That Hope
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: If only he could hang on for a few days longer; there was always that hope...
_____________________________________________________________________
The only things left in the flat were the cooker, a frying pan, one plate and a knife and fork. Her parting words had been, ‘Even a dog shouldn’t starve.’ That was three weeks ago. He hadn’t heard from her since. She was gone. He was trying not to get used to it. There was no point. It wouldn’t be long. He poked the corned beef slices and watched them slide across the pan. Corned beef. Again. No fridge. Although it had to be said that canned goods had a lot going for them. Forget the sell by date. He’d read somewhere that if you looked after them they could last for years.
Hissing and sizzling, hissing and sizzling.
What was that?
Someone was trying to get in.
He ran into the hallway. He knew she would come back! He had forgiven her already. He pulled the door open.
It was Mrs Evi from upstairs. She was bent double. She had a key in her hand.
‘Oh, what a fright!’ she said. ‘I thought you were out.’
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he said. There was a middle-aged couple standing next to her. The woman was wearing a huge fur coat and had hair that looked like it had been pumped up and sprayed with gold paint. The man was five foot nothing in a green suit. No one was smiling.
‘Mind your language,’ said Mrs Evi. ‘These people have come to see the flat.’
‘Eh?’ said John. He had no idea he was moving out. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The landlord said it was all right,’ said Mrs Evi.
John started closing the door. ‘Goodbye,’ he said.
‘But he said it was all right!’ said Mrs Evi. ‘These people have come all the way from Xanthi.’
‘Tough luck,’ said John. ‘I live here. This is my flat. If anyone wants to come in, they have to ask me first, not the landlord. Understand?’
The woman with the hair craned her neck.
‘Is something burning?’ she said.
John ran back to the kitchen. Christ. He threw the pan into the sink and turned on the tap. A cloud of smoke and steam hit the ceiling.
They were in the hallway. All three of them.
‘No, no, no,’ said John. ‘Out!’ He barged past them and stood at the door, his eyes averted. The floor could have done with a good scrub, but fuck that. This was his gaff. If it was a tip, that was his problem, no one else’s. ‘I told you to get out,’ he said.
The woman spoke.
‘We are a military family,’ she said.
John had no idea what that was supposed to mean.
‘Out,’ he said. He pushed the door closed behind them. Why was he so slow? He took the key out of his pocket and twisted it in the lock. As long as there was a key on this side, it couldn’t be opened from outside. That was the first thing he had checked when they moved in. Paranoia; the landlord lived in Athens, well out of the picture. But he’d had no idea Mrs Evi had a copy.
The bell rang five minutes later. John was hyperventilating at the sink. He counted to ten. Then he heard scraping.
‘I told you not to do that,’ he said.
‘Look,’ said Mrs Evi. ‘At least...’
‘How long have you had a key?’ he said.
‘What?’ she said. ‘The landlord posted it to me yesterday.’ She looked offended. ‘I hope you don’t think...’
‘Goodbye,’ said John.
‘Wait!’ she said. ‘At least let the Colonel come in. They’ve been driving since ten o’clock this morning.’
John looked at the man. The Colonel. A hen-pecked specimen of a husband if ever there was one. Norman Wisdom with a moustache. He felt sorry for him. Maybe if more folk felt sorry for each other the world would be a better place. What was the harm? There was no way he was moving out, that was for definite. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But you,’ he said to the woman, ‘stay there. Right?’
Light bounced off the woman’s hairdo. Her head looked like a helmet.
John closed the door firmly. He told the Colonel to stand in the corner of the hallway, and turned the key.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said the Colonel.
‘My house,’ said John. ‘My rules.’
The living room. The Colonel’s footsteps echoed off the floorboards. When he got to the window, he turned. ‘Ah, I see there’s a phone,’ he said. It was all that was left, lying against the skirting board.
The spare room. There was nothing in there, either. Not even a phone.
The bedroom. All John’s gear was heaped on the floor, sleeping bag, clothes, books, jotters, pens, pencils, the lot. He was living like a tink. He tried not to feel embarrassed, but it was difficult.
