It’s dusk when I break in. A sign looms above the gate with a drawing of an Alsatian and a camera. I hadn’t noticed that in daylight. My heart pounding, I rattle the wire mesh on the gate, stop and listen for barking. Nothing breaks the silence except the alarm call of thrushes. I pull the hood of my parka down over my face and climb, jamming my toes onto the metal struts. Halfway up, I throw over the holdall, wincing as it lands with a thump on the other side. Someone might have heard that. After a few seconds, I climb some more until the top of the gate is level with my waist. Then I reach into the carrier bag hanging from my shoulder, pull out the pillow and flatten it over the barbed wire. One leg goes over, finds a foothold, then the other, like dismounting a horse. I ease the pillow from the barbs and drop to the ground, crouching in the undergrowth like a rabbit hiding from a fox. Beside me I notice a long gash in the fence held together with bulldog clips. Shit. Why didn’t I check that first?
I flash my torch along the rows of metal storage containers, looking for number 742 and check two rows before I find it. I tap the code into the lock and the door opens with a metallic shriek loud enough to wake the dead. Glancing from side to side, I step inside but daren’t close the door fully in case it won’t open from the inside. I’ve never tried. I could be shut in here for weeks. No one knows I’m here. The smell of my decomposing body would be sealed forever in this metal tomb.
Jesus, I need to lighten up.
From the holdall I take a camping lantern and the container fills with eerie light. Cartons lay strewn at the front and my furniture lies jumbled at the back: the sofa, armchair, bookcase, sideboard, table and chairs. Once, they graced the home I shared with my partner. Now, they remind me of how badly I screwed up. I can’t see a bed. The division of the spoils is a blur but I think Ben took it for his new home. I didn’t have a new home. Still don’t. I have the ingredients of home, but no home.
The sight of my things sparks the shame. Shame eats away at you. It lurks inside you, surfacing when you’re not watchful to stifle your hopes and desires, to burn your cheeks and hollow out your heart, a killer on the prowl.
I calm my ragged breath and clear a path through the cartons to the sofa at the back. I collapse onto it and the familiar smell and feel of the cushions soothes me. I smooth a hand over the fabric and sniff. Not a trace of damp or mould. I clear the table and set the lantern on top, then open the cartons, ripping off the tape like plasters from a wound. Now I wish I’d written the contents on the outside and not randomly shoved everything in, but I’d been desperate to leave. I couldn’t bear Ben’s glares, the heavy sighs, the hushed whispers when he phoned my brother to insist he take me in as if I were an unwanted pet.
I rummage in several cartons before I find what I want: bedding, cushions, a tablecloth and - hurrah! - glasses. I push the cartons to one side and cover them with the tablecloth. I smooth a sheet over the sofa, position the cushions and pillow on one end, and drape a duvet over the top. From the holdall I take the bottle of cider and place next to the glasses on the table. Shit. No bottle opener. Using a strut on a wall of the container, I remove the top and cider fizzes into the glass. Now that’s a useful built-in appliance. I sink into the sofa and pull the duvet over me – it’s surprisingly cold for April. Sipping cider, I open a short story collection by Margaret Atwood that I found in the carton of books and begin a story about a woman displaced. My breathing deepens and then … nothing.
The coo of pigeons wakes me. Where am I? Then I remember. I’m in the container. The crack of light coming from the open door tells me it’s morning. I grope for my phone but it’s dead. The battery in the camping lantern is also dead. I peel myself from the sofa and peek outside. Dawn is breaking. I need to be gone before Frank, the manager of Pack Up, arrives on site.
I dress in a pair of thick leggings and a long jumper and pull on my parka. Into the backpack go my make-up bag, hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste. All set. I ease the door open, step down into dewy grass, glancing around before closing the door. Desperate for a pee, I go in the bushes beside the gate. Then I undo the bulldog clips on the fence and squeeze through. Re-entry to the world and all its pitfalls accomplished. I did it.
For the first time in ages, I didn’t have to rely on the kindness of others, sofa surfing in a succession of other people’s homes. I’m a functioning human again. I chuckle. Spending the night in a storage container made me feel normal. Jesus.
*
I’m the first to arrive at the nursery. I wash in the staff toilets, charge my phone and make myself coffee before preparing the day’s activities. Usually, the under-fives suck the life from me like tiny, cute vampires. Today, I smile through their squabbles, wobbly teeth and weewee accidents. I cut up fruit at breaktime, organise groups to make Day-Glo handprints, prevent lethal accidents on the outdoor play apparatus, read them The Gruffalo, and supervise lunch squatting on a miniature chair, forking my own portion of shepherd’s pie. I don’t work afternoons. They can only afford a part-time assistant.
