“Too fucking right,” Mickey grunted, grateful, as ever, that he worked for people who didn’t flinch when he spoke his mind. “Are they doing the whole building or just our flats?”
“The whole building. Dom went off in front of the council bosses, so I’m pretty sure the entire city will be done by the end of the year.”
“Nice one.”
“Yes, I thought so. Are you okay to visit our residents before you go home tonight and let them know what’s happening? We’ll send letters, but I’d like them to hear it in person too, if that’s possible, so we can reassure them we’re doing everything we can to keep them safe.”
“I can do that,” Mickey said, his rueful grin all for himself. “As it happens, I’m not far away.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I’m sorry for adding extra hours onto your day. I’ll make sure you get them back next week.”
“Honestly, it’s fine. I was heading that way anyhow.”
Isha didn’t ask why. He said goodbye and hung up, abandoning Mickey to his tapping fingers and his Libertines playlist. His heart and soul missed the dark drum and bass he’d grown up with, but he couldn’t listen to those beats when he was alone. It scared him. So he settled for scratchy indie music and his own bad singing voice.
A full hour later, he pulled into Barnfield Court.
He had seven households to visit. Leaving the De Lucas till last, he started at the bottom, and made his way up the tower block, doubling back when the second tenant came home from work.
The final flat before Rosetta’s was Mr Morris, a Gulf War veteran who was one of Mickey’s favourite residents to visit. He was also a stubborn old git who insisted on doing everything himself, despite the fact his arthritic hands could barely hold a knife and fork.
“I can do it,” Mickey said for the fourth time as he stood by the badly leaking kitchen tap. “You don’t even have to wait for maintenance to come out. I can fix it right now.”
“No need, son. No need.” Mr Morris wrapped his stiff fingers around the spanner he’d been clutching when Mickey had arrived for his impromptu visit. “Now tell me about this building work. Was the council lying when they told us these blocks weren’t wrapped in the same cladding as Grenfell Tower?”
That was the other thing about Mr Morris. He was sharp as a tack and missed nothing.
Mickey gave up his attempt to coax the tools from the older man’s hands and claimed a seat at his kitchen table. “It’s not the same cladding. DOSHA checked before they took these flats on, but there are some fire breaks missing from the interior cavities. If fire broke out, it would affect compartmentation, meaning—”
“It would spread too fast from flat to flat for residents to escape.” Mr Morris shot Mickey a dead-eyed stare. “Especially if they obeyed the current instructions to stay inside and wait for the fire brigade.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Mickey countered. “And why I remind you every couple of months to check the updated safety advice on a regular basis—why are you looking at me like that?”
Mr Morris shrugged. “I’m just thinking that’s all well and good for everyone in this building that has you as their housing officer, but what about the rest? I don’t know about you, but I can’t remember the last time I saw anyone from the council on this estate.”
In a warped kind of way, it was probably the nicest thing anyone had said to Mickey all week, but it planted a seed in his brain. One that sprouted green and voracious shoots that wrapped around his conscience and wouldn’t let go. He sighed. “Are you suggesting that I knock on every door in this building tonight, and the one next door?”
Mr Morris turned back to his leaky tap. “I’m not suggesting anything. Just playing devil’s advocate, son.”
Bastard. Mickey’s mind flitted to the ton of fire safety leaflets he still had in a box in the boot of his car and resigned himself to the extra hour he’d have to spend delivering them and explaining himself to whoever asked why he was spamming council properties with DOSHA material. I hate my job.
Sometimes he even believed it.
Ten minutes later found him in front of Rosetta De Luca’s door. He knocked and braced himself for silence.
She opened up three seconds later, catching them both off guard.
“Oh. I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Neither was I.” Mickey stepped back, letting her know he didn’t need to be invited in. “I’m just letting you know there’s going to be some maintenance work going on later this month. Contractors are going to need access to your property. Is that something you can handle, or do you need me to find you alternative accommodation for a couple of days?”
Rosetta blanched. “You want me to leave?”
“No. Not at all. But it’s an option if you need it.”
“How long will the work take?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
Mickey measured his words. The last thing he wanted to do was make an already anxious tenant feel unsafe in her home. “It depends what they find that needs fixing, but the email I just read says each flat should take no more than a day.” He thought back to the last conversation he’d had with Rosetta. “Would it be easier if I asked for yours to be done first? So you don’t have to wait?”
Rosetta’s lips twitched in a half-smile that reminded Mickey so much of Benito his bones ached. “You know, it always surprises me when people listen. I don’t know why.”
“Maybe because you don’t believe anyone would want to make your life easier?”
“Maybe. The last person to do your job told Gianna he’d give her cat to the RSPCA when she was at school. She didn’t sleep for a month after that.”
Mickey grimaced. “He didn’t work for DOSHA.”
“I know, sweetheart. You look tired. Do you want something to eat?”
“Honestly, I’m fine. I have more people to see before I can go home. Do you want me to text you with the exact time and date for the work, or would you rather I didn’t?”
“I don’t want to know,” Rosetta said. “Perhaps you could tell my son, though? Just in case?”
It was on the tip of Mickey’s tongue to lie and say he didn’t have Benito’s contact details, but something in Rosetta’s dark, familiar gaze quieted him. He nodded and backed away until Benito’s mother shut her front door.
Bemused, he jogged down the stairs, half a mind on the leaflets he still had to dig out of his car, the other entrenched in his favourite place: Benito.
Alone at night, in his bed, Mickey allowed himself to focus on the parts of Benito that made his blood run hot—his warm skin, cut muscles, and sinful lips. In the cold light of day—though the sun had set an hour ago—he tried to think of other things. Like the fact that Rosetta and Benito had apparently repaired their relationship enough for her to cook him breakfast. I wonder—
Mickey’s foot hit the bottom step, and his distracted gaze solidified on the outside world. There wasn’t much to the entrance of Barnfield Court—just a ramp and a railing that needed painting, but it was never quiet. Right now, it was bustling with folk coming home from work, and kids hanging out in menacing clusters because they had nowhere else to go.