Lockdown on London Lane
Beth Reekles
This one’s for the Cactus Updates crew. From PowerPoint nights about rom-com meet-cutes to Christmassy murder mysteries, it was fun “not” hanging out with you. Thanks for helping to get me through lockdown.
Sunday
URGENT!!!!!!!
DO NOT IGNORE THIS MESSAGE
NOTICE TO ALL RESIDENTS OF LONDON LANE, APARTMENT BUILDING C
Dear Resident,
As you will be aware from our previous missives on the subject, due to the current situation in which we are potentially facing a global pandemic due to a highly contagious virus, building management has made the decision to impose a seven-day quarantine on any apartment building in London Lane where a resident is found to have the virus.*
Unfortunately, someone in BUILDING C has tested positive.
BUILDING C is now in a seven-day lockdown. Please remain calm, remain safe, and wash your hands regularly. We ask that you avoid use of the elevators except for emergencies and avoid contact with other residents. Most importantly, please remain in your apartment.
Have a good week!
With kind regards,
The London Lane Building Management Team
*PLEASE NOTE: If you think you have contracted the virus, you are to inform your building’s caretaker immediately. If you do not fol ow instructions, management reserves the right to serve notice of eviction to any tenant or to impose significant fines for breach of contract. Your caretaker for BUILDING C is MR. ROWAN HARRIS.
APARTMENT #14 – IMOGEN
Chapter One
It’s starting to get light out; the venetian blinds are a pale-gray color that does nothing to keep the sunshine away. The entire window seems to glow, and pale shadows fall across the rest of the room, obscuring the organized cluster of hair products and cologne on the dresser, playing tricks on the hoodie hanging in front of the wardrobe doors. There’s a knee digging into my thigh. I rub a hand over my face, feeling last night’s mascara congealing around the edges of my eyes, and start to peel myself out of the bed, hissing when I discover an arm is pinning down my hair. I bunch it up into a ponytail, slowly, to ease it free inch by inch.
The mattress creaks when I sit up, but—Nigel? I want to say Nigel—snorts in his sleep, still totally out of it, oblivious to my being in his bed.
I glance over my shoulder at him.
Still cuter than his profile picture, even with a line of drool down his chin.
“This has been fun,” I whisper, even though he’s fast asleep. I blow him a kiss and creep across the bedroom to silently wriggle into my jeans. I look down at the T-shirt of his I borrowed to sleep in. It’s a Ramones shirt, and it feels genuinely vintage, not just some ten-pound H&M version. Actually, it’s really goddamn comfortable.
And cute, I think, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror leaning against the far wall. Oversized, but not in a way that makes me look like a little kid playing dress-up. I tuck it into the front of my jeans, admiring the effect.
Oh yeah, that’s cute.
Sorry, Neil—Neil? Maybe that’s it—this shirt is mine now.
My long brown hair, on the other hand, looks kind of scraggly and definitely not cute. Yesterday evening’s curls have dropped out, leaving it limp, full of kinks, and looking pretty sorry for itself. I run my fingers through it, but give up. Hey, at least the smeared mascara is giving me some grunge vibes that totally match the Ramones shirt.
Collecting my own T-shirt and bra from the bedroom floor, I tiptoe into the open-plan living/dining room. Where’d I leave my bag?
Wasn’t it—a-ha, there it is! And my coat too. I stuff my clothes into my bag, then look around for my shoes.
Come on, Imogen, think, they’ve got to be around here somewhere. I can’t have lost them. I wasn’t even drunk last night! Where did I leave my damn shoes?
Oh my God, no. I remember. He made me leave them outside, saying they looked muddy. Like it was my fault it rained last night and the pathway up to the apartment block was covered in mud from the flower beds. And I joked that they were Prada and if someone stole them this had better be worth it, even though I’d only bought them on sale from Zara.
I do a final sweep just to make sure I’ve got everything. Phone—check. House key—yep, in my bag.
I hesitate, then do a quick dash back to the tiny two-seater dining table near the living-room door to nab a slice of leftover pepperoni pizza from our delivery late yesterday evening.
Breakfast of champions.
I step over some junk mail as I sneak out of the front door. It can’t be much later than seven o’clock. Who the hell delivers junk mail that early in the morning? Who is that dedicated?
My shoes are exactly where I left them.
And, all right, in fairness, they do look like I trekked through a farmyard. I really can’t blame him for making me take them off outside the apartment. I’m going to have to clean them up when I get home.
I hold the slice of pizza between my teeth as I wriggle my feet into them—and ew, they’re soggy—and then I slip my coat on.
Okay, good to go!
I skip down the stairs to the ground floor, munching on my pizza and already on the Uber app to get myself a car home. These shoes are cute, but not really made for a walk of shame.
“Excuse me, miss?”
Despite there being nobody else around, I don’t realize the voice is directed at me until it says, “Hey you, Ramones!”
When I turn around, I find a tired, stressed-looking guy with a handful of leaflets. Mr. Junk Mail, I’m assuming. He’s wearing a blue surgical mask over his mouth and ugly brown slippers.
“Thanks, mate, but I’m not interested,” I tell him, and make for the door.
Except when I push it open, it . . . doesn’t.
I grab the big steel handle and yank, and push, and rattle, but the door stays firmly locked.
What the fuck?
Oh my God, this is how I die. A one-night stand and a serial killer peddling leaflets. Please, please don’t let anybody put that as cause of death on my gravestone.
“Miss, you can’t leave,” the man tells me wearily. “Didn’t you get the note?”
“What note? What are you talking about?”
I turn to him, my phone clutched in my hand. Should I call the police? My mum? The Uber driver?
The man sighs, exasperated, stepping toward me, but still maintaining a good distance. Like me, there’s a rumpled look about him, but he looks more like he rushed out of the house this morning, not like he’s just heading home. There’s a huge ring of keys hanging from his belt. Then I clock the white latex gloves he’s wearing and get a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“We got a confirmed case from one of the residents. The whole building’s on lockdown. That door doesn’t open except for medical needs and food deliveries.”
I stare at him, all too aware that my mouth is hanging open. After a while, he shrugs in that What can you do? kind of way.
It’s a joke, I realize.
It’s got to be a joke.