The bathroom. ‘Ah, the latrine,’ said the Colonel. Cheeky bastard.
The last stop was the kitchen. The Colonel offered him a cigarette. This was the kind of bullshit they loved. It was man to man time, time to smoke the peace pipe, time to talk turkey.
John refused.
The Colonel looked surprised. He clicked a wee gold lighter and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. ‘Where are you from, if I can be so bold?’ he said.
‘Scotland,’ said John.
‘Sorry?’
‘Iceland.’
‘.....’
‘The North Pole.’
‘Now, young man, there’s no need to be sarcastic, I’m only asking...’
‘I’m The Man In The Moon,’ said John. ‘Look, I’ve got a big cheesy grin.’
‘I knew you were foreign,’ said the Colonel. ‘Mrs Evi told me. Moreover, your accent needs quite a bit of work.’
John laughed. ‘Thank you so much,’ he said. ‘Are you always so rude when you’re a guest in someone’s house?’
‘Been here long?’ said the Colonel. He was looking around for an ashtray.
‘Use the big one,’ said John.
‘Sorry?’ said the Colonel, his eyes searching.
‘The floor,’ said John. ‘That was the first thing I learned when I came here. You lot have quite a cavalier attitude when it comes to hygiene.’
The Colonel opened the door and flicked ash out onto the balcony. His jacket had razor sharp creases along the arms, as if it were part of a uniform. Minus the medals and badges.
‘Are you really a Colonel?’ said John.
The Colonel snapped to attention. ‘Retired,’ he said.
‘What does it feel like to lead men to their deaths?’ said John.
The Colonel regarded the end of his cigarette thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never done that,’ he said. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. I was in the Training Wing.’ He looked up. ‘Would you like to hear a story?’ he said.
Poor guy. His wife probably didn’t let him get a word in edgeways.
‘On you go,’ said John. He’d let him say his piece then kick him out. Christ knows why he’d let him in.
‘I once saved a man’s life,’ said the Colonel, watching the smoke curl round his fingers. ‘I threw myself on a hand grenade.’
The Colonel, John noticed, had quite a paunch. It didn’t look as if it had once muffled an explosion.
‘It didn’t go off, of course,’ he continued. ‘It was a practice grenade. A dud, if you will.’
John laughed. ‘You’re not much of a hero, then,’ he said.
‘Perhaps not,’ said the Colonel. ‘But at the time I didn’t know it was a dud. No one did. I thought it was live. So did the young man I pushed out of the way. He kept in touch with me for years afterwards. He was recently killed in a car crash. An unfortunate accident.’
What was this, thought John. Hand grenades that didn’t go off and heroes who weren’t really heroes.
‘So when are you leaving?’ said the Colonel.
‘I’m not,’ said John.
The Colonel puffed on his cigarette. ‘My son has been offered a place at the military academy,’ he said. ‘His classes begin in a fortnight.’ He looked round the kitchen. ‘We’d like to move his things in next week.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ said John. ‘The Pampered Son. When I came here I was someone’s son. No help from Daddy, though. I had to learn to stand on my own two feet. I had nothing. You hear? Nothing.’
The Colonel pushed the frying pan out of the way with the back of his hand. The cigarette, what was left of it, hissed in the sink. ‘You’ve come a long way since then,’ he said.
‘Right, that’s enough,’ said John. ‘Get out.’
Mrs Helmet Hair was waiting on the landing.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘It’ll do,’ said the Colonel. ‘It needs a good clean, though.’
John slammed the door. He listened carefully. He heard footsteps going up the stair – up to Mrs Evi’s flat.
Half an hour later, the phone rang.
‘Ah,’ said John. ‘I’ve been expecting your call.’
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ croaked the landlord.
‘I would appreciate your phoning me in advance when you want complete strangers to...’
‘Shut it,’ said the landlord. ‘You’ve got seven days to move out.’
