The Cleaner

The owner caught his glance? “You want?”

He paused, and almost wavered. 692 days, he reminded himself. 692 going on 693.

He needed a meeting badly.

“No, just those, please.”

Milton paid and returned to the maisonette. He unlocked the doors and scraped the security door against the concrete lintel as he yanked it aside. It didn’t take long to establish himself. He unpacked in the larger of the two bedrooms, hanging the clothes in a wardrobe made of flimsy sheets of MDF. He spread his sleeping bag out across the lumpy mattress, went downstairs to the kitchen and took out the mop and bucket he found in a small cupboard. He filled the bucket with hot water, added detergent, and started to attack the layers of grease that had stratified across the cheap linoleum floor.

It took Milton six hours to clean the house and, even then, he had only really scratched the surface. The kitchen was presentable: the floor was clean, the fridge and oven had been scoured to remove the encrusted stains, the utensils, crockery and surfaces were scrubbed until the long-neglected dirt had been ameliorated. There were mouse droppings scattered all about but, save clearing them away, there was nothing that Milton could do about that. He moved onto the bathroom, spending an hour scrubbing the toilet, the sink and the bath and washing the floor. When he was finally finished he undressed and stood beneath the shower, washing in its meagre stream of warm water until he felt clean. He put on a fresh t-shirt and jeans, took his leather jacket from where he had hung it over the banister, went outside and locked the door behind him. He set off for the main road.

He took out his phone and opened the bookmarked page on his internet browser. He double-tapped an icon and his mapping application opened. His destination was a three-mile walk away. He had an hour before the meeting, and it was a hot evening. He decided that rather than take the bus, he would walk.

St Mary Magdalene church was on the left-hand side of the road, set back behind a low brick wall, well-trimmed topiary and a narrow fringe of grass studded with lichen-covered gravestones from a hundred years ago. A sign had been tied to the railings: two capital As, set inside a blue triangle that was itself set within a blue circle. An arrow pointed towards the church. Milton felt a disconcerting moment of doubt and paused by the gate to adjust the lace of his shoe. He looked up and down the street, satisfying himself that he was not observed. He knew the consequences for being seen in a place like this would be draconian and swift; suspension would be immediate, the termination of his employment would follow soon after, and there was the likelihood of prosecution. He was ready to leave the service, but on his own terms, and not like that.

He passed through the open gate and followed a gravel path around the side of the building, descended a flight of stairs and entered the basement through an open door. The room inside was busy with people and full of the noise of conversation. A folding table had been set up and arranged with a vat of hot water, two rows of mismatched mugs, a plastic cup full of plastic spoons, jars of coffee and an open box of tea bags, a large two-pint container of milk, a bowl of sugar and a plate of digestive biscuits. The man behind the table was black and heavy-set, with a well-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and hair cropped close to his scalp. His arms bulged with muscle and his shirt was tight around his chest and shoulders.

Milton approached the table.

“Can I get you a drink?” the man said.

“Coffee, please.”

The man smiled, took one of the mugs and added two spoonfuls of coffee granules. “Haven’t seen you before,” he said.

“My first time.”

The man poured hot water into the mug. “Your first meeting here or your first ever?”

“First time here.”

“Alright then,” the man said. A silence extended but, before it could become uncomfortable, the man filled it. “I’m Rutherford,” he said. “De

“John.”

“Nice to meet you, John.” He handed him the mug. “Help yourself to biscuits. The meeting’s about to get started. It’s busy tonight — go in and get a seat it I were you.”

Milton did. The adjacent room was larger, with a low, sloping ceiling and small windows that were cut into the thick brick walls that served as foundations for the church above. A table had been arranged at one end with two chairs behind it, and the rest of the space was filled with folding chairs. A candle had been lit on the table, and tea-lights had been arranged on windowsills and against the wall. The effect was warm, intimate and atmospheric. Posters had been stuck to the walls. One was designed like a scroll, with twelve separate points set out along it. It was headed THE TWELVE STEPS TO RECOVERY.

Milton took a seat near the back and sipped the cheap coffee as the chairs around him started to fill.

A middle-aged man wearing a black polo neck top and jeans sat at one of the chairs behind the table at the front of the room. He banged a spoon against the rim of his mug and the quiet hush of conversation faded away. “Thank you,” the man said. “Good to see so many of you — I’m glad you could come. Let’s get started. My name is Alan, and I’m an alcoholic.”

Milton sat quietly at the back of the room. Alan was the chairman, and he had invited another speaker to address the group. The second man said that he was a lawyer, from the city, and he told his story. It was the usual thing: a man who appeared to be successful was hiding a barrage of insecurities behind addictions to work and drink, a tactic that had worked for years but now was coming at too high a price: family, relationships, his health. The message was clichéd — Milton had heard it all before, a thousand times before — and yet the passion with which the man spoke was infectious. Milton listened avidly, and, when he looked at his watch at the end of the man’s address, half an hour had passed. The floor was opened after that and the audience contributed with observations of their own. Milton felt the urge to raise his hand and speak but he had no idea how best to start his story. He never did. Even if had been able to tell it, he would not have known where to start. There was so much that he would not have been able to relate. He felt the usual relief to be there, the same sense of peace that he always felt, but it was something else entirely to put those thoughts into words. How would the others feel about his history? The things that he had done? It made him feel secretive, especially compared to the searing honesty of those around him. They talked openly and passionately, several of them struggling through tears of anger and sadness. Despite the sure knowledge that he belonged there with them, his inability to take part made him feel like a fraud.

13

At the end of the meeting a group gathered to talk and smoke cigarettes outside. They smiled at Milton as he climbed the steps from the basement. He knew that their smiles were meant as encouragement for him to stop and speak. They meant well, of course they did, but it was pointless; he couldn’t possibly. He smiled back at them but did not stop. He had no idea what he would say. Far better to make a quick exit.

“Hey, man — hey, hey, hold up.”

Milton was at the gate, ready to turn onto the street to start the walk home. He paused, and turned back. The man who had been serving the coffee, Rutherford, was jogging across in his direction. Milton took a moment to consider him again. He was big, over six foot tall, and solid with it, several stones heavier than he was. He loped across the churchyard, moving with an easy spring that suggested plenty of strength in his legs.

“You don’t hang about,” he said as he reached him. “There’s a café down the road. People stop for coffee or a bite to eat, have a chat. You should come.”