out of hand,’ Georgie told him calmly, refusing to rise to the insults. ‘There’s huge potential here if you look at the bigger picture.’
‘Potential for what?’ Larry snorted. ‘Getting myself fucking shot by some psycho crack-head carjacker?’
‘For getting yourself back on screen, and shaking off the scandal once and for all. And for showing that you’re still a serious prospect. Mclntyre hasn’t looked back since he—’
Yelling ‘McIntyre’s a wanker!’ Larry slammed the phone down, livid that Georgie was lumping him into the same category as that loser. If she knew anything about Larry Logan, she’d know just how much he despised the jokers who sprang out of nowhere and got famous for shitting themselves in front of a hidden camera. Larry had achieved his status through hard work and actual talent, but these idiots had done nothing to justify their so-called fame in his opinion. And it wasn’t even them that the public wanted to see, anyway. It was the criminals whose worlds they could never otherwise infiltrate that they were lusting to watch. And, popular as that kind of show might be, there was no way Larry was reducing himself to taking part in a poxy one-off – no way, no how!
Stewing over the indignity of being asked to demean himself with such a shite job, Larry drank and slept, drank and slept, hoping to drown the self-pitying voices in his head. Life sucked, but the worst was yet to come.
Roused by the sound of heavy knocking on his front door a few days later, he opened his eyes and gazed groggily around the room, trying to remember where he was. It was dark but for the flickering static coming from the TV, which had lost its channel thanks to him lying on the remote, and it took several moments before he realised that he was on the couch in the lounge.
Sitting up, Larry groaned when he felt the material of his jeans pressing cold and damp against his inner thighs. Shoving the jacket he’d been using as a blanket aside, he peered at the dark patch with a grimace of disgust. Great! He’d pissed himself – again .
Dropping his feet to the floor, he cursed through gritted teeth when the empty bottle he’d been nursing rolled off the cushion and landed on his bare foot. Snatching it up, he hurled it across the room, where it landed and smashed on a pile of empties in the corner.
Another burst of knocking jarred his head, followed by a man’s voice yelling, ‘Open up, Mr Logan . . . It’s the bailiffs.’
Shocked out of his stupor, Larry jumped up and stumbled out into the hallway, wondering what the hell was going on. It was the middle of the night. Since when did bailiffs get permission to hassle people at night? And why were they here, anyway? He didn’t owe anybody anything.
Reaching the front door just as the man knocked again, he leaned against it, and yelled, ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s Mike Flood from King and Johnson’s debt recovery agency,’ the man announced. ‘We’ve got an order to remove property.’
‘Why?’ Larry demanded indignantly. ‘I’ve paid for everything I’ve got.’
Sighing wearily on his side of the door, Flood said, ‘Come on, now, sir. We went through all this last time we called.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Larry said confusedly. He had no recollection of any visits from anyone, let alone a bailiff.
Heart racing now, he leaned even harder against the door when it suddenly occurred to him that this must be one of those cons he’d heard about, where gangs of men tricked people into opening their doors by pretending to be policemen or utility-company workmen so that they could gain entrance without making noise or leaving evidence of a break-in. Then they’d beat the shit out of the occupants until they gave up their cash cards and PIN numbers.
‘Let’s not play games, Mr Logan,’ Flood said, his voice so close to Larry’s ear that Larry actually jumped. ‘You had your chance to resolve this last time we saw
‘Potential for what?’ Larry snorted. ‘Getting myself fucking shot by some psycho crack-head carjacker?’
‘For getting yourself back on screen, and shaking off the scandal once and for all. And for showing that you’re still a serious prospect. Mclntyre hasn’t looked back since he—’
Yelling ‘McIntyre’s a wanker!’ Larry slammed the phone down, livid that Georgie was lumping him into the same category as that loser. If she knew anything about Larry Logan, she’d know just how much he despised the jokers who sprang out of nowhere and got famous for shitting themselves in front of a hidden camera. Larry had achieved his status through hard work and actual talent, but these idiots had done nothing to justify their so-called fame in his opinion. And it wasn’t even them that the public wanted to see, anyway. It was the criminals whose worlds they could never otherwise infiltrate that they were lusting to watch. And, popular as that kind of show might be, there was no way Larry was reducing himself to taking part in a poxy one-off – no way, no how!
Stewing over the indignity of being asked to demean himself with such a shite job, Larry drank and slept, drank and slept, hoping to drown the self-pitying voices in his head. Life sucked, but the worst was yet to come.
Roused by the sound of heavy knocking on his front door a few days later, he opened his eyes and gazed groggily around the room, trying to remember where he was. It was dark but for the flickering static coming from the TV, which had lost its channel thanks to him lying on the remote, and it took several moments before he realised that he was on the couch in the lounge.
Sitting up, Larry groaned when he felt the material of his jeans pressing cold and damp against his inner thighs. Shoving the jacket he’d been using as a blanket aside, he peered at the dark patch with a grimace of disgust. Great! He’d pissed himself – again .
Dropping his feet to the floor, he cursed through gritted teeth when the empty bottle he’d been nursing rolled off the cushion and landed on his bare foot. Snatching it up, he hurled it across the room, where it landed and smashed on a pile of empties in the corner.
Another burst of knocking jarred his head, followed by a man’s voice yelling, ‘Open up, Mr Logan . . . It’s the bailiffs.’
Shocked out of his stupor, Larry jumped up and stumbled out into the hallway, wondering what the hell was going on. It was the middle of the night. Since when did bailiffs get permission to hassle people at night? And why were they here, anyway? He didn’t owe anybody anything.
Reaching the front door just as the man knocked again, he leaned against it, and yelled, ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s Mike Flood from King and Johnson’s debt recovery agency,’ the man announced. ‘We’ve got an order to remove property.’
‘Why?’ Larry demanded indignantly. ‘I’ve paid for everything I’ve got.’
Sighing wearily on his side of the door, Flood said, ‘Come on, now, sir. We went through all this last time we called.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Larry said confusedly. He had no recollection of any visits from anyone, let alone a bailiff.
Heart racing now, he leaned even harder against the door when it suddenly occurred to him that this must be one of those cons he’d heard about, where gangs of men tricked people into opening their doors by pretending to be policemen or utility-company workmen so that they could gain entrance without making noise or leaving evidence of a break-in. Then they’d beat the shit out of the occupants until they gave up their cash cards and PIN numbers.
‘Let’s not play games, Mr Logan,’ Flood said, his voice so close to Larry’s ear that Larry actually jumped. ‘You had your chance to resolve this last time we saw
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