After work, I shop for lantern batteries and oil to lubricate the door. With three hours to kill before Frank leaves the site, I head to the library. I settle at my usual seat, login to the computer and check my emails. I read that my application for Universal Credit is still pending. I search in vain for a better paid job and a room I can afford. Disheartened, I pick up some chow Mein and a cheap bottle of wine for supper and head home. Or rather, back to my container.
*
Bang! I wake with a start. Have I overslept? Is Frank back on site? I shut the door after I oiled it and checked it could open from the inside but now I can’t tell if it’s light outside. I grapple for my phone and see it’s only midnight. Another bang. I pull on my parka, open the door and peek outside. A rhomboid of light spills from the open door of a container opposite. Silhouetted in the light, a cat jumps down and pads off. Intrigued, I creep towards the container. My torch illuminates ‘573’. Something strokes my ankle. I yelp. The cat miaows and the door flies open and hits me on the chest.
‘Oh!’ The figure in the doorway bends down to pick up the cat. ‘Hello,’ she says as if it’s quite normal to meet someone lurking outside a container in the middle of the night. Inside, I glimpse a red sofa, pictures on the walls, a table covered in a flowery cloth and candles in a silver candelabra. It looks like a Homes and Gardens photo shoot in a Miss Haversham sort of way.
‘Hi. I’m Kate. I heard a bang. Came to investigate.’
‘Sorry about that. Miss Moppet was scratching at the door. Had to let her out. Would you like to come in?’
Astounded, I mumble, ‘Err …yes, thank you.’
‘I’m Sadie by the way. Would you like a cup of tea? Kettle’s about to boil. Have a seat.’
Sadie, long blonde hair and dressed in a pink velvet robe, gestures to a comfy chair. I sit and Miss Moppet jumps onto my lap.
‘Oh,’ she exclaims. ‘He doesn’t usually like people. He’s been a bit unnerved since our move.’
‘He?’
‘I named him before I knew how to sex a cat.’
My mind boggles. The kettle rattles on a camping stove perched on a shelving unit where crockery and pans have been stacked. A washing up bowl and a pile of folded towels sits on a cabinet next to a flagon of water. The bathroom? The rug on the floor is a nice touch; I must find mine. Or did Ben get it?
The kettle whistles and Sadie pours water into cups. ‘I haven’t seen you before,’ she says. ‘Milk?’
I shake my head. ‘This is only my second night.’
She hands me a cup with “Keep Calm and Carry On” written on it.
‘I’ve been here sixty-three days,’ she says with a rueful smile.
‘Wow! That’s -’
‘Awful. Yes, I know.’
I’m about to say it’s not awful at all but Sadie crosses her legs and continues. ‘I have no choice. I was stood up at the altar. All this…’ she gestures around her, ‘is furniture we’d bought for our new flat. I couldn’t afford to pay the rent on my own. I looked for a cheaper place but was always outbid by others offering way over the asking price. I found a studio I could afford but the landlord refused to take Miss Moppet. Loads of Airbnb flats, of course. Crazy money.’
‘Tell me about it. I work mornings and can only view rooms in the afternoon and by then they’ve been snapped up. I’ve been living in my niece’s bedroom. Had to vacate when she came back from uni.’
‘Oh? Why were you staying there?’
Maybe it’s because she opened up to me or that she’s a container dweller too, but I start to talk. ‘I was made redundant from my teaching job. A level Art. But couldn’t find another job. Long story short … I started gambling. Online. My boyfriend kicked me out after I emptied our joint savings account. The money was for a mortgage down payment. I was intending to pay it back but ...’ I can’t finish. Try to swallow the shame.
‘Ouch,’ says Sadie, ‘I take it you didn’t win.’
‘I did at first. That’s how they suck you in. It was exhilarating … distracting. Money for nothing was a huge pull.’
‘Do you still gamble?’
‘I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m broke and in this weird addiction programme. The sex addicts hit on me and the alcoholics ask me down the pub. I’m not sure how committed they are.’
Sadie giggles.
‘Do you miss it?’
‘No. Now when I think of gambling I feel sick. Anxious.’ I feel my cheeks reddening with shame. I’ve said too much. I can’t believe how I blurted it out.
‘Well, no one’s dead, as my grandpa used to say. And technically it’s not stealing because you intended to pay it back. You are not a bad person. If you were, Miss Moppet would not be on your lap right now.’
It’s a relief to laugh.
‘Everything we’ve done, the mistakes we’ve made, they seemed like a good idea at the time. We can’t blame ourselves,’ Sadie says.
‘But you didn’t make a mistake,’ I point out.
‘I slept with an old boyfriend the night before the wedding and he told my fiancé.’
‘Oh. That’ll do it.’
‘Ruined my career too. I was a wedding planner.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Listen to us gabbing about our woes! That’s the beauty of living in a storage facility – you realise you’re not the only one with troubles. There are others, you know.’
‘Others?’
