The next day was a paperwork day. No new cases, time to dot Is and cross Ts, talk to prosecutors, and what not. He almost kept to his official hours, walking home in the dark to give his legs a stretch and save money. The flat looked exactly the same as he left it that morning.
But it wasn't. His first clue that there had been an intruder was when he opened the fridge, expecting to see a half a pint of milk, a bottle of beer, and a nice squash he'd found marked down two days before. He was poor, but he tried his best to avoid crap food. One can't live on instant noodles and potatoes, not and be expected to occasionally chase the baddies.
The squash was gone. In its place was half of Tesco's. Every drawer was full. There were fresh vegetables and not just the cheapest. There was steak and chicken and sausage, cold cuts and a full rasher of bacon. There were eggs, and cheese, and fruit. Milk and beer and a bottle of white wine. All of it was the highest quality, none of it spoiled or old.
Greg stood in front of the fridge for a full minute staring. Then he closed the door. He'd heard that starving people sometimes hallucinate food, but he hadn't thought himself that hungry. He opened the door again, expecting it to be some trick, but no, there it all was.
Had Lydia come by and done the shopping?
He dismissed the idea. The last time Lydia called it was to get him to pay a bill he couldn't afford and damn well shouldn't have to pay for. The house should sell just fine without new carpet in the den and if she really thought it necessary she could pay for it herself. She did have a job after all. No, after that she wouldn't have a fit of compassion and come all the way to London to fill his larder.
His mates at work? He was pretty sure they didn't know the extent of his financial troubles. And if they had, they'd never mentioned it.
Greg looked around to see if there were any other differences. Superficially everything seemed normal. His living area was still a mess. Nothing had been stolen - not that there was anything worth stealing. He had no telly, his laptop came and went with him, he had no art or jewelry. But a thief would not have given him food either.
Ah-there! Something had been stolen. His correspondence was missing. All his bills were gone. Identity thief? It seemed a long way to go for that.
The final change was in his bedroom and Greg knew what was happening. In his closet, hanging neatly on new wooden hangers was an entire wardrobe. Beautiful crisp new shirts, trousers in a bland rainbow of brown. In the drawers were designer jeans. All his size. Thousands of pounds worth of clothes, all of it tasteful, none of it cheap, and though all were brand new, none had tags.
But it wasn't. His first clue that there had been an intruder was when he opened the fridge, expecting to see a half a pint of milk, a bottle of beer, and a nice squash he'd found marked down two days before. He was poor, but he tried his best to avoid crap food. One can't live on instant noodles and potatoes, not and be expected to occasionally chase the baddies.
The squash was gone. In its place was half of Tesco's. Every drawer was full. There were fresh vegetables and not just the cheapest. There was steak and chicken and sausage, cold cuts and a full rasher of bacon. There were eggs, and cheese, and fruit. Milk and beer and a bottle of white wine. All of it was the highest quality, none of it spoiled or old.
Greg stood in front of the fridge for a full minute staring. Then he closed the door. He'd heard that starving people sometimes hallucinate food, but he hadn't thought himself that hungry. He opened the door again, expecting it to be some trick, but no, there it all was.
Had Lydia come by and done the shopping?
He dismissed the idea. The last time Lydia called it was to get him to pay a bill he couldn't afford and damn well shouldn't have to pay for. The house should sell just fine without new carpet in the den and if she really thought it necessary she could pay for it herself. She did have a job after all. No, after that she wouldn't have a fit of compassion and come all the way to London to fill his larder.
His mates at work? He was pretty sure they didn't know the extent of his financial troubles. And if they had, they'd never mentioned it.
Greg looked around to see if there were any other differences. Superficially everything seemed normal. His living area was still a mess. Nothing had been stolen - not that there was anything worth stealing. He had no telly, his laptop came and went with him, he had no art or jewelry. But a thief would not have given him food either.
Ah-there! Something had been stolen. His correspondence was missing. All his bills were gone. Identity thief? It seemed a long way to go for that.
The final change was in his bedroom and Greg knew what was happening. In his closet, hanging neatly on new wooden hangers was an entire wardrobe. Beautiful crisp new shirts, trousers in a bland rainbow of brown. In the drawers were designer jeans. All his size. Thousands of pounds worth of clothes, all of it tasteful, none of it cheap, and though all were brand new, none had tags.
Reply
Leave a comment