The late client

A speculative short story about a grumpy old bloke, a house-breaking cleaner and unlikely friendship.

Alyssa opened a new email and began to type, ‘Dear Derek,’ and then stopped. What was she doing? More to the point, why was she even here? Breaking into a dead man’s house hadn’t been in her evening plans.

It had been so easy. One minute she was lying in bed, watching a spider weaving a hammock between her green lampshade and the corner where the ceiling met the wall. The next, she was getting up, chucking on an old coat and furry boots, and walking for half an hour through the cold to find a house she thought she’d never see again.

They’d even left the spare key in the begonia pot. Probably didn’t even know it was there, the useless, unfeeling-

She took a deep breath, examined the computer. Stay calm, Alyssa, she told herself. You don’t know the family history. Then again, no one else seemed to make the effort to understand Derek very much at all. They only saw the gruff exterior, the eccentric seclusion. Most of all, they only saw the house.

Derek’s house was dead centre on the street, the semi-detached 1930s build you see in small towns across England, except it was painted lime green. His door in daylight was Christmas red but at night it had seemed deep purple, almost black. People locally referred to it as ‘the eyesore’.

There been numerous complaints to the council to get him to repaint the property, each one mysteriously lost in transit. Council officers who tried to visit him would get lost, break down, or receive urgent voice messages calling them home to their families. Eventually, Derek was filed away in a drawer somewhere and forgotten about.

Neighbours who had long wondered what crimes against taste lingered inside the monstrosity would have been surprised to find the house contained nothing more garish than a warm honey brown: cream walls, brown carpets, brown wooden bannisters and yellow brown kitchen tiles. There were no pictures on the wall, no pieces of modern art or questionable sculptures. The black sofa in the living room had slate grey cushions, slightly scuffed with wear. It was all frozen, as he had left it.

Alyssa backspaced her salutation, began again, then deleted it once more. She stared into the boxy screen and had the uncanny feeling it was looking back at her. The ancient PC had still been still on when she’d snuck in here, its faint glow illuminating the cramped room.

‘You can stay in touch with people,’ she remembered telling him, after he poo pooed her idea of getting him a laptop. ‘You can email Dave.’

At first, he resisted. ‘My brother knows where I live,’ he’d said matter-of-factly and without accusation, as if his brother was a regular visitor rather than the occasional sender of a Christmas card. But then the second hand PC mysteriously arrived in a cardboard box and she’d helped him set it up, teaching him how to use the internet.  

‘Dear Derek,’ Alyssa typed. ‘Hi Derek… Good evening, it’s me, Alyssa… Derek, you know who this is, I don’t know why I’m-’ She jerked the mouse angrily, nudging one of the chest high piles of leather-bound books that hemmed her in on every side and knocking several to the floor. There were more books in here than she would ever read in her life, each one well-thumbed with a deep cracked spine and pages stuffed with receipts for bookmarks. Absently, she picked up one of the toppled books and breathed in the heady scent of old paper.

The first time she’d met Derek, she hadn’t realised he was there. She’d found the front door left open for her. This wasn’t entirely unusual, so after calling out several times to see if anyone was home, she’d set to work, starting with what she suspected would be the worst room – the upstairs bathroom. To her surprise, it smelled of lemon and bleach, and only required the lightest of scrubbing.

Grateful that this was going to be an easy job, she left the bathroom and saw a man standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing only a red dressing gown that ended at his knees. Panic gripped her. What if he was a flasher? Or perhaps, she thought, looking at his confused expression, he had dementia.

‘I’m the cleaner,’ she explained, with what she hoped was a warm smile. ‘From the agency. Sorry but the door was open. I thought you were expecting me.’

The man furrowed his brow, as if turning the idea over.

‘Well, go on then,’ he said at last, pointing at the study. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

‘Sorry.’ She picked up her bottles of bleach and cleaner, her sponges, cloth and duster, and opened the door. Books fell out and piled around her feet.

‘We don’t do decluttering,’ she said. ‘Just cleaning.’

The man shrugged. It was all the same to him.

‘You’ll have to move some of these books, anyway.’

Tutting, he shut the door, then opened it again. The books were all gone.

Other people would have stared, gawped, expressed protest, demanded a rational explanation. But Alyssa merely peered into the dark room and said, ‘That skirting board needs repainting.’ Then she went in with her duster.

That was important in her line of work, her boss had told her. You have to stay professional, no matter how unusual the lifestyle of the client. And this client’s lifestyle was, well, a little eccentric to say the least. She sometimes found him pacing the floor, muttering what to her seemed like gobbledegook, but when questioned, was told she was imagining things and that he was not talking at all. Then he’d make her a cup of tea and ask about her day.

You also, her boss informed her severely after she’d spent all morning at Derek’s rather than the hour he’d paid for, aren’t supposed to have favourite clients. Smile, be polite, exchange small talk, but do not presume they are your friends. You will always be disappointed when they don’t reciprocate, or worse, begin to make demands on you that go beyond the call of duty.

