Wronged

I wanted to repost a story that I wrote back in February in a cafe in Amsterdam's flower market. I took it down from my blog so that it could be published in an online magazine (http://www.pastichemagazine.com/). If you're of a sensitive nature, then this story comes with an attached warning. Otherwise, please enjoy.

I place the basket in the wedge cut out from the shop counter. Bread, milk, two microwaveable meals and some toilet roll. Enough essentials to see me through until the weekend, when I might feel brave enough to fill a trolley at the supermarket. Silly pop music bounces quietly from the music player nestled amongst the display of cigarette packets.

            ‘You can’t buy those things ‘ere. You’ll have to go somewhere else.’

            I look up and realise there’s no point in arguing with the shopkeeper, or defending my need for these things. His folded arms and accusing chin display the strength of his refusal.

            ‘Go on, sod off! Your sort aren’t welcome ‘ere.’ This comes from a slight woman clinging to a toddler, her cheeks flaming red.

            I pull up my hood and decide to walk through the rain to the next shop at the edge of the Tindall Street Estate, where they may accept me as a customer. It just depends on who’s serving. They’re less snobby up there; they serve almost anybody. Almost.

            Every day is a battle for survival in this town. I don’t need approval, or even acceptance. But I need to eat, to think without having things hurled at me. Words, glances, bricks, punches.

            The bus for the town centre splashes around the bend, the tyres making waves that spray the pavement. On a whim I put out my arm. I feel for the pass in my pocket, recognising that my unemployed status has some minor benefits attached.

            As the door unfolds I lift my foot to the step that the driver has kindly lowered. As I push back my hood I hear a barked ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell!’ before the door flips shut, almost crushing my toes. Rows of unblinking eyes stare at me as the bus roars away, leaving me dripping at the roadside. Between here and the shop on the estate is a small library. The rectangular edifice wasn’t designed, simply plonked. Yet the simple fact of a roof and thousands of books, stories, is just too tempting to ignore. The indiscriminating doors separate in invitation, coupled with an embrace of warm air from a stripy contraption above.

            Ideally I’d like to make some quick choices and leave. But the greed in me is triggered by the vast offerings, and I want to make the best selection possible. Should I opt for some romantic happy-ever-afters, or do they only satisfy when the dream is still alive in you? I head over to the crime-fiction shelves instead.

            A book with a spine so full of creases that it almost folds back on itself catches my attention. I sense the warmth of a thousand firesides, of countless laps and cups of tea. I can smell sweet vanilla sponge, floral bubble bath and tobacco. I can feel the indentations where damp fingers have held back the pages. But I return the book to its space and turn to a stiff, lonely book instead. I pull it from the middle shelf and open its title page. A single stamp bears a date of two years’ previous, before I even arrived here. Since then no one has wanted to take this book home, to open its pages, to savour its contents. Why? Because it’s cover is the wrong colour? An unappealing image? Some oversight by an editor that could do better?

            ‘Excuse me, you need to leave.’ A plump woman wearing a cardigan resembling a mediaeval tapestry speaks to me through thick lenses. I detect a couple of other people looking on from behind the counter, waiting for my reaction.

            ‘I just want to take this book.’ I gesture at the friendless novel, ‘Can I? I have a ticket.’ I try to repress the pleading tone in my voice. I know it gives them an entry into my armour.

            ‘No. You just need to leave. Now, please.’

            This rebuff sucks the final reserves of today’s strength. I decide to go back to the flat I have been appointed at the rougher end of town. Again, spray-painted words decorate the grill across my front window.

            GET LOST PEEDO!

            They can’t even spell, the half-wits!

            I make sure all of the bolts are slid across and secured before I head up to the bedroom and slide under the covers. I remember that little boy, the last one, with his curly mop of blonde hair and cute dimples. My hand slides down my body, down as I hear his little voice, pleading,

            ‘Stop. Please stop, Miss. I want to go home.’