Free The Cleaner by Mark Dawson

drove back to Hackney.
    He drove through the Square Mile, its clean streets, well-shod denizens, steepling towers and minarets a gleaming testament to capitalism. He continued past Liverpool Street, through trendy Shoreditch and then passed into the hinterland beyond. Milton had noticed the arcade of shops as he had driven home last night. There was an estate agent’s between a fried chicken takeaway and a minicab office. He parked and walked along the arcade, pausing to look at the properties advertised in the window. He went inside and a man in a cheap, shiny suit asked him if he could be of help.
    “I’m looking for a place to rent.”
    “Furnished or unfurnished?”
    “Furnished.”
    “Anywhere in particular? We’ve got a nice place in a school conversion near to the station.”
    “Somewhere close to Blissett House.”
    The man looked at him as if he was mad. “That’s not the best area. It’s rough.”
    “That’s alright.”
    “Do you work in the city?”
    “No, I’m a writer,” he said, using the cover story he had prepared as he had travelled across London. “I’m researching a book on police corruption. I need to be in the middle of things. I don’t care if it’s rough. It’s better if it’s authentic. Do you have anything?”
    The man flicked through his folder of particulars, evidently keen not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “We just had a place come up on Grove Road. Terraced house, two bedrooms. I wouldn’t say it’s anything special, but it’s cheap and it’s on the edge of the Estate. Best I can do, I’m afraid. Most stock in the blocks themselves are kept back for council tenants.”
    “Can you show me?”
    “Of course.”
    The maisonette was close to the office and, since it was a bright, warm day, they walked. The hulk of Blissett House loomed over them as they passed beneath the railway line and into an estate that had been cleared, the brutalist blocks replaced by neat and tidy semi-detached houses. They were painted a uniform pale orange, and each had its own little scrap of garden behind a metal fence. Some houses were occupied by their owners, and marked by careful maintenance. Others were rented, distinguished by overgrown lawns that stank of dog excrement, boarded windows and wheelie bins that overflowed with trash. They continued on, picking up Grove Road. The house that the agent led them to was the last in a terrace that was in a poor state of repair. It was a tiny sliver of a house, only as wide as a single window and the front door. Solid metal security gates had been fitted to the doors and windows, graffiti had been sprayed on the walls and the remains of a washing machine had been dumped and left to rust in the street right next to the kerb. The agent unlocked the security door and yanked it aside. The property was spartan, a small lounge, kitchen and bathroom on the ground floor and two bedrooms above. The furniture was cheap and insubstantial. The rooms smelt of fried food and stale urine.
    “It’s a little basic,” the agent said, not even bothering to try and pretend otherwise. “I’m sorry. We have other places, though. I’ve got the key for another one, much nicer, ten minutes away.”
    “This’ll do,” Milton said. “I’ll take it.”

 
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    12.
    IT TOOK HALF AN HOUR back at the office for the formalities of the lease to be taken care of. Milton paid the deposit and the advance rent in cash. There were no references or credit checks required, which was just as well, since a search of Milton’s details would not have returned any results. The agent asked him whether he was sure that the house was what he wanted, and, again, offered a handful of alternatives that he thought would be more appropriate. Milton politely declined the offer, thanked him for his help, took the keys and left the office.
    There was a small mini-market serving the area. It was sparsely stocked, a few bags of crisps and boxes of cereal displayed under harsh strip