KNOCK AT THE DOOR

There was a knock at the door. The postman?
I looked through the spyhole, saw one of the young men from the corner.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said. ‘Have you had any post this morning?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You know if there’s going to be one?’
‘I thought so, but I don’t actually know.’
‘Oh, okay,’ he said.
I closed the door and went back into the front room.
‘I think he must be waiting for a giro,’ I said.
‘Or a rent cheque,’ she said.

There was a knock at the door. Then another.
‘Does Irene still live here?’ said the woman.
‘Irene?’ I said.
‘Irene, who used to live next to Brenda.’
‘Brenda?’
‘Brenda,’ she said, getting agitated, leaning towards me. Risk assess, manageable. ‘She used to live there next door, and Irene lived here.’
‘I’ve not known anyone live here with that name, you got the right floor?’
‘Yes,’ she said slapping the door jamb, ‘it’s this floor.’
‘Like I said,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anyone with that name has lived here and I’ve been here ten years.’
‘Irene lived here and brenda lived there, they were neighbours.’
‘I don’t think I can help anymore,’ I said.


BUSKER WITH SIRENS