‘What?’ said John. ‘You can’t do this. I have rights. Do you hear? As long as this is my flat...’
‘It isn’t your flat,’ said the landlord. ‘It’s mine.’
There was no arguing with that.
‘Well, okay,’ said John, ‘but it’s the principle...’
‘Don’t you talk to me about principles,’ said the landlord. ‘I had your wife’s father on the phone. You dirty dog.’
John had forgotten that there was a Relationship. Family ties. Third cousins twice removed. When you married the woman, you married the whole tribe. That was how they’d got the flat in the first place.
‘First of the month,’ said the landlord. ‘Just leave the key in the door. Capice?’
‘You can’t do this,’ said John. ‘As the sitting tenant I have...hello?’
The line was dead.
He waited in the hallway till he heard them leaving. He went out onto the balcony. They climbed into an ancient Buick parked at the end of the street. Mrs Evi waved goodbye then flagged down a taxi.
He would have to move fast.
He got a new barrel for the lock – and a screwdriver – from the shop on the main street. He legged it back to the flat. The job was easier than he had expected. Both keys worked well, inside and out. He checked to see if they blocked each other. There were only two keys, and he had both of them, but he wanted to make sure.
Now all he had to do was wait.
The days passed slowly, punctuated by worrying bouts of tachycardia. He didn’t want to leave the flat unattended, but he had no choice – he had to go to work. He wanted to play this straight down the line. He got his wages on the 31st and immediately put the rent money into an envelope. He usually paid the rent through a bank account, but he didn’t want to take a chance, he knew the landlord was more than capable of claiming he had never received it. Apart from that, he strongly suspected that the landlord would be making a personal appearance. It would be better to have the money there, cash, to show him how serious he was. This wasn’t a squatting deal. He had money.
The kitchen cupboards were full of tinned goods. Mostly corned beef, but there was other stuff as well. He’d stocked up. He was ready for a siege.
Someone was trying to get in. He could hear metal rattling in the door. He asked who it was, terrified. The noise stopped. Footsteps going down the stairs. Her footsteps. He tried to open the door, but the key wouldn’t budge. He ran out to the balcony and saw her, she was floating in mid air, fading into the distance, her dress billowing...
He opened his eyes.
The room was dark.
He couldn’t sleep.
He was ready for them when they came.
The removals truck looked like it had been built in the 1950s. The driver got out, checking a docket. Maybe the driver and the Colonel were tight – they had bought their vehicles from the same dealer. Maybe they were related! A strapping young man climbed out of the back and started unloading boxes. Both he and the driver were dressed in khaki. They meant business.
He skimmed the letter he had composed the previous evening. He had set out his argument as plainly as possible, the tone forthright yet restrained. He was sure that a straightforward appeal to reason would yield the desired result. And the written word was so much more civilized than a shouting match.
He pressed his ear to the door. It sounded like the landing was filling up; not so many echoes. Not long to go now. Huffing and puffing. Banging as furniture collided with walls. The occasional swear word. And lots of whispering, too, really close. Two men and a woman.
The bell.
He let them wait.
Someone started hammering on the door. John twisted the key to make sure it was definitely locked. ‘What is it?’ he shouted.
‘Open up,’ wheezed a voice. The landlord. ‘Open up. You don’t live here any more.’
‘I have rights,’ said John.
The sound of metal rattling against metal. Then a curse.
‘Did you change this lock?!’
‘It’s my flat!’ John shouted.
‘Open this fucking door!’
‘I’m quite willing to be reasonable about this,’ said John. ‘I’ve got this month’s rent in an envelope in my hand.’ This wasn’t true – the envelope was in his pocket, but he was trying to dangle bait. ‘Cash. From my hand to your hand.’
They started muttering amongst themselves. More voices. Reinforcements. Maybe the men had finished unloading the truck.
‘Open this door before I phone the police!’ shouted the landlord. John smiled to himself. This was exactly what he had been expecting.
