Page 3 of Fe
“Charles Winn is a wanker. But don’t tell anyone I said so.”
Fen chuckled. “Don’t tell anyone I agree with you.”
He managed to get everything that was left into one of the bags, then covered the contents with the other before hooking the bag onto the handle of his crutch. If he was careful, he should be okay. It left him unbalanced, but this was the way he transported his shopping. He could cope.
Fen was wet and cold before he was halfway to the road. The rain was still teeming down, little streams surging down the hill. When he reached the point where the drive met the road, he stopped for a breather. A sleek silver car turned sharply into the driveway of the auction house and hit a huge puddle, spraying an arc of dirty water over Fen’s coat and trousers. It even splattered his face.
“Hey!” Fen shouted and wiped his cheeks with his gloved hand.
The driver either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care because he continued up to the auction house.What a wanker.
Now Fen was even wetter along with pissed off and miserable. Thoughts of calling an Uber slid into, then quickly out of his head. A waste of money when he could use public transport. He just had to keep going towards the bus stop, which wasn’t as close as he’d have liked it to be. A few moments later, the same silver car drew up alongside. Fen supposed it wasn’t too late for an apology. Or maybe a lift? If he dared ask.That’ll be the day!Plus he was too filthy for a car like this.The window went down.
“You have something of mine,” said the driver.
Fen blinked water from his lashes.That had sounded rather confrontational. He bent to look at the man, who was indeed glaring, though Fen did notice the glare faltered for a moment as they locked eyes.What the hell haveIdone?The guy had a thin, angular face, dark eyes and dark hair cut in one of those floppy styles that looked effortless and had probably cost more than Fen’s haircuts for the entire year. Fen’s hair was notartfullyscruffy, merely scruffy. The man was in his late thirties, maybe early forties, and wore a white shirt and blue tie. Fen had a thing for smart businessmen, not that he’d ever gone out with one, but he didn’t like the anger. That alone made him not Fen’s type. Life was too short for unnecessary aggression. If Charles came up in his face again like that, Fen would look for another job.Possibly.
“I need that box of items you bought.”
Ah.Now Fen understood. He pushed himself upright. What had he missed that was valuable? Some spectacular stamp? A rare coin?
“I’ll give you a hundred pounds.”
“No thanks.” Fen kept walking. The car moved along at Fen’s pace and much as he might have wanted to, he couldn’t move any faster. He palmed his phone, ready to take a photo of the number plate if things turned nasty.
“That’s twenty-five more than you paid.”
“Even so, I’m not interested.”
“For f… The lot was supposed to have been withdrawn.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“I want it back.”
“If you hadn’t soaked me when you went through that puddle, I might have thought about it.” If he’d said please, asked nicely, then maybe, but being drenched in dirty water had hardened Fen’s heart.
“Oh Christ. Did I? Sorry. So the box?”
Oh fuck off.That wasn’t an apology. Fen had had enough of being pushed around. He kept walking. When he reached the bus stop, he looked back to see the car pulling up and the driver’s door opening. Fen snapped a couple of pictures. A horn blared as a bus came up at the rear of the car and to Fen’s relief, the man shut his door and pulled away.My bus too!That was lucky.
He pressed his phone to the reader, and the driver set off again before Fen was sitting down, which caused him to stumble, but he sank onto the seat with an audible sigh of relief. Except… He felt a bit guilty. If that lot was supposed to have been withdrawn, had the auction house messed up? There had been a lot of withdrawn items. More than Fen had usually seen. Maybe they’d all belonged to that guy. Some vindictive wife sending his stuff to be sold?
No one sat next to him for the entire journey. He didn’t blame them. He was soaked. Water was dripping down his neck from his hair and there was nothing he could do except shiver. He hadn’t taken his backpack off so he had to sit forward on the seat, the carrier bag on his lap, and he wasn’t comfortable. Fen rested his head against the window and wished, not for the first time, that this wasn’t his life.
He allowed himself one moment of misery, but no way would he let self-pity consume him. Itwashis life and there wasn’t much he could do about it. It wasn’t fair but then little was.
His stop was coming up so he pressed the bell and heaved himself to his feet. The stop for the next bus was a little further up the street and according to his app, due in ten minutes. He grew colder as he waited and his shivering increased.Wet, cold and unhappy.Theunhappywas annoying because that wasn’t him. He wasn’t relentlessly cheerful, but he did try to stay upbeat. What was the point, otherwise? How would wallowing in misery help?
Though he did need something to change. All very well thinking he’d find another job, but that wasn’t easy. He was limited by his condition and there wasn’t much he could actually do. If he had money… He was saving what he could, the reason he hadn’t called an Uber, but he had a long way to go before he’d have enough to make his life better.
He wished he was home. He liked his little bedsit, with its own bathroom and little kitchen area with a washer-drier. He didn’t like the stairs he had to climb to reach it, nor the growing damp patch on the ceiling that increasingly looked like Australia, or the occasional gale-force wind that seeped in through the badly fitted windows, but it was home.
Right above a betting shop, but still… Fen wasn’t tempted to throw his money away gambling, unlike Scott who often bragged about how much he’d won, so when he was quiet, Fen guessed he’d lost.
By the time he’d climbed the stairs and unlocked the door of his bedsit, he was shattered. He turned up the heating and hung his coat over a chair. After he’d sponged off the worst of the dirt, he pushed the chair close to the lukewarm radiator before he stripped off. His jeans were sodden, his goose-bump-covered legs white from the cold.
A hot shower revived him and once he was in his sleep pants, long-sleeved T-shirt, fleecy grey dressing gown—thanks, Mum—and thick slipper socks—thanks again, Mum—he put on a load of laundry, then sat at the table and emptied his backpack and the carrier bag. Everything was dry, which was a relief. He’d sort it all out after he’d eaten.
