Chapter 9

The Estate of Teeth

Oral history collected from beneath scaffolded towers, Limewood Estate, Zone 3

Before the flats were rewired, each block had its own bite pattern. Locals knew it. Outsiders didn’t.

They say it started in **Ramus House** — a chipped brick stack where the lift always stuck at floor 3. The doors there clicked in rhythm with jaw hinges. If you listened close enough, you’d hear the molar codes.

One click: safe. Two clicks: someone's coming. Three clicks: run down the stairs backwards.

The old ones remembered. Nan Greevey had a partial denture made from radiator piping. She could open security gates just by humming through it. Kids etched incisors on their Oyster cards for luck. They said smiling too wide got you marked.

When someone disappeared, a loose canine was left behind — tucked in the letterbox or under the doormat. That meant: “They’ve been chewed.”

Then one summer, a new caretaker came. Outsider. Didn’t know the codes. Painted over the bite marks on the stair rails. Installed new keyfobs. Drilled into the wisdom wall.

Next morning, all the block’s residents had locked jaws. Emergency crews found them frozen mid-word. Tongues grey. Palates sealed. The lifts ran perfectly that day — for the first and last time.

The flats have since been reclad. Rent’s gone up. But on windy nights, the pipes still chatter. And if you’re new to Limewood and your teeth start aching, ask no questions. Just smile — small — and wait for someone to bite first.

Moral: