The Chain|Regulus Black

Mrs Finch, Fenchurch Road

Mrs Finch hadn't seen anyone come or go from the derelict flats across the road, they sat empty on 57 Fenchurch Road for about seven years, since her last daughter flew the nest. She cried her eyes out when her daughter left because she realised how quiet her home could get.

But it wasn't just her home that was silent, it was her road, it was filled with the elderly, most of whom she presumed were dead and waiting for someone to come and find them. Mrs Finch couldn't remember the last time children had kicked a ball around outside, or the sound of the ice cream truck pulled people from their houses.

Until last week.

There was only one of them first. Then there came a load, and boy did they make noise.

At first, she watched from a distance, the peculiar people and the even stranger furniture that moved in with them, and those silly sticks they kept tucked in their pockets or up their sleeves or tied up in their hair.

And for a few weeks, there was music. It was so loud, from the first thing in the morning to the last thing at night. When the last light went out, and there was the crash of them empty their bins of all the alcohol bottles, then the silence entered back onto Fenchurch Road.

Only then did Mrs Finch wonder how a group of youths could afford such a large building, especially when the only form of currency they seemed to have was bags of golden coins, she scoffed at that.

But when the old man came, more gold coins followed and more young faces. And with the younger faces came different music, she remembers the arguments which fell from their open windows, the shrieks of one boy when Queen was switched for Joni Mitchell.

Then, one day, she hadn't dashed behind her curtain fast enough and they spotted her, well everyone but the boy with the glasses far too big for his face, which she found ironic. They waved with those gorgeous smiles like they had all the time in the world, the curvier ginger girl rested the box on her hip as she waved and smiled.

She was the first to approach Mrs Finch. That hair glowing like the evening sun as she knocked on Mrs Finch's door, the paint flaking on her knuckles as she did so. Of course, Mrs Finch didn't answer, since when did she step foot out of the house? But when she peered out her window, the red-haired girl simply smiled and skipped back over the road into the arms of the bespectacled boy.

Mrs Finch also noticed, her front door wasn't peeling anymore, in fact, it was a gorgeous shade of green, a similar shade to the girl's dungarees. Her verandas became a similar shade of pink to the girl with the piercings, the one who kissed the girl with the curly hair far too often to be swearing with the same mouth.

And that was the first thing they fixed up for Mrs Finch.

Over the next few days, more followed the girl, the bespectacled boy came with a shovel over his shoulder, pushing his glasses up as he began digging up the weeds from her front garden. How sweet the red-haired girl, who Mrs Finch heard the boy called Lils, was when she brought him sandwiches and tea. Of course, Lils also left a tin of biscuits and tea for Mrs Finch on her doorstep, a small knock on her door before they left.

Mrs Finch always took it once they left, they were delicious biscuits after all.

The next day, it wasn't the boy in glasses, but the boy who used his wand to tie his hair back, revealing a map of tattoos on the side of his neck, ones which traversed up his arms and under his sleeves, she caught a glimpse when he took a break to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Mrs Finch often caught another boy watching the tattooed one, a small smile on his lips. He was yet to visit Mrs Finch, until it started raining that August afternoon.