John Star - Part One by Dave Rigby

 

A body is stretched out on the threadbare carpet. A nearby coffee mug, tipped on its side, has dribbled out an artistic brown stain. The front window blind is tight-closed, refusing to let in any bit of a pale morning light. A pair of candles in ornate wooden holders, have burnt down almost to nothing. Evidence of another power cut.

The walls and ceiling are covered in rough woodchip wallpaper. Two pendant lights, housed in large paper lanterns, hang down in the middle of the room. The radio on the top shelf of the bookcase is playing uncomplicated classical music to itself.

There’s movement on the floor. A leg stretches, a groan, a hand moves to the forehead.

John Star wakes gradually, every limb stiff after a night of broken sleep on the floor.

He thinks back. That punk band in the Rocket. They were good. But he can’t remember what they were called. Maybe he should start drinking less.

A small alarm clock, dangerously close to his ear, bursts into life and his left-hand flails but fails to silence it. Eventually it runs out of clockwork. He sits up slowly, props his back against the lower part of a chair next to a desk crammed with files, runs the fingers of his left hand through close-cropped hair, while his right rubs the muscles of his thighs, stiff from a pre-gig five-a-side game and too much pogoing.

Eight am. Half an hour to put himself back together.

It’s not the first time he’s slept in the office and he comes prepared. Clean shirt and sponge bag in his holdall. He drags himself slowly to the toilet, flushes, (which dirty pig left it like this!), pees, flushes again, strips off the old shirt, flannel-washes, brushes his teeth and watches the waste water slowly gurgling down the half-blocked basin. Fully dressed and hair combed, he belches loudly and feels the better for it.

Collecting the tools of his trade – money bag, float, leather-bound rent record folder, pen – he exits through the back door, crosses the yard and goes through a gate into a small parking area. Luckily, the Vanguard starts first time. It squeezes past the Cortina owned by the woman in the flat upstairs and out onto the back lane.

A dry morning, overcast, a light wind. He follows the coast road and then turns inland.

First stop is The Cut. Finlayson owns all twenty houses on the terrace. Time was when old Ronnie would give the dark green front doors and the window frames a regular new coat. But it’s ten years since they last saw Ronnie’s paintbrush. Many of the tenants are as old as the houses with just a scattering of younger folk with kids.

Star pushes open the letter box of number 1, reaches for the string, pulls up the key, adjusts its position in the lock just-so and lets himself in. The cash and the rent book are, as expected, stored neatly behind the ponderously-ticking, permanently five-minutes-fast, clock on the mantlepiece. He checks the notes and coins, stuffs them into the money bag, slides the rent book under the carboned collection sheet, makes the entry, no arrears, rent book placed back behind the clock, job done. Mrs Coles will be at the doctors. He’ll see her next time and get a cup of tea.

Star lets himself out and knocks on the straight-off-the-street front door of number 2. He doesn’t like Elliot. A nasty piece of work. There’s no response. No surprise. He’ll have to make yet another dinnertime visit to the bookies on the High Street, to catch the guy while he’s still got some cash left.

The next few calls are straight forward. Number 11, though, is anything but. Archie’s getting on, not so steady on his pins these days. And the staircases in the houses on The Cut are a bit on the steep side, so he’s been sleeping downstairs. Usually takes him a while to get to the front door.  

Star waits patiently on the step, whistling Identity by X-Ray Spex. Not an easy task. Eventually, a man in his forties opens up, bleary eyed, pyjama-clad, still-boozy breath.

    “Yeah!” Star doesn’t take to the man.

    “Who are you?”

    “I could ask you the same question.”

    “Where’s Archie?”

    “He’s not well. I’m his son.” Star can’t recall Archie ever mentioning a son.

    “OK. Well, it’s rent day. He always has it ready. It’ll be in the pantry, top shelf, next to the Marmite.”

    “You’ll have to call another time.”

Star considers this exchange. He’s convinced the son is hiding something.

    “Is your dad OK?”

    “None of your business, mate. I need to catch up on my kip.” The door closes in Star’s face.

There’s more than one side to John Star. Normally he’s calm, relaxed, convivial. But not always.

His size-twelve right boot moves rapidly to block the closing door.

    “Move your foot or I’ll call the police!” the son shouts.

    “Fine by me,” Star says. “Alternatively, you could just let me in and we can talk this over.”

He waits. Eventually the son moves away from the door and Star walks in. The place is an absolute tip. It’s only a fortnight since his last call. What on earth is going on? The son throws himself onto the sofa.

    “What about the cops?” No reply.

Star walks into the kitchen. There’s nothing next to the Marmite pot. It’s never happened before. He’s well aware of Archie’s fear of debt.

Suddenly a sound of the front door being slammed shut. Star races to the door, opens it and looks up and down the street. The son is nowhere to be seen.

Star searches the house, but there’s no trace of Archie. Except for a note in his copperplate handwriting.

Sorry about the rent. I can’t stay here.

"Twenty pound notes" by HowardLake is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.