For the record, I’d never wanted to view that dingy, mould-infested room on the 16th floor of Sheridan Towers, but as time was running out, and the workload at my new job was increasing, I needed to make the jump. Having seen the advert— a dodgy-looking slice of the wild west website that was now Craigslist, and realising that my choices were really limited, I reached out to the landlord (or in this case landlady) Roxanne, who confirmed a viewing for the 14th at 11 am.True to my word, on the agreed date, I made my way across London, taking three buses and a tram (which I’d never even existed, let alone had taken), making my way towards my potentially new abode. A winter wash of drizzle began cascading down across the landscape, and as the city began to vanish, and suburbia began, I wiped the cracked screen of my phone, full of anticipation, walking onwards towards the colossus that was the Scarborough Estate. Out of nowhere, I began to feel danger in the air— smashed-in and burned-out cars began to fleck the narrow streets, hooded youths began to appear like spectres, cruising by on stolen BMXs and most intimidating of all was the collection of tower blocks that loomed high in the depressing sky, making up the entirety of the estate. For as far as the eye could see, concrete high-rises sprung from the ground, miniature rectangular estates woven between them like brutalist fences, keeping the alienness of outsiders out. Walking up towards what my phone told me to be the entrance to Sheridan Towers, I tried to ignore the blue and white police çankaya escort tape that fenced off a descending concrete staircase, stained with something red, in scattered splotches, that given the rainfall, was indeed stubborn. I rang the button marked with the number 53 on the silver interface. No response. Again, I held down the button for a good ten seconds.“Ello?” a high-pitched, female voice cackled.“It’s Daryl. The guy from Craigslist”, I said, shouting over the rain as it rose to a shower. “I’m here about the room.” It could have been my imagination, but I could have sworn I heard her mutter for fucks sake under her breath.Buzzing me into the building, I navigated the pink and teal tiles to the elevator, confining myself to the pissy steel box, as it took me high into the sky. By the time I got to the front door, I was certain that there was no fucking way I could live here. Just no way. I knocked on the weathered, maroon door. The sound of knackered slippers against cheap laminate floor got louder, as finally, Roxanne opened the door. She was young— no more than early twenties, with pale skin that made her look sick. Mousey brown hair sat on her oblong face, which was either greasy or wet: it was hard to tell at a first glance. Her cheeks were flecked with the aftermath of teenage acne which had refused to go away, ending at a stubbornly protruding chin, centered by the silver ball of a piercing: a remnant of younger rebellious years. She redressed the fluffy white bathrobe keçiören escort which covered her body, flashing her knickers at me in a split-second, before they disappeared once more.“Yeah?” she asked with a sneer. “What the fuck you after?” Scowling, she lit the cigarette propped between her lips and exhaled.“I’ve come about the room,” I said, feeling myself getting annoyed. I looked back towards the lift and a crowd of teenage boys, donning what looked like balaclavas, had gathered, watching me intently. “Daryl. It’s 11 am, ain’t it?” She looked at me blankly for the best of a minute until realising what was going on.“Oh fuck— yeah that. Oh fuck– yeah. The room”. Taking a long drag, she reached behind herself, removing what I assumed was the wedgie of thin cotton from between her arse cheeks. “Well you’d better come in I guess”, she said, inviting me into the lightless flat. I shut the door and followed her. She laughed to herself.“Why you laughin’?” I asked.“I thought you were here to buy some gear. Some Speed… yeah. Or some Charlie. You look the sort.” I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, so I didn’t bother challenging it, let alone process the fact that my twenty-odd-year-old landlady was potentially a class-A dealer. In any case, the state of the flat— the outdated wallpaper, furniture and mound of dirty dishes in the sink as we passed the kitchen, were all enough to control my attention.“I get that all the time,” I said to her, lying for ease of conversation, etimesgut escort as she led me to the last room on the right. Stepping in my potential bedroom, she walked over towards what was revealed to be a balcony, pulling apart a pair of velvet curtains, to let in the little amount of light that the silver sky would allow. Even with the meagre daylight, there was no doubt that it was a shit hole. Mould speckled the ceiling, like an incessant alien disease. The bed, although a double, looked as though it was one sleep away from collapsing. There were two bowls of what looked like uneaten cereal festering on the floor, by a long-dead houseplant, a collection of battered and scuffed shoes and three black bags. Fuck my life, I muttered to myself.“Well. This is the room”, Roxanne began, avoiding eye contact, as she tugged at her wedgie again. “It’s four hundred per month, plus bills. No cigarette smoking allowed, but weed is fine. No cooking, no parties and no pets.”“Wait— no cooking? You what?” I asked, dumbfounded. Turning to her, her dainty eyes were fixed on my face as if she’d seen it for the first time. She smiled a little— a stingy widening of her mouth and face, that merged into something wide and excitable. Licking her lips, she ashed her cigarette into a scallop shell on the black, dusty side table, and leant against the wall, seductively.“Got a girlfriend?” Roxanne asked me, with genuine curiosity in her voice.“Nah,” I said, surveying the godforsaken room with disgust. “Single. Two years now.”“You gay?”“You what?!”“Lots of guys, are nowadays ya know? On the down low, like. It’s OK if you are you know? It’s just— single. For two years? It’s a long time.” I squinted at her, feeling my pulse rising in anger.“Whatever,” I replied, sarcastically. Her face shrunk a bit. I heard my watch beep twice, signifying the time— the perfect cue to make tracks, and never look back.