Free Twisted Agendas by Damian McNicholl Page B

called when he got home.
    An answering machine picked up. The female’s voice very posh. He didn’t leave a message. His father, an expert salesman, taught him leaving messages was the hallmark of an amateur,
ceded unnecessary control to the other person who might never return the call. The post dropped with a clatter through the letterbox. He found the local newspaper among the pile and scanned the
accommodation section, immediately spotting the same ad among the classifieds. Now nervous the owner would be inundated with responses, Danny called again, blurting into the answering machine
he’d recently moved to London, that he was solvent and leaving both Piper’s landline and his mobile number.
    For an hour, he lay on the couch willing the phone to ring like a lovesick teenager. It rang just before eleven, but it was only his mother who’d confused the week his course was scheduled
to begin. By twelve, the woman still hadn’t rung. He went to Oxford Street to buy a pair of trainers. On his return, a light was blinking on the answering machine.
    “Hello, this is Julia Ralston calling for a Danny Connolly,” the voice said. “I’ve had a large number of responses, but if you’re still interested I’ll be at
home until three.”
    He checked the time and picked up the phone.
    “Ralston, hello.”
    “Danny Connolly here. I left a message that I’m looking to rent.”
    “You sound Irish.”
    Her statement made Danny’s heart skip a beat. Some English people, especially the posh ones, didn’t like the Irish. “I’m from Northern Ireland.”
    “With that accent, I’d never have guessed.” She laughed. “I’m just showing someone around the place now.”
    He wondered if he was being given the brush-off. “When can I see it?”
    “I’m making a decision soon. Can you hold a minute?” Without waiting for his reply, he heard a thud as the receiver was set down, then heard her call out to someone to go out
and take a look at the garden. “Sorry about that, when can you come over?”
    “Right now.”
    “I’m leaving for work in five minutes.”
    “When, then?”
    “Eight tomorrow morning.”
    When she gave him the address, Danny couldn’t believe it. The house was also on Chumley Street.
    He waited ten minutes until he was sure she would have left and then went in search of the house. A woman wearing sixties-style, pitch-black sunglasses came out of a house and
climbed into an old Jaguar as he was crossing underneath the railway bridge. Unsure if it was the owner, he crossed the street to the antique shop. He checked out the displays until the car drove
off and then made his way to the address he’d been given. It was the right house and he was surprised. The home looked bizarre, its brick façade was painted powder blue, the front door
dark purple.
    An eight-inch gap in the net blinds on the front window proved too tempting. He took the two strides comprising the width of the front garden and drew up to the window. Unlike Piper’s
home, the interior was open plan. An oversized sofa and two large armchairs occupied nearest the window, and just beyond was a dining table and chairs, in front of a set of French doors through
which he could see part of a large garden and an ornate wicker chair.
    “You looking for something?”
    An old woman stood on the pavement watching him. She wore a gingham nylon housecoat and gaudy headscarf. Part of a fat pink hair curler peeked from underneath. Danny blushed.
    “No-one’s home.”
    “You just missed her.”
    Danny came out to the street.
    “I’m Julia’s neighbour.” The woman nodded to the house next door. “You can give me a message and I’ll make sure she gets it.”
    “There’s no need.” He started to walk away.
    “Fine, I’ll just tell her an Irishman was lurking at her door.”
    Danny stopped abruptly and turned round. “She’s looking for a tenant and I’m meeting her tomorrow about it.”
    “You’re wanting to rent from