Authors: Josephine Falla
He set off, banging his front door firmly behind him. Outside, an ambulance was parked. He held on to the doorpost in sudden terror. Had they come for him? So quickly? But no – two ambulance men were rolling a stretcher out of Mrs. Brenner’s. She was on the stretcher, pale and unconscious, with a livid mottled bruise on her forehead.
“What’s the matter with her?” he asked the men.
“Dunno at this stage. She’s got a bad bruise on her head.
Must have fallen and hit herself on something.”
“Struck by a thunderbolt, I expect,” he muttered, as he watched the ambulance drive off.
The implication of what he had just said didn’t sink in straightaway but when it did he felt his legs begin to crumble beneath him. Was this God’s doing? And, if so, was it because he, William Penfold, had requested it?
Surely not! Surely the Almighty would not deliberately floor Mrs. B. just because he had suggested – no, demanded – it? All the same, it was a funny sort of coincidence.
He turned and went back into his own house. He stared at the computer. Another email, he would send another email. After much thought he typed:
What did You do that for? I didn’t really mean for the stupid old bat to get hurt like that. What I want is money.
William Penfold
Administrative Manager
Firmly, he pressed Send. For some time he continued to stare at the screen; then he hauled himself to his feet and wandered along to the kitchen again, but there was still nothing much to eat or drink. Lots of empty cans and bottles, all over the place, but no new, full ones. Opening one of the cupboards proved lucky, though, for he found three slices of bread at the back which didn’t smell too bad. He put two of them into the toaster, which reminded him of the pills he hadn’t taken, as they were stacked in a heap behind it. This time he found and took two of the blue ones, and a white one, just to be on the safe side. There was a scraping of marge, to go with the toast, and just water to drink. Well, better than nothing. But not much.
Time to go shopping. He set off along the passage, past the toilet, and paused at the doorway of the sitting room. He found he could not resist going closer to the computer. Slowly, almost in a trance, he reached forward and opened the email programme.
There was a reply. Another missive from the Top Guy. Or Gal.
Hand shaking he clicked on Open. It said:
Mrs. Brenner needs help.
Bloody hell!
She
needs help!
I
need help. How can I help her? Why should I anyway? I don’t even know what hospital she’s in, do I?
Shopping. Do some shopping. Get some food. Get something to drink. He set off briskly, in a determined mood. Outside his front door, in front of the step, was a large ginger cat.
Mrs. Brenner’s.
Animal and man regarded each other. Christ, was this what the Top Guy meant? Was he supposed to look after the moggy till the old bat came home? His heart sank. He didn’t want – what didn’t he want? He didn’t want the responsibility. He couldn’t look after himself – he knew that – he hadn’t done any looking after anybody or anything since the time when and he sure as hell didn’t want to be bothered right now with a flaming cat.
Damn and blast it. He hadn’t got money for himself, never mind a cat.
He turned to close the front door firmly but the cat was quick. It was inside before he had a chance to kick it out of the way.
He shrugged and turned towards the shops. In the mini-market he bought milk and bread and a tin of beans. He was about to reach for a can of lager when he thought of the wretched cat. What did cats eat? Had he ever had a cat? As usual he couldn’t remember. Tinned mice perhaps? Eventually, he found the pet food section and bought the largest, cheapest can of cat food he could see. There was enough left over for two bottles of cheap beer. He set off back home, muttering curses to himself about the arrival of the cat into his daily routine.
Once home, he made himself a coffee and a piece of toast and sat down in front of the telly. He had forgotten about the cat, but it appeared from nowhere and started to rub itself against his trousers.
Hell’s bells, it wants food, he thought. Muttering to himself he rose unsteadily to his feet and swayed towards the kitchen. There he managed, after a struggle, to open the tin of cat food and dished out a portion of it into a saucer. The cat fell on it instantly. After a little thought, he filled another saucer with a little milk. There. That was the animal settled.
He watched it finish the food and have a sip or two of the milk, then he opened the back door wide and invited his unwelcome guest to leave. The cat took one look, turned, fled down the passageway from the kitchen and shot upstairs.
