Tweakment Tower

It made a change to see a man disappearing into Lauren’s room.

The very glamorous ex-model usually had a succession of very glamourous current models traipsing into and out of the beauty parlour she operated from her flat in our block. Or maybe they were just women with enough disposable income to pay someone to make them look Barbie box-fresh on top of whatever it was they did for a living. They were more tolerant of Lauren’s new baby than I was, that I knew for sure. But then they only had to endure the screaming for an hour at a time.

I usually had my door open to either let the cooking smells escape from my tiny bedsit, or to air out the cigarette smoke. Disabling the smoke detector was one of the first things I did when I moved into Heath Hill. Or ‘Tweakment Towers’ as I now call it. I’m a scriptwriter by trade myself, meaning a lot of working from home and keeping my ear out for snatches of conversation that might inspire a piece. It’s also cheaper than shelling out for one of the insanely overpriced coffees the café downstairs does.

So, one Monday afternoon I glimpse a guy shuffling by, wearing those cargo shorts with more pockets than any skate bum could possibly need. I figured it was some delivery guy for Lauren, who needed to take a picture of whatever precious concoction he was carrying going straight into the customer’s hands.

Imagine my surprise when he didn’t emerge from Lauren’s room for just over an hour.

When he passed my door, this strange bundle of plaid rags on feet, I gave him a quick wave. It’s like my hands never outgrew their crushing on skater boys stage. Only he was definitely not a boy – I saw coils of greys threading through his black beard – and I was no longer a lovestruck teen but someone who had been “between boyfriends” now for approaching eight years. When you’re constantly chasing down the next gig, it’s difficult to work up the energy to chase anything else.

He nodded back at my retreating hand, then slouched off. He was very tan, I noticed. Had a bit of a dad bod going on. Brown shoes, brown jacket, brown eyes. The most colourful thing about him was an angry-looking pimple on his neck.

He just didn’t seem Lauren’s type. I figured girls with like her with the stennies and the oversized claws glued to their fingertips probably go for, I don’t know, estate agent types. Charmers. Wide boys. Well, it just goes to show what I know. I made a mental note to write about an odd couple, when the opportunity should next present itself.

Monday rolled unpleasantly round again like the boulder from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Only I was being hit with invoicing amendments.

Around about the same time as last week, the slouchy guy slunk in again. As he moseyed down the corridor, I leant back in my chair, noting his swinging hair that touched his waist. Lauren opened her door and from the tones that echoed down to me, I thought “definitely a customer”. No-one is that polite to someone who’s already seen them from all angles.

About an hour later, the unmistakeable sound of him loping down the corridor. I even fancied I heard the ghost of a wallet chain.

“Hey,” I called out, with another tentative wave, my voice somewhat rusty from lack of use. It’s one thing writing about characters all day long, a very different thing interacting with them. I do a double take when I see him, though.

“Hey,” he replied, with a flick of his cheeks upwards. His bare cheeks. The beard had completely taken its leave.

Perhaps Lauren was offering barbering sessions alongside the usual facials and nail care. Good for her. Adapting to the client’s needs. Very resourceful for a new parent but I guess she was aware of having two to feed now. She once joked to me that the baby got so hungry one day it damn near tore her nipple off.

I shrugged and went back to the neverending number crunching.

*

On Fridays I like to treat myself to one of those aforementioned overpriced coffees. After I’ve sipped about 50 pence worth’s, or one mouthful, I noticed a new pile of flyers sitting amongst all the magazines I’ve already thumbed to death. It was very twinkly-gold, and very cursive. Very Lauren, in other words. I read:

“Men wanted for beauty treatment trials.

Try radical procedures before anyone else hears about them!

Successful candidates will receive…”

I goggled at the amount quoted which sat above Lauren’s name and contact details. Not a pittance. I wish I could’ve signed up for it myself.

But wait, a beard trim hardly counted as radical, did it? Unless you were Che Guevara. Or Santa. Either of those would’ve affected a lot of companies’ merchandise.

Maybe she’d meant ‘radical’ in the sense of ‘radical self-love’, as her generation were so fond of building little light boxes about. Because spending time on yourself instead of your employer or people who gave birth to you or needy friends or your phone that wants to tell you everything that has ever happened is so controversial, right?

*

Monday again. Mr Sans Beard turns up again. Like a bad penny wanting to make good.

He says hello to me first this time. This unexpectedly reliably punctual caveman is getting braver. I notice the pimple has vanished and the skin in its place looks glossy, gleaming like the fur of a well-fed white horse by moonlight. If people feed horses by the light of the moon. I wouldn’t know, I’m more of a dog girl than a horse girl. Or perhaps he’s been spending more time indoors. He’s probably a gamer. Or he’s been busy showing off the rest of his new shiny skin to someone between the sheets.

His footsteps sound heavier. Maybe because he’s striding more purposefully, or because he’s gained a few more pounds. He definitely seemed a little fuller in the face and there was a touch more upper arm wobble to his wave. We’ve just had Easter though. We’ve all indulged. Although this seems a little extreme. Whatever’s being trialled, I think we can safely exclude it being any of the new weight loss injections all the diabetes docs are thinking are going to run them out of business.

An hour later, a bald man walks by and I scream.

“Only me,” says Mr Sans Beard, chuckling.

“Damn,” I said, hand fluttering on chest. Yes, maybe I’m also drawing attention to my assets; I already told you the programming of old crushes never entirely fades away. “You nearly gave me a heart attack! I was wondering ‘how did this bald guy sneak in’!”

We both laugh, nervous and relieved.

“Are you liking your new look?” I ask, and his smile falters.

“Too soon to tell,” he said, rubbing the back of his shiny newly exposed head like it contains thoughts, memories, that were already floating away down the plughole his dark locks had disappeared down. Still rubbing, he loped away.

