Page 4 of A Face in the Crowd
The rain has stopped and the pavement glistens bright as I hoist my bag higher and start the walk towards home. Some kids in school uniform are busy kicking a wall because… well, I have no idea. Perhaps this is what young people do nowadays? Better than hard drugs in the bushes, I suppose. I weave around them, eyes down, and then offer a watery smile towards an old woman who is wheeling one of those canvas bag things behind her. I’ve never seen them for sale anywhere. There must be an old person store for which you only get the address after reaching pension age. She smiles back and carries on heading in one direction, while I go in the other.
I’m halfway across the road when I realise something doesn’t feel right. I almost stop right there, in the join of Fisher Road and Allen Street, as I try to figure out what’s going on. It’s that same sinking feeling when a phone or purse has been lost. Or a bus pass. That panicked realisation of not being in control.
A taxi is impatiently waiting to take the turn, the driver hanging out the window with that flabby-cheeked, dead-eyed gaze of a man who’s spent the day listening to radio phone-ins. He gives me thatget-a-move-on-lovelook, so I hurry across to the safety of the pavement.
There’s a strange moment in which I wonder if I’ve left my bag on the bus, before realising that it’s in my hand. Panic does odd things to the mind. Absolutes are suddenly doubted. My bag is open, however. The zip has been sticking for months and I don’t have the money to buy a new one. Brute force sometimes works, but only ever temporarily. I suppose that could be a lesson for life, not just with bags.
It’s then that it seems so obvious what’s bothering me. My bag is heavier because a padded envelope is tucked inside. It wasn’t there before and I find myself sitting on a low wall at the edge of the pavement, holding onto the envelope with a strange sense of awe. The flap is sealed closed and there’s no writing on the outside. No address, no markings, no anything. Only a plain, taupe envelope. It’s heavy and packed thick with whatever’s inside. It must have fallen in there while I was on the bus.
This envelope isn’t mine – and yet there are no clues on the outside as to whom it might belong. I have no choice but to open it – if only to find out whose it is.
And so I do.
There’s a tingle of excitement, like unwrapping presents on Christmas morning. The anticipation of the unknown. The tab unsticks itself from the envelope and then I pull it away, accidentally tearing off part of the corner. I reach inside, and though I instinctively know what I’m now running my fingers across, there’s still a large part of me that can’t believe what’s in front of me.
It’s money.
More cash than I’ve ever seen in one place before. Hundreds of pounds. No, thousands – all wedged down until the envelope is filled.
There are tight bundles of those new plastic notes. They feel so smooth and clean. So… wrong.
I quickly push the notes back inside and fold the flap down while checking around to make sure nobody has seen. This would be a lot of money anywhere, but, here, on the street, in this little run-down corner of the world…
The envelope is dispatched back into my bag and, this time, I do wrench the zip closed. Brute force is the champion.
I set off towards home, but everything feels muddled and I almost trip over my own feet in my attempt to walk quickly. It’s as if I’ve stumbled into a mirror world. Up is down. Left is now right.
So much money.
So.
Much.
Money.
And, for now, it’s all mine.
Chapter Two
It’s such a strange thing that strips of printed plastic can be swapped for real, tangible things. For food, for the roof over my head. I can understand something like gold being valuable. It’s shiny and heavy and… real. I suppose it’s odder that a click of a mouse or the swipe of a screen can lead to numbers changing and then, suddenly, one person has more worth than they did moments before. Life can be full of the weirdest things at which we all simply shrug.
And, for me, right now, there is £3,640 on my coffee table. It’s almost all comprised of the new plasticky £20 notes, with only a handful of tens.
No wonder my bag felt heavier.
I found my bus pass, too. It was tucked into the wrong pocket of my purse, barely a couple of millimetres away from where it always is. Sometimes panic can stop a person from seeing what is directly in front of them.
The notes are stacked into piles of £200 to make them easier to tally – and I’ve done some serious counting since getting home. Over and over I’ve gone, reaching £3,640 on every occasion, except one. Somehow, I found a phantom £20 that time, which appeared and disappeared from one count to the next.
I pack the notes back into the envelope, seal the tab at the top and then put it back on the table.
I’m definitely going to hand it in to the police.
Definitely.
Billy comes and sniffs at the envelope, but seems nonplussed by it. Dogs deal in food, sleep and affection, which seems like a decent way to live. He turns his head sideways, staring at me with those endless brown eyes that are now encircled with increasing amounts of grey hair. He was once black with white underneath, but now his Staffie face is a pepper pot of dark and grey. It comes to us all, I suppose – the poor sod.
I push myself up from the sofa and cross the apartment. The scratched bareness of the old carpet transitions seamlessly into the ripped linoleum of the kitchen. One of my few solaces from living here is that I haven’t made the flat any worse. I scrub the walls and ceiling whenever I find mould. I clear the spider’s webs whenever they appear. I get rid of the limescale in the bath and sink. I try to keep the place clean, but it’s a constant fight against landlord neglect and age itself.
