Ollie Francis
BadFiction
Renovation
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0:00
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Renovation

Season 2, Episode 3 of Badfiction
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Welcome to another episode of Badfiction. I’ve had a little birth trauma getting this one out, but it’s done and that’s all that matters.

I’ve been doing a lot of work on my house over the past few months. Sometimes I get the impression the place has a mind of its own and it’s carefully worked out the best way to drive us completely up the wall. Yet we still do it. Home has a hold over us, wherever that home is and whatever condition it’s in.

This is another piece with a first person narrator I want to make real, even if it isn’t human. I think there’s something about stubbornness that is somehow endearing. I’ve tried to get a little of that in here.

See you soon,

-Ollie


Renovation

They took out my fireplace today. Ripped it from my wall like they were picking a scab. They're going to put it on eBay.

For sale, family hearth, rarely used.

It was filthy but they washed it down by the rose bed until it shone like the day it was fitted. The most beautiful fire surround you will ever see. Or not. Looking back now, I suppose it was rather plain. Either way the point is it was mine and now it is not. Now it's going to be transplanted elsewhere and there's a stonking great hole where there was once a heart.

And I'll tell you a secret: it hurt. Deeply. Every moment of it. The stabbing of the crowbar as they rammed it into my softer parts. The crack as my plasterwork split and decades of debris tumbled out onto their dustsheet. Utterly brutal. Like gutting a fish.

It wasn't just the process of prying it free that hurt, though. It was the rejection. They bought me knowing full well what they were getting and then they go and start smashing up the place like they're ready to scrap the whole thing. Every day it gets worse. Muck creeps deeper into all my crevices and the cracks between my open planks are clogged with grit I didn't even know I had.

I dream of vacuum cleaners.

Sometimes I overhear them talking about what they plan to do with me as they huddle in the kitchen cradling their cups of tea poured from a Thermos. I interrupt. All I needed was a lick of paint, I tell them. Fresh carpets would have been enough. Even now, they could get me up to scratch for a fraction of the price without all this. Big picture thinking isn't what it's cracked up to be, I tell them. But they don't listen. All they hear is the creak of floorboards and a rat in the dry wall. Next day they bring in the exterminators.

I don't think we're speaking the same language.

They want to carve out my insides. Scrape my soul back to brick. Pull down my walls to let in some of that damned light I've been trying so damned hard to keep out. It's impossible. They want straight angles. They want silver-backed insulation. They want to plug holes and stop me from breathing. The whole thing is violence. They're ready to break my bones with their sledgehammer plans. I would tremble, if I could.

I know why they're doing it. Too much time spent on Pinterest. Too many boards filled with rooms that don't fit into my dimensions. She has a vision of some other house and she's gone and landed herself with me and now it's his job to make it all work. But he's taken it too far, you see. He's bitten off more than he can chew. He thinks that by ripping down my walls he can plaster over the cracks in theirs. Because any fool and his dog can see that these two are going to age like a flatpack kitchen. Some things aren't made to last and these two are about as strong as wet cardboard. They'll fall apart in months. He's set on the project now, though. Laser focus. Every inch of me measured and blueprinted. And let me tell you, there is no room for deviation in his plans. I'd say steamroller, but this is much, much worse.

I give them five years, tops. Maybe six, depending on how easy I make it for them. And I don't plan to make it easy. Not one bit.

They want to do the kitchen first so I show them all my damp bits, straight away. I know, a bit personal but I say go hard or go home. I flake a little near where they're stood yacking. Drop a little bit of loose paint into the Thermos. Plop. That gets them going. They scratch at the wall, trying to work out how bad it is and, my God, I show them how bad I can be. Over the next week I draw water up through my cavity wall like a straw. I send the wet bubbling through my brickwork, searing through my plaster like lava. It's thoroughly awful of me. Salt coats my walls like frost in winter. He even runs his finger against it one day and licks the tip, pretending he knows what he's doing; as though he might season his soup with a dusting of magnesium sulphate. He's an idiot but somehow she falls for it and then he's spewing forth action plans about how they might fix it while she Google's creative solutions. They check my damp course, but there's nothing wrong with it. Guttering's fine as well. They even get a specialist in for a survey, which comes back with the beautifully helpful line 'there is damp present in the kitchen area' without offering any solutions. It's brilliant. They bicker about that for hours. I let them re-plaster and wait a week or two to let them think they've got me. Then I start pumping the stuff out again. Paint peels like wallpaper, even the specialist stuff made for kitchens. I set blisters popping like the plague. Great chunks tumbling to the tiles every day until they are unable to keep any of their awful food on the sides any more and have to pack it away into cupboards where it moulds away in the dark and becomes inedible within a day.

