thought, knowing that Chelsea’s family were unwittingly bank-rolling Ollie’s lifestyle as much as their daughter’s. “Property is still a good investment, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I’m in no position to invest in anything…” I murmured.

“Ollie’s right, but so’s Frankie.” Chelsea revelled in the role of adjudicator, attempting to moderate a pending dispute. She might make a good diplomat someday, mainly because she loved to talk so much. “Perhaps we should ask him to bring the rent down, maybe only increase it by twenty pounds a month.”

“Each…” I added.

“After all, we are just poor students and it’s not fair that the wealthy can increase their wealth off of the labours of the poor like us.” Poor students whose rent is paid for by mummy and daddy and whose kitchen cupboard is too full to close.

“Chels, are you saying, you don’t want to be wealthy? Do you think the wealthy need to make life easier for the rest of us?” As her face turned red, both Ollie and I knew that there was about to be another one of their ‘debates’, which would turn to an argument and then noisy, ungainly sex in the room next to mine. It wasn’t clear which Ollie anticipated more – if he was even aware of the potential outcome. This engineered argument was just one of the ways in which Ollie didn’t seem to be much of a friend but more of a catalyst for less than friendly moments.

I considered wrestling the topic of the discussion back to the rent and how we might argue against an increase but the two of them had already started their argument and Chelsea was reaching for the bottle of pinot noir, which was a bad sign.

Disappointed, I decided against getting another drink and opened the door to my bedroom, where I hoped to find seclusion, refuge, and neither of my flatmates.