Read Online Resolution Way by Carl Neville - Free Book Online
Authors: Carl Neville
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his heart surging up against his ribs. A brain tumour? He lifted his hand up to the side of his head and pressed the flesh over his ear with his fingers then lay his hand over his skull, tilted his head repeatedly, felt that sense of something pivoting, anchored and rooted from inside, protruding into his eyeball.
Well, well. He doesn’t have time for this now. He can’t think about this now.
Into the study, locking the door behind him he sat down, rubbing the top of his head, left eye itching, controlling his breathing, the evening light through the window growing dim around him, his face illuminated by the glow from the screen.
A ping, a message he’d tagged as vital brought him round, back to the here and now.
The email arrived from Sarah Peake.
Yes. Yes. At last. The final sequence at least.
This better be good news.
He clicked it open.
Paula
On Deptford High Street she bumps into Irwin, one of the organisers of the Keep Business Local campaign, coming out of Poundland. He looks faintly guilty. Irwin was one of the first people up in arms when Tesco Express moved in down the road and they are both part of groups that are protesting against The Blight. Payday lenders, betting shops, chain convenience stores, pound shops.
Worst of all now Tastee-Pound has come their way, against all their objections. Open till four in the morning, instant decisions on micro loans at an annualised 2,300% interest rate, a pawnbrokers, a betting shop and fast food joint all-in-one. A “one stop poverty and obesity shop”, one commentator had called it on Guardian Online just the day before, an observation instantly decried as typical snobbery in the comments box. Let them proliferate and let the people decide what they want! They are setting up in the shell of the White Horse pub, the Vietnamese landlord who’s run the place since the early Eighties finally selling up.
There used to be a couple of pubs on the High Street, nothing special but still, places for people to gather. Now they just have the Job Centre converted into a craft beer canteen sitting half empty, waiting for the flats around the station to fill up with young, aspirational City workers who can afford to pay £6 a pint. Soon the High Street, if they are not careful, will be nothing but Tastee-Pounds and estate agents selling studio flats above them for half a million pounds a pop, retro coffee shops and real ale pubs, Paddy Power and vintage vinyl cafes.
Just getting some batteries Irwin says, defensively, holding them out for her inspection. Paula nods. It’s chilly, yet Irwin is wearing a string vest dyed in the colours of the Jamaican flag, and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.
We have got the residents’ meeting tonight, remember?
Sure, I will be there, Paula says.
How’s the appeal going? I mean, Irwin says, laughs and grabs her arm, any, all of the appeals! Queen of the appeals!
Paula raises her eyebrows and widens her eyes. I have been advised to rest she says. I have been advised to take it easy for a while. She nods to Sissy from the Vietnamese buffet as she goes past with a bag full of vegetables. We’ve been granted a month’s delay on the flat, that’s nearly up and we have heard nothing back about an extension. Lee’s case we are still waiting to hear back about. I guess I have no choice but to …
What they are doing to this community is criminal. To the youth, to families.
How’s your boy?
Struggling, like we all are. Trying to buy a house, trying to feed his babies. I used to say, this is a land of opportunity. Not any more. No wonder people are getting restless.
Paula glances toward the station, the new development visible above the railway bridge, a hideous purple eyesore, safely behind Cathedral Group’s funky, urban billboards. She remembers when they brought in and funded the train café, a railway carriage converted into a coffee place, trying to give the place the right kind of vibe, drive up the area’s profile, bring in
Well, well. He doesn’t have time for this now. He can’t think about this now.
Into the study, locking the door behind him he sat down, rubbing the top of his head, left eye itching, controlling his breathing, the evening light through the window growing dim around him, his face illuminated by the glow from the screen.
A ping, a message he’d tagged as vital brought him round, back to the here and now.
The email arrived from Sarah Peake.
Yes. Yes. At last. The final sequence at least.
This better be good news.
He clicked it open.
Paula
On Deptford High Street she bumps into Irwin, one of the organisers of the Keep Business Local campaign, coming out of Poundland. He looks faintly guilty. Irwin was one of the first people up in arms when Tesco Express moved in down the road and they are both part of groups that are protesting against The Blight. Payday lenders, betting shops, chain convenience stores, pound shops.
Worst of all now Tastee-Pound has come their way, against all their objections. Open till four in the morning, instant decisions on micro loans at an annualised 2,300% interest rate, a pawnbrokers, a betting shop and fast food joint all-in-one. A “one stop poverty and obesity shop”, one commentator had called it on Guardian Online just the day before, an observation instantly decried as typical snobbery in the comments box. Let them proliferate and let the people decide what they want! They are setting up in the shell of the White Horse pub, the Vietnamese landlord who’s run the place since the early Eighties finally selling up.
There used to be a couple of pubs on the High Street, nothing special but still, places for people to gather. Now they just have the Job Centre converted into a craft beer canteen sitting half empty, waiting for the flats around the station to fill up with young, aspirational City workers who can afford to pay £6 a pint. Soon the High Street, if they are not careful, will be nothing but Tastee-Pounds and estate agents selling studio flats above them for half a million pounds a pop, retro coffee shops and real ale pubs, Paddy Power and vintage vinyl cafes.
Just getting some batteries Irwin says, defensively, holding them out for her inspection. Paula nods. It’s chilly, yet Irwin is wearing a string vest dyed in the colours of the Jamaican flag, and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.
We have got the residents’ meeting tonight, remember?
Sure, I will be there, Paula says.
How’s the appeal going? I mean, Irwin says, laughs and grabs her arm, any, all of the appeals! Queen of the appeals!
Paula raises her eyebrows and widens her eyes. I have been advised to rest she says. I have been advised to take it easy for a while. She nods to Sissy from the Vietnamese buffet as she goes past with a bag full of vegetables. We’ve been granted a month’s delay on the flat, that’s nearly up and we have heard nothing back about an extension. Lee’s case we are still waiting to hear back about. I guess I have no choice but to …
What they are doing to this community is criminal. To the youth, to families.
How’s your boy?
Struggling, like we all are. Trying to buy a house, trying to feed his babies. I used to say, this is a land of opportunity. Not any more. No wonder people are getting restless.
Paula glances toward the station, the new development visible above the railway bridge, a hideous purple eyesore, safely behind Cathedral Group’s funky, urban billboards. She remembers when they brought in and funded the train café, a railway carriage converted into a coffee place, trying to give the place the right kind of vibe, drive up the area’s profile, bring in
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