They had a nice apartment, top floor, glass and granite, overlooking Ireland’s Eye. All the mod cons.
They paid the rent for seven months.
Then they both lost their jobs, and sold the car. They had to shut off the landline phone but the landlady (so happy when they’d signed the lease) left a biting message on their mobile, which they sold to a drug-dealing friend.
This friend stopped by the apartment frequently to sell his wares, which the couple paid for by trading pieces of the landlady’s furniture.
“Aren’t you scared, just a little?” the dealer asked. “The voice mail she leaves on your mobile is completely brutal.”
“You’re supposed to change the SIM,” she said.
The dealer shrugged. “I kinda like listening to her. Every time she calls, she notches up her threats. But she never does anything … Weird.”
“All her stuff’s insured,” he said. “She’ll buy nicer things when we’re gone.”
When the last granite end table had been bartered and carried with difficulty onto the lift and loaded into the dealer’s car, the couple shook hands with their friend and said good-bye.
The dealer’s mobile buzzed and he took it from his pocket.
“It’s your landlady,” he said, grinning.
She grabbed it from his hands and spoke into the phone: “Stop calling, Auntie Jen. We’re leaving.”