‘The police can’t do anything,’ he said. ‘I have rights.’ He pushed the letter under the door. He had been through a similar ordeal in Scotland. They couldn’t just throw you out. The sitting tenant had the upper hand. They had to get a court order. That could take months. Someone – the landlord? – started reciting. Fits and starts.
‘Is that how you spell ‘rights’?’ someone said. Mrs Colonel.
‘He’s foreign,’ wheezed the landlord.
‘Let me see that,’ said someone else. Muttering. The landlord said, ‘On you go – I’ll take it out of the deposit.’ Squeaking. The letter skidded to a halt at John’s feet. Something had been scrawled in blue felt tip. ‘STAND WELL BACK’ it said. There was an almighty bang. Then another. He jumped out of the way just as a very large boot came crashing through the middle of the door.
‘You bastard!’ someone shouted. ‘My ankle!’
John grabbed the boot. The laces went all the way up the shins. Howling out on the landing. He let go and ran into the kitchen. More banging, more cursing, then the front door flew open.
‘Where is he?’ It was the driver’s mate. He limped towards the kitchen. ‘I’m gonna fuckin’...!’
John was on the balcony. It was only the first floor, but it looked a long way down. He had no choice. It was either get murdered or jump. He jumped. He crumpled on impact, kneeing himself in the face. It felt like he’d broken his cheekbones.
‘Are you all right?’
Through the pain, he looked up. His enemies were everywhere.
‘That was some jump,’ said the driver. ‘Come on, can you stand up?’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said John. He had tears in his eyes.
‘I think the Colonel’s got other plans,’ said the driver.
‘I am a reasonable man!’ shouted the Colonel from the balcony. He had a pile of John’s clothes in his arms. ‘Rather more than my son. Luckily for you he seems to have broken his leg. Now, do you want to come and get your things or will I throw them down?’
John was crying.
‘Have it your way,’ said the Colonel. ‘It makes no difference to me.’ Shirts, jeans and socks fluttered onto the pavement. John had to turn away.
‘That’s out of order, that,’ said the driver. ‘Look, mate, can I drop you anywhere? I’m heading out of town. Have you got anything sorted?’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said John. He thought he saw something land on the truck, but the tears made it hard to focus. ‘I can’t leave.’
‘What do you mean you can’t leave?’ said the driver. ‘There’s plenty of other flats.’
John shook his head. Why didn’t they understand?
‘I can’t go away from here,’ he said. ‘What if she comes back? She’ll ring the bell and I won’t be here.’
‘Who?’ said the driver.
‘My wife,’ said John. ‘If she comes back and I’m not here she’ll think...she’ll think...she might come back.’
‘Hang on,’ said the driver. ‘Your missus bailed?’
Hearing it like that was more painful than a knee in the face. John took a minute. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘But...’
‘Forget about her,’ said the driver, and shook his head. ‘She’s gone, mate.’
‘How can you say that?’ John shouted. He buried his head in his hands. Christ his face was sore. ‘How do you know? You don’t know! How can you say that? How can you say she won’t come back?!’
The driver stepped over to the truck. ‘Because they never do,’ he said, and began to unravel something from the wing mirror. A white shirt. He kneeled in front of John, offering it. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get your stuff and I’ll drop you wherever.’
No. It couldn’t end like this. He knew – he knew – she would come back to him. All it needed was time. He sat there, his feet in the gutter, his clothes and books strewn around him. It couldn’t end like this. Not like this. There was always that hope.
The sun had disappeared behind the building across the street. It was starting to get cold. He shivered. He was still there when the streetlights came on, still in the gutter, still trying to hang onto his dream even as the tins started whizzing and thudding around him, like a barrage of culinary bomblets, a hailstorm of corned beef hand grenades, every one a dud.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: If only he could hang on for a few days longer; there was always that hope...
