'The damp', says W. 'That's your apocalypse'. Does he know I have mushrooms growing from the ceiling? Does he know they're gathered in the far upper corner of the kitchen as in an armpit? It used to make me shudder, I tell W. I used to hate it. But now ...
That's how the leak from upstairs was found, I tell W. It was a sign. But there's something coming from beneath the flat, I tell W. Something rising. You'll have to get someone out, said the plumber. It's urgent. He thinks a pipe's burst, I tell W. He thinks I should get on to the water company.
I called them first thing, the water company, I tell W. First thing, when the lines opened in the morning, and then for forty days in a row. There were no direct lines, of course. The same queues. The same dumb music every time. The same half hour wasted, and explaining to someone new, someone else, the whole history of the problem.
I tried pleading and wailing and severity, I tell him. Sometimes I lost my will, all hope, and sometimes I was filled with new hope and a fresh will. My heart leapt like a flying fish; it sank again. Every day! Every morning! And for forty mornings. And still the damp in the air. Still the mould in my lungs like wet asbestos. Spores grew in my heart, mildew on my skin; the air was wet ...
It was the industry regulator who saved me, I tell W. It was his advice, W.'s, to call the industry regulator, he said. Call Offwat!, he said. I called Offwat. I spoke to someone. The next day, a subcontractor of the water company phoned back; they'd dig up the lane behind the flat to find the leak.
The next day they were there, without announcing themselves. But they were working far away in the lane, and the leak was close, in the yard. I called a workman in. Listen, I said, I tell W. Do you hear it? He pressed a listening cup to the concrete. He heard it, he said. It's where copper meets lead, he said. The lead comes off the mains in the lane and then meets copper, he said. They're always leaking, he said. But he wasn't allowed to dig up the yard, he said. I'd have to sign a permission slip for that.
Weeks passed. Offwat were on the case; the complaints department knows me; the subcontractors who work for the water company know my name, but still nothing was done. Forty days passed - another forty, until finally, they came out again to dig up the lane, the same hole, and gave the same verdict.
'Did you pray?', W. says. I didn't pray. - 'You should have prayed', says W. I made phonecalls instead, I tell W. Those were my prayer-wheels. I rang; I spoke to people; they spoke to me. A reassuring voice. It's in my hands now. But I've heard that before, I reply. I've heard it many times. The same voice. We'll do what we can, Mr ---. I'll personally see to it. Or, another time, I understand your frustration; I'd be just as annoyed if I were in your position. Or, still another time, Don't worry, you'll hear from us soon.
Sometimes the water company tells me to speak to the subcontractors instead. But then the subcontractors tell me to speak to the water company. And there's Offwat, too, the industry regulators, who claim to speak to both the water company and the subcontractors, I tell W. - 'You're in the desert', W. says. 'It's a test'. It is a test. - 'You bear it calmly', W. says. 'You're used to the apocalypse. Mired in it. Lost in the mud'.