I am unstoppable.

Then it's time to turn to the bathroom, where I hide my pipework in all the most annoying of places. I even manage to sneak one in behind a board already soft with rot. The carpenter catches an edge of the thing and it bursts open and drowns the place in the most penetrating of lukewarm waters I can muster.

It drives them crazy. They're ready to crumble. Any little thing starts an argument. Late deliveries, misplaced furniture, even leaving the TV remote in the wrong place. Because they have a TV now. I avoided it for years even before the old dear died, but I suppose it's inevitable these days so now they've gone and stuck one up in the living room. Flatscreen. One of those ones that looks like a picture frame when they're not watching it. To be fair, it's probably the least offensive thing they've done so far. They change the image on it every couple of days. Adds a bit of variety, I suppose. Keeps it fresh.

But the rest of the place is as ghastly as they are. They have this hideous penchant for dark colours. Place looks like a cellar even with the lights on. No idea how they can read in that light. Because, sweet mercy, they are always reading. Books everywhere. Put up a couple of new bookcases to house them all. When they first dragged in the boxes I thought they were joking but they somehow found space. Every single nook. It's the only time they are quiet, actually, when they're reading.

The leak in the roof's gone. When did they get around to that?

On a Tuesday I crack a window, side to side like bad luck. By the next Monday they have the double glazers in. I try to get in their way, but these guys are professionals. Even with all my organic angles, they get the frames in place before the rain sets in. At least they're not using cowboys.

They're getting better at this.

They have friends over for a house warming so I make sure the boiler's out of action. The place is stone cold by early evening but it's too late to call it off. They think about plugging in a couple of portable heaters and so I clog the toilet for good measure and by then people are arriving. It's majestic. Honestly. Couples stand around shivering in their coats, full of shit, but then they start to laugh and joke about it, the whole lot of them, and even I can't do anything against that much hot air. They warm themselves with whiskey until, good grief, they open all the doors to cool down and I'm just about ready to give up.

They still argue after. The two of them. Who gets to do the washing up. Who has to unclog the loo. Honestly, they're not going to last. No way.

The new fireplace is fitted now. A modern one. Electric. No soot. No risk of gas. I don't know. I don't like it. But it's better than nothing. At least they're doing something to repair the damage.

Now, don't think they're starting to win me around. No chance. If they can't love me for who I am then they don't deserve any respite. I'm not letting up. Not slowing down. I've got plans. Big plans. Bigger than theirs. They're busy trying to make me something I'm not but they can't scratch the surface of what I've got in store for them.

Still, it is actually quite a nice fireplace. Not the same, classic design as the old one but it does seem good quality. I'll give them that. It will certainly outlast them. They're doomed to failure, as always. She is starting to mellow out a little, though. Starting to come to terms with the fact that what she's got with me is what she's got. And as for him... well, he's kinda the same, really. Still poking at everything he can, trying to figure out my mysteries. He'll never learn that what I've got is fathomless. He'll still be thinking about my angles on his death bed.

It's a pity, really. I mean, I can see they are nice enough on their own, but it's the combo of them both that is exhausting. One feeds off the other in some unending cycling of nothing. It must be truly awful, being them. Almost makes me feel bad for them.

I'm thinking about falling down entirely. Crushing them both. A proper disaster of an ending for it all. I could. I think it would be easy. Pretty much. They've done a lot of structural work - steel beams and additional supports - but I think I could get around it all. Find some crack somewhere and just open up. Could be a killer ending for the whole thing. I don't know. I'll think about it.

They're away this week, anyway. Gone off on holiday. Don't know where. Don't care. They can do what they want, where they want as far as I'm concerned. In fact, I'd be perfectly happy if they never came back. Stayed away forever. Found some other place to live.

Still, no point collapsing if they're not even here.

I think I'll wait until they come back. Lull them into a false sense of security. Give them lovely moment of coming home to a place they know is their's and their's alone and then, SPLAT. Yeah. Although, maybe not at first. They'll need to unpack. And there's bound to be a load of washing to get through as well. And, to be fair, work's been a bit crazy for them both of late so maybe I should give them a week or two before I start the bricks moving. Really make them think everything's going to alright before I end it all. Serve them right, and all that.

It is quite cold without them, really. Heating's on minimum, just to stop the pipes from freezing. It shouldn't bother me, I know. I*'m as cold blooded as they come. Still. I hope they come back soon. Not that I miss them. Not like that. It's just, now they've been around for a little while, you start to get used to it and so when they're not here... well. Cold is cold and that's all very well but... more and more, I'm starting to think the place could do with a little bit of warmth in it, you know?

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