Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
In the end, Fin insists on taking me to the flat, and short of tripping him and making a run for it, I don’t see how I can get out of it. But it turns out, he’s not driving. Bob is. Bob is Fin’s sometime driver.
“If Bob drives, it means I get to work,” he explains with an apologetic shrug.
I give Bob the address, and I know by his blank expression he’s heard of the area. I mean, most Londoners have. The place is notorious. Knife crime and drugs, gangs, addicts, and police raids. I’ll be so glad when I never have to climb that concrete staircase again.
“Take a left here, please.” I direct Bob to the car park nearest to Baba’s building. If you read about the area, you’ll learn the sprawling towers include over three hundred homes and that the building style is something called postwar brutalism.
I would say living in the shadow of these towers is brutal, if nothing else.
“Right.” I reach for my seat belt, my tone determined. “I expect I’ll see you later.”
“I’ll come with you,” Fin says, doing the same.
“No,” I bite out. “No need,” I add a little softer. “You’ll just get in the way.”
“I get that you want to do this alone, that you feel like you need to do everything unaided,” he adds with consternation. “But I can help.”
My eyes slide to the driver, who does a solid impression of being inanimate. But he’s got ears.
“I can,” he repeats.
“No, you can’t. Not with this. This is personal. I don’t want you there.” I feel cruel saying so, even if it is the truth.
“Fine. Then I’ll just walk you up.”
“I knew it,” I say under my breath as I reach for the door handle and yank it open. I’m out and almost at the stairwell, my cheeks burning angrily and my head thumping, as he catches up.
“Wait.”
“I’ve been climbing these stairs for years. See?” I make a couple of ridiculously exaggerated steps. “I don’t need your help.”
“Oy, mister!” Our heads simultaneously turn to the voice from the other side of the car park. “You need someone to look after your motor?”
“He means your car,” I mutter, eyeing the gray-tracksuit-, black-hoodie-wearing group of boys. Men? They might be ten years old, or they might be in their twenties, it’s hard to tell. They could be kids messing about, or they could be gang members. “You’d better go back. We don’t see many Bentleys around here.” I turn away, only to find his fingers wrapped around my upper arm.
“No, thanks!” Fin yells back with an affable wave. “Bob will look after it. It’s an ugly car, anyway,” he adds just for my ears. “Part of the company fleet.”
“But still—”
“That fat fuck?” the voice yells back. “Is he carrying?”
“He means—”
“You don’t have to translate for me,” Fin answers, amused. “I’m sure he’d invite you to find out!” he then calls over his shoulder.
“Fin!”
“They can take it up with him just fine.”
“But he’s—” old.
“He’s ex-military,” Fin replies. “Like, serious shit.”
“Whatever!” the voice yells back. “I bet he’s not fire retardant.”
“You should go.”
“And leave you here?” he says, as though I’ve lost my mind.
“I live here.” Shame pokes at me, though I know it shouldn’t.
“Not anymore,” he grates out. “And not if I’ve got anything to do with it.”
“Well, guess what? You don’t,” I retort.
“Okay.” He holds up his hands. “Let’s just go upstairs,” he adds, instantly calmer. And ignoring the threat.
“Fine. On your own head be it. Or poor Bob’s,” I add in a mutter.
“That was quite a sophisticated choice of words for an idiot,” he says, trudging behind me. “Fire retardant.”
“They’re not idiots,” I say, whipping around. “They’re poor. There’s a difference.”
“Okay?” Fin holds up his hands. “But they’re probably also criminals.”
“That’s what happens to the disenfranchised. A lack of choices leads to a life of crime and violence.” I sound so sanctimonious and feel like such a hypocrite.
“That’s not true for everyone.”
I don’t answer as I turn away, not even sure why I said those things. I might’ve agreed with him five minutes ago, but that doesn’t make it right. Any of it. Just because he can afford to waste tens of thousands on a stupid balloon dog, it doesn’t mean he’s any better than us.
Them and us.
We’re worlds apart in life and experiences.
We’re just too different.
But for what?
“Someone said you got here in a Bentley this morning,” Ronny says, as I open the front door to her smiling face an hour later. The same door I closed (not quite) in Fin’s face when it looked like he wasn’t going to leave.
“No secrets in this building,” I mutter, closing the door behind her, bolting it too. The scent of the hallway is stale, though the rest of the place still smells like home, the scent of a thousand tomato dishes having seeped into every nook and cranny.