Excerpts from lost novels
12 February, 2008

Jim slowly climbed the stairs, pulling himself up each step by the handrail and wheezing slightly as he struggled to carry his tool bag. Finally reaching the fourth floor, he looked out at the tower blocks and railways of south London from the walkway and cursed the out-of-order lift. Eventually, once he had gathered his breath, he made his way to number 48, pausing slightly before pressing the buzzer.

Inside the flat, the old man woke with a start. The television flickered in the corner of the dirty, shabby living room and the cat circled in the middle of the floor, hoping that his master would remember that it was dinner time. The old man felt his forehead, wiping the beads of sweat into a shiny slime and shuddering as he remembered the nightmare that had tormented his sleep for the past week. The buzzer squawked once more. So that was it. Someone at the door. Who on earth could that be?

The old man shouted that he was on his way and tried to tidy up the hall as he approached the front door, throwing a pile of newspapers and an old, threadbare jumper through the open door of the bedroom. There was a thick, flat shadow on the frosted glass. It must be a man, he thought, and a tall, fat one at that.

Hello, I’m Drain Control, the overweight, middle-aged, balding man said with no sense of anything in his voice. The old man turned away from the door and walked into the kitchen. Not much of a welcome, Jim thought, following the cardigan-clad, bent back around the corner and into a dingy kitchen with stains on the walls and old, filthy saucepans on the hob.

Who did you say you are, the old man asked in a low voice. You called our office this morning. I’m Jim. Drain Control. The old man looked startled. What, he asked, with a wild look in his eyes. Drain Control, Jim said in a louder voice. The old man turned away and reached down to a draw, pulling it open with a fluidity that belied his advanced years. Slice or stab? Slice. The old man grabbed a bread knife and spun around, thrusting the blade towards Jim in a threatening manner. No-one is going to control my drains, he shouted.

Okay, okay. Fine, Jim said, instinctively raising his hands and backing out of the kitchen. If you don’t want me to help, that’s fine. The old man stepped forwards. I don’t want your sort here, he yelled. Get out of my flat. Think you can come here and control my drains? You’ve got another think coming.

Jim grabbed his bag, which he had left by the door, and almost tripped over the door frame as he stepped out on to the walkway. As he retreated back towards the stairs, he could see the old man standing in the doorway, waving the bread knife and a light shining in his eyes.

They are never going to believe this back at the office, Jim, back in his van and staring at the dashboard, and the old man, back in his chair and gazing at the patch of carpet where the cat had circled only a few minutes before, thought at the precisely the same moment. But I don’t go to an office, the old man thought, checking his brow again before falling asleep.