_____________________________________________________________________
The only things left in the flat were the cooker, a frying pan, one plate and a knife and fork. Her parting words had been, ‘Even a dog shouldn’t starve.’ That was three weeks ago. He hadn’t heard from her since. She was gone. He was trying not to get used to it. There was no point. It wouldn’t be long. He poked the corned beef slices and watched them slide across the pan. Corned beef. Again. No fridge. Although it had to be said that canned goods had a lot going for them. Forget the sell by date. He’d read somewhere that if you looked after them they could last for years.
Hissing and sizzling, hissing and sizzling.
What was that?
Someone was trying to get in.
He ran into the hallway. He knew she would come back! He had forgiven her already. He pulled the door open.
It was Mrs Evi from upstairs. She was bent double. She had a key in her hand.
‘Oh, what a fright!’ she said. ‘I thought you were out.’
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he said. There was a middle-aged couple standing next to her. The woman was wearing a huge fur coat and had hair that looked like it had been pumped up and sprayed with gold paint. The man was five foot nothing in a green suit. No one was smiling.
‘Mind your language,’ said Mrs Evi. ‘These people have come to see the flat.’
‘Eh?’ said John. He had no idea he was moving out. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The landlord said it was all right,’ said Mrs Evi.
John started closing the door. ‘Goodbye,’ he said.
‘But he said it was all right!’ said Mrs Evi. ‘These people have come all the way from Xanthi.’
‘Tough luck,’ said John. ‘I live here. This is my flat. If anyone wants to come in, they have to ask me first, not the landlord. Understand?’
The woman with the hair craned her neck.
‘Is something burning?’ she said.
John ran back to the kitchen. Christ. He threw the pan into the sink and turned on the tap. A cloud of smoke and steam hit the ceiling.
They were in the hallway. All three of them.
‘No, no, no,’ said John. ‘Out!’ He barged past them and stood at the door, his eyes averted. The floor could have done with a good scrub, but fuck that. This was his gaff. If it was a tip, that was his problem, no one else’s. ‘I told you to get out,’ he said.
The woman spoke.
‘We are a military family,’ she said.
John had no idea what that was supposed to mean.
‘Out,’ he said. He pushed the door closed behind them. Why was he so slow? He took the key out of his pocket and twisted it in the lock. As long as there was a key on this side, it couldn’t be opened from outside. That was the first thing he had checked when they moved in. Paranoia; the landlord lived in Athens, well out of the picture. But he’d had no idea Mrs Evi had a copy.
The bell rang five minutes later. John was hyperventilating at the sink. He counted to ten. Then he heard scraping.
‘I told you not to do that,’ he said.
‘Look,’ said Mrs Evi. ‘At least...’
‘How long have you had a key?’ he said.
‘What?’ she said. ‘The landlord posted it to me yesterday.’ She looked offended. ‘I hope you don’t think...’
‘Goodbye,’ said John.
‘Wait!’ she said. ‘At least let the Colonel come in. They’ve been driving since ten o’clock this morning.’
John looked at the man. The Colonel. A hen-pecked specimen of a husband if ever there was one. Norman Wisdom with a moustache. He felt sorry for him. Maybe if more folk felt sorry for each other the world would be a better place. What was the harm? There was no way he was moving out, that was for definite. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But you,’ he said to the woman, ‘stay there. Right?’
Light bounced off the woman’s hairdo. Her head looked like a helmet.
John closed the door firmly. He told the Colonel to stand in the corner of the hallway, and turned the key.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said the Colonel.
‘My house,’ said John. ‘My rules.’
The living room. The Colonel’s footsteps echoed off the floorboards. When he got to the window, he turned. ‘Ah, I see there’s a phone,’ he said. It was all that was left, lying against the skirting board.
The spare room. There was nothing in there, either. Not even a phone.
The bedroom. All John’s gear was heaped on the floor, sleeping bag, clothes, books, jotters, pens, pencils, the lot. He was living like a tink. He tried not to feel embarrassed, but it was difficult.
The bathroom. ‘Ah, the latrine,’ said the Colonel. Cheeky bastard.
The last stop was the kitchen. The Colonel offered him a cigarette. This was the kind of bullshit they loved. It was man to man time, time to smoke the peace pipe, time to talk turkey.
