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She dumps the last bag of her belongings in the bedroom and wanders into the kitchen, desperate for a cup of tea. There’s a single box labelled ‘kitchen stuff’ which she now rifles through in search of kettle and tea bags. Wrestling the tap on, eerie creaks and groans sound in the walls, long moments pass before water sputters from the tap. It’s increasingly obvious as to why the real estate agent had encouraged her to finalise the lease before having seen the apartment.
Sansa gazes glumly out the window at the lonely little yard while water boils. It’s a small outdoor space, not even solely hers since the building contains three other apartments. Brittle grass litters the dirt, a rusty clothesline and skeletal pear tree are the only other features.
Sipping her tea, she’s still gazing listlessly out the window at the glimpse of grey sky like molten silver as dusk comes on. Hypnotised by the slow bleed of colour from the world when the sun withdraws, eventually she’s standing in the dark with an empty mug.
Flicking on lights through the apartment only takes a moment. When all four little rooms are bathed in a fluorescent glow, she sets to work unpacking. Cutlery and crockery in the sink to wash. Bathroom set with soap, shampoo, clean towel. Bed made, linen packed away. Finally she can start putting books on the bookshelves. Lovingly arranging old tomes and new paperbacks is not a chore and by the time it’s done Sansa realises it’s midnight. She abandons plans to shop for groceries and eat dinner, settling instead for a shower and finding her phone charger.
Lying exhausted in bed, she thinks she can hear rustling in the little yard.
‘Probably just possums’ she murmurs aloud, the sound of her own voice usually calms her.
Unfortunately this time, it’s swallowed up by soundless dark which fills the unfamiliar apartment. Pipes groan, though she’s clearly not using a tap. She can just hear traffic noise filtering through from a nearby main road. Sansa vainly struggles to find a comfortable position and get some sleep. Deciding to get back up and reset, she pads to the kitchen. Sansa fills the kettle and rummages around for chamomile. Making tea is a familiar ritual, calming in a strange new space: warm the pot, spoon in the tea, watch as it slowly infuses. She inhales the vaguely piney steam, and tries to think about exhaling her fear and tension. You wanted to live alone - to have your own space. This is a good thing. Sansa had moved back to the city where she grew up mostly to escape her awful ex-boyfriend Joffrey and his equally nasty family.
With fingers wrapped around the hot mug of tea, she stares out her kitchen window again. A pair of eyes reflect the kitchen light back at her from a branch of the spectral tree - a possum! Smiling, she begins to turn back to her bed, but movement flickers in the periphery - a lit cigarette raises then lowers. A tall figure by the garbage bins, his face shadowed by a hooded jacket is also looking up toward her kitchen window. Spooked, Sansa only just remembers to keep her hands on the mug, but scalding tea spills over her fingers as she jerkily sets it down, flicks off the light and flees to her bed.
She lies in the dark, heart pounding, bedspread gripped tightly to her chest. It’s fine, just someone having a cigarette. There’s no smoking in the building, he had to be out there. Just glanced up because my light randomly came on, not in any way watching me. Sansa forcibly slows her breathing and creeps to the front door to make sure it’s locked, carefully carrying a chair over to wedge under the doorknob. The person looked exactly like her ex Joffrey’s one time bodyguard: Sandor Clegane. Surely it was improbable that he would be living in the very building she had moved into. Hopefully, in daylight, this will seem silly and funny, she huddles under the bedclothes again, waiting for sleep to find her.
***
She must have slept, as next thing she knows, the alarm on her phone is waking her. It takes far longer than it should to get ready. She’s groggy from a bad night’s sleep and can’t remember where she unpacked things. Choking down foul instant coffee she glances out the window. The day has dawned cold and with a soft mist blanketing the harsh edges of the urban landscape. Brush teeth, pull on layers of clothing (can’t find a coat!) phone, wallet, keys, laptop - she almost trips over a chair in front of the door. Suddenly reminded of her fear last night, she kicks the chair away impatiently, certain she’ll be late for her first lecture. Sansa barrels out her door, almost colliding with a very elderly figure at the foot of the building’s shared staircase.
“I’m so sorry,” she stoops to retrieve a basket of washing, her laptop case swinging around to hang precariously from her neck.
The person is so bundled up against the cold, Sansa cannot tell whether man or woman, only tiny, and bent.
“Well you’re obviously in a rush to get somewhere important love,” watery eyes peer up at her. The figure ponderously attempts to take the laundry basket and set it on a makeshift trolley.
“Here let me,” Sansa places the basket and begins to shunt the trolley toward the little yard with it’s lonely tree.
“No, that's alright love. You’ve places to be, and I have all day,” the thin reedy voice quavers after her. Sansa sets the laundry by the clothesline and the person creaks closer. She can’t bring herself to leave them on their own with the washing, decrepit as they seem. She can catch up on her lecture by watching the recording which will be uploaded later today.
“I’m Sansa, I just moved into Number Four,” she offers, smiling.
“Jenny, I live in the first flat” she offers a mitten. Sansa takes it gently, the hand feels tiny beneath its woolen cover. They begin to peg out the laundry together.
