Didn’t stop him trying, though. He knocked one more time, then backed up to take a seat at the top of the stairs, ignoring the protest of the fading bruise on his hip. He pulled out his phone and placed a call. It rang and rang and rang before an automated voicemail kicked in.
Mickey sighed, waiting for the beep. “Good morning, Mrs De Luca, it’s Mickey Larwood from DOSHA Housing. I’m still trying to reach you about your rent arrears. I’m in the area all day if you’d like a face-to-face to talk about it, or you can call me back on this number anytime. Please contact me as soon as you can. I know it’s a difficult situation, but I can’t help you if there’s no communication between us. Cheers, bye.”
He ended the call, cringing slightly. Two years on the job and he still hadn’t figured out how to end formal phone calls without sounding like a moron. It had been less of a problem in his old job—that’s what you’re calling it? A fucking job? Where’s the pension then, mate? The fuel allowance and the friendly boss on the other end of the phone?
An internal sneer raked Mickey’s soul. He bit back a shiver and made another call.
Isha Hussain answered on the second ring. “You must be psychic. I was going to touch base with you this afternoon. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just wanted to update you on the De Luca case.”
“De Luca?” The tap of a keyboard filtered down the line. Mickey waited, knowing his boss had a hundred households on his books, not just the ones Mickey cared about. “Yup. I see it. Those arrears are pretty substantial now. They haven’t made a full payment since last year.”
“I know. I set up a payment plan for them six months ago, but they haven’t paid anything at all since July.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t get in there to have that conversation, and every call goes to voicemail.” Mickey glanced over his shoulder. The closed door seemed to taunt him, and frustration rippled through him. “I don’t know what to do next.”
“Yes, you do. Non-adherence to a payment plan coupled with no communication means we have to pass the account to the collections team at the council. It’s the agreement we made when we took over the flats in that block.”
“But—”
“I know,” Isha said, not unkindly. “You don’t want to potentially put someone out of their home, but there’s a limit to what we can do if we can’t get a clearer picture of what’s going on. Don’t forget that we have a three-year waiting list for properties in that area—families who want to pay their rent.”
“So, it’s about money?”
“No, it’s about giving people a hand-up, not a handout. You knew this when you came to us.”
Mickey let out another long breath and remembered why he had Isha’s number for calls like this and not his other boss’s. Dominic Ramos was a softer touch, and Isha had banned him from taking the lead on hard luck cases. If that was even what this was. For all Mickey knew, the unpaid rent could’ve funded a week in the Maldives.
“What about UC?” Isha said when Mickey didn’t speak. “It says here that the tenancy holder was working at Santander. Has that changed? Is there a Universal Credit claim now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, well, finding out is imperative if we don’t want this to escalate. What’s your gut telling you? Do these people need help, or are they taking the fucking piss?”
That was more like it. Sometimes, Mickey felt as if he’d woken up in the wrong body, but when Isha cut the formalities and handed out real talk, Mickey’s life made a lot more sense. “I don’t think they’re taking the piss. Something’s changed for them, and they don’t trust us enough to help. They’re avoiding me because they think I’ll evict them.”
“You might have to if this goes south. It would be a first for you. You haven’t terminated a tenancy the whole time you’ve worked for us.”
“That’s the point, though, isn’t it? To keep families with unstable incomes in secure housing? It’s why your company exists.”
Isha hummed. “Yes, but we have to be realistic here. We can’t be soft on non-compliance at the expense of other families. Somewhere there’s a line, and it’s your job to find it.”
“How long will you give me?”
“On top of the time you’ve already spent? Two weeks, and that’s only if I can reschedule the council meeting on Friday.”
Mickey had lost track of his days. He counted them up. It was Wednesday. If Isha couldn’t push back the meeting, he had forty-eight hours to find some fucking movement. “Can you reschedule the meeting?”
“I’ll try. The main issue at my end will be finding time to have it next month. I’m jammed as it is.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We employ you because you give a shit. It’s everyone else we need to worry about.”
They talked a little longer about other tenants, then Isha had to go. He ended the call, leaving Mickey alone outside the De Luca flat, highly aware of every minute ticking by. He stood, pocketing his phone, and considered the closed front door. They have to come out eventually. But he didn’t have time to wait. A block on a different estate needed him as much as the De Lucas did, and he walked away with a heavy heart.
He spent the rest of the day negotiating payment plans, calling in maintenance work, and explaining to his favourite tenant ever that he couldn’t house any more iguanas in his airing cupboard. It was six o’clock when he climbed into his car. He cracked the window and sparked his first smoke of the day. In fact, it was the first since last Thursday—he was trying to quit, honest—but some days took more out of him than he cared to admit, and he lived for the quiet solace of a solitary smoke. Even more than the post-fuck smoke? You weren’t alone then.
Mickey smirked, then exhaled a deep lungful of nicotine. He was still sore from his encounter with Benito at the club, battered and bruised, and he enjoyed the faint flashes of pain almost as much as the memories of the night itself. Short, sweet, rough. Did it get any better? Mickey didn’t think so, and he had enough notches on his bedpost to compare.
I’ve never fucked anyone like him, though. Six days later and long after he’d scrubbed Benito’s phone number from his skin, he still couldn’t quite believe his luck. So text him. Set up a meet.
Mickey jammed his smoke in his mouth and unlocked his phone. He’d saved Benito’s number with an aubergine emoji next to his name, then changed his mind and deleted it. Then he’d altered Benito’s name to simply the letter B, before changing it back to his actual name. He’d yet to figure out why.
And he’d yet to do anything constructive with the digits. Because you’re scared he fake numbered you.
True story. But what if he hadn’t? What if Benito, his glorious skin, body, and beautiful cock were waiting on Mickey’s call for a repeat performance? Worse, what if Benito got bored waiting and hooked up with someone else?
Logic told Mickey it didn’t matter if Benito was hooking up with other people. No one went to Freefall for monogamy. But the notion of missing out because he lost a game of chicken with his phone was ridiculous.