Still Monday 3rd November
I bomb down the motorways in the fast lane going over the speed limit. Where possible anyway. As expected the roads are very busy. It’s now half five and my stomach is starting to rumble again. Although McDonald’s tastes nice to me, it doesn’t quite fill me up, not in the way a pizza does. There I go again, drifting off topic.
Mei tells me to slow down. I can imagine her mother in the back with her eye lids fluttering from the speed like Woody at the end of Toy Story. Mei has a point. It’s not like getting there any faster will make the window magically appear back in its place.
The light spots of rain that dot my windscreen are turning the oncoming car headlights into kaleidoscopes. I try to refrain from using the wipers until necessary because they make this god awful squeak that drives me mad. They’re OK when it’s pissing down.
When I get home I see Harold’s front door open like he’s waiting to hear me arrive. His blinds are shut so that must be the only explanation.
He appears at the door as we all exit the car.
‘Hope I didn’t ruin your day,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘Of course not. Whoever broke my window has ruined my day.’ Not that it was going swimmingly anyway, I think.
‘Let me know if you need help,’ he offers.
‘I will. Thanks Harold.’
He waves dismissively and heads inside his house closing the door.
When I get inside I head into the kitchen without taking off my shoes or even wiping my feet. I can feel Mei’s mum behind me ready to growl like a wounded tiger. But I don’t care about her opinions or her forced living habits. If I take off my shoes I’ll be treading on glass and before you know it I’ll look like John McClane from that scene in Die Hard. I watch a lot of movies.
A rock has smashed the window. It had been thrown with some force as it hit the opposite wall beside the fridge.
I take out my phone and take some pictures before calling PC Paul Smith. He tells me he’s in the area on other business and will come right over. I’m not surprised he’s already around here. This estate is quickly living up to its reputation as a scum infested benefit scrounging shithole. It’s like mini Beirut at times. Harold told me stories about this place that I thought only happened in films, like when someone aimed a shotgun at his wife’s face because she told him to stop yelling. A shotgun I tell you. I’ve never seen one let alone had one shoved in my face. If that were me I’d feel empty on the inside in seconds. And the floor would be very slippery.
Thirty three minutes we had to wait for Smith. I know it’s exactly that because I’ve been pacing up and down the living room clock watching the entire time. It’s been the longest thirty three minutes of my life. And the coldest thirty three minutes I’ve spent in this house. The constant draft from the kitchen window sucks away any heat from the electric fireplace. We might as well just burn money.
PC Smith gets right down to it. He opens his notepad and writes my account of what happened, which isn’t much. Harold is the one I tell him he needs to speak to. He also takes pictures and gives me a hand cleaning it up.
The shards of glass aren’t as big as I had first imagined. The rock had gone through the window and had left only a rock sized hole in the centre, still big enough to warrant covering with a cardboard box both inside and out.
I guess tomorrow morning I’ll have to phone the insurance company. Fun.
In the nicest way possible, Smith tells me that it could be some time before anything happens with this case. A rock through a window isn’t on the police’s top priority list, what with the budget cuts and all that. I can see from his face that he wants to help but his hands are tied.
He goes to talk with Harold and leaves us in peace, not before taking the rock and promising he will try his best to get it examined even though both of us know it will never happen.
When Smith has left the estate, Harold calls me to give me an update.
‘Yeah he’s going to have another word with Jason’s mum at some point. I doubt it’ll do any good. Just thought I’d let you know.’
‘You think it’s Jason again?’ I ask.
He says yes. ‘I think he’s got mental problems, you know. That kid’s not joined up.’
I could have told him that. I say, ‘Thank again Harold,’ and we hang up.
The feeling for the rest of the evening is more the same as the one I’ve been feeling since finding out Mrs Mellor complained about me. It’s depressing is what it is. It’s like everyone has it out for me. Agatha, Jason, and now Mrs Mellor. What did I do in a previous life the deserve this? But look on the bright side: there is always someone worse off than me. If that is the bright side. Seems a tad blue to me.