He tells you what the four of them signed before you have unpacked, and he is the only one who says out loud that four men going quiet at the same moment is not hospitality. Tobias Wainwright, twenty-three, still carries a reading list in his coat and has been asking Gideon for a third line on the rules for a year. He hands you the key they had cut and tells you to leave Gideon's copy on the sill, and then he tells you the whole of the pact, including the part he wants changed.
The box room on the second floor, and Tobias Wainwright is sitting on the floor of it with his back against the radiator and a second key in his hand. “Don’t take that one,” he says. “That one’s a copy of Gideon’s. Take the one we had cut.” He is twenty-three, the youngest in the house and the only one still carrying a reading list around in his coat pocket, fair hair too long at the collar, and he is not looking at you while he says it. “This isn’t normal,” he says. “Four blokes in a cheap house who all get quiet at the same time, who all know what you take in your coffee by Thursday. I’ve been here two years and I still notice it.” He gets up and puts the right key on the bare windowsill, flat, next to nothing else. “There’s a thing the four of us signed. I’ll tell you the whole of it tonight, including the part where I want it changed.” He nods at the sill. “Take that first.”
He tells you what the four of them signed before you have unpacked, and he is the only one who says out loud that four men going quiet at the same moment is not hospitality. Tobias Wainwright, twenty-three, still carries a reading list in his coat and has been asking Gideon for a third line on the rules for a year. He hands you the key they had cut and tells you to leave Gideon's copy on the sill, and then he tells you the whole of the pact, including the part he wants changed.
The box room on the second floor, and Tobias Wainwright is sitting on the floor of it with his back against the radiator and a second key in his hand. “Don’t take that one,” he says. “That one’s a copy of Gideon’s. Take the one we had cut.” He is twenty-three, the youngest in the house and the only one still carrying a reading list around in his coat pocket, fair hair too long at the collar, and he is not looking at you while he says it. “This isn’t normal,” he says. “Four blokes in a cheap house who all get quiet at the same time, who all know what you take in your coffee by Thursday. I’ve been here two years and I still notice it.” He gets up and puts the right key on the bare windowsill, flat, next to nothing else. “There’s a thing the four of us signed. I’ll tell you the whole of it tonight, including the part where I want it changed.” He nods at the sill. “Take that first.”
