Mr Golden
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one.
Description: Leaving your flat can be awkward when your landlord's a chancer.
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I told the landlord I would be leaving on the fifteenth. I’d found a new place. He looked shocked. I’d been there for three years, never a problem with the rent. I asked him if I could just pay him for half the month.
‘No,’ he said.
‘I’ll be expecting my deposit back,’ I said.
‘In your dreams,’ he said.
I was aware he had a key to my flat.
A week later the electricity bill arrived. 25. A quarter of my month’s wages. It was usually 5. Something was going on. I checked the meter number on the bill with all my other bills. Everything matched.
I rang the landlord’s bell.
‘What’s going on?’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ he smiled. He’d seen the bill in my hand.
‘This,’ I said. ‘The only appliance in the place is the fridge. And the light when I come home in the evening.’
‘So?’ he said.
I looked over his shoulder. He had never invited me in, but his hallway was full of broken TVs and antique radios. I was sure he knew his way around a junction box. We were all foreigners in the block – a Scotsman, an Egyptian, three French girls and a Russian who kept himself to himself. Each of us was stamped with a sell by date.
The landlord read my thoughts.
‘You’ll be needing electricity in your new flat,’ he said. ‘You’d better pay your bill, eh?’
‘You’re a fucking con man,’ I told him.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and began to push the door shut. His eyes glided to a hook on the wall. A bunch of keys was hanging there, as big as a fist. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
Swearwords: One strong one.
Description: Leaving your flat can be awkward when your landlord's a chancer.
_____________________________________________________________________
I told the landlord I would be leaving on the fifteenth. I’d found a new place. He looked shocked. I’d been there for three years, never a problem with the rent. I asked him if I could just pay him for half the month.
‘No,’ he said.
‘I’ll be expecting my deposit back,’ I said.
‘In your dreams,’ he said.
I was aware he had a key to my flat.
A week later the electricity bill arrived. 25. A quarter of my month’s wages. It was usually 5. Something was going on. I checked the meter number on the bill with all my other bills. Everything matched.
I rang the landlord’s bell.
‘What’s going on?’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ he smiled. He’d seen the bill in my hand.
‘This,’ I said. ‘The only appliance in the place is the fridge. And the light when I come home in the evening.’
‘So?’ he said.
I looked over his shoulder. He had never invited me in, but his hallway was full of broken TVs and antique radios. I was sure he knew his way around a junction box. We were all foreigners in the block – a Scotsman, an Egyptian, three French girls and a Russian who kept himself to himself. Each of us was stamped with a sell by date.
The landlord read my thoughts.
‘You’ll be needing electricity in your new flat,’ he said. ‘You’d better pay your bill, eh?’
‘You’re a fucking con man,’ I told him.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and began to push the door shut. His eyes glided to a hook on the wall. A bunch of keys was hanging there, as big as a fist. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford was born in Grangemouth and now lives in Greece. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, Junk Junction, The Athens News and Ink Sweat and Tears. His first novel, Drive! – a story of 1980’s Edinburgh pub rock, attempted patricide and arson – was published last year.
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.