Free The Cleaner by Mark Dawson Page A

lights that spat and fizzed. Alcohol and cigarettes, however, were well provided for, secured behind the Perspex screen from behind which the owner surveyed his business with suspicious eyes. Milton nodded to the man as he made his way inside and received nothing but a wary tip of the head in return. He made his way through the shop, picking out cleaning products, a carton of orange juice and a bag of ice. He took his goods to the owner arranged them on the lip of counter ahead of the screen. As the man rang his purchases up, Milton looked behind him to shelves that were loaded with alcohol: gin, vodka, whiskey.
    The owner caught his glance? “You want?”
    He paused, and almost wavered. 692 days, he reminded himself. 692 going on 693.
    He needed a meeting badly.
    “No, just those, please.”
    Milton paid and returned to the maisonette. He unlocked the doors and scraped the security door against the concrete lintel as he yanked it aside. It didn’t take long to establish himself. He unpacked in the larger of the two bedrooms, hanging the clothes in a wardrobe made of flimsy sheets of MDF. He spread his sleeping bag out across the lumpy mattress, went downstairs to the kitchen and took out the mop and bucket he found in a small cupboard. He filled the bucket with hot water, added detergent, and started to attack the layers of grease that had stratified across the cheap linoleum floor.
    It took Milton six hours to clean the house and, even then, he had only really scratched the surface. The kitchen was presentable: the floor was clean, the fridge and oven had been scoured to remove the encrusted stains, the utensils, crockery and surfaces were scrubbed until the long-neglected dirt had been ameliorated. There were mouse droppings scattered all about but, save clearing them away, there was nothing that Milton could do about that. He moved onto the bathroom, spending an hour scrubbing the toilet, the sink and the bath and washing the floor. When he was finally finished he undressed and stood beneath the shower, washing in its meagre stream of warm water until he felt clean. He put on a fresh t-shirt and jeans, took his leather jacket from where he had hung it over the banister, went outside and locked the door behind him. He set off for the main road.
    He took out his phone and opened the bookmarked page on his internet browser. He double-tapped an icon and his mapping application opened. His destination was a three-mile walk away. He had an hour before the meeting, and it was a hot evening. He decided that rather than take the bus, he would walk.
    St Mary Magdalene church was on the left-hand side of the road, set back behind a low brick wall, well-trimmed topiary and a narrow fringe of grass studded with lichen-covered gravestones from a hundred years ago. A sign had been tied to the railings: two capital As, set inside a blue triangle that was itself set within a blue circle. An arrow pointed towards the church. Milton felt a disconcerting moment of doubt and paused by the gate to adjust the lace of his shoe. He looked up and down the street, satisfying himself that he was not observed. He knew the consequences for being seen in a place like this would be draconian and swift; suspension would be immediate, the termination of his employment would follow soon after, and there was the likelihood of prosecution. He was ready to leave the service, but on his own terms, and not like that.
    He passed through the open gate and followed a gravel path around the side of the building, descended a flight of stairs and entered the basement through an open door. The room inside was busy with people and full of the noise of conversation. A folding table had been set up and arranged with a vat of hot water, two rows of mismatched mugs, a plastic cup full of plastic spoons, jars of coffee and an open box of tea bags, a large two-pint container of milk, a bowl of sugar and a plate of digestive biscuits. The man behind the table was black and