My plan

In the afternoon,

I take my bike from the shed

and pedal faster than usual

through the swamp track

and around to Tipping Point.

The sun reddens the cliffs

as a southerly arrives on cue.

At Tipping Point,

I cruise down Patrick’s street

and pray that the BMW

isn’t parked in the carport.

I’m in luck.

I rest the bike

against the newly painted picket fence

and tentatively walk up the front stairs

whispering to myself,

‘Please don’t be home,

please don’t be home,

please don’t be home.’

My knock is loud and assertive,

the opposite of how I feel.

The sound echoes down the street.

Next door a dog barks.

I knock again

and the dog threatens to wake the dead.

I walk downstairs,

open the double gate to their driveway

and wheel my bike down the concrete path

just enough so I can still see the length of the street.

I wait, my fingers drumming on the bike seat.

The dog next door

gets bored with my presence.

I wait ten minutes.

I wait twenty minutes.

I wait thirty minutes.

I look at my watch

as often as I look down the street,

until I hear the BMW turn the corner.

I take a deep breath

and ride

nonchalantly out of the driveway.

Patrick and his mum

look surprised

to catch someone leaving

as they’re arriving.

Patrick’s mouth hangs open

like a laughing clown at the sideshow.

His mum winds down the window,

and I say loudly,

‘Sorry, wrong house.’

It’s easy to look guilty;

there’s no need for acting,

just a hurried pedal,

back to where I belong –

the poor side of the lake.

All the way home,

I tell myself

my plan to save Manx

will work.

The rich don’t always win.