When You Lived Inside The Walls and Other Stories by Krishan Coupland

Author:Krishan Coupland [Coupland, Krishan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781910413210
Publisher: Stonewood Press

Holdings

I could hear Crowley in his hallway, muttering under his breath as he undid locks and chains and latches. I could smell him too – a musty scent that reminded me of old boots and baking parchment. When he did finally open the door, he allowed a gap only six inches wide. Room for one eye to peer out over a fuzz of greasy beard.

‘Post for you, Mr Crowley,’ I said, holding up the envelope. ‘Came to mine by mistake.’ I held it by its corners; it was limp and heavy, one corner spotted with damp. Crowley’s eye roved across its surface.

‘Post?’ he murmured. I held the envelope close enough for him to read his name. ‘Give it here,’ he barked, and wiggled a set of yellow-nailed fingers through the gap. I did as he bid. With surprising speed he seized the package and whipped it through the gap. The door slammed shut before I could say another word.

*

He was out in his garden every morning when I woke, undeterred by rain or sleet or hail or snow. Regular as the sunrise. I watched him, sometimes, from the kitchen window. He would haul boxes and bags and bits of furniture from his house and line them up alongside the shed. He’d inspect them, pacing back and forth like a general before his troops, leaning close to flick away dust or test a squeaky drawer. Around midday he would fall to dragging everything back inside again. It was a painful-looking process, given Crowley’s age. He sweated and limped and stumbled, mumbling a steady stream of curses into the collar of his coat.

*

After I took him his letter, Crowley started talking to me through the fence. ‘Lost ’em, haven’t I?’ he said, as I hung out a shirt to dry. ‘Bloody well gone and lost them.’

‘Have you?’

He was gripping the upright slats of the fence with hands like wood. He nodded emphatically. ‘Aye. Bloody fool thing to’ve done. Left ’em down for one minute – one bloody minute – and then I can’t remember where I put them.’

‘Put what?’

‘Eh?’

‘Put what, Mr Crowley? What have you lost?’

He looked at me, bewildered, then leant to the side and spat on the ground. The bulb of phlegm fell with an audible splat. I froze, and watched and waited as the old man hauled himself back inside. At the door to his conservatory he paused.

‘Them!’ he shouted, with such vehemence that I dropped my shirt.

*

The next time he saw me in the garden, he waved jerkily for me to approach. His head only just poked above the top of the fence. ‘Tea, Boy? Come for tea. You’ve nowt better doing.’ I would have refused the offer, but I felt distinctly as though I had offended him, and I wished to make amends.

He let me in through his front door, opening it just wide enough for me to slide through sideways. The inside of his house stank of mildew, of shit, of old paper and dust. The

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