But Alyssa didn’t mind. Derek needed her, so she came after hours, helped him keep up with the little jobs. It wasn’t like she had much else going on with her life anyway. Better than scrolling through her phone and pretending to watch TV.

A scream broke the quiet. Alyssa jumped, running to the window, but it was only a pair of foxes, making themselves busy in the long grass. She thought about shouting at them then thought better of it.

You’re not supposed to be here.

She moved away from the window, fearful. What if a neighbour had seen her? She needed to get out of here quickly, while there was still time.

Instead, she sat back down at the computer and typed:

‘Dear Derek,

I can’t believe I’m writing this. How are you? Where are you?

Best,

Alyssa.’

She typed in Derek’s email address and pressed send, feeling stupid. The reply was almost instant.

‘Alyssa,

I’m just peachy, thank you. Somewhat chilly though.

How are you? Did Dave send back that book he borrowed?

Derek.’

She swallowed, but the lump in her throat would not go down. This was impossible. It was some sort of scam. Someone was pretending to be him. She had to know for sure.

‘Derek,

What was the last thing you said to me – in person?

Alyssa.’

There was a pause of about a minute, where she sat, her face lit by the glow of the machine and the only sound was its whirring fans as a PC that was too old to operate tried to function.

‘Keep the computer on.’

She pushed the chair back. No. It couldn’t be true. She would not believe it.

She started to type furiously: ‘Listen, whoever you are, stop pissing around. I know you’re not Derek. He died. He is DEAD. I found his body on the stairs. I called the ambulance. He doesn’t have any money and neither do I, so stop this. Whoever you are. JUST STOP.’

For a while, she thought they had. The inbox remained empty for ten minutes. Then she heard the ping and she didn’t dare look. She went to the book shelf and ran her finger over the dust which had already gathered. How quickly it collected. How quickly her work was undone.

The inbox pinged again and she turned to it, sucking her lips in, stomach clenched. She sat on the chair which sighed a little with age and sadness.

‘Alyssa,

Don’t be so damn pig headed. You know it’s me.

I need you to do something for me. I’m going to send you a file.

Don’t open the file. I can’t stress this enough. DON’T OPEN IT.

I wish I could see your face again, Alyssa. You made an old man smile and that’s quite difficult. Our lips don’t work as well as they used to.

Derek.’

The second email contained just an attachment labelled, helpfully, ‘file’. She didn’t recognise the type.

It was clearly a spam attack, from someone sick enough to pretend to be a dead man. Derek was… different, yes, but he wasn’t a god. He could not defy death. She knew he was gone when she saw the angle of his neck, the way he looked up at the ceiling, but the expression on his face was so annoyed that she thought he must have some scrap of life still left in him. But then she touched his skin, and he did not move, and that’s when she rung the ambulance and told them that the only person who had ever really bothered to get to know her was dead. And she was left to live in a flat for one with no one to talk to.

But the books had disappeared. She had seen it with her own eyes. Who knew what else he can do?

She banged the desk. She’d had enough. God, he could be insufferable in life but this was too damn much. She clicked on the file and – nothing. Nothing opened. No blue screen of death or pop-up ransomware appeared. Perhaps the virus was embedded in the machine, like an invisible plague that you only noticed when you keeled over.

Then the computer exploded.

Well – not exactly. There was a popping noise and the monitor set on fire, but there was no smoke and no heat. The flames were blue and flecked with green.

Then Derek was lying face down on the floor behind her, moaning pathetically.

Alyssa leapt up, legs trembling. He peeled his face off the floor and squinted at her terrified expression, mouth open in a silent scream. ‘It is you. Good. Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist disobeying my instructions.’

It took her a moment to unfix her mouth, to attempt to speak. ‘But you’re…’ she whispered hoarsely, backing away from him, which was difficult on her Bambi legs.

‘I’m dead, yes, yes. Help an old man up, would you?’

Disbelieving, she held out a hand and heaved him to his feet. He hadn’t lost any weight in death but he had lost strength, and she had to tug quite hard, almost falling over from the effort. He was wearing the same clothes he’d died in; his too short red dressing gown with black carpet slippers. He hugged the dressing gown around him.

‘God, I’m cold.’

The computer was still on fire, but the flames seemed to have lessened. There was still no heat and no smoke.

Leaning against the wall, Alyssa managed to force out a single word: ‘How?’

He shrugged.

‘I knew it was coming, you know. The big D.’ He scratched his almost bald head. ‘You taught me how to save things, you know, on that.’ He pointed at the flaming monitor. ‘I thought, if I can save other things, why not save myself? Seemed like a good idea.’

‘But – but you can’t!’

‘Can’t?’ He flicked his fingers at the computer and the fire went out, leaving a completely unscathed screen. ‘What’s this then, scotch mist?’

She thought of saying, you’re just a projection, a figment of a frazzled brain, a longing made flesh through the dull ache of loneliness. No wonder her mind was performing this charade. She had to get out more, start making friends with real people – not mad dead ones.