‘Other people living here.’
‘Really? How many?’ I ask when I’ve recovered my wits.
‘They come and go. Not sure exactly. We’re all on the move in the mornings. I don’t know how you’ve missed them.’
‘Where do you … I mean how do you…?’
‘The loos are next to reception. There’s a grubby shower cubicle too but I go to the swimming baths every other day.’
I finish my tea and head back to number 742. I illuminate the lantern and look around. It already feels like home and now I have neighbours. Lying in the dark, cosy under my duvet, I remember what Sadie said - you are not a bad person. But it’s not true.
Next morning at first light, I dress and walk to the toilets. Doors screech open and bang shut as I pass. The others, hoods up, heads down, are making for the gap in the fence. Does Frank know what’s going on? Does he turn a blind eye? When I paid a month in advance for my container and begged for a smaller, cheaper one, he led me to a four-floor warehouse containing corridor upon corridor of wooden lockups.
‘Some of these haven’t been opened in fifty years,’ he told me in his Bristol burr. ‘Divorcees, mainly. People stash their stuff here, downsize and have nowhere to put it. The mess people make of their lives. I’ve seen men break down in tears when they open the door … a reminder of what they once had. Some people never return – they can’t face the sight of their belongings.’
The building is a cathedral to regrets.
*
‘We need a plan,’ I say to Sadie the following week over an Indian take-away in my container. I won’t cook in here like she does. It’s a fire risk. The wooden lockups in the huge warehouse must be heaving with ancient, non-flame-retardant furniture.
Sadie has spent the last week viewing flats we could share but was always outbid by other buyers. I fear we will join the ranks of the fifty yearers.
*
One night, I’m dozing off when I’m jolted awake by a shout. I sniff. Is that smoke? A pattering sound comes from the roof. I’m already dressed but pull on my parka in case it’s raining. When I open the door smoke sweeps in, startling me with its acrid stench. I slam it shut it but smoke snakes under the door.
Fire.
Fear charges through me. The container is metal and won’t burn but people die from smoke inhalation, don’t they? My eyes smart. My vision blurs. I’m too afraid to open the door. Think, Kate, think. I seize the water bottle and slosh the contents over a cushion because I’ve seen people do it in films. I shrug on my backpack and stand at the door, my hand hovering over the handle for what seems ages. I open it.
The towering flames terrify me. The warehouse is a fiery cathedral blocking out the sky. The heat hits me even though it’s fifty metres away. Smoke sears my lungs. I press the cushion harder to my face and follow the others running towards the fence. Some are trying to climb the gate, others are jostling to get through the gap in the fence. Do all these people live here?
‘Has anyone seen Sadie?’ I shout and a few faces turn towards me shaking their heads or shouting no. I call her name, my voice competing with the roar of the fire. A crack sounds as a section of the warehouse collapses and crashes to the ground. I run back to Sadie’s container and try the door. Locked. I bang with my fists and yell her name, shocked by the heat of the metal. The smoke may have seeped in and asphyxiated her. Bending over, I retch.
I hear coughing from inside. Feel Miss Moppet rubbing against my leg.
‘Sadie! Soak a cushion in water and come out!’ I yell.
She stumbles out and we run towards the fence, swatting the fiery ashes raining down on our heads. Everyone is long gone and we squeeze through the gap. A siren sounds and we skulk in the bushes waiting for a fire engine to pass.
‘So many people,’ I say, my voice hoarse.
Sadie tells me she took a knock-out pill as she hadn’t been sleeping. ‘If you hadn’t hammered on my door …’
I brush it off, but it makes me think. Ben accused me of being selfish. Rightly so. I never gave a thought to how my gambling would affect him or my brother. Minutes ago, my fear of the fire almost overcame me. My first reaction was to save myself. Survival instinct. But another force sent me back for Sadie.
All morning, I read picture books with the kids but all I see is the burning warehouse. For sure, nothing inside survived. What caused the fire? Was it the fault of one of the squatters? Had someone started it, accidentally or on purpose? Had it reached my container? Had my stuff been destroyed? The last thought doesn’t bother me much. I remember what Frank said about people not wanting to face their belongings. Now we won’t have to.
After work, I head to the library. We can’t stay at Pack Up now. If Frank was turning a blind eye, he can’t do that now. I run an internet search for ‘homeless’ and an advertisement with photos of containers jumps out at me. They look identical to ours but are painted blue and yellow and have windows and floor-to-ceiling doors leading to balconies.
‘Containers for the Homeless,’ reads the caption.
The white painted interiors contain a tiny, fitted kitchen, a shower, a bedroom and seating area. They look like proper homes. They’re available for students and those on universal credit.
My hand shaking, I phone the number. Maybe, just maybe... While I wait for someone to pick up, I feel something other than shame.
Hope.
I bet they take cats too.
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