By now, Billy is back on his feet and hanging around by the front door. When he was younger, he’d actually paw when he wanted to be let out – but he’s far savvier now. He knows that it only takes a look for me to understand what he wants. He likes to roam the corridors of the building, pacing around for a few minutes to go up and down the stairs. I take him out in the mornings and evenings so he can go to the toilet, but it’s like he learned to walk himself in between times.
When I open the door, there is a corgi also wandering around. He is named Judge and he turns to look up at me, as if I’ve caught him up to no good. Judge’s owner, Nick, lives two doors down and we sometimes take the dogs for joint walks. The two dogs sniff at one another and then head in opposite directions along the hallway. I guess it isn’t only me who has become a reclusive loner.
I leave the door slightly open, ready for Billy’s return, and then perch on the edge of the kitchen counter as my phone buzzes once more.
It’s a message this time – and there are no questions about who it’s from. I was on the street a couple of months back when one of those chugger-types enthusiastically bounded towards me. I try to stare at the floor in such situations but somehow ended up with a promo card that offered three free months’ membership of a dating website. I wasn’t going to do anything with it, but then, for a reason of which I’m still not completely sure, I ended up signing up. It was probably the word ‘free’ that did it. There’s very little I turn down when it’s not going to cost me anything.
An actual dating website seems old-fashioned given the amount of left- and right-swiping that goes on nowadays. I guess that’s how quickly times move.
Either way, I have a message from one of my matches, a bloke named Harry.
So… are we ever going to meet?
I’ve been putting him off, with a part of me hoping he’d go away. It’s not that his pictures aren’t appealing, nor that he hasn’t entertained me with his messages, more that Ben’s legacy still seems so close. There are mornings when I wake up and still think Ben is lying next to me; times when my phone beeps and I’m certain it’s him.
It’s been five years – five years – and I’m still not sure I’ll ever quite forget everything that happened.
I think about not replying, about letting Harry’s messages drift until he gets bored and stops contacting me.
Surely five years is long enough?
Tomorrow evening?
Harry pings a reply back almost instantly:
Perfect! Where would you like to go?
I start a reply and then stop myself. There’s etiquette to think about. Do people split a bill on a first date? I’ve never been the sort of person who’s comfortable with allowing a bloke to pay for everything just because he happens to have different genitalia. This is the other issue with dating, even if I hate that word, it’s expensive – or it can be.
As I’m trying to figure out how best to suggest the cheapest place I know without making it sound like I’m skint, another message arrives.
How about The Garden Café?
I’ve never been but Google says it’s within walking distance of where I live. It’s funny how, when travel costs are hard to meet, every place is judged by whether it’s walkable. I hold my breath and check the menu. There are expensive items – plus a dizzying array of wine – but I can stick to tap water. