Chapter 57: Sign-In
Across the river and considerably lower down, Priya Anand’s office smelled of other people’s laundry and looked worse in daylight than it had in the dark.
"Sit down. Don’t touch that pile, it’s a divorce." Already reading. "Right. Damage."
"Go on."
"Premium on the lease, forty-two thousand." Flat, like a shopping list. "Deposit against the rent, six months up front because you’ve no trading history, seven thousand two hundred. Fees, searches, Land Registry, three thousand one hundred and forty. No stamp duty, you’re under the threshold, and that’s the only nice thing happening to you today."
"Fifty-two, three forty."
Over the glasses. "Fifty-two, three hundred and forty. And it buys you a room with no counter in it and wiring your grandmother would recognise."
"I know."
"Fit-out will cost more than the lease. It always does. Machine, extraction, kitchen, electrics, floor, furniture, signage, three months’ rent on a building that isn’t earning." She sat back. "Fifty to sixty if you’re careful. More if you lose your head over an espresso machine, which men do."
A hundred and sixty-five, nine three five, forty-two.
Every penny that’s actually mine. Flat’s not money. Flat’s a picture of money.
Minus fifty-two three forty today.
Minus sixty.
Sixty grand left. No wage. Rent going out every quarter whether a cup sells or not.
MON 05:30 Tower Court.
"Do it."
She looked at him over the glasses.
"Most people who say that in that chair are lying to me about something."
He kept still.
"And most of them are lying about what they can afford, because their pride won’t let them say the number out loud. You did the sum in your head and got it right and said yes anyway, which is a first this month." The pen came out. "Sign four times, initial the schedule, don’t get sentimental, I’ve got a will at half twelve."
He signed four times.
Hand’s steady. Didn’t expect that.
At twenty past, the money went. He watched it go on the pavement outside the dry cleaner’s with the traffic going past.
£113,595.42
Right. That’s the money on the table. Now don’t cock it up.
Gethin handed the keys over outside the corner unit at two, in a sandwich bag, labelled on masking tape in biro. FRONT. BACK. CELLAR. And one that just said MYSTERY (DONT KNOW).
"Change the barrels. Previous lot had staff, staff have cousins."
"I’ll change the barrels."
"I’m only saying." Already walking to the Passat. "Sunny side, Mr Flynn. Don’t skimp on the machine."
Then the street, and the keys in his fist, and two hundred people an hour going past.
The lock fought him. Shoulder into it, the way Gethin had. The door went scrape. The bell gave one dead little jingle into the dust.
He shut it behind him.
Sun through the dirty glass, laying a long yellow shape across the boards. Right where the tables would go.
Mine.
Scooter. Phone. Coat. That’s the list. Twenty-eight years and that’s the whole list.
Never had a key to anything that wasn’t rented off somebody with more money than me.
Thirty seconds of it. Then the notebook, because thirty seconds was what he could afford.
Counter to the window. Mum’s right, see who’s coming and get the kettle on. Ask Sandra about the machine, don’t skimp. Four small tables, old boys with papers. Big one in the corner for the buggies. Rail on the long wall where the morning light hits, J.
He stopped.
Bus at ten to five. In the dark. Nine years of them.
open at 6, not 7. Builders and nurses coming off nights. Nobody round here is open for them and Mum will know exactly how they feel.
"Six," he said to the room. "We open at six."
Halfway through writing find out what a grease trap actually is he stopped again and looked round properly.
I can’t do this on my own.
Mum behind that counter eleven hours a day six days a week. Fifty-two years old.
That’s just the rota again with better wallpaper.
STAFF. Underlined twice.
Sandra. She’ll know who’s good and who’s about to leave somewhere.
Pay properly. Above the going rate.
Nine years and nobody ever said thank you.
Underlined that twice as well.
The phone went. Not a text. Not the bank.
[ Good afternoon, host. ]
[ You are standing inside a door that belongs to you. ]
[ This has not happened before. ]
He stood very still in the dust.
[ Every door you have signed into belonged to someone else. ]
[ The estate. The tower. The white house in Kensington. ]
[ You went where you were not wanted and were paid for the trespass. ]
[ The reward was only ever the size of the door’s refusal. ]
[ This door does not refuse you. ]
[ There is nothing here to sign into. ]
No banner. No number. Nothing from the bank.
First door since that night that hasn’t paid me a penny.
Because I’m not getting away with anything.
I’m a bloke stood in his own shop.
[ The Concierge cannot reward you to belong somewhere. ]
[ That one you will have to build. ]
"Yeah," Danny said. "Reckon so."
He was putting the phone away when it went again.
[ A related matter, host, since it has been on your mind since ten past ten. ]
[ The building manager will not find you. ]
His hand stopped halfway to his pocket.
"Say that again."
[ There is no record of you to find. ]
[ Not a search result. Not the electoral roll at any address you ]
[ have held. No credit history predating this month. No tagged ]
[ photograph, no school, no employer, no county court judgment, ]
[ no dormant profile from when you were nineteen and bored. ]
[ She has spent nine evenings looking. She will spend more. ]
[ She will find precisely what she has found so far. ]
Flat hand on the bare counter carcass.
Nine evenings.
"So she can’t touch me."
[ Correct. There is nothing to touch. ]
Long enough after that he’d started to put the phone away.
[ Host. A blank is not the same as a story. ]
[ A private man has a small footprint. You have none. ]
[ The first is unremarkable. The second, to a careful person, ]
[ is the most remarkable thing about you. ]
[ You are safe from being caught. ]
[ You are not safe from being noticed. ]
Danny stood in his café for a long moment.
Been worried about her digging something up.
Never once thought about her digging and finding a hole my exact shape.
"Right," he said. "Then I’d better start looking like a man who exists."
The room. The ripped-out counter. The wires. The light going across the boards.
Electrician. Extraction. Grease trap, whatever that turns out to be.
Floor. Counter, and the counter has to move to the window.
Machine, grinder, water softener, and I don’t know one make from another. Fridge. Signage. A name. Licences. Food hygiene. Whatever a rateable value actually is. Suppliers. Beans, and where do you even buy beans. Staff. Wages. A till. Insurance.
I don’t know how to do a single one of those.
He typed it with his thumb.
I don’t know how to run a café.
[ No. ]
He waited. Nothing else came.
"That it?"
[ There is no door for this one, host. ]
[ The Concierge is interested to see how you get on. ]
"Cheers. Very helpful."
[ You are welcome. ]
He put the phone away, picked up the notebook, turned to a clean page.
At the top: THINGS I DON’T KNOW.
He was still writing when the light came off the boards and the road outside filled up with the school run. Two pages by the time he stopped. Most of it he’d have to ask his mother.
He locked up with a key that was his, on a barrel he’d change on Thursday, and stood on the pavement looking at the blank front of the place.
Needs a name.
He got on the scooter and rode south to tell his mum they opened at six, and he was most of the way there before it landed.
Man with no history at all.
About to put a sign up over a main road with two hundred people an hour going past it.