*This is another one that's been sitting around for far longer than it should have.*
--
It was a quiet, cold Wednesday evening, and my shift was about three hours old. There were still a few minutes until I would stand and start the hourly walking patrol I did of "my" six story office-block.
My boss, Bill, still gave me shit about that. "Unnecessary, completely unnecessary," he'd tell me about once every five days or so. "There's one door and two fire escapes and our tenants are all marketing companies. No Legal firms, nothing worth stealing, nobody's going to cause trouble here. So relax, Danny. Sit on your arse. Study your books if you want to. It's a warm and easy way to earn a living."
But sitting still for eight hours didn't work for me, so I'd do my slow laps of the building, nodding to the night cleaning staff when I saw them, greeting those I knew by name.
And then back to the desk, to the CCTV, to my books. I'd make a coffee in our small kitchenette, and use the time I had to try to study towards the final year of my degree and, hopefully, a ticket out of shift work and into a real office job that paid real money. Usually my concentration would be shot by midnight and then, too tired to focus any further, I would just sit and daydream, waiting inscrutably for the end of my shift when Stavros would arrive like a nicotine-stained angel of mercy, reeking of stale cigarette smoke, and take over the desk for the graveyard watch.
And then I'd pack, head for home, crawl into bed in the small row-house I shared with three other "young professionals" at four am and sleep until some time past noon.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
.:.
I glanced up at the CCTV monitors, scanned left-right-up-down, and sighed. I reached over, skipped a track on SoundCloud, and then returned to my textbook. Details on the Riemann Sum swam on the page in front of me, and I once again questioned what lunacy had made me choose to add a Calculus course to my life. I stared down and my scrawled notes, and sighed again. I pushed them aside, and stood, adjusting the uncomfortable Marks and Spencers belt with the work cellphone clipped to it so that it no longer dug quite so hard into my side. I pulled on my jacket; the building's climate control was set to standby so the interior temperature had fallen a bit.
I collected a water bottle from the small fridge, and a packet of ginger biscuits from my backpack which I then locked into the cupboard under the desk. The cleaning staff would be on the third floor by now, so I decided to start at the top and work my way down. I took the lift up, and stepped out into the lobby on the top floor. I took a cursory look around and then ambled over to the city-side windows, gazing out through the faint dappling of raindrops at the skyline of dimly-lit buildings and narrow streets that typified this part of the city. Cars turned into the road below, their headlights reflecting crazily off glass and puddles.
I sighed again.
Being a night guard had its perks. It kept a roof over my head and allowed me to save a little. There was that. But it was also deeply isolating - antisocial hours, coming to work when everyone else was leaving, being left generally to ones own devices with little oversight... it lacked the structure I felt I needed to be content.
Hence the degree.
I snorted, amused at myself. Odds were it would be at least another year before I finished that. And then I'd be twenty six and freshly qualified. Maybe then I'd be able to get out of my rut, get a office job,
I touched my access card to the stairwell door, and descended a flight of stairs. The fifth floor landing was clear, the doors closed, motion-activated lights turning on as dumb sensors detected a person and tried to be helpful.
Down another flight of stairs, and into the forth floor lobby with its shared kitchen.
I paused. Someone was talking, a low, tense argument with a tinny voice on the other side of a cell phone. I didn't recognise the language.
I walked past the door, glanced inside. A woman sat slumped forward at the table, cleaning supplies by her feet, chin supported on her hand as she argued with her phone. Her dark brown hair obscured her face, and her agency-issued uniform did the same for her body. She sounded tired, pissed off. Probably a domestic issue.
I shook my head in sympathy and withdrew so as to not intrude on her. I glanced through the glass of the offices at the end of the lobby, checked everything looked fine, and was just about to open the door to the stairs when I heard an explosion of profanity, some in accented English.
The woman stormed out through the doorway from the kitchen, then stopped abruptly as she saw me. I saw her clutch the cleaning supplies to herself, heard her curse softly.
"Evening," I said, in the most calm and unconcerned manner I could. "Just doing the rounds, don't mind me."
"Hello," she said, softly. "Please... I am not supposed to be taking a break now, but I had to take a phone call. Please do not tell the other cleaners you saw me. I will be fired if you do."
"I didn't see anything or hear anything," I answered, holding up my hands. "None of my business. I think the rest are still on the third floor, they'll be up here in the next fifteen minutes..."
