Part 2
Anna tapped in the code for the main door to her block of flats, and walked straight past the stench of urine emanating from the lift. She powered up the six flights of stairs with ease, and let herself into the hallway of the flat. It was quiet and tidy within, with few belongings cluttering up the space. It was only small, a studio flat if you will, but to have the place to herself was an unprecedented luxury, that would have made many families crammed into a communal flat cry out with the injustice of it all. Officially, she, the resident, was a Mr. Anatolii Pavlovich Vyazyemskii, a Russian academic making a study at the university. What the authorities did not know was that Anatolii Pavlovich had in fact been a Mr. Timothy Walters, an English demonology expert, certainly academic, but most definitely not Russian. What the authorities knew even less about was that he was ‘The Resident’, whoever he was, was very, very dead. And as long as she could keep these ‘authorities in ignorance and her watcher in the ground, this flat was all hers.She hung her coat up neatly, removed her outdoor shoes, and padded across to the cooking unit. The linoleum was peeling at the edges, and there was little food in evidence in the place, but once again it was clean and sparse. She lit the gas stove, sending a whiff of carbon monoxide into the air, and placed an old battered kettle to heat for some tea.
She sat down at the tiny table, barely enough room for two, which was unimportant, as she only possessed one chair. This chair was rackety, and threatened to disassemble itself at any moment, although it was not old, just badly made. She leant her head in her hands, tired after being out all night. Her hair lay limp as she unplaited it, distractedly. The kettle whistled loudly in an inattentive manner, and she stood to make herself the steaming beverage, reusing the teabag for the umpteenth time.
She retreated with the chipped cup to the bed, where she gulped the scalding liquid in hurried mouthfuls. Along the wall near the door was the neglected wardrobe, by the outside wall, the bed, pushed up close to the tiny radiator for the winter months. The only other notable contents of the room were a tiny bookcase with frayed and dusty volumes in obscure languages she couldn’t even identify, and an untasteful and worn rug on the unpolished floor.
She deposited the cup on the table, and collapsed onto the bed, falling into needy sleep, dreamlessly oblivious to the ever-awaiting world.