I was too distracted by his glistening head emerging from Lauren’s room at the time but looking back on it…yeah. That was when he started getting a little glassy-eyed. One of the last times I saw him the soft warm brown eyes from before, meek and lamb-like, were almost entirely usurped by black poisonous pupil.

I heard Lauren humming to herself (which made me consider I hadn’t heard the baby for a while, but I wasn’t complaining). I guess the guy hadn’t closed the door properly on his way out. I got up, wanting to grill her about this new project of hers (and maybe bag myself some free cosmetic samples as well) but the squeak of my chair betrayed me. And also made me wonder if I was piling on a few pounds as well. Lauren’s door was not slammed; maybe a notch under slammed. Slimmed? Whatever. It was forceful enough that the gust sent an odd smell drifting down the corridor. Not incense or marijuana or anything fun like that, no, something distinctly medical. Clean, but not good. If you’ve ever visited a recuperating loved one in hospital you’ll know what I mean. Like something thinking a bouquet parked next to a bedside will cover up an entire ward of decay.

‘Ward of Decay’. Next time I need one, I’m going to use that as a band name.

I noted increased parcels arriving for Lauren. Mostly because it was me signing for them. She would never leave a client in the middle of a tweakment, I had swiftly grown to understand, so I’d step in. And that’s partly why my bathroom cabinet is bulging with little unlabelled pots of things; all the stuff she’s let me try for free.

I didn’t like the sound of anything that was turning up lately, though. Not only were the names scary, but the symbols on the labels…toxic stuff, melty drippy skin stuff, stuff I was happy to dump outside her door as quickly as I could. One of the names of a substance piqued my interest – I guess by now you can gather I’m a bit of a snoop – so I looked it up online. It turned out to be something usually only doctors were prescribed. A numbing agent. From what I remember on Lauren’s walls from the brief glimpses I’ve had there were oodles of certificates, but she never mentioned being a doctor? I guess it’s possible. Although if I were one I’d be insisting everyone called me Dr Whitely. And I’d probably be earning enough to afford a large flat like Lauren’s instead of slumming it in my little mousehole.

When I next laid eyes on Mr Sans Beard, I swear the wolf tattoo on his forearm looked faded. I wondered whether Lauren was just completely erasing the guy’s personality. So typical of those makeover shows, turning everyone into cardigan catalogue filler. Man brandishing chainsaw in fetching polo neck. You know the sort.

The next few Mondays, I noted the following changes. Here they are, lifted right out of my Notepad app.

Smiles. Waves. Missing a front tooth.

Skin – appearing translucent.

Smiles, without revealing teeth (none left?). Hand bandaged.

Plump face. Botox?

Facial piercings – all removed. Face looks like centre of a daisy.

Stumbling. Dazed. Confused. Asked him if he accidentally signed up for a drug trial. He did not appear to understand my sense of humour (this wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to me).

Super alert. Almost sprinting down the corridor to tell me he’s going to become “one of those ‘before and after’ photo models.”

Crossed path in corridor. His greasy cheeseburger wrapper scent replaced by something buttery. Creamy. Maybe a wild hint of spice.

No eyebrows. Not even bleached. Just gone. Is she plucking him?

Foot bandaged. Hopscotch.

Meanwhile, the flood of Insta-huns that used to knock down Lauren’s door had become a trickle. I think they must have been put off by the smell. Grease and blood and sick and layers and layers of unsuccessfully masking cherry blossom bleach lavender dilly-dally.

One Monday, he didn’t come back down the corridor at all; hopping, skipping, sliding or otherwise.

Nobody else entered her room that day at all either.

Meanwhile, I had had an influx of messages about an offer to write a piece for a scriptwriter’s journal. I entered the flow state, practically chairbound for four days. Although now we have a better idea of what went on down there, I’m loath to use that phrase. I kept the door closed, save opening it for food deliveries. I needed focus. Writing facts is very different to engaging in lyrical whimsy.

On the fifth day, the baby started screaming again.

On the sixth day, Judith, who as you know lives in the flat below Lauren’s, started screaming.

And shortly after that, you guys turned up asking for verbal and written statements.

That’s my side of the story, anyhow. Straight facts, no whimsy.

I’ve heard things from others in the building though. People are saying he was a prisoner of love, a pawn in Lauren’s megalomaniac game, that he was the baby daddy…that she got the anaesthesia dose wrong and accidentally offed Mr Sans Beard and killed herself out of remorse. That the demon offspring masterminded it all – the prepping and the killing of the victims.

Which at first made me laugh – the ridiculousness of this writhing infant that can’t even hold its head up yet, taking on two full grown adults. But then I remembered something.

I’ll never get the sound out of my head. When I knocked on Lauren’s door after I’d filed my first draft for the big job, after realising there had been about three days of absolute silence. There was no answer to my knock. So I cupped my ear to the door and heard a sort of happy snuffling, gurgling and burping…wet sucking noises…yeah, at that point I thought I was overhearing Lauren and Mr Sans Beard finally getting it on. So I did the polite thing and left them to it.

I took a couple of steps back towards my place and heard something like the sound of a bone snapping. But I convinced myself it was just another creaking floorboard.

I heard the baby was found in his crib, sucking on a thumb. They didn’t say whose.

And to think! – my landlord wouldn’t let me get a dog, saying there’d be too much noise, too much damage, blah blah blah. Once he tries getting all the blood out of that carpet – so much of it that it seeped down to Judith’s flat, dripping onto her bowl of oatmeal – he’ll be wishing it was only a cute little hound that had crapped on it instead.

And dogs are so much better behaved than some people you meet in this world. Wouldn’t you agree?