I let myself in with the spare key. The one I took before I left for Bristol. He doesn’t know I have it. I found it in the kitchen drawer among the elastic bands and rolled-up balls of string and pocketed it, just in case the job didn’t work out. It was an unusually savvy move on my part because here I am, barely a month later.
The flat is pretty much as I left it. It’s even smaller than Courtney’s: one bedroom, a small living room, with a futon, and a tiny kitchenette overlooking the street. There are posters of Bob Marley tacked to the walls and a lingering smell of weed. I suddenly feel a stab of something akin to homesickness for the elegant townhouse in Clifton that always smelt of Jo Malone diffusers and beeswax. I swanned – there really is no other word for it – around that house like I was in a Jane Austen film, and I can’t deny that I devoured every minute of living there despite its lack of homeliness. Yes, the job was dull, but the house and location more than made up for it. I doubt I’ll ever get to live anywhere so glamorous again.
I dump my rucksack by the table, then rummage in the cupboards. There’s little food – a tin of baked beans and a jar of pickles in the cupboard and a pint of milk three days out of date and some margarine in the fridge. Great. My stomach rumbles. I open the beans and eat them straight out of the tin with a fork, which would make Arlo gag. He can’t eat beans unless they’re heated up first. I think wistfully of Aggie’s homemade meals. On Fridays she usually cooks a delicious fish dish.
It’s freezing in here. I finish off the beans, then go to the airing cupboard in the tiny hallway and switch on the heating. The switch is near the back of the immersion tank so I have to lean right in to reach it, almost pulling my arm out of its socket as I do so. My hand brushes against something. It’s a Jiffy-bag that has been wedged down the side of the tank. I know I should leave it but I’m intrigued, so I grab it and pull it out. It’s heavy and has been secured at the top with brown tape. Before I’ve even had a chance to think about what I’m doing, I rip the tape apart with my teeth. When I peer inside I can’t help but gasp. There’s money. Wedges of it. All in twenty-pound notes and tied with elastic bands. I flick through it. There must be a couple of grand here easily. Maybe five. Where the hell did Arlo get this kind of money?
Tucked behind the notes is a phone. I take it from the bag. It looks old and the screen is cracked. It must be a burner phone. What kind of shit is Arlo involved in?
Why did I rip apart the tape? Now Arlo will know I’ve seen what’s inside. It might not be what I think it is. I slip the phone into the bag and put it back where I found it. A noise on the stairwell makes me jump.
I hear the key in the lock and I slam the airing-cupboard door and rush into the kitchen to make a black coffee.
Arlo is whistling to himself as he walks in, more dishevelled than ever. His hair is long and messy and there is a rip in the arm of his parka. He starts when he notices me. ‘What are you doing here?’ He doesn’t sound pleased to see me. He has a holdall on him, which he chucks onto the sofa. My eyes flick towards it, and I wonder what’s inside. More money? Drugs? Is my brother involved in something illegal?
We had an unconventional childhood, growing up in the commune, and normal rules didn’t seem to apply to us. Arlo, some of the other kids and I were home-schooled. The rest of the time we were able to run wild through the many acres of fields, helping out on the farm at weekends. It was idyllic in lots of ways but Arlo in particular seemed to struggle in his late teens, especially with authority. As a result he never lasts long in a job. Not that I’m one to talk. But Arlo has always said he wants me to make something of myself, have a secure future after our childhood. He’d acknowledge he’s a bit of a fuck-up. ‘But you,’ he’d say, his voice sad, ‘have your head screwed on right.’
‘I left the McKenzie house,’ I say.
He rubs his hand across his chin. He doesn’t look like he’s shaved for days. ‘What? Why?’
‘Because something weird is going on there, that’s why. I don’t want to be their next victim.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he mutters, under his breath, as he pushes past me to get to the fridge. When he sees it’s practically empty he closes it again. ‘You had a good thing going there. You’re mental. I’ve told you before you can’t rely on me. I’ve got nothing.’ He was furious when I admitted I’d dropped out of uni and equally annoyed when I told him I was going to India for a few months. I feel like I’ve continuously disappointed him since Mum died.