NOT GOING HOME

Monday morning, the lodgers breakfasted in the living room wearing layers of clothes.  The temperature outside was -8C, but Laurence the landlord had switched the central heating off before leaving for his Carribbean cruise with his mistress Marlene.  Only his wife Helen was not shivering, she was smoking a crack pipe, oblivious.
“Surely,” Kate said, “we switch the boiler on.”
Manky Franky laughed hysterically, causing him to break wind.
Pervey Pete stood and dragged Kate up, he marched her forcefully into the kitchen and pointed to a steel door with a safe combination key; “Boiler’s behind that.”
“What’s that dent on it?”
“Last time he went on holiday, we attempted to open it with an axe.  Futile.  Sweetheart, sleep with me, share body heat.”
The smell in the lounge was unbearable, Helen had passed out, head on Franky’s lap.  Disgusted, Kate finished her breakfast in her room.
Franky shoved Helen’s unconscious body onto the living room carpet and got to his feet; “I’m checkin’ out man,” he said and headed for the front door.
Pete nodded to himself, there had to be a way of avoiding being here.  Upstairs Kate was exploring internet options.

Pete’s boss was impressed with the hours Pete put in.  Working in a zoo wasn’t the best paid job, especially when your title was Manager of Pet’s Corner, but Pete was there early and still present when the boss left.  Pete was philosophical, OK so Kate had rejected him, but the sheep couldn’t, they let him snuggle up in their shelter at night and – well, they were not high emotional maintenance like women ...

Kate was disappointed when she arrived at the couple’s house straight after work.  On the internet Don was described as 6ft 5 with a six pack; and Trudy as a leggy blonde.  Don was 5ft 6 (when asked he claimed he’d got the numbers round the wrong way), his only six pack was in the fridge and his pot bellied figure was covered in thick grey pubic hair.  Trudy looked like she’d spent years on a sunbed; leathery skin, bleached hair dried out.  However, their home was warm.  So, after Kate had given them the best evening they’d ever had, she asked; “Do you mind if I stay a week?  I can wash up and cook.”

Don and Trudy were more than happy.

Exactly an hour before Laurence returned, the boiler fired into life.  He arrived to find Pete, Kate and Helen basking in the warmth.

“Everyone’s here, except Franky,” he observed smugly, “anyone seen him?”
Helen stared into space.
“I haven’t been here,” Kate and Pete said simultaneously.
There was a knock at the door, Laurence opened it, the others could hear him talking; “Oh my God!  No, I was in the Carribbean.”
Two Police Detectives followed him into the lounge.
“Franky’s dead,” Laurence said, face pale beneath his tan, “found murdered on the railway line, some sick bastard tore his guts out.  We’re the only people who knew him ...”
“Yes,” one of the detectives interjected, “and we’d like everyone here to account for their whereabouts in detail for this last week.”
Pete and Kate looked first at each other, then speechlessly up at the detectives.