Free The Bird Room by Chris Killen Page A

introduced me to the other week.’
    â€˜Oh, Kat ri na,’ he says, pronouncing it differently. ‘Don’t ask.’
    So I don’t.
    Will lights his roll-up and looks around for an ashtray. He spots something of Alice’s, a CD on the coffee table.
    â€˜Since when did you start liking Erasure?’ he says.
    â€˜They’re alright,’ I lie.
    He picks up a half-empty mug of tea and taps his ash into it. He puts it down by his foot.
    â€˜It smells different in here,’ he says, raising an eyebrow and looking around the room.
    â€˜How do you mean?’
    â€˜And it’s tidier, too.’
    Then he notices a pair of Alice’s trainers under the coffee table.
    â€˜Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘Are you seeing someone?’
    â€˜Why do you make it sound so unbelievable?’ I say. [Horny Midwives, Now Online!]
    â€˜Because in the however-many years I’ve known you, you’ve never seen anyone.’
    â€˜Well, now I am.’
    â€˜Bloody hell,’ he says again, smiling and shaking his head.
    He drops his fag end into the mug.
    â€˜You’ll have to introduce us sometime,’ he says, standing.
    I walk him out to the [One Hundred Free Snatch Movies] door.
    â€˜Will,’ I say. ‘If you do ever meet her, don’t mention that I’m unemployed, okay? I kind of told her I work from home.’
    â€˜Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ he says, not really listening. ‘Before I forget … The other reason I came round … Is there any chance you could water my plants one day next week? I’m off to Paris for a bit, you see. Some exhibition thing. The old bint from next door was lined up to do it, but she died last night.’
    He hands me a key.
    â€˜Cheers, mate,’ he says and walks off down the path.

The phone is ringing in the hall. The phone hardly ever rings now. I’m in the living room, watching telly. Alice is in the kitchen. It’s her turn to cook.
    The phone is nearer to the kitchen than it is to the living room.
    It might just be cold-calling, but it might be someone from my old job.
    It might be my boss.
    I pick up on the third ring.
    â€˜Hello, William.’
    It’s my parents.
    â€˜We’ve put you on speakerphone.’
    â€˜Hi,’ I say, speaking as quietly as I can, pressing the receiver against my mouth.
    Alice comes to the doorway, holding a woodenspoon. She watches me for a second, then goes back into the kitchen.
    â€˜How’s things?’ says my mum.
    â€˜Alright.’
    â€˜How’s work?’ says my dad.
    â€˜Not bad.’
    I’ve not told them about leaving my job or about Alice.
    If I tell them about the job, I’ll become a disappointment; immature and irresponsible, a child still.
    If I tell them about Alice, they’ll ask about her every time they call. They’ll want to meet her. And if Alice leaves – if I scare her away somehow – it will be like all the other girls I’ve mentioned to them; the ones I did scare off, the ones I had to pretend I was still seeing for months afterwards.
    So I answer their questions in monosyllables, telling them pretty much nothing, just that I’m tired, that work is ‘quite demanding’ at the moment and that I really have very little to report. I keep my voice low, hoping it doesn’t carry through to the kitchen.
    When I hang up, Alice reappears in the doorway.
    â€˜Who was that?’ she says.
    â€˜My friend, Will,’ I say.
    â€˜Two Wills, eh?’ she says. ‘I thought you didn’t have any friends.’
    We had a not-exactly-argument the other night, about how we never go out or do anything or meet anyone new. I told her that the way my job worked, I hardly met anyone at all. I told her I’d lost touch with all my old friends. I said I was quite happy to do something with her friends if she wanted; have them over to dinner, maybe. She said all the people at the