Blast and bugger it, it’s gone upstairs. He hadn’t been upstairs for ages. He found he could manage perfectly well without the trouble and worry of getting up and down the stairs. He didn’t want the cat up there. If he let it go up there it would make a home up there, and bring its friends in.
He pondered the situation. Eventually he decided that he’d have to get the cat down and he started on the precarious and wobbly business of ascending the stairs. About 10 minutes later he reached the top. There were three rooms upstairs – the main front bedroom, a smaller one at the back and a tiny bathroom, which he never used these days. He stumbled into the main bedroom. It contained a double bed with rumpled bed clothes, which obviously hadn’t been slept in for ages. There was an old battered dressing table and an old battered wardrobe, whose door was swinging open. He lurched forward to close the door – and the cat leapt out with a rush. “Damn thing,” he muttered. As he touched the door he caught a glimpse of a jacket inside the wardrobe, hanging on a battered coat hanger. Suddenly interested, he tore the jacket off the hanger, sat on the bed and inspected the garment.
Well, it must be his. He didn’t recognise it. But it was his house, wasn’t it? He stared at it closely. It was good quality. It reminded him of the days when. He felt in all the pockets. In the inside breast pocket he found a wallet. In the wallet he found a credit card in the name of W. Penfold. And some money. Actual money! Notes and coins. Excitedly he added it up. £76.84 pence! It was his. Must be his.
He put the jacket on. He felt different. A different sort of man. The sort of man who had a credit card, who had money in his pocket, who wore a jacket. As in the days when.
He stood up, still unsteady. Got to get down the stairs. Worse going down than coming up. Gingerly, he began the descent. God, he needed a drink. As he negotiated the last step, he realised that he didn’t know where the cat was. It might still be up there. Well sod it, it would have to stay there. He wasn’t going up there again for any fuckin’ moggy.
The door to the sitting room was open and the computer faced him. So was this the work of the Almighty? He, William Penfold, had asked for money and the Top Man had told him to help Mrs. Brenner. Which he had done, by feeding her cat. And through the cat he had found money. Well, some anyway. So now what?
This required thought. Thought required drink. He turned towards the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. Dimly, he remembered the pills and took two of the first ones he opened. He turned back towards the sitting room and fell onto the sofa, where he settled down for a drink and sleep. He eyed the computer and wondered if he should send a ‘thank you’ email to God but decided he couldn’t be bothered at the moment. He put his feet up, drank the beer and dozed off. The afternoon drifted on.
When he woke up, he found he had a large ginger cat sprawled across his lap. Automatically he began to stroke it. It purred and stretched a little.
He started to think about the money. About what he could do with it. He could buy some drink. Proper drink. What was ‘proper drink’? Vaguely he remembered wine. And spirits. Stuff like that. He’d liked it once, in the days when, he was sure. Might be a tad difficult now. You had to have – what was it now? – oh, yes. Mixers. And glasses. Different shaped glasses. He wondered if he had any glasses. Maybe in the top cupboard in the kitchen.
He could buy some food. He hadn’t eaten anything you could call a decent meal for ages. What sort of food? Something that either didn’t need cooking or was already cooked. A Chinese takeaway. Or Indian. Fish and chips. He could buy some proper stores. Eggs and things. Eggs were easy. Bacon. Rice pudding. Cheese. Thinking about food almost made him hungry. But not quite. What he was was thirsty.
A further thought occurred to him. This credit card. He forced his mind to concentrate. Credit cards. Was it still usable? Didn’t they stop being valid or something, after a certain time? When had he last used it, and paid the bill? He didn’t have the least idea. He didn’t have any statements or anything. If they’d sent him one he’d thrown it away. And what was the other thing you needed? He couldn’t remember. Something to do with needles. Something sharp. No, it was gone.