“Do you know the residents in the other apartments?” asks Sansa, thinking of the tall figure smoking by the bins last night.
“Well I hardly see him that lives in number two, and number three is just ghosts now,” Jenny answers, struggling with a sock and the peg.
“You mean it’s empty - Number Three,” she frowns, cold fingers deftly arranging a blouse on the line.
“Mmm, the couple who lived there are gone,” the old woman says. Sansa smiles blandly and wonders what that is supposed to mean. Jenny cackles.
***
Weak afternoon sunlight struggles through the cold afternoon wind gusting up the street, casting no warmth. Sansa struggles with groceries, laptop and security key, freezing fingers fumbling at the big old door into her building: ‘Oldstones’ it’s called. Fifty years ago, this would have been a lovely place to live: big timber door frames with sweet little leadlight details. Now the little old art deco block is surrounded by monstrous newer tenements, greyish, rectangular, featureless. The building’s in a state of disrepair with missing panels of glass, peeling paint and the mouldering old carpet on the staircase which makes it affordable for her to rent there. Unloading the bags on her landing, she pushes the door ajar and stumbles over the blasted chair again. This time she carries it back over to her little table, leaving the front door open to ferry things in. Homely sounds of television and footfalls drift across the landing from number three as she drags in one bag at a time.
Unpacking groceries, she wonders if she should say hello to her neighbours across the landing. It’s rapidly getting cold, and there’s no heating, so turning on the oven seems like a great idea right now. If she takes them some freshly baked muffins or cookies, then they’ll be well disposed to help if large men in the yard at midnight attempt to break in. Sansa remembers the little old Jenny from that morning: she didn’t seem worried about living in this creepy building. Then again she’d also said Number Three was full of ghosts! Sansa ended up baking both cookies and muffins as well as a batch of vegetable pasties. She wondered if she was overcompensating for sparse furniture and the general state of disrepair by manically baking food.
Knocking on the door of Number Three with a plate of cookies, she suddenly feels ridiculous. Why am I so desperate for approval? I have to stop doing these sorts of things. Long moments pass, Sansa realises she can no longer hear anything from the apartment. She knocks again, dogs bark across the road, a car drives past on the street below. Inside the building silence stretches until it feels like a presence in the stairwell. Goosebumps prickle up her arms as she bites her lip and turns back toward her apartment.
“Hi,” says a voice behind, startling Sansa so she whirls around quickly launching cookies off the plate, littering the threadbare carpet on the landing.
“Three second rule,” a person lunges past the woman holding open the door of Number Three. He grabs the cookies off the floor grinning at her while he deposits them back on the plate
“Are those for us?” the woman grins.
“Uh - yeah,” Sansa is still trying to contain her surprise, ”I just moved in to Number Four, my name’s Sansa,” the plate of cookies is eased out of her hands.
“Jojen,” the young man holds out a hand having picked up all the cookies, “and this is Meera.” Meera already has a mouthful of cookies.
“Mmmm,” she mumbles, “really good. Come in,” she steps back for Sansa to walk past into their flat. It looks dark and smells a little funky, her stomach flutters uncomfortably as she steps over the threshold. They follow Sansa in, closing the door and blocking the light from the landing. She can barely see, their kitchen light is on, but the living area is bathed only in the blue glow emanating from two large desktop computer screens. The windows are all hung with what looks to be old bedsheets, in lieu of curtains or blinds. She looks around, uncertain what to do.
“So, uh - would you like a cup of tea or something?” Meera sounds awkward. Sansa can see her eyes flickering to one of the monitors. Jojen has already seated himself back at one of the desks, he’s glancing at Sansa at the same time as he eases on a headset. They are clearly obsessive gamers.
“Sorry, but I need to keep going with this,” he grins sheepishly.
Sansa follows Meera into the kitchen where she gobbles cookies as they wait for water to boil.
“So have you lived in the building long?” Sansa asks.
“Yep, just over a year,” answers Meera putting tea bags in a random assortment of mugs.
“Are there often creeps in the backyard at night?” Sansa blurts out.
“What?” Meera looks up at her, puzzled.
“Oh, um. I was unpacking until late last night, and when I looked out the window, there was some guy staring up at me. Haha,” Sansa feels like her mouth is not her own. She hadn’t meant to say any of this. Meera shrugs eloquently,
“If he was smoking by the bins, it’s probably just Sandor from downstairs. He works as a security guard and keeps some weird hours.”
“Oh okay,” Sansa’s heart thuds in her ears. How could he be living in the same building as her just coincidentally, Joff’s family must have sent him after her. “I’ve also met Jenny from Number One. She seems quite sweet. Do you know if she lives alone?”
Now Meera is staring at her as though she’s grown horns.
“The old lady from One passed away right when we moved in. That apartment has been empty ever since.”
***
In the morning, Sansa takes her cup of tea downstairs to drink in the weak sunlight beneath the pear tree. On a whim she tips the dregs of cold tea over the tree’s gnarled roots, sensing rather than seeing an approving smile from a window on the first floor.