John refused.
The Colonel looked surprised. He clicked a wee gold lighter and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. ‘Where are you from, if I can be so bold?’ he said.
‘Scotland,’ said John.
‘Sorry?’
‘Iceland.’
‘.....’
‘The North Pole.’
‘Now, young man, there’s no need to be sarcastic, I’m only asking...’
‘I’m The Man In The Moon,’ said John. ‘Look, I’ve got a big cheesy grin.’
‘I knew you were foreign,’ said the Colonel. ‘Mrs Evi told me. Moreover, your accent needs quite a bit of work.’
John laughed. ‘Thank you so much,’ he said. ‘Are you always so rude when you’re a guest in someone’s house?’
‘Been here long?’ said the Colonel. He was looking around for an ashtray.
‘Use the big one,’ said John.
‘Sorry?’ said the Colonel, his eyes searching.
‘The floor,’ said John. ‘That was the first thing I learned when I came here. You lot have quite a cavalier attitude when it comes to hygiene.’
The Colonel opened the door and flicked ash out onto the balcony. His jacket had razor sharp creases along the arms, as if it were part of a uniform. Minus the medals and badges.
‘Are you really a Colonel?’ said John.
The Colonel snapped to attention. ‘Retired,’ he said.
‘What does it feel like to lead men to their deaths?’ said John.
The Colonel regarded the end of his cigarette thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never done that,’ he said. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. I was in the Training Wing.’ He looked up. ‘Would you like to hear a story?’ he said.
Poor guy. His wife probably didn’t let him get a word in edgeways.
‘On you go,’ said John. He’d let him say his piece then kick him out. Christ knows why he’d let him in.
‘I once saved a man’s life,’ said the Colonel, watching the smoke curl round his fingers. ‘I threw myself on a hand grenade.’
The Colonel, John noticed, had quite a paunch. It didn’t look as if it had once muffled an explosion.
‘It didn’t go off, of course,’ he continued. ‘It was a practice grenade. A dud, if you will.’
John laughed. ‘You’re not much of a hero, then,’ he said.
‘Perhaps not,’ said the Colonel. ‘But at the time I didn’t know it was a dud. No one did. I thought it was live. So did the young man I pushed out of the way. He kept in touch with me for years afterwards. He was recently killed in a car crash. An unfortunate accident.’
What was this, thought John. Hand grenades that didn’t go off and heroes who weren’t really heroes.
‘So when are you leaving?’ said the Colonel.
‘I’m not,’ said John.
The Colonel puffed on his cigarette. ‘My son has been offered a place at the military academy,’ he said. ‘His classes begin in a fortnight.’ He looked round the kitchen. ‘We’d like to move his things in next week.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ said John. ‘The Pampered Son. When I came here I was someone’s son. No help from Daddy, though. I had to learn to stand on my own two feet. I had nothing. You hear? Nothing.’
The Colonel pushed the frying pan out of the way with the back of his hand. The cigarette, what was left of it, hissed in the sink. ‘You’ve come a long way since then,’ he said.
‘Right, that’s enough,’ said John. ‘Get out.’
Mrs Helmet Hair was waiting on the landing.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘It’ll do,’ said the Colonel. ‘It needs a good clean, though.’
John slammed the door. He listened carefully. He heard footsteps going up the stair – up to Mrs Evi’s flat.
Half an hour later, the phone rang.
‘Ah,’ said John. ‘I’ve been expecting your call.’
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ croaked the landlord.
‘I would appreciate your phoning me in advance when you want complete strangers to...’
‘Shut it,’ said the landlord. ‘You’ve got seven days to move out.’
‘What?’ said John. ‘You can’t do this. I have rights. Do you hear? As long as this is my flat...’
‘It isn’t your flat,’ said the landlord. ‘It’s mine.’
There was no arguing with that.
‘Well, okay,’ said John, ‘but it’s the principle...’
‘Don’t you talk to me about principles,’ said the landlord. ‘I had your wife’s father on the phone. You dirty dog.’
