Page 69 of Convict's Game

We turned to face her. Convict didn’t speak.

“Two months running. Then you show up like nothing’s happened.”

She didn’t look anything like him, but genetics could be weird.

“He’s been in hospital,” I defended him.

The woman ignored me. “Explain yourself.”

His gaze travelled over her features as if searching for the same recognition I had. “Sorry, Ma. I was in a coma. Hard to make a phone call when you’re asleep.”

“Don’t ‘Ma’ me. That’s reserved for my tenants. And you’re not one anymore since I re-let your flat.” She spun on her heel to walk away, calling back over her shoulder, “I kept your deposit. You still owe me a month in hand.”

“She’s not your mum,” I whispered. “She was your landlady. Only that.”

My words seemed to unlock him.

He stormed after her. “I nearly died, but sure, charge me for being unconscious. What happened to my stuff? My possessions?”

“I slung it all. It’s in the terms and conditions of your tenancy. You never answered my messages, it was my right to do with it as I pleased.”

She’d reached the door and went to slam it.

Convict grabbed it and planted one foot on the doormat. “All of it? When and where did you throw it away?”

He didn’t believe her. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but from her expression, he was right.

The landlady pouted. “There might be a few things hanging around in a storage cupboard. I’d have to check. Come back in five to ten business days.”

“How about you check now and I’ll make sure your rent is paid.”

She glared at him. He stared back, not menacing her, but not moving either.

“The money first,” she countered.

I lifted my chin. “You said you kept his deposit. He was only in hospital for a month. If you’ve already rented out his flat, you can’t be out of pocket for more than a week or two.”

“Yeah, but what about all the hassle of finding a new tenant and cleaning the space?” She curled her lip. “Fine.” She spat a figure.

Convict nodded and found his phone. He dialled a number. “Manny? Can I ask a favour?”

He walked a few steps away, quietly requesting his friend put cash in an envelope and send it to this address via a cab.

The landlady listened with her arms folded. Her gaze slid over to me. “Pretty thing like you would do better to stay well away from a thug like that one.”

“You don’t know anything about him.”

She sniffed. “Neither do you, I’d bet.”

Convict returned to my side. “The cash is on its way. Now can I have my things?”

The woman would not be moved. She made us wait until the taxi arrived, then she counted every note, finally allowing us entry to the building when she was satisfied she’d been paid. In a dank ground-floor hallway, she unlocked a door and stood back to give us entry. “Take whatever you want then don’t come back.”

Convict waited until she’d gone then muttered, “Wouldn’t if you paid me.”

We entered the chilly space, a converted garage with a blinking strip light over metal shelving units holding cardboard boxes and other loose items. Lamps, crockery, bags of what appeared to be clothing. Some of it had to have been here for years, judging by the thick cobwebs and mould.

Convict tugged down the nearest box and leafed through a stack of papers. “When we were waiting for the money, I got a memory of that woman and this place. I don’t think I lived here very long either, so there probably won’t be much to find.”