The Cellar

Sometimes things don’t seem half as bad in theory as they turn out to be in reality. My landlord had told me he’d knock £125 off my rent as long as him and his mates could have use the cellar at any time. It was a ground floor flat and by the front door was the door to the cellar. It was a fantastic flat, it was clean and tidy, big enough to fit me and my stuff, but small enough to feel cosy. It had all mod cons and loads of light, and it was walking distance to work. Without the discount I never would have been able to afford the place, but with it, it felt like an absolute bargain.  

He’d told me that it would be once a week, that they used the cellar for a poker nights, that they wouldn't be any trouble, but that is not how it panned out. These days it was every other evening and people coming and going, doors banging all evening. It was really beginning to do my head in. Yes they were gone by just after midnight most nights but still it was a bit unsettling to know there are complete strangers in your cellar while you are trying to watch the Great British Bake Off.

I was yawning my way through work, trying to fight the tiredness caused by my strange living arrangements. I was just drifting off when a soft boom in the distance woke me up. What was that?  Oh well, better a strange noise than my boss. This was stupid, sleeping at my desk, I had to call my landlord and call off the deal, I didn’t want to move out but I had no choice. Before I could reach for the phone, the phone rang.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Mr Llewellyn,’ a woman said.

‘ Yep,’

‘This is D.I. French from South Wales Police. Do you live at 19 Tennant Street?’

‘Yep,’

‘Could you come down to your address please?’

‘What’s going on?’ I said.

‘Just come down here,’ she replied..

I left work and headed home, sirens blasted past me as I walked; just a normal day of city living. But as I turned the corner into my street I couldn’t believe what I saw. My street looked like a 9 year old’s smile; a huge gap had appeared between the houses exactly where my old flat had been. Smoke billowed from the rubble as fire fighters tried to dampen the blaze. A police officer tried to stop me going any further. But when I explained who I was he pointed me through to a woman standing by a police car.

‘DI French?’ I said.

‘Ah Mr Llewellyn,’ she said, ‘what can you tell us about the bomb factory in your cellar?’