The End of the World

CHAPTER THREE



Mrs. Anna



It seemed to be exactly the kind of place I’d been looking for – cheap. I rang the doorbell and waited patiently for someone to answer. However, presumably as a result of the stress and shock from my run-in with the gunman, I must have blacked out temporarily, because the next thing I knew I was already inside. In the kitchen, to be precise.

It was drab but reasonably clean and orderly-looking, with a large table and chairs occupying the middle of the room. The place had clearly seen better days. I noticed paint peeling off some of the walls, signs of water damage on the ceiling, and I could hear the sound of a tap dripping somewhere, though at oddly irregular intervals. The premises were owned and operated by a robust and rather gloomy-looking woman named Mrs. Anna, who also appeared to have seen better days. She was leaning against the doorway, arms folded and with a dour expression on her face, informing me of the house rules. She spoke in an accent that was curiously indefinable but at times suggestive of being Scandinavian in origin. Her haunted expression notwithstanding, I found her to be quite fair and agreeable.

“Rent’s due every Friday by 7:00pm at the latest, no excuses. If you have excuses, you can relay them to me as you’re walking out the door with your bags. A traditional English breakfast is served every morning, Monday through Friday, at 7:30am sharp. It will consist of – though by no means restricted to, and subject to change: bacon, scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, sausages – when in season–”

“In season?” I queried, to no effect.

“Toast, marmalade, a variety of jams – country of origin not specified due to international sanctions – tea, freshly squeezed orange juice or artificial substitute – which in some cases may induce headaches, nausea, stomach cramps, or intestinal bleeding, and should be followed up by a consultation with your primary caregiver – and, last but not least, a bottomless coffee pot.”

“Bottomless?”

“Yes. It’s our hook. It’s what sets us apart,” she said, with just a hint of pride.

“But surely that defies the laws of physics?”

“Not if you pay your rent on time.”

“Yes,” I replied, duly cautioned.

“I don’t care what you do behind the closed doors of your room because it’s none of my business. Practice whatever religion makes you feel more complete and comfortable in your skin, and have sexual relations with whomever or whatever satiates your desires. I do, however, draw the line at white supremacy rituals, cults that involve human or animal sacrifice, kiddie porn, the importing of sex slaves from Eastern Europe and the Philippines, and unhygienic personal habits that could endanger the health and well-being of your fellow residents.”

“Yes, that, um…that seems quite fair and agreeable.”

Just then the sound of someone emitting a large sigh of satisfaction echoed loudly around the house. Somewhat startled, I looked to Mrs. Anna for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.

“I’ve had allsorts here over the years – every type, shape, colour you could possibly imagine – and they’ve all been welcome. But I won’t stand for any nonsense. This is The End of the World. If this isn’t good enough then you shouldn’t be here.”

“No, I…I think this is very suited to my needs at this particular juncture in my life. Thank you very much, Mrs. Anna.”

“Very good, then,” she said, before holding her outstretched palm in my direction. “Two weeks rent in advance.”

“Two weeks! But that’s…that’s almost all I–”

“That’s the rules. House rules. If you don’t want to play by them you can go it alone.”

I reached into my pocket for my wallet, hoping it was still there after my bungled mugging. It was. I was relieved but also acutely aware that my finances were already meager, and that having to pay for two weeks rent in advance would almost wipe me out.

“No, no, I just…it just that that’s…that’s almost all I have,” I wheedled.

“That’s life,” she snapped back.

“Yes…yes, of course, here’s my…” I pulled out almost everything I had and offered it to her. “Here, take it.”

Mrs. Anna snatched the money from my hand and began counting it. “Very well, then,” she said. “You’re in room 12c, up the stairs on the right. But you can take that short-changed expression off your face. This place is cheap – that’s why you’re here. If you expected something for nothing you were mistaken. Everything has a price.”

