I’m still dazed and confused when I get home at an unknown hour.
I’d contemplated going straight home, but I knew there was an hour between trains at that time of day. So I went to a pub instead, any pub, any place that sold alcohol. I staggered on through pint after pint, pub after pub on the way to the train station, which I eventually found myself outside by pure luck.
“Fuck it,” I said and belched. “Time to go home.”
I fell asleep on the train almost immediately, luckily waking at Ramsgate, the first bit of fortune I’d had that miserable bloody day. Then I wended my way home, via every pub I saw, which fortuitously is relatively limited in number between Buenos Aires and the Old Town. John, the landlord of my local, had to bodily throw me out when I got rowdy and neither of us was pleased about me being unable to pay my tab. He told me if I didn’t fuck off I’d be barred, a threat I took pretty seriously, I can tell you.
Somewhere along the route I misplaced my bag. I’ve no idea whether I left it behind or some opportunistic thieving bastard nicked it. Either way, it’d gone by the time I got back to my flat.
So I’m pretty fucking shitfaced. I do the usual drunk’s thing, failing to stab the key into the Yale lock even after lots of practice. Eventually I get there (think monkeys and Shakespeare, blind luck will eventually get you a result) and spill through the door. The carpet is rough against my face, the smell from hundreds of shoes pretty potent. It feels like George Michael is scraping his unwashed stubble on my cheek. I push myself onto my knees, crawl to the stairs and up the three flights to my floor.
From there it’s a pretty annoying journey to the door to my flat. Some inconsiderate bastard has haphazardly dumped bags of rubbish along the hallway. Out of the black plastic sacks spill a chaotic variety of possessions, mostly clothes, DVDs, CDs, useless crap like that. Maybe this is a charity collection. I don’t know and don’t care; I just don’t like it being in my fucking way. I reach my door and sit back on my haunches, my bleary eyes level with the lock, a five-lever this time, not a crappy Yale. So theoretically more straightforward to get the key into? No, my friend. I’m just as shit at hitting the target, but after a few attempts (monkeys part deux) the key enters the hole, turns and...fuck all. The lock won’t budge. I try turning it both ways several times. Nothing. I only have the two keys on the ring so it’s not a case of mistaken entry.
Then I notice the envelope with my name on impaled by a brightly-coloured drawing pin to the door. I pull it down, tearing a thin line in the envelope in the process. There are three tears, so someone else has been reading my mail. The envelope isn’t sealed, merely folded in on itself, so even a drunk bastard like me can understand its contents. On the cheap paper inside is typed a short statement:
Dear Mr Dedman,
We have been instructed by the owner of this flat, Miss Claire Pigeon, to evict you forthwith for alleged non-payment of rent. As several notices have been served and ignored and threats made against Miss Pigeon we have been forced to enter, remove your belongings and change the lock. Should you require any further information please contact me.
There followed a mobile telephone number, but no name. I read the note several times, struggling to take it in and sobering up extremely quickly. My interpretation is that I’ve been thrown out of my flat, but what notices are they referring to? I don’t remember being served anything. I certainly can’t recall threatening Claire, either. I dial the number on the paper but it goes straight through to the standard service provider voicemail message. I disconnect. Then I call Claire. It rings twice then she answers, but there’s complete silence on the other end.
“Claire?” I say. No response. “Claire, I know you’re there. What the fuck’s all this about?”
Silence, but I think I can hear breathing. Then a giggle, cut off abruptly as the call is disconnected.
“Fuck!” I redial but it goes straight into voicemail, same on the third and fourth attempts.
Then my phone beeps to deliver a text message that reads, “Consider yourself dumped you miserable shit. C. XXX (not).”
I look up and down the corridor at the rubbish sacks containing what I now know is what’s left of my possessions. It’s clear now some bastard has been rifling through them. God knows what’s been stolen, but I really don’t give a fuck because it means nothing compared to what I’ve already lost.
All I want is my shitty little life back. I feel like I’m in a very small boat in rough seas, I’ve no idea what stability means anymore and there’s no sight of land. Compared to where I am now my inconsequential job, arsehole boss and meaningless relationship are infinitely better.
I call a taxi and wait outside for it. I think it starts to drizzle, but I’m not really sure. A car draws up. I stumble inside, mumble Jack’s address and sit back on the sticky seat.
I don’t see any of the grey houses through the rain-streaked window. What rolls around in my mind, back and forth, is the sound of Claire’s giggle. It sounded...vindictive. And very, very final.