The Doorkeepers Read Free

me.” He paused, and blew some more smoke, and then he said, “I was wondering, you know. Perhaps you might like to take it over.”
    â€œWhat about you?”
    Frank Mordant shrugged. “As I say, I scarcely ever use it. Only when a wave of nostalgia comes over me. I’ve got a bit of stuff up there but you’re quite welcome to use it, too. A color TV with a video recorder and a stereo system and a pile of CDs. Do you like Abba? I used to love Abba.
Dig it, the dancing queen
… Those were the days. Oh, and a deep-freeze, too. Not a big one, but it’s got fish fingers in it, and pizza, and some chicken balti, too.”
    Julia couldn’t help smiling. “I thought you were so acclimatized. Your accent, you know, and the way you dress.”
    â€œOh, I am. But you know what it’s like. If you want to live here happily, you have to edit things out of your mind, andafter a while you begin to think that perhaps they didn’t happen at all. That stuff upstairs … that’s just a little reminder that I’m not dreaming, after all.
    He stood up and patted his pockets to find his keys. “Why don’t you come and take a shufti at it? It’s a jolly sight nearer to work than Lavender Hill, and I’d only charge you £1.15s.0d a week.”
    â€œI’m not sure …” said Julia. “I’ve already made quite a few friends in Lavender Hill.”
    â€œNonsense, you can make friends anywhere. Personable young lady like you. There’s no harm in taking a look, is there?”
    Julia glanced toward the landlord. He was polishing pint glasses and watching her with a dull, fixed stare, the cigarette still hanging from the side of his mouth, as if he wanted to remember her for ever. “Well … all right then,” she agreed. “But then I must get home.”
    Frank Mordant’s flat had a separate front door at the side of the pub. It was painted maroon and it had no number on it, only a small bronze knocker in the shape of a grinning imp’s head. Frank Mordant gave it a
rat-a-tat-tat
and said, “Cornish piskie. It’s supposed to bring you luck.”
    Inside, there was a damp coconut mat and then a steep flight of stairs. Frank Mordant switched the light on and said, “Good exercise, stairs. Up and down here a few times a day and you won’t need to worry about jogging.”
    â€œI don’t jog, not any more. People used to stare so much.”
    â€œYes, I suppose they would. Here – watch your step at the top here, the carpet’s loose.”
    At the top of the stairs there was a small brown-wallpapered landing with two doors leading off it. A damp-rippled reproduction of Damien Hirst’s
Chinese Lady
hung at an angle between them, and one of them bore a ceramic plaque saying The Smallest Room.
    Frank Mordant unlocked the other door and led the way into a narrow corridor. On the left there was a small kitchenette with a gas water-heater and fitted cupboards in lime-green Formica. It was obvious that he didn’t use the flat very often: there wasa stuffy, sour, closed-in smell, and all of the dried herbs in the spice jars that hung on the wall had faded to pale yellow.
    â€œNeeds a woman’s touch, really.”
    The sitting room was surprisingly large and light. It had a high ceiling and all the walls had been painted white and the light gray carpet wasn’t luxurious but it was fairly new. There was a plain couch covered in black cotton fabric and a large brown 1930s armchair. A large television stood in one corner of the room, as well as a video player and stacks of labeled videotapes. There was a video camera, too, tilted on top of a tripod.
    â€œA few pictures on the walls,” Frank Mordant suggested. “Scatter cushions, that kind of thing. You could really make it quite homey.”
    A plain white calico blind covered the window. Julia went over to it and tried to release it,