The Rejuvenation Business By Mathew Gostelow

The Rejuvenation Business

by

Mathew Gostelow

We are in the rejuvenation business. The company I work for takes the carcasses of the past and breathes new life into them. This tower block, the one I’m visiting right now, is the perfect example. It’s a tombstone. A grey-brown decayed tooth in the otherwise-pearly skyline of a regenerated neighbourhood. It’s a ghost, clinging on beyond its natural life. A desiccated husk, haunted by the last few stubborn residents – the ones who still refuse to sell.

Thatcher didn’t often put a foot wrong. But that whole “right to buy” scheme created some headaches for organisations like ours. That’s where I come in. I represent a team of wealthy property developers. I’m a persuasive man and I am empowered to offer the clingers-on a more than reasonable price for their property. I can also explain to them just how crappy their miserable lives will become if they continue to resist the march of progress.

The lift in this towering infernal doesn’t work, of course. Just my luck, as the two remaining Klingons are on the upper floors. So I’m slogging up the miserable piss-stink stairs, every footstep echoing off the unhappy concrete. These blocks want to be reborn. I can feel it. And my company has developed a very smart technique for modernising these old relics. We don’t even need to demolish. We just gut them – peel them back to a skeleton and rebuild on top. In six months we’ll have a shiny block of desirable residences, fit for city boys and oligarchs and footballers. Not to mention property developers.

It’s all about progress. Scrubbing out the detritus – the scum that hangs around the plughole long after the bath has drained. Getting rid.

Janet Mogg is my first stop. Standard crazy cat lady. She must be about 95. Arms and legs like fucking Twiglets. Sixteen cats in a one-bed flat and her surname is Mogg. You couldn’t make it up. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m her son. Dotty old walnut. The flat is a hoarder’s hellscape – bowls of rancid kitty biscuits balanced on teetering piles of newspapers, tiny turds lurking beneath every tectonic slide of unopened post. And the cats are everywhere, slinking around your ankles, strutting about on the kitchen counters, pouncing out of cupboards and corners. The place stinks of piss worse than the stairwell.

I follow wobbly, hunched Janet from room to room, dodging cats and belIowing at the top of my lungs about how much money she’d get if she just signed the papers. She’s completely oblivious – deafer than Ozzy Osbourne and twice as bewildered. Meanwhile Mrs Mogg is calling me Trevor and prattling on about how Mr Tinkles is missing. I give up after twenty minutes. Best we can hope for is a short sharp case of toxoplasmosis to carry the batty old dear off. She’s too far gone and too full of cataracts to see sense at this point.

The weirdo though, Mr Clough, he’s pretty lucid, mostly. He’s my next stop. Him and his missus, they’re the only other residents of this block, besides Janet Mogg. And I think, if I play my cards right, they could be persuaded to move on.

I tramp up three more flights of cold grey stairs. Wilson, his name is. I don’t know hers. Willson Clough. I never liked anyone who had a surname for a first name. Same with people who have a first name for a surname. Elton John? Fuck off. Can’t trust them. Weird vibes. But if I can shift the Cloughs, we’re almost done.

Wilson meets me at the door. The flat is spick and span at least. They keep it nice. Or Wilson does – Mrs Clough is bed-bound. So it’s tidy, but it’s a visual fucking nightmare. The place hasn’t been redecorated since the 1970s, which is when the Cloughs moved in. There are deep reds, and vivid greens everywhere. Florals, paisleys, everything is patterned, psychedelic. It’s like being eaten alive by a fucking lava lamp. But that’s not even the weirdest thing about this flat.

He’s pleasant enough, Wilson is. Remembers my name from last time. Offers to make me a tea straight away. He’s an older guy, 75 maybe. Bald. Pretty chunky. Sweaty. Big stout pot belly in a graph paper shirt and a knitted cardigan. He looks like one of those old-time scientists you used to get on TV. Open University. I bet he used to be a teacher.

Mr Clough breathes through his mouth, loudly. Kind of wheezy. And he’s wearing his special glasses. Milkbottle lenses. Wilson wears them for his hobby and they make his eyes look freakishly fucking massive. It’s like coming face to face with an overweight Gollum.

