Ice Ice Baby - Wednesday

I pull slowly into the council car park, the only one I can still use without punitive charges that chase local businesses out of town, even as clueless councillors wonder why there are so many charity shops in the high street?

My wheels spin on the un-gritted surface. For a moment I think the company car is going to slide  rather gracefully into one of the disabled spaces that are always annoyingly free, while I circle endlessly for a space, post appointment. The doctor on call sign doesn’t fool the Nazi wardens who patrol here with zestful malice, as long as it’s not raining, so I might have to lift one of those Blue Disabled parking badges if we get to another deceased estate property before the distant relatives have stripped it.

‘Morning.’ Calls a familiar voice as I step gingerly onto the glistening tarmac, having found a free bay and placed the legitimate taxable-benefit permit in the window. I look up to see the disillusioned banker with the dodgy hips, parked opposite me. Great, now I’ll have to talk to him all the way across the park and on to the office. His job title is only one letter swap away from the truth….

‘Slippery.’ Says the banker as he shuffles towards me and I hope for some black ice and a tumble. The new implant can’t be that well bedded in yet, so a dislocation and a trip to A & E can only be a misplaced foot away.

‘Don’t know why they can’t put salt on the surface.’ I say to the banker, as we slip-slide in some ghastly approximation of Dancing On Ice, towards the exit.

‘Cutbacks.’ He answers, spreading his hands for balance like a cheap tightrope-walker. ‘Same at the bank nowadays, bean counters looking to cut corners, irrespective of the consequences.’

He has a point, my boss is a figure-fiddler par-excellence and to think we used to pinch the sandwiches from that geeky kid who excelled at maths, each school lunchtime. Last I heard he was running some multinational outfit who specialise in buy-ins and turnarounds. Shorthand for asset-stripping, a shed load of redundancies and a pension pot deficit. 

Our musings on middle-aged underachievement are cut short by a pitiful scream and a dull thud. We spin in unison and I make an unseemly grab at the banker's sleeve as my inappropriate brogues, with the leather soles, momentarily betray me. We steady each other like a pair of over-sized fawns on a frozen lake, to see another old person has taken a tumble.

We get several fallers a year outside the office and I always give out cups of tea and the meagre dressing our impoverished First Aid box will allow us to stock, now the health and safety bitches from head office have removed all the drugs and the scissors. I look at it as more of an investment than compassion that might alter the public perception of estate agents. If they croak in the ambulance, the family might find my business card in a handbag and give me the probate sale.

‘Are you alright?’ Asks the banker pointlessly, as we approach the old lady whose head is already bleeding alarmingly. She has a crimson stain spreading through her blue rinse and we can see her thermal underwear, with her legs at such an an ungainly angle. I’m no paramedic, but I’m guessing not.

‘I don’t want to get old.’ Says the banker wistfully, once the ambulance has gone and we resume our journey. It’s the same comment I get several times a week from ancient people contemplating selling the family home for something more manageable, with emergency pull cords in the bathroom. Pointing out the alternative is much less palatable, is always futile.

The park is as treacherous as the car park and I wonder why the council can’t supply those children’s Penguins, you see on ice rinks for stability, as people slide towards work. Probably spent the budget on a drop in centre for trans-gender giraffes with height issues.

‘You’re late.’ Taunts assistant manager T, at the office before me for once.

I let it slide.

-----------

Take Away Service - Wednesday

‘Argh, for pity's sake what’s that stink?’ Asks trainee F as I manage to force the heavily boarded entrance open, shoving against a tidal wave of junk mail acting as a paperweight doorstop.

‘You get used to it.’ I fib, trying not to gag as I peer into the murky depths of the hall.

‘It smells like something has died?’ Says F, clutching at his nose with that faded linen handkerchief his mother taught him to use. Not pleasant. Equally unpleasant is this repossession we’re entering, one that has had squatters living inside during several months of extended legal battles. They’re gone - at least I hope they are or the cloying aroma might just be a decomposing smackhead - but the messy part is still to be done.

‘I’ll turn a light on.’ Suggests F fumbling at a grubby switch plate underneath an electricity junction box that looks as though it’s been tampered with, judging by the trailing wiring.

‘Good luck with that.’ I tell him, reaching for my heavy duty torch and waiting for the lifeless click. It comes and after a long pause, so does F’s response.

‘The power’s not on.’

I should be given charity status for keeping him off the streets.

Repossessions (foreclosures to my cousins in the USA) are never fun, they wax and wane with the market conditions, but they are a constant no matter what prices are doing. People always fall into financial difficulties when they borrow heavily over a 25 year plus period. Divorce, redundancy, illness are all drivers in supplying estate agents with a steady flow of instructions to sell. Every cloud has a silver lining…

With a satisfyingly weighty clunk my Maglite torch sends a bright lighthouse-like beam down the cluttered hallway. Half filled bin bags slump like decapitated Guy Fawkes dummies across the threadbare carpet and a collection of nearly empty beer and spirits bottles, lie scattered along the length of my field of vision.

‘Shit.’ Exclaims F Incredulously.

‘Stepped in some?’ I ask, shining the torch at his feet.

‘God no.’ Replies F, peering down quizzically. ‘At least I hope not.’

‘Early days yet.’ I tell him, moving cautiously towards the first internal door.

If the power is off, it’s a fair bet the water is too. I’m minded to send F into the bathroom first.

‘How do people live like this?’ Asks F as I spin the beam back and forth across the cluttered lounge. The bay window is heavily boarded with just one struggling beam of daylight attempting to send a shard of watery sunshine into the room, via a knot hole in the cheap shuttering.

‘Some blame the government, some pin it on illegal immigrants, some on greedy bankers.’ I tell him. ‘It depends which newspaper you read.’

‘All of them here.’ Responds F sweeping his hand across a pile of backdated newsprint on the sagging sofa.

‘More bedding than intellectual stimulus.’ I tell him, glancing warily at the stain-covered carpet. Any sign of spent needles again and we’re both out of here. They don’t pay me enough to perform another high-stakes game of hopscotch through a dance floor made from syringes. 

‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’ Pronounces F as we make our way into the kitchen, where natural light is filtering through a broken fanlight above the padlocked back door. I have.

The work surfaces are cluttered with the detritus of a hundred oily takeaways. Foil trays, pizza boxes, chips cultivating interesting bacterial growth bedeck the area. The remnants of the only cooking performed are perched alongside the fridge. A bent spoon and more foil paper along with dozens of blackened corpse-like spent matches next to a three-quarter burnt candle. Incongruously it looks like one of those church types - but we’re a long way from God here.

‘I wonder what’s in here?’ Speculates F stretching out a bony hand.

‘Don’t!’ I scream in anguish . ‘Never open the fridge.’

Too late.

‘I need to go home for a shower.’ Splutters F as we take in fresh air and I ring to arrange a house clearance. He’s learnt something today.

 It’s a dirty job - but someone’s got to do it.

----------

Clean up with the ebook on Amazon. All formats:

UK Readers: http://amzn.to/ttGZ4j

US Readers: http://amzn.to/vXpFJf