I glanced at her, considering. "There's a women's toilet just down these stairs, I'll check it and see if it's empty and if so you can say you were starting to clean it - it's a believable excuse."
She nodded. "Please, can you check?"
"Two seconds."
I opened the door, descended the stairs, and checked the woman's toilets. Empty. I climbed back up, and beckoned to her. "It's all clear. You can go in and nobody will know you weren't busy in there."
She glanced up at me as she brushed by. "Thank you," she said in passing.
"It's no problem at all. Have a good evening," I answered her.
"That would take a miracle at this point," she muttered. She closed the door behind her.
"Yeah, fair enough," I agreed softly to myself.
I finished the rest of my patrol, and returned to my desk and my textbooks.
I saw her once more that evening as she and the rest of the cleaners left. She was walking alone, hunched down into a cheap coat, a tatty leather satchel slung over a shoulder and a faded pink hairband on her wrist. Apart from an almost imperceptible nod she gave no other indication that she'd recognised me.
When Stavros arrived I handed over to him, packed up my belongings, and made my way to the bus stop. I joined the rest of the night-time bus-zombies and dozed my way most of the trip home.
.:.
She became a regular. She didn't work every night that I did, but her shifts seemed to line up with mine about three times a week. We grew through nodding familiarity into a kind of acquaintance, and I came to look forward to our brief interactions. She slowly lost her reserve towards me, and one night in an unguarded moment she even forgot herself enough to smile when she saw me poke my head into the room she was cleaning.
Her name, I learned, was Erika, and she was from Namibia. Her English was excellent, and only ever-so-slightly exotic - though she had a tendency to lapse into German when stressed or amused.
She was twenty seven. She had a weakness for ginger biscuits, and after she'd one night hesitantly asked if she could have one of mine I made a point of packing extra to share. I'd slip them to her during one of my orbits of the building, and she would reward me with a quiet "Thanks," whenever I did.
She wore a tarnished gold ring on a leather strand which I'd occasionally glimpse hanging at her neck. She almost always wore her hair loose, and was perpetually having to tuck this or that unruly lock back from her warm hazel eyes when she'd find a minute or two to chat with me during our long, dark, interminable evenings.
We struck up a workplace friendship of sorts, talking about the minutiae of our days or the evening headlines. Subjects that interested her awoke a spark of life in her which she otherwise mostly hid. I learned that she was an accountant by training, but despite her German citizenship, various issues regarding her accreditations meant she had not yet been able to find work. And so, like me, she was doing what she could to support herself, working as a contracted night-time cleaner for the offices she should by all rights roam during the day.
Familiarity taught me more about her. She was thin. Far too thin, to my mind. Her cheeks were on the gaunt side of sculpted, her skin on the pale side of fair. The meals that she packed for herself were always small and neat and simple - starch and cheap meat and cheaper veg, and she always ate everything she'd packed. She drank a lot of water, and I recognised the old trick I'd used to mask my own hunger at the end of a long day.
I had some money to spare these days, so once or twice a week I'd cook more than I needed, save the best of it for her, and bring it in to my shift.
She wouldn't accept it at first. Pride and shame, I suppose. But eventually she realised I wasn't going to stop, so she gave in. And I took some comfort over the weeks as I watched the gauntness begin to fade away.
One night she paused at the front desk as she was leaving. She reached into her bag, and pulled out an old tupperware container. "For you," she said quietly, placing it in front of me. "For your kindness."
"What is it?"
"It is a kind of sweet pastry from back home. I made some because I was homesick, and I wanted to share them with you before I try to sell the rest this weekend."
"Vielen dank," I said, in my horribly rusty German.
She laughed softly, warm eyes crinkling up at me as I mangled the pronunciation. "Close enough," she offered, still grinning.
"Thank you very much, Erika."
"See you tomorrow, Daniel."
She turned and waved once from outside, and then disappeared from view. I looked down, pushed my coursework out of the way, and opened the tupperware. Inside were a couple of braided golden pastries glistening with honey - I touched one and licked my finger. Far too sweet for this time of night, I'd enjoy one with "breakfast" and maybe share the other with the flatmates, if the fuckers hadn't left the place a tip again.
.:.
It was a cold Wednesday night, and we were in the fifth floor kitchenette. I was leaning against the counter top, and Erika was elbow-deep in yellow kitchen gloves, bleaching surfaces.
"So how did you come to be here?"
She sighed as she wiped cleaning fluid off the table top. "Now that is a long story. Short version, I came over three years ago with my husband."
"You're married?"