John had forgotten that there was a Relationship. Family ties. Third cousins twice removed. When you married the woman, you married the whole tribe. That was how they’d got the flat in the first place.
‘First of the month,’ said the landlord. ‘Just leave the key in the door. Capice?’
‘You can’t do this,’ said John. ‘As the sitting tenant I have...hello?’
The line was dead.
He waited in the hallway till he heard them leaving. He went out onto the balcony. They climbed into an ancient Buick parked at the end of the street. Mrs Evi waved goodbye then flagged down a taxi.
He would have to move fast.
He got a new barrel for the lock – and a screwdriver – from the shop on the main street. He legged it back to the flat. The job was easier than he had expected. Both keys worked well, inside and out. He checked to see if they blocked each other. There were only two keys, and he had both of them, but he wanted to make sure.
Now all he had to do was wait.
The days passed slowly, punctuated by worrying bouts of tachycardia. He didn’t want to leave the flat unattended, but he had no choice – he had to go to work. He wanted to play this straight down the line. He got his wages on the 31st and immediately put the rent money into an envelope. He usually paid the rent through a bank account, but he didn’t want to take a chance, he knew the landlord was more than capable of claiming he had never received it. Apart from that, he strongly suspected that the landlord would be making a personal appearance. It would be better to have the money there, cash, to show him how serious he was. This wasn’t a squatting deal. He had money.
The kitchen cupboards were full of tinned goods. Mostly corned beef, but there was other stuff as well. He’d stocked up. He was ready for a siege.
Someone was trying to get in. He could hear metal rattling in the door. He asked who it was, terrified. The noise stopped. Footsteps going down the stairs. Her footsteps. He tried to open the door, but the key wouldn’t budge. He ran out to the balcony and saw her, she was floating in mid air, fading into the distance, her dress billowing...
He opened his eyes.
The room was dark.
He couldn’t sleep.
He was ready for them when they came.
The removals truck looked like it had been built in the 1950s. The driver got out, checking a docket. Maybe the driver and the Colonel were tight – they had bought their vehicles from the same dealer. Maybe they were related! A strapping young man climbed out of the back and started unloading boxes. Both he and the driver were dressed in khaki. They meant business.
He skimmed the letter he had composed the previous evening. He had set out his argument as plainly as possible, the tone forthright yet restrained. He was sure that a straightforward appeal to reason would yield the desired result. And the written word was so much more civilized than a shouting match.
He pressed his ear to the door. It sounded like the landing was filling up; not so many echoes. Not long to go now. Huffing and puffing. Banging as furniture collided with walls. The occasional swear word. And lots of whispering, too, really close. Two men and a woman.
The bell.
He let them wait.
Someone started hammering on the door. John twisted the key to make sure it was definitely locked. ‘What is it?’ he shouted.
‘Open up,’ wheezed a voice. The landlord. ‘Open up. You don’t live here any more.’
‘I have rights,’ said John.
The sound of metal rattling against metal. Then a curse.
‘Did you change this lock?!’
‘It’s my flat!’ John shouted.
‘Open this fucking door!’
‘I’m quite willing to be reasonable about this,’ said John. ‘I’ve got this month’s rent in an envelope in my hand.’ This wasn’t true – the envelope was in his pocket, but he was trying to dangle bait. ‘Cash. From my hand to your hand.’
They started muttering amongst themselves. More voices. Reinforcements. Maybe the men had finished unloading the truck.
‘Open this door before I phone the police!’ shouted the landlord. John smiled to himself. This was exactly what he had been expecting.
‘The police can’t do anything,’ he said. ‘I have rights.’ He pushed the letter under the door. He had been through a similar ordeal in Scotland. They couldn’t just throw you out. The sitting tenant had the upper hand. They had to get a court order. That could take months. Someone – the landlord? – started reciting. Fits and starts.
‘Is that how you spell ‘rights’?’ someone said. Mrs Colonel.
‘He’s foreign,’ wheezed the landlord.
