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9780609606803
Our first rumour of the new resident came to us in the form of a little note pinned on to the noticeboard in the entrance hall. It said: Flat 18 To be occupied. One week. A simple note that filled us with fear. The Porter placed the note there. He knew what we wanted to know: we wanted to know who it was that wanted to occupy flat eighteen. He placed the note there because he knew it would upset us. He could merely have kept quiet and a week later we would be stunned to hear someone busy about the living business in flat eighteen, unannounced. But he warned us, knowing how it would upset us. His only motive was to upset us. He knew that we would all separately be spending the week worrying over the mysterious person who was to occupy flat eighteen, and that he alone would keep the secret because no one ever spoke to him. The Porter would not open his mouth, except to hiss. The Porter hissed at us if we came too near to him. That hiss meant Go away. And we did. It was not pleasant to come too close to the Porter's hiss. It was not pleasant to come too close to the Porter. So even if we had enquired about the new resident the reply would have been a hiss. Go away. We had to wait. And more than anything we hated waiting. Suspense was bad for our unfit hearts. We were left to imagine the future occupant of flat eighteen for a whole week. And for a whole week we were terrified. We slept short nights. We would find each other examining flat eighteen, as if by simply being in that specific section of the building which filled us with disquiet we would immediately understand what sort of person it was that was soon to occupy it. When we saw each other there we backed away, ashamed. If we entered the flat while the Porter was cleaning it, he would hiss us out of the place. We would run back to our own homes, shaking. ... A bespectacled blur. When I returned from work, I climbed the stairs past flat six, where I lived with my parents, up to the third floor. The door of flat eighteen was closed. The new occupant had occupied. The door was shut and I did not knock to introduce myself. I put my ear to the door. I heard nothing. All that I could hear on the third floor was Miss Higg's television set. I returned home. I had a visitor. The visitor, who also kept a key to our flat, had let himself in. He was sitting in our largest room, a room that was a kitchen, a dining room and a sitting room. He was sitting on an upright pine chair facing a large red leather armchair. He was holding the hand of Father sitting in his armchair. The visitor was crying and sweating and smelling of a hundred different smells: Peter Bugg. Beads of sweat, islands, a-top his white shining skull. Peter Bugg proceeded to tell me about the person who had occupied flat eighteen. I knew this was the reason for his visit. He did not usually come to me on that day. He arrived, punctually, twice a week to help me change Father. And he looked in on Father when I was at work (Mother, who lived in the largest bedroom of our flat, mercifully changed herself). Peter Bugg's visit was an exception then. Peter Bugg spoke. The new resident in flat eighteen, he explained, was not: Old. Dying. Male. The first two I had, I suppose, been expecting. It was unlikely that we would be so fortunate. The third was a shock. I had always considered that my imaginings of the new resident might be wildly inaccurate. I tried to allow for that. But I had never considered, even for a moment, that the new resident would be a female. As to whether she was pretty, ugly, obese, skeletal, slim, freckled, fair-skinned or dark, Peter Bugg was unable to inform me. Nor could he remember her age. I can see her. I just can't see what it is that I should see, what it is that I should describe. What do you see? ICarey, Edward is the author of 'Observatory Mansions' with ISBN 9780609606803 and ISBN 0609606808.
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