“You’d probably call me a communist.”<\/p>\n
No fur hat. No balalaika. <\/p>\n
“No. I probably wouldn’t.”<\/p>\n
A bottle of vodka in the cupboard. Some rye on a shelf. I looked at him.<\/p>\n
“Not Russian. Communist.” <\/p>\n
He carried my suitcase upstairs and left in search of duvets. <\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
I had answered an ad in the ‘Rooms Available’ section of the university dispatch. A girl who partied polo-style with a young prince and attended his mother’s alma mater was the owner of the suite. Ella said she adored the name Buffy and was ever-so-ready to welcome an American into her home (for the obligatory 500 pounds a month room rental of course). It would be fantastic. (It wasn’t.)<\/a><\/p>\n She sent Phillip to help me move.<\/p>\n —–<\/p>\n I spent my first night watching Eastenders in a flowered-to-death sitting room with the blonde Phillip, who wasn’t Russian, and a pint of Guinness. He wore a green robe with matching bottoms and leather slippers. <\/p>\n The all-his-life Londoner looked like a young (i.e. slim) Leonardo DiCaprio – from a distance. Up close he looked very English. Very what he was<\/em>. <\/p>\n “Why’d you move?” He asked. “Nice house. Nice area.” He crossed his legs and stuck his hand in his pocket.<\/p>\n “Freaky housemates.” I told him. <\/p>\n I wasn’t being fair. Ahmad and Teemo were only trying to be friendly. To see me after the sun went down. Maybe share a drink with the house at the round-the-corner pub. But I was 21 and repressed and didn’t know how to be friends with a 46 year old Libyan who slept in the room next to mine. Teemo was younger, only 25, and slept downstairs. But he didn’t speak a word of American and I could only conjugate the odd verb in Finnish. So I kept my door locked and my whistle by my bed. (Really).<\/p>\n “Well. It happens.” Phillip hand rolled two cigarettes. Skinny. Like his legs. “Ella is a nice girl. I’ve known her for a while.” He sprinkled tobacco from a silver can and wet the papers with his tongue. “George, I have never met.” <\/p>\n George was the fourth house mate. Ella said his daddy was a Baptist preacher.<\/p>\n “I thought he moved in last month.” <\/p>\n “He did.” Phillip never took his eyes off his hands. “Three days before me.” He stood up, belted his robe and walked to the front door. “I take a walk every evening at sevenish. I guess he comes out then.”<\/p>\n I didn’t believe him. Then he looked at me, and I did.<\/p>\n “No way.” <\/p>\n “You’ll see.” Phillip stepped outside and lit up. <\/p>\n Stoop smoker.<\/p>\n I followed him. “Is he here?” <\/p>\n I’d spent six hours in the house. Hadn’t heard the first sound from the bedroom in the loft.<\/p>\n “He’s always here.” Phillip sort of laughed. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”<\/p>\n I was creeped. “That’s like, seriously weird.”<\/p>\n “Love, you don’t know the half of it.” <\/p>\n The words had barely left his mouth when I heard it. Dull but there. Coming from….above<\/em>. <\/p>\n An organ. And not the kind my Pa played.<\/p>\n “Holy Moly!” Goosebumps rushed up my arms. “It’s Lurch!”<\/p>\n We listened to the eerie sound for a few minutes, then Phillip finished his cigarettes and we went back to the sitting room.<\/p>\n “Those old flatmates of yours….” <\/p>\n I nodded.<\/p>\n “…..did they play the organ?”<\/p>\n I stopped nodding. <\/p>\n Phillip smiled and left the room.<\/p>\n —–<\/p>\n