Page 8 of A Face in the Crowd
Perfect! Where would you like to go?
I start a reply and then stop myself. There’s etiquette to think about. Do people split a bill on a first date? I’ve never been the sort of person who’s comfortable with allowing a bloke to pay for everything just because he happens to have different genitalia. This is the other issue with dating, even if I hate that word, it’s expensive – or it can be.
As I’m trying to figure out how best to suggest the cheapest place I know without making it sound like I’m skint, another message arrives.
How about The Garden Café?
I’ve never been but Google says it’s within walking distance of where I live. It’s funny how, when travel costs are hard to meet, every place is judged by whether it’s walkable. I hold my breath and check the menu. There are expensive items – plus a dizzying array of wine – but I can stick to tap water. Free is always good. More importantly, the soup and salad is cheap, there’s an all-day breakfast that’s a fiver and plenty of fancy-sounding dishes that won’t cripple my finances for the rest of the month. I might have to go without food for the rest of the day, but I could likely handle it.
I find myself glancing towards the bed that’s folded up into the wall. Towards the envelope of money.
Sounds good.
We send a couple more messages back and forth, finalising the time, and it all seems very normal. Very simple. It’s like I’m a real human being. Like the shadow of Ben isn’t hanging over me any longer; as if everythingwillbe all right in the end. That’s what people kept saying five years ago and I’m still waiting.
Our messages dry up as Billy nudges his way back into the apartment. I close the door behind him and then take my space on the sofa, him at my feet, curled up and ready to sleep. I should be doing some of my university work – my Childhood and Youth Studies course isn’t going to complete itself – but it’s almost impossible to concentrate.
I’m home alone, just me and Billy.
And the money.
It’s still calling, wanting to be counted. To be touched. So much money.
I turn on the television to distract myself, flicking through the Freeview channels until I find something that isn’t full of gurning, grating idiots shouting at one another. It takes a long time. With the background noise sorted, I do some more searching on the laptop, looking for news stories or social media posts about missing or stolen money in the local area. There’s still nothing.
I’m definitely going to hand it in to the police. It’s a bit late in the day now, so probably tomorrow.
Somebody must have noticed it missing by now. It’s too much money to ignore. I wonder if it’s dodgy. I know the new plastic notes are supposed to be impossible to counterfeit, but, if that’s the case, then… what? It has to be real, so someone will want it back.
My stomach gurgles, reminding me that I’ve not eaten since the Weetabix I had this morning. Billy grumbles as I remove my foot from under his chin and head to the fridge. It takes me a second or two to realise that there’s even less inside than I remember. There’s a bottle of chilled tap water, a couple of carrots, a tub of almost-finished margarine, two eggs and an apple. There’s also a large bag of porridge oats underneath the sink that was on offer six weeks ago and will last for months, plus the remaining Weetabix in the box. It’s not real Weetabix, of course. It’s the own-brand Weety-Bits. Aside from Billy’s food, that’s all there is to eat in the flat.
It’s a little after seven p.m. but I make myself a bowl of porridge on the hob, measuring out the oats and water because I don’t want to make too much and end up wasting it. By the time I get back to the sofa, Billy is in full-on snoring mode. It’s gently melodic, as if he’s keeping time for an orchestra. I’m careful not to step on him as I curl my feet under myself on the sofa and check the web one more time to see if anybody has reported the missing or stolen money.
Not yet, but I’m sure they will.
If I’m honest, this is my life now. There was a time when it might have been the odd dinner party, or nights out at the cinema. Where I’d pay £6 or more for a glass of wine and not even think about it. Where I’d get a taxi home, tipsy and giggling. Now, it is bowls of porridge, a snoring dog, nonsense on the television and me attempting to do my university course. I tell myself it’s all a means to an end. I’ll graduate one day and then I can look for a job that pays more. When that comes through, I can find somewhere bigger and better to live. Time is all it takes. Well, timeandmoney. I want it to bemymoney, though. MoneyI’veearned. Something I’ve worked for.
I’m definitely handing this money in. I’ve got Parkrun in the morning, then work, then I’ll go to the police station after that.
My phone rings once more and one of Billy’s ears pricks up, even though he doesn’t open his eyes. The screen reads unknown and I let it ring off. Whoever it is will leave a message if it’s important. I find myself staring towards the bed that’s hidden in the wall once more. The money is calling me again, but it’ll be gone tomorrow and everything will get back to normal.
Definitely.
Chapter Four
Saturday
Out of everyone I know, there is one of us who really enjoys the five-kilometre Parkrun – and it is definitely not me. I tolerate it and Karen more or less does the same, citing the greater good. Billy, however, seems to know when it’s Saturday. He strains on his lead the entire way to the park. He might be getting slowly, heartbreakingly, more lethargic – but this day is always his favourite of the week.
Karen and I hang around close to the line as the rest of the Parkrunners mingle and wait for the start. The crumbling path serves as the route, looping its way around the green of the park, up and over a ridge and then back down the other side. We circle the pavilion, continue along the riverbank for a bit and then follow the trail back around to the start. Two laps of that is 5K – and then we can all, mercifully, go home.
There’s a bit of everything here; a bit of everyone. Some skinny lads are in vests and short-shorts that are borderline pornographic. They look professional, with their watches, chest straps and general focused stare whenever they get somewhere near the start line. There are women, too, of course, with their toned, tight abs and bobbing ponytails. Others are in jogging bottoms, loose T-shirts and scruffy trainers. Someone behind me is wearing jeans, as if he didn’t have to time to get changed from whatever he was up to last night.
A whistle signals the start and then, predictably, those at the front with all the gear go bombing off. For me, I’m certain the tortoise had the right idea against the hare: slow and steady is the way to go. Although, if thatweretrue, I’d be beating those that have gone off fast – and that definitely doesn’t happen.
Karen likes the company of running with someone, even if she’s too out of breath to actually talk after we start. I’m a little faster than her, but there’s not much in it, so I happily plod along as Billy bobs at my side. It took me a few weeks to realise that, if I start near the back, I can jog past more people than overtake me – which gives a stab of satisfaction.
It is also at events such as this that I realise Billy is way more popular than I will ever be. The fellow slow runners usually have a wave for him, even as they fail to acknowledge my existence. Not that I mind. Not really.
