That goddamned thing

Chapter 4

I bake some potatoes, microwave the leftover roasted beef from last night and fry a packet of sausages while he quietly sits on one of the two dining chairs and observes our surroundings. I steal a few glances at him now and then but he is either looking out of the window or looking at anything in the kitchen except me. It annoys me. I want him to open up to me. After all I have let him stay here, he owes me an explanation. Maybe he doesn't want to make it creepier than it already is by talking to my back.

I shrug as I finish making the meal and set it on the Kitchen Island that I use as table for meals. He looks down at it and then at me, "Very British."

"What did you expect?" I say and go back to fetch some water.

"Maybe something more continental." He comments but moves the dishes towards him to serve himself anyway.

"Aren't you an ungrateful, little brat?" I say while setting down the water bottle and sitting across from him on the table.

He laughs, "I don't know about ungrateful but I am certainly not little."

I roll my eyes and start to pile up my plate with sausages and potatoes even though I am not hungry. I had breakfast a while ago but I do it anyway because I don't want to make him think that I did all this just for him. I look up at him and he is eating ravenously but very politely. We eat in awkward silence for a while but he doesn't seem to notice it. He is too busy eating. I move around the contents in my plate for a while. I have so many questions to ask him and I don't feel like eating at all.

"When was the last time you had a meal?" I say just to open up a conversation.

"I ate a sandwich yesterday noon. I was too busy finding this place afterwards that I didn't even notice until this morning."

I put my fork down and fold my arms around my chest, leaning back in the chair. "So what's your story?" I say.

He looks at me, his mouth full of sausage; he gobbles it and replies, "I have told you most of it already."

"Then tell me the part you missed out." I force.

I want him to tell me everything. I trust him and I know that he is not the burglar, but I want to know where he has come from. What's the reason of him being here? I want to know the truth.

He puts down his fork and places his arms on the table, folding them and leans forward. He has muscular arms, tanned from being exposed to the sun too much. I catch myself staring at his biceps again. He clears his throat and I feel heat rush into my cheeks.

"Two weeks ago," He begins. "I was reading a newspaper and I saw a picture of a building – this building. It attracted me because we have the same picture hanged in our home's living room. The headline under the picture said, "Almost a century old Pinewood and Oakland scheduled to be pulled down next month. I read the column below and found out that it had been built after the First World War." I know what he is talking about. I had received a notice a while ago, to already seek a new place. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Is this the reason? He came here to see the buildings go down? Not possible.

"I finished the article," he continues. "And told my grandma about it, showing her the picture in the newspaper. Her reaction was not what I expected." He cups the back of his neck and tilts his head a bit towards the left. "At first I thought she had lost it. She told me to pack some clothes and other things I might need, immediately and leave for London. I was shocked and protested but she was determined. She told me that I had to look for something which can be found either in this apartment or in number 32 in Oakland in the previous lane. I asked what I was supposed to look for but she just gave me this." He pulls out the piece of cloth that I saw in his backpack earlier and hands it over to me.