brass, covered
by a colourful quilt. A pitch pine wardrobe and a matching dresser. Landscapes
in gilded frames and a very nice rug indeed.
Porrig
crossed the room and flung aside the curtains. Pigeons fluttered up in a panic,
but didn’t fly into the room. A sheet of glass barred their way.
It was
sealed to the bedroom wall a foot inside the outer broken panes.
‘Clever,’
said Porrig, nodding his head. ‘A clever deception to make it seem from the
outside that…’ He paused and a little chill ran down his spine. ‘That this
is a derelict building, which clearly it is not. Someone’s living here.’
Porrig
returned to the kitchenette and opened the fridge. It was packed with food. He
took out a carton of organic milk and sniffed at the top. It was fresh.
‘Oh
shit!’ said Porrig. ‘I’ve got a squatter.’
And
then he heard a sound downstairs.
Porrig
froze.
Someone
was entering the shop, and not by the front door. This someone was whistling in
that carefree ‘this is my house and I’ll whistle in it if I want to’ kind of
way.
‘Oh
shit,’ said Porrig. ‘Shit shit shit.’
So what
to do? Confront the squatter? Order him off the premises? Use force if
necessary? How much force? And how big the squatter? The one squatter,
was it? Or maybe there was more than one…
Porrig
sought a weapon: a rolling pin or a big kitchen cleaver. Porrig found a
diminutive pink plastic dish-washing brush. He took it up and held it in a
menacing fashion. No dirty squatter was going to deprive him of his
inheritance. He would fight to the death to protect what was his.
Well,
maybe not to the death, but he’d give the bastard a sound brushing up for his
trouble.
‘Try
and steal from me, will you?’ whispered Porrig.
But
then a thought struck him. It was a thought so terrible that Porrig tried at
once to force it from his mind. But the thought wouldn’t budge. It stayed and
it grew. And it grew.
‘Now
what,’ said this thought, ‘if all that stuff downstairs doesn’t actually belong
to you at all? What if it actually belongs to the confident whistler who’s just
walked in? He could well have come across this empty untenanted building years
ago and taken up residence here. Which would mean that none of it’s yours,
Porrig.
‘None
of it, you useless no-mark loser!’
‘Oh no.’
Porrig’s knees became weak and he sank onto the kitchen chair. It couldn’t be
true. It just couldn’t.
But oh
yes it could. It would all make sense that way. All of it. Someone living here
and carrying on their own business. It was probably those swine from The Flying
Pig next door, using the place as an annexe.
Porrig
sought a knife to end it all. Enough was enough. He had suffered much more than
any man should suffer. It was time to take the gentleman’s way out.
As no
knife was forthcoming Porrig solemnly took up the pink plastic brush and began to
rake at his wrist.
And
then he heard the footsteps on the stairs.
And the
whistling grew louder.
And—
‘Hello
there,’ said a voice.
Porrig
abandoned his suicide attempt. He looked up and he stared.
In the
doorway stood the pimpled youth from the station. He was holding Porrig’s
suitcase.
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
Porrig leaped for the throat. ‘You thieving bastard. You’re gonna die.’
He
caught the youth off balance and the two tumbled out of the kitchenette and
onto the landing. Porrig was no fighter, but his mind was now so scrambled up
that he fought like the madman he was. The youth, however, was not without some
martial skills; he parried Porrig’s every blow and countered with no small
number of his own.
In
fact, to use the parlance of the fighting fraternity, he kicked the shit out of
Porrig.
‘No
more.’ Porrig curled up in a ball on the landing floor. ‘I give up. Let me
crawl away to die.’
The
youth, who’d been putting in the boot, straightened up. ‘Are you absolutely
sure you’ve had enough?’ he asked.
‘I am,’
whimpered
by a colourful quilt. A pitch pine wardrobe and a matching dresser. Landscapes
in gilded frames and a very nice rug indeed.
Porrig
crossed the room and flung aside the curtains. Pigeons fluttered up in a panic,
but didn’t fly into the room. A sheet of glass barred their way.
It was
sealed to the bedroom wall a foot inside the outer broken panes.
‘Clever,’
said Porrig, nodding his head. ‘A clever deception to make it seem from the
outside that…’ He paused and a little chill ran down his spine. ‘That this
is a derelict building, which clearly it is not. Someone’s living here.’
Porrig
returned to the kitchenette and opened the fridge. It was packed with food. He
took out a carton of organic milk and sniffed at the top. It was fresh.
‘Oh
shit!’ said Porrig. ‘I’ve got a squatter.’
And
then he heard a sound downstairs.
Porrig
froze.
Someone
was entering the shop, and not by the front door. This someone was whistling in
that carefree ‘this is my house and I’ll whistle in it if I want to’ kind of
way.
‘Oh
shit,’ said Porrig. ‘Shit shit shit.’
So what
to do? Confront the squatter? Order him off the premises? Use force if
necessary? How much force? And how big the squatter? The one squatter,
was it? Or maybe there was more than one…
Porrig
sought a weapon: a rolling pin or a big kitchen cleaver. Porrig found a
diminutive pink plastic dish-washing brush. He took it up and held it in a
menacing fashion. No dirty squatter was going to deprive him of his
inheritance. He would fight to the death to protect what was his.
Well,
maybe not to the death, but he’d give the bastard a sound brushing up for his
trouble.
‘Try
and steal from me, will you?’ whispered Porrig.
But
then a thought struck him. It was a thought so terrible that Porrig tried at
once to force it from his mind. But the thought wouldn’t budge. It stayed and
it grew. And it grew.
‘Now
what,’ said this thought, ‘if all that stuff downstairs doesn’t actually belong
to you at all? What if it actually belongs to the confident whistler who’s just
walked in? He could well have come across this empty untenanted building years
ago and taken up residence here. Which would mean that none of it’s yours,
Porrig.
‘None
of it, you useless no-mark loser!’
‘Oh no.’
Porrig’s knees became weak and he sank onto the kitchen chair. It couldn’t be
true. It just couldn’t.
But oh
yes it could. It would all make sense that way. All of it. Someone living here
and carrying on their own business. It was probably those swine from The Flying
Pig next door, using the place as an annexe.
Porrig
sought a knife to end it all. Enough was enough. He had suffered much more than
any man should suffer. It was time to take the gentleman’s way out.
As no
knife was forthcoming Porrig solemnly took up the pink plastic brush and began to
rake at his wrist.
And
then he heard the footsteps on the stairs.
And the
whistling grew louder.
And—
‘Hello
there,’ said a voice.
Porrig
abandoned his suicide attempt. He looked up and he stared.
In the
doorway stood the pimpled youth from the station. He was holding Porrig’s
suitcase.
‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
Porrig leaped for the throat. ‘You thieving bastard. You’re gonna die.’
He
caught the youth off balance and the two tumbled out of the kitchenette and
onto the landing. Porrig was no fighter, but his mind was now so scrambled up
that he fought like the madman he was. The youth, however, was not without some
martial skills; he parried Porrig’s every blow and countered with no small
number of his own.
In
fact, to use the parlance of the fighting fraternity, he kicked the shit out of
Porrig.
‘No
more.’ Porrig curled up in a ball on the landing floor. ‘I give up. Let me
crawl away to die.’
The
youth, who’d been putting in the boot, straightened up. ‘Are you absolutely
sure you’ve had enough?’ he asked.
‘I am,’
whimpered
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