I’m jolted awake by violent banging on the door. I instinctively reach for my dagger before I return to my senses. My whole body aches. Crick in my neck. Oh man . . . I touch my swollen cheek. Shoulder – forget it. Everything hurts, but I get up. Must have got through last night on pure adrenaline. Something smells nice in the kitchen. Gran’s spoon-feeding Ollie, and the wee man looks like he’s enjoying the broth she’s made. He makes gurgling noises with each spoonful he takes.
‘Ah ken yous in there, Ropa Moyo,’ the troll yells from outside.
‘Hold your zebras, I’m coming already,’ I say, stifling a yawn.
‘Want me to talk to him?’ Gran asks. ‘I have a little money saved up from my knitting.’
‘No, you alright, Gran. I’ll take care of it.’ I’m just so tired of this crap. Like, give me a break already.
At least it’s not the fuzz. I’m in the kitchen before I notice flakes of blood on my hands. Nothing in the tap, so I take a bottle from the fridge and wash up. Shit was real last night. Farmer McAlister doesn’t relent with the knocking and I catch his enormous fist when I open the door. Push him backwards and shut the door behind me, so Gran doesn’t have to put up with his drivel.
‘Where’s my rent, yer wee snookersmot?’
‘I’m sorting it out. I just need a little more time.’
‘Aye, same thing you says tae me last time. What you been up tae?’
‘Saving the world.’
‘Disnae pay my rent now, does it? See, I’ve been more than reasonable, but you’ve crossed the line. One more week or you’re oot,’ the troll says in a huff.
‘Okay.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Good morning to you too,’ I say, going back inside and slamming the door in his face.
Two millennia ago, Uncle Tzu wrote in The Art of War that the most important thing to do before you set off for conflict is to ‘first count the cost’. Emperors and kings have been ruined by marching their men off to battle before they checked it was kosher with the treasury. I went off and did this thing without first making sure I could afford to, and now I have to deal with the consequences. Every minute I spent chasing Siobhan and the Milkman was a minute I didn’t spend delivering messages, making money, and it’s come to bite me in the arse.
I stand at the sink and wash my face with the rest of the water in the bottle. It soothes the throbbing pain from the swelling there. Take my scarf off and wipe down my neck too. I don’t even want to look in the mirror. The frozen peas in the icebox come in handy now. I take the pack and hold it to my cheek.
‘Come sit with me,’ says Gran, patting the spot beside her. She’s still feeding Ollie, ’cause even though he likes the grub, he eats super-slow.
I chill next to her and rest against her shoulder.
‘What did he say?’
‘You know the troll, always moaning about one thing or the other. Nothing new there.’
‘Let me help.’
‘We need that money for your meds, Gran. The rent’s my thing and I’m taking care of it.’
‘You can’t hold the weight of the world on your shoulders alone, child.’
‘I know, Gran, but I have a mighty big lever.’
She puts her arm round me and I sink into her tenderness. The scent of her, the fabric of her dress against my skin. Stuff the rent, this is a good day. My phone rings and I let it be. I’m gonna chill for now, then tonight I’ll put my nose back to the grindstone.