I slept with the envelope under my pillow last night. It’s mad, I know. Ridiculous, really. I put it in the drawer underneath the television at first but found myself lying awake thinking about the cash. Poor old Billy wasn’t happy at being accidentally kicked awake as he slept on my feet – but it was only when the envelope was safely within touching distance that I finally started to drift off.
The first thing I did after waking up was fumble under my pillow to make sure it was still there. After that, I lay the cash out on the table again, counting the full £3,620. I can replace the £20 I spent. I’ll use my credit card to withdraw the money so that I can return the full amount.
I find myself sitting in the window, watching the street below. The bins have been kicked over, but that’s about the most controversial thing that happens around these parts. There’s not a soul outside, not a car passing. This serenity is part of my Sunday routine and yet I feel the constant tug back to the money on the table. I make a cup of tea to distract myself and then check last night’s lottery numbers. Our work syndicate didn’t win, so that’s another pound gone. Another pound wasted.
A text is waiting for me from Harry:
Last night was great. How about we do it again on Tuesday? Do you still want me to come to yours? We can go out if you want?
I read it a couple of times but leave it for the time being.
Google still offers no information about missing or stolen money in the area, so I go to the local police website, but there’s nothing there. I search Twitter, Facebook and anything else I can think of, but there are no clues. I keep thinking someone will come asking for the money. Cash doesn’t just appear. It doesn’t grow on trees and drop into envelopes. It has to belong to somebody.
Billy is sniffing around the sink, so I give him his food and watch him eat. It’s only as I’m doing that I realise I’m not hungry myself. I’m so used to the gurgles and groans, to having to fight the cravings, that it’s an alien feeling to actually be… satisfied.
When he’s finished, Billy licks his chops clean and then crosses to the door. He is many things, but subtle is not one of them. I pack the money back into the envelope, resolving to leave it there this time. I can’t keep removing it to count. It’s becoming an obsession.
I put on my trainers, but they instantly feel looser than yesterday. It’s hardly a surprise – there’s a reason shoes aren’t held together with sticky tape. If I’m lucky, I’ll get another day out of them before I have to figure out something new.
We do a lap of the estate and Billy’s in a particularly inquisitive mood, dragging me off into every alley we pass to have a sniff. My phone rings twice – both times ‘unknown’. I miss the first call but answer the second, only to discover the same as before – that there’s no one there. I stop and peer up at the buildings around, wondering if the phantom caller is watching. It’s starting to feel ominous, more than an auto-dialler at a call centre that won’t give up.
Billy eventually leads us back to Hamilton House and sits expectantly on the doorstep as I fumble for my key. When we get into the flat, he finds his spot next to the sofa and sits waiting for me to join him. Sunday is the day I get most of my university work done and, aside from walking Billy, it wouldn’t be uncommon for me to spend the entire day here.
It’s hard, but I have to force myself not to touch the envelope of money that’s in the drawer. I missed handing it in yesterday and the police station will be closed today – presumably because no crime ever happens on a Sunday – so I’ll have to do it tomorrow. I tell myself I’ll definitely do that.
Billy finally puts his head down when I sit on the sofa with the laptop. He nuzzles into my foot until he’s comfortable and then closes his eyes.
The computer goes through its usual routine of considering booting without actually doing it and I use the time to tap out a reply to Harry’s text:
Tuesday is fine. I’m busy in the day, so 7pm?
His reply takes barely thirty seconds:
Fab! Let me know your address and I’ll see you then.
There is a part of me that’s wary of letting him know where I live. It’s probably one of those things on every guide about dating – public places, good lighting: that sort of thing. But it’s hard not to think that, of the two of us, I’m the nutty one. I dropped bombshell after bombshell on him and he still wants to see me again. After a minute or two, I reply with my address and leave it at that.
The laptop is still booting as I rub Billy’s ear with my big toe. He lets out one of those huge, appreciative huffs that never gets old. After what feels like an age, the laptop finally stops whirring and allows me to load the web browser. The Open University site is set as my homepage, but, the moment it loads, the screen flickers and goes dark.
The first time this happened, I panicked, partly because I thought I’d lost my work – but also because I knew I’d struggle to find the money for someone to fix it. I’m calmer now as I hold down the power button and count to ten. If only this worked with people. Everything gets a bit mixed up, a bit out of sync, and all it takes to fix is a ten-second press of a button.
I let go of the button, wait and then tap it to start the laptop booting all over again.
Nothing happens.
It’s now that I feel my chest tighten. I’m holding my breath as I press the button once more. The laptop crashes more often than an F1 driver on a wet track – but it always starts again. Always.
Not this time. There is only a blank screen.
I spend more than a minute staring at it, hoping for a miracle. When that doesn’t arrive, I close the lid, unplug it, plug it back in and try again.
Still nothing.
The rushing begins immediately. It starts with the walls zooming towards me and then it’s like I’m being swallowed by something much larger than myself. Billy pushes himself up and clambers onto the sofa, resting his head on my lap and staring up at me.
‘I don’t think you can fix this one,’ I tell him, closing my eyes and trying to blink it away. My throat is dry and rasping. I have work to do, deadlines to meet. This course is my out. I’ve hinged everything on it being the way to change my life, to make things better. Without my laptop, I can’t study. Without my studies, this is all I’ll ever be.
I take a breath, gulping away the sob that feels close, but when I open my eyes, the walls have me crushed. I push myself up, but the ceiling starts to fall as I stumble across the room and clasp onto the kitchen counter. I’m in a box, confined and trapped, so disorientated that the first drawer I try to open is the one that’s not a drawer at all. It’s a handle that’s attached for either decoration or to confuse someone on the brink of a panic attack. It’s too hard to open my eyes all the way, so I fumble along the counter until I reach the proper drawer. There are medicines and painkillers inside and I riffle through them, eyes now screwed closed, until I find the inhaler. I haven’t needed it in a long while, but I suck on the bottom and then pump the trigger twice in quick succession.
It only takes a couple of seconds until the clouds begin to clear. When I open my eyes, the walls are back where they’re supposed to be and the ceiling hasn’t fallen at all. Billy is at my feet and I slide down until I’m sitting and smoothing the fur on his back. He twists to lick my hand and there’s such a purity that I realise I’m crying on top of him.
I’m not sure how long passes before I move next. The inhaler is still in my hand but the memory of needing it is fresh. I thought I was past this; thought I was moving on.