As he’s making tea, I can hear a TV blaring in the bedroom, where Mrs Clough is. The door is ajar, I can see the screen. Daytime game shows. The type of programme that makes no fucking sense the first time you watch it – just random events and people saying numbers. This one seems to involve stopping a giant pendulum with a big red button. Old people love that shit.

“Afternoon Mrs Clough.” I shout, to be heard above the telly.

“Wilson? Wilson?” Her voice comes out through the door. “Is it time for my medicine?”

Mr Clough shuffles across the room carrying a cup of tea on a tray, accompanied by a colourful scattering of pills.

“I’ve just got to take these through to my wife,” he says, in his wheezy voice. “She’s got a condition, so she has to take all her tablets on time.”

While he toddles off, I inspect the shelves. In the living room, there’s a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf taking up one full wall. That’s the weirdest part of this flat. There’s hardly any books on it at all. Instead, it’s packed with the output of Wilson’s hobby. See, Mr Clough is an amateur taxidermist. He takes dead animals, stuffs them, mounts them and displays them proudly on his shelf. Thing is though, he’s fucking terrible at it. Useless. They all look like utter shit. It’s a proper horrorshow.

There’s a hedgehog up there, frozen in an expression of pained concentration, like it’s straining for a poo. Grimacing it is, poor thing, head all flat, mouth too wide, body bunched up. Two of its little legs are poking out at weird angles, not even touching the shelf.

Next to it, there’s a squirrel that looks like a fucking toffee apple. Its swollen, overstuffed noggin sits on top of a stick-thin body. The glass bead eyes are bugging out something rotten – worse than Wilson’s own magnified mince-pies. And there’s big rough stitches all over it, bits of fluffy stuffing poking out. It’s a Frankenstein gone badly wrong.

There’s a few different birds. A pigeon that looks startled – beak wide open, like it just heard some awful news. A crow that’s basically just a black ball of ruffled feathers – its neck and head are all absorbed into the overstuffed body. And a baggy, wrinkled seagull that seems to have its legs on backwards.

There’s also a fox. A full-size fox. But its jaws are set wrong so it has this confused crossbill thing going on. The eyes are on the wonk too, like it’s watching TV and searching for the remote all at once. Jagged lines of clumsy stitching criss-cross its face.

Like I say, Wilson is not great at this.

His workbench is in the corner – a table covered in angle poise lamps, special needles, thread, wire, cotton wool, scissors, and scalpels. In amongst it all is his latest project. Seems like he’s currently working on a cat. Unlucky little bastard – already looks like it’s been twelve rounds with an especially brutal pitbull terrier.

Just then, Wilson walks through, back into the kitchen, retrieving two more cups and saucers. They’re a weird pale green colour, something you might see in an old Carry On film. Throwbacks to a bygone era. Just like the Cloughs. The tea is sweet. I don’t take sugar, and I’m pretty sure I told Wilson that last time I was here. But I’m not going to say anything.

“Sorry about that,” he says, out of breath. “My wife is taking some quite powerful medications and it’s important we don’t miss a single dose.”

“That’s no problem, Mr Clough,” I launch into it, all smiles and big gestures. “It’s great to see you ag-”

“Please, sit down.”

He indicates the brown, stripy sofa. Fucking abomination it is. Looks like it’s made of wool. Bobbly, scratchy wool. I sit down.

“As I say, it’s really great to see you again. I wondered if you’d had a cha-”

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

“Err. No, of course not Mr Clough.”

“It’s just, I sometimes don’t remember everything afterwards – and my wife will have questions.”

Of course, he doesn’t just record us on his phone, like a normal person. No, weirdo Wilson is proper old school, so he reaches under the coffee table and pulls out a cassette recorder. It’s already loaded up with a clear plastic C-90 tape. Carefully, deliberately, he presses the chunky Play and Record buttons at once.

“There. Please, carry on.”

“Thank you Mr Clough. I was just wondering if you’d had a chance to consider the offer I made to you last time. Do you recall? The developer I represent would be very keen to acquire your property here.”

I pause. Take a long slurp of tea. Sweet, but strong. I like that. Builders’ tea too. No fancy flim-flam, floral, fruity nonsense.

Wilson’s massive eyes look at me apologetically.

“I’m sorry. Would you mind going over the deal again for me?”

“Of course Mr Clough. And I’m glad you ask, because my manager has authorised me to make an even more generous offer to you than when we last met.