I sat down at one of the chairs, feeling somewhat dejected. True, I’d secured room and board for my immediate future, and Mrs. Anna, despite her terse manner, seemed like someone solid and reputable that I could trust and feel protected by in way – like a father figure, if you will. But still.

“Yes…yes, thank you,” I muttered, as appreciatively as I could.

Mrs. Anna nodded at me stiffly and stuffed the money into a small pocket in the waist of her grubby-looking apron. She turned to leave and was almost through the door, when she suddenly stopped and turned, fixing me with a cold glare from her tired eyes.

“One more thing,” she said.

“Yes?” I replied, imagining it to be another of her eclectic house rules that she’d forgotten to mention the first time around.

“Now that you’re here – and for what it’s worth – welcome to The End of the World.”

With that she turned and left, closing the kitchen door behind her – a little too loudly and forcefully than was necessary in my opinion, but it was her door and her house, so I would just have to adapt.

I sat there for a moment, collecting my thoughts, and surveyed the scene around me a little closer. Neglect was one of the first words that sprang to mind. Clearly, this enterprise hadn’t been inspected and approved for many a moon. It was quite apparent that none of the cash flow, such as it could be, went into the upkeep of the business. Just as I was beginning to toy with the idea that Mrs. Anna might not, in fact, be the morally upright role model I’d initially imagined her to be, but instead something of a slumlord – or lady – I was suddenly disturbed by the sound of something scuttling across the floor, right next to my feet. I looked down, ready to be repulsed, but saw nothing. Whatever it was had come and gone before my senses even had a chance to get a bearing on it. I decided it was high time that I retired for the evening.

I recalled that Mrs. Anna had instructed me to climb the stairs and turn to the right. The only problem was, when I reached the top of the stairs the only option was to turn left, as to the right there was only a wall. So left I headed, looking for my new temporary home – room 12c.

The hallway was dimly lit and had a faint odour of something that smelled like a mixture of potato peelings and raw meat. I peered at the numbers on the doors in the half-light trying not to make any noise, but the floor beneath me creaked with every step, and unless my ears were deceiving me, I heard a gentle “Shhh” whispered as I passed each door. My task was not made any easier by the fact that the doors were not numbered sequentially, the first door being numbered 3a, but the one right next to it claiming to be 17b. No matter, I continued on up the hallway, which seemed at times to be endless. I was about to give up, imagining I’d misheard Mrs. Anna’s instructions, when I noticed one last door at what appeared to be the very end of the hall. In the dimness I strained to make out the numbers on the door, which appeared longer than the others. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that it read simply ‘12 – see?’

I gently pushed open the door, half expecting to hear an ominous creaking sound like the ones in horror movies as I did so. Instead it made no noise at all, but was accompanied by another whispered “Shhh,” which made me jump a little. The room was very dark, but I could just make out a bed near the window, on the far side of the room. I groped around the wall in search of a light switch, but to no avail, so I decided to just aim for the bed and fall asleep as fast as possible. As I got closer, though, there appeared to be the shape of someone already lying in the bed. I froze. Had I got the wrong room after all? Perhaps there was a 12 – see? and a 12c, the latter being located in a separate area of the house. I looked back at the bed again, but this time there was no shape of any figure lying inside it, just a flat, neatly made bed. I breathed a sigh of relief and climbed in between the sheets immediately, fully-clothed in case I should have cause to leave in a hurry.

I closed my eyes and tried very hard to concentrate on bright happy thoughts to fill my mind with as I slipped into sleep. Unfortunately, my attempts to summon bunny rabbits and fields of daisies were beaten back by images of firearms, dark, empty streets, my mother’s head bobbing up and down in my father’s lap, and, for some unknown reason, the face of former U.S. figure skating champion Michelle Kwan. Just as I was about to give up and return to the kitchen in search of a cup of cocoa, I suddenly felt my mind getting hazy, my thoughts more laboured, my grip on consciousness ever…weaker…and…and…