To prove her own point, she poked him in the chest and was surprised to feel rough polyester over hard bone.

‘You’re not real,’ she said, not looking away for a second from the eyes pressed deep inside his skull cavity, the lids dark and heavy, the irises still wide and blue. He broke his gaze first, looking down at the finger still buried in the folds of his dressing gown. Then he was standing with his back to her, examining the book shelf.

‘Would you look at that? Some grubby little toad’s been poking around.’ He began to mutter, moving books around. ‘Bet it was Dave, thinking I wouldn’t notice. Ha!’

She let him prod and mutter before she asked.

‘Why?’

‘Hmmm, what?’

‘Why did you come back?’

He turned and looked at her, really looked. ‘You look ill. Have you eaten?’

‘Yes…’ Had she? She thought she had. It was so hard to remember. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

He shook his head and gently took her hands in his. ‘Alyssa,’ he said.

She let her hands lie in his, like sleeping birds.

‘You have to live, Alyssa.’ He sighed, his face sagging. ‘I was a selfish old fool to let you stay on here.’

‘You’re … you were my client.’

But they both knew that wasn’t true. She pressed into him, holding him tight, ignoring the dusty musty stink of clothes that hadn’t been washed frequently enough, one human holding another, the only friend she ever had.

Loneliness was the white noise of her life, tuned out by the television and long work hours. Yet Derek chipped away at her, knocking aside her rebuffs, her attempts to protect herself. When he died, she was left exposed, her unshelled flesh turning grey and sour. She bled out in her flat with the radio on full, no noise reaching her ears except the loudness of no one.

She sobbed into Derek’s dressing gown and he did not grumble that she was soaking his only clothes. He held her tightly, like her mother did before she passed.

‘Please,’ Alyssa said, through gasps of breath, ‘don’t go again.’

He took her by each shoulder, a steady power flowing through his arms into her, and the tears began to dry on her skin, leaving her cracking and embarrassed.

‘I have to.’

‘But you’re magic! You came back from the dead.’

‘Alyssa, I’m old.’ His fingers dug deeper into her shoulders. ‘You don’t what it’s like to be old. You get tired of living, and somehow more afraid of death. How silly!’

He tried to grin, but his mouth seemed to have frozen.

‘Dying cured me of that. It’s not so bad, really, when you get used to it.’

He fixed his eyes on her. ‘Forgive an old man’s selfishness, but I had to see you, and give you this.’ He went to the bookshelf and handed her an old almanack bound in red leather with faded gold letters on the spine. She traced the author’s name, ‘Derek M. Chester.’

‘This is yours now. Read it well. Commit it to heart.’ He smiled, revealing those bad teeth.

The tears threatened to return again and she took the book, looking at the front cover in an attempt to distract herself. The front was a picture of a gold tree embossed on the leather. There was nothing on the back.

‘And what will you do?’

‘Say my goodbyes to this neighbourhood.’ Was there a wicked glint in his eye? She expected nothing less.

‘I can’t leave you.’

‘Don’t be foolish, woman.’ He was no longer smiling, returning to the old man’s gruff bluster. ‘Get out of here before the neighbours call the fuzz.’

She went to the curtain and moved it a little. Sure enough, the curtains of the house opposite were ajar and a face was peering out.

The book was heavy in her hands. She ought to get out of here, fast – and yet she was rooted to the carpet, watching him pull book after book out of the bookcase. He seemed have forgotten her.

‘She’s calling now,’ he said. ‘Go, quickly!’

She snapped into reality. No one would ever believe her if she explained why she was here. They would think her a petty housebreaker and thief.

Holding the book to her chest, which was surprising heavy and hard to hold onto, she left the room and tip toed down the stairs, wondering how to get out unseen.

‘Go out the back,’ Derek said from above her, and there was a hissing noise.

She picked up her pace and scuttled through the kitchen. The back door was unlocked and she went out into the cold dark back garden. Unlike the front, the lawn out here was inexplicably short, the shrubs round and bursting in impossible flower for winter. She hurried down the path to the gate at the back, which opened with a creak. Something rumbled behind her but she did not look back. If she looked back, she’d never leave.

She quickly walked through the gate, down the alleyway and into the street. The rumbling grew with each step and she walked as fast as she dared without attracted suspicion. But she couldn’t have gone fast enough, because she was four houses away when Derek’s house exploded.

There was a final deep rumble, followed by a deafening boom. A roar of flame burst up, consuming the suburban monstrosity in an inferno that somehow did not spread to the two houses on either side. Black smoke pumped into the night sky as the lights went on in all the surrounding houses. Heads peered out, followed by exclamations of shock and curiosity, as people ran outside to take a good gawp. The eyesore was burning to the ground.

Someone must have had the presence of mind to call the fire brigade, because Alyssa wasn’t too far down the street when she heard the fire engines sirens heading towards her. She picked up her pace, expecting to feel shock, or grief, or rage.

But she was smiling when she put the key in the lock of her flat and when she shut the door she was laughing.