Uninvited by Richard HouseLeadtext: Ian roamed compulsively about the house packing and cleaning, throwing away plates and cups that he could not wash as the water was still disconnected. What little he owned, some clothes and books, were already safely stored at Gordon's, as eviction had seemed imminent.Not wanting to sleep, he swept through the house a second time. One week or one month, he thought, the effort was worth-while; the house was cramped with the crud and sediment of seven years of squatting, and the rooms needed clearing if the house was to become his. It would be the first time that he had lived alone. He started slowly, dragging sodden boxes of clothes down into the yard intending to burn them, and once he had begun he became engrossed, and while he worked he imagined that he had company, a man who would follow him about the house, wandering with him from room to room.Ian worked through the night, throwing out busted mattresses, mismatched chairs, milk-crates, three-bar heaters, letters and diaries, unfinished paintings, and uneven stacks of crockery with stains blossoming under the glaze. Hidden in drawers, cupboards, and sideboards were an endless number of keepsakes whose purpose and meaning had long since gone. In a suitcase under the stairs he found an envelope marked 'Noxley, 97'; inside was a hank of auburn hair, a small silver figurine of a fat reclining man for a charm-bracelet, and a cat's collar. He slipped the charm into his pocket.As Ian could not comfortably lift or carry with both arms, he jostled, hoisted, and shouldered the larger pieces, using a length of carpet to drag smaller objects along the landing, which he shoved and shunted down the stairs. He kept nothing. The night passed slowly, and each time Ian walked into the yard he imagined that his companion would wait by the door, keeping inside, as if he also were a part of the house.Eddie had left a box in the kitchen containing newspaper cuttings, letters from the council, and minutes from meetings, which she had underscored and circled and written notes on. Eddie had lived at the terrace for a full two years, and had organised meetings and discussions with Lewisham Council, ever hopeful of turning the terrace into a legal and registered housing co-op, a plan that had fallen foul of larger developments and schemes. Once the football grounds had closed and a Sainsbury's had been built on the site, it had seemed inevitable that the council would reclaim the street, although a limited tenancy had been agreed. Ian read through the papers, unable to see what Eddie had kept faith with; none of the letters contained any suggestion that Hopewell would become legal, and the language was often threatening. With little resistance, the original student-squatters that Eddie had arrived with had moved to more secure premises, a low-rise off Commercial Road in East London, leaving Eddie responsible for the seven houses at Hopewell and a new and less settled or reliable body of squatters. The new squatters, mostly travellers with their dogs and painted vans, were a more fractured group, and they had occupied all but one of the houses. Included with the papers was a report which listed damage done to number 2 Hopewell Terrace; an open fire in the front-room had destroyed a hard-wood floor and the plaster ceiling, and any possibility that the houses could become official had vanished. Closing the box, Ian took it out to the yard. He had no idea what to do with everything he had dumped outside, there was too much to burn and he didn't want to give the builders any ideas that the house was now vacant. The sides of his shoes were wet. It had not been raining but the night was damp, dew condensed on the grass verge and he could smell the sweet urinous odour of foxes. Ian looked back at the house, unfocused, and tried to picture the companion that he had invented, and in the chill of the morning he wrapped his arm about his shoulder knowing that the idea was foolish, but that it comforted him. The face that came easiest, the body that seemed most welcoming, was the police officer, Neil Sutcliffe. It was, he thought, a good conceit that the officer who was possibly keeping him under surveillance would be watching him with more affectionate intentions. Besides, what would it be like to shag a police officer, especially one as robust as Sutcliffe? It was easy to imagine them struggling together. It was improbable, he thought, but not impossible. At the hospital Malc had called Sutcliffe a queer.Ian preferred the house empty. It was odd at first to walk into a room and find it bare. The kitchen, the front-room, Eddie's room, the closet under the stairs, the airing cupboard on the upstairs landing, the room he had shared with Gordon, were now simply and entirely empty. Excerpted from Uninvited by Richard House All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