“They would be willing to pay fifty percent over the market rate for your flat. And I’m sure you understand that with property prices in this area of the city, that means you would receive a very significant sum.”

The wheels of the cassette recorder whir. Wilson stares blankly. The twisted menagerie on the shelf sits in silent, ugly judgement. I slurp my tea.

“And not only that. My employers would also be willing to offer you any assistance you require in searching for, and acquiring, an onward property.”

Silence.

“They’ll help you find somewhere else to live, Mr Clough. I really think it’s worth considering. The money you’d make could get you a very nice house in another part of town. Semi detached. Two bedrooms. Bit of a garden maybe?”

Wilson shakes his head slowly. For some reason, his eyes look even more massive than usual.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. My wife and I are very happy here. I don’t even know what we’d do with a garden.”

His wheezy voice seems slow, boomy somehow, like it’s echoing off the walls of a cathedral. Except it’s not. We’re still in the stuffy little flat, observed by several dozen tiny beady eyes.

“Well, Mr Clough, it’s worth thinking about. You must have noticed that you’re almost the last residents in this block. The community that used to live here has moved on, and you’re in danger of getting left behind. Things change and … The thing is … Sometimes we … We all have to …”

I’m losing my thread. This isn’t like me at all. The sound of the cassette motor seems loud suddenly. I’m watching the tape turning, can’t take my eyes off it somehow, and I think I can hear scratching coming from the taxidermy shelf. Little claws tapping and scrabbling on the wood.

“It is a very kind offer.”

Wilson’s eyes are gigantic now – a pair of supermoons beaming across the room. His voice flows treacle-slow. The lava lamp decor is oozing and melting around me in deep red ripples. My mouth is dry, heart racing, hands sweating.

“Wilson? Wilson?” The wife’s voice comes again from the bedroom. “Is it time for my medicine?”

“Not now, my love.”

Mr Clough’s voice echoes wildly. I blink in slow motion. The constipated hedgehog on the shelf is leering down, eyes spinning like children’s marbles in old-fashioned picture books.

“I … I feel …”

Words turn rubbery in my mouth, shaped unfamiliar. I’m afraid.

“Yes, hopefully you’re feeling quite relaxed now. As I say, my wife’s medications are very strong.”

Wilson Clough’s thin voice seems to come from somewhere far away. He looks at me earnestly through vast, watery eyes. Paisley patterns collide around us. The room twists and shifts, collapsing kaleidoscopic.

“Wilson? Wilson? Is it time for my medicine?”

Mr Clough ignores his wife, carries on speaking to me, his words ringing madly inside my head.

“As I said, your employer’s offer is very, very generous, but I really think we have to stay put. I’m just not sure my wife would survive the move. I worry that she’d never be the same.”

“Wilson? Wilson? Is it time for my medicine?”

I’m trying to stand, legs working against me like the twisted limbs of Mr Clough’s appalling animals. I stagger over to the bedroom, the walls and floor spinning wildly, fighting my unsteady progress across the room.

Incoherent, confused sounds escape my mouth as I grab the door frame – my tongue babbling babyishly, beyond my control.

I lean through, steadying myself against the woodwork, and there she is. Mrs Clough, propped up in bed. The TV casts blue light across her leathery skin, the wild lines of stitching, the startled eyebrows, too high. Her face is punctuated by two dead, black bead eyes above a slack-jawed, gaping mouth. White wisps of stuffing pour from ruptured stitches in her throat.

“Wilson? Wilson? Is it time for my medicine?”

The voice comes from a second tape recorder, playing on the duvet, beside one of her withered, twisted hands.

I fall to my knees, legs lifeless.

“You see? I think the move would break her. It’s best for everyone if we just stay where we are. And now you can stay too. Keep us both company. I’ll make you new again, inside and out. That way, nothing has to change, ever.”

Wilson’s colossal Gollum-peepers and cavern-echo voice fill my head. His hands are in my armpits, dragging my flaccid form towards the bathroom.

Before I pass out, I hear the ill-stitched menagerie chirping and chattering, bouncing excitedly on the shelf – welcoming me to the fold.

Bio:

Mathew Gostelow (he/him) is the author of two collections of speculative stories; See My Breath Dance Ghostly (Alien Buddha Press) and Dantalion is a Quiet Place (DarkWinter Lit, coming 2025). He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction. @MatGost