217 Babel Street | Lobby
Damien raced down the stairs, two at a time. He was on top of the world. No work today and he had things to do. First, a haircut, then some new clothes.
The caretaker was hanging round the mail boxes again. He paused a moment to watch, but she heard him and turned.
"Oh, it's you." Her face was pink. Damien wondered what exactly she'd been up to.
"Hello."
"Not on your bike?" With her lazy eye looking way past him and her nylon clothes clinging to her skin, she reminded Damien of his old primary school teacher, the cruel Mrs Dent.
She looked at Damien in a peculiar, intense way, as though she wanted something from him.
"Not today."
"Well, I need to have a word about that."
She stepped closer. Damien breathed floor polish, oddly nostalgic. But why did he feel scared?
"Uh - is there a problem with it?"
"It's the mud."
"Oh."
She seemed to be smiling, almost. Or was it a scowl?
"I'm the one who has to do clean it up."
"I'm sorry. I hadn't even realised. It won't happen again."
"It had better not."
"Really, it won't."
"Or I'll give you a mop and bucket and you can clean it up yourself."
Was she teasing or did she mean it?
"Please -"
"I'm watching you." Her good eye pierced and skewered him. Mrs Dent - no! Gillis - turned and walked off.
Damien trembled. He felt small, bewildered, and strangely aroused.