‘Let me see that,’ said someone else. Muttering. The landlord said, ‘On you go – I’ll take it out of the deposit.’ Squeaking. The letter skidded to a halt at John’s feet. Something had been scrawled in blue felt tip. ‘STAND WELL BACK’ it said. There was an almighty bang. Then another. He jumped out of the way just as a very large boot came crashing through the middle of the door.
‘You bastard!’ someone shouted. ‘My ankle!’
John grabbed the boot. The laces went all the way up the shins. Howling out on the landing. He let go and ran into the kitchen. More banging, more cursing, then the front door flew open.
‘Where is he?’ It was the driver’s mate. He limped towards the kitchen. ‘I’m gonna fuckin’...!’
John was on the balcony. It was only the first floor, but it looked a long way down. He had no choice. It was either get murdered or jump. He jumped. He crumpled on impact, kneeing himself in the face. It felt like he’d broken his cheekbones.
‘Are you all right?’
Through the pain, he looked up. His enemies were everywhere.
‘That was some jump,’ said the driver. ‘Come on, can you stand up?’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said John. He had tears in his eyes.
‘I think the Colonel’s got other plans,’ said the driver.
‘I am a reasonable man!’ shouted the Colonel from the balcony. He had a pile of John’s clothes in his arms. ‘Rather more than my son. Luckily for you he seems to have broken his leg. Now, do you want to come and get your things or will I throw them down?’
John was crying.
‘Have it your way,’ said the Colonel. ‘It makes no difference to me.’ Shirts, jeans and socks fluttered onto the pavement. John had to turn away.
‘That’s out of order, that,’ said the driver. ‘Look, mate, can I drop you anywhere? I’m heading out of town. Have you got anything sorted?’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said John. He thought he saw something land on the truck, but the tears made it hard to focus. ‘I can’t leave.’
‘What do you mean you can’t leave?’ said the driver. ‘There’s plenty of other flats.’
John shook his head. Why didn’t they understand?
‘I can’t go away from here,’ he said. ‘What if she comes back? She’ll ring the bell and I won’t be here.’
‘Who?’ said the driver.
‘My wife,’ said John. ‘If she comes back and I’m not here she’ll think...she’ll think...she might come back.’
‘Hang on,’ said the driver. ‘Your missus bailed?’
Hearing it like that was more painful than a knee in the face. John took a minute. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘But...’
‘Forget about her,’ said the driver, and shook his head. ‘She’s gone, mate.’
‘How can you say that?’ John shouted. He buried his head in his hands. Christ his face was sore. ‘How do you know? You don’t know! How can you say that? How can you say she won’t come back?!’
The driver stepped over to the truck. ‘Because they never do,’ he said, and began to unravel something from the wing mirror. A white shirt. He kneeled in front of John, offering it. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get your stuff and I’ll drop you wherever.’
No. It couldn’t end like this. He knew – he knew – she would come back to him. All it needed was time. He sat there, his feet in the gutter, his clothes and books strewn around him. It couldn’t end like this. Not like this. There was always that hope.
The sun had disappeared behind the building across the street. It was starting to get cold. He shivered. He was still there when the streetlights came on, still in the gutter, still trying to hang onto his dream even as the tins started whizzing and thudding around him, like a barrage of culinary bomblets, a hailstorm of corned beef hand grenades, every one a dud.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford grew up in Grangemouth, an industrial town in East Central Scotland. He studied Science and Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh and went on to take a teaching qualification at Jordanhill College, Glasgow. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, The Athens News, Junk Junction, Ink Sweat and Tears, McStorytellers, Weaponizer, New Linear Perspectives, Spilling Ink Review, Drey 2 (Red Squirrel Press), The Legendary, the Midwest Literary Magazine and the The. His first novel, Drive!, was published in 2010. His collection of short fiction, The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories, was released in October 2011. He lives in Greece.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.
His blog can be found at http://www.andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com/ and his novel can be purchased at this link on Amazon.co.uk.