‘I’ll tear down some of this paper,’ Ant said, walking to the window and doing his best to pull the long-adhered newsprint from the glass panels. What did come off left traces of long-forgotten news stories in print on the panes. Some of it just remained resolutely stuck. ‘We’ll need to soak it,’ he suggested, standing back and wiping his hands on his cargo pants. Two black handprints left their impression on his light-coloured trousers.
‘You didn’t really think through your attire, did you?’ Libby asked.
He looked down and smiled. ‘I suppose not. But clothes can be washed. I’m sure these stains will come out in the machine.’
Libby wasn’t so sure. This looked like the kind of grime that held on for dear life. She needed more than a bag for life filled with spray bottles of antibac and sugar soap to even begin to lift it.
She was glad she’d worn her oldest jeans, a grey oversized T-shirt she’d borrowed and never given back from an ex-boyfriend and her comfiest trainers. Her hair was tied back from her face with a red bandana. It was much less likely to collect spider webs that way.
Yes, the smell was inhuman. And the grime was thick and black. The electricity was shot and the window frames looked like they might actually be rotting, but that didn’t stop the panic in the pit of her stomach being replaced by pure, unadulterated joy.
She was grinning wildly as she walked the length of the shop to where an abandoned drapery counter still stood, complete with a battered old cash register. Walking behind it, she looked back across the entire expanse of her new kingdom. She could see more than grime and grot and crumbling plaster. She could see it as it would be.
And it was going to be magnificent…
That was her last thought before a mouse, and two of his friends, ran out from under the counter and between her legs in a furry convoy that made her scream at the top of her lungs and jump on top of the aforementioned counter.
‘I’ll call pest control, will I?’ Ant asked, while Libby tried her damnedest to stop hyperventilating.
Her breathing had slowed to near normal by the time they were back outside the shop and staring at the door which provided an independent entrance to the flat.
‘What’re the chances that this will actually be the frozen time capsule of perfect fifties vintage style I’ve been hoping for?’ she asked, eyeing the tarnished brass number plate.
‘The what?’ Ant enquired.
‘You must have seen it on the internet. Every now and again one of those clickbait sites posts a story about someone uncovering a perfectly preserved home, with all original fixtures and fittings.’ She chewed her lip.
‘You did see inside the shop, didn’t you?’ he asked, and she nodded. ‘And you do know the same person or persons who owned the shop owned the flat and left it to rot for the last ten years?’
Libby did know that, but the owner hadn’t been from Derry. He lived in Scotland and had inherited the shop after a lengthy search for any living relatives of the very eccentric old lady who had run the drapery store and who had died in 2009. Said relative had most likely never even been to Derry – he had put the shop up for auction as soon as the papers were signed to him.
‘You never know though. There’s a chance,’ she said, her optimism decreasing by the second.
‘I admire your go get ’em attitude. Never change, Libby Quinn,’ Ant said. ‘The world needs more pure souls like you.’
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of hopeful optimism,’ she said, looking through the keys on the battered red fob again until she found the one marked 15A, even if she wasn’t quite feeling as optimistic as she stated.
It took a bit of work to fit the key into the old rusted lock and she needed Ant to put his strength behind it to help her turn it. Even then, when the lock had turned, she found the door itself didn’t seem to want to shift easily.
Still she persisted, the wooden door moving slowly as if something was blocking its path. That something turned out to be a mountain of yellowing junk mail and free newspapers piled just short of the letter box and which, by the stench, had made for a great litter tray for some animal. Probably multiple animals and definitely creatures bigger than mice, she thought, looking at the size of the droppings and the way some of the paper had been shredded.
‘Are those teeth marks?’ Ant asked, and Libby looked at him, eyes wide, but nostrils firmly pinched shut. His cool exterior was, finally, starting to crack.
‘Pest control will sort it,’ she replied with forced jollity. Reminding herself to focus on the positive, she looked up, taking in the full picture in front of her.
The fairly bleak full picture.
A set of steep, threadbare stairs, poorly illuminated by a dirty window at the top, provided her with a completely underwhelming vista.
She touched her hand to the discoloured wallpaper inside the door and was disheartened to find it more than a little damp.
‘It might just be condensation,’ Ant said, but glancing up, at the yellow staining and cracked plaster of the ceiling, Libby could see that it was much more serious than that.
Between that and the stench of animal urine, Libby felt tears prick at her eyes. Breathing in (but not so deeply that she inhaled any more of the foul odour), she steadied herself.
‘The ceiling can be fixed. The carpet can be lifted,’ she said, optimistically. ‘I can re-floor if necessary. And sand down the stairs – put spotlights in, some stained glass at the top. It can be gorgeous.’
‘Hmmm,’ Ant murmured, his voice flatter than it had been. ‘I admire your vision.’
She bristled. She needed him to buoy her up now, not start to waver.
‘We’ve still to see the flat. Maybe it will be okay?’ she said, her secret hope of a perfectly preserved cosy turnkey home all but disappearing.
‘Hmmm,’ Ant said again, perhaps with even less enthusiasm this time.
‘Shall we go in?’ she asked. Originally, she had harboured a little daydream that he would carry her over the threshold, but given the risk of slipping on rodent droppings, and his insistence on keeping one hand firmly clasped over his nose to mask the smell, that seemed unlikely.
Libby led the way upstairs, paying attention to any creaks and keeping her eyes and ears open for any furry friends.
She was, of course, deluded to think that the flat would be anything more than a fairly rotten shell that looked as if it had been much longer than ten years since anyone had lived there. It was so much worse than she had imagined. The décor could only be described as decrepit and it wasn’t a look she wanted to go for.
The smell had not improved either. Now there was a certain ‘possibly a dead body somewhere here’ aroma added to the mix.
Ant had gone a distinctly green around the gills colour.
‘I'll air the place out,’ Libby said, walking to the sash windows in the living room, which overlooked Ivy Lane, and rattling them violently until they screeched open, inch by painful, sticky inch, letting in a rush of fresh air which she gulped at. Plastering a smile on her face, she turned around. ‘There’s potential here,’ she said, looking back at the cherry blossom trees, which were in bloom just across the street. They offered a hint of something beautiful that wasn’t visible inside.