Laboriously he stood up, tipping the cat on to the floor as he did so. “Come on, Ginger, let’s see what’s in the kitchen.” The sound of his voice, talking to a cat, alarmed him. I shall have to watch it, he thought, might be going a bit soft in the head. They set off down the passage together. Once in the kitchen, he found the other bottle of beer and opened it. Then he fixed himself some beans on toast. Using the toaster reminded him of the pills stacked behind it and he took one of everything. He gave the cat some more of the tin he had bought earlier. Again, he opened the back door, and this time the cat went out.
“Well, that’s him sorted,” he muttered, and went back to the sitting room. There he sat on the sofa and again reviewed the situation. He was still wearing the jacket and this led him to consider his wardrobe. The trousers, he decided, were filthy. So was the rest of his clothes. When had he last had a good wash? There was no answer to that and he fell to thinking about the credit card. If it was still valid he could use it on the internet! If it wasn’t, the internet would tell him. So it was worth a try, at least.
Where did his money come from? He pondered this. Every so often the Social people visited him and they took him off to – where? The post office? Or somewhere else, he forgot where. He signed something and there was money, he knew that. Then they went with him to the mini-market and he bought things. Beans and stuff. Usually, as now, by the time they came again he had run out of all the stuff he had bought and was on his last drop of drink, last crumb of bread. And they supervised him doing laundry in the launderette. They had a quick look round the house, checked the electricity and so on.
Sometimes they tried to make him talk about the past, about the days when. But he wasn’t having that. No way. They took him to the doctor’s if he needed an appointment; they checked on his pills and tried to establish if he had been taking the right ones at the right time. And they talked about his drink problem. They didn’t seem to realise he didn’t have a drink problem. He had a pay-for-it problem – and God had helped him out with that. And they sorted out his post, if he had any.
He was back to the question of the credit card. He went to the computer and carefully ignored his email programme. He brought up his access to the internet. Now what?
He could order a big crate of champagne. A new enormous television. A Rolex watch. But it was no good. He didn’t want these things. He began a surfing expedition, switching from website to website, fascinated by all the things he could order and have delivered within a week. Finally, he made a choice. Two – no, three, no, four choices, in fact.
On a large, multi-purpose site, he ordered a bright red snazzy little mobility scooter, which cost £4,000. It was intended for disabled people and had all possible additional gadgets, horn, mirrors, baskets, side flaps etc. Marvellous,he thought. I can’t walk much these days – I’ll whizz round to the mini-market with this. Maybe go even further – it says it will go 25 miles before it conks out. I could take all my laundry round myself to the launderette in it and tell those Social Service people to get lost. On further reading he became a bit concerned about the charging- up procedure – he didn’t have a garage. But on reflection he could get it into the kitchen, out through the back door, and out of the garden into the alleyway at the back. He could plug it in in the kitchen.
He then thought of the cat. He would buy it a nice basket. He had got over his resentment at the cat’s intrusion into his life, seeing as how it had introduced him, in a way, to some real money. He would give it a treat.
He discovered the Menswear section. There were some startling pale cream summer trousers, with an unexpected red stripe. I like those, he thought. So he added them to the list.
Finally he ordered himself a large golfing umbrella. He often got wet going round to the pub or the mini-market. It would be very sensible and practical. It was very cheerful; it was bright red with yellow and green stripes.
He then pressed the Proceed to the Check Out button on the website. He took a last swig of the beer as he filled in the details of his name, address and credit card, ordering everything to be delivered Express, which cost a lot more, he noticed, then with a deep, anxious breath, he clicked on Submit.
The wait seemed interminable. He suddenly thought that he did not know what his spending limit was on the card. Well, too late now.
The next page flashed up.
Your Purchase was Successful.
Delivery within two days. A confirmation email was being sent. Fantastic! He sat back in his chair and beamed with satisfaction.
Now, what about God? With a certain amount of nervous bravado he opened up his email programme. He had to tell Him what he’d done and he suspected He might be more than a bit annoyed, being a bit hot on the morality thing. Still, he hadn’t bought lots of drink, just practical things. It was just that he couldn’t actually pay for them.
There was no email from God, so he wrote one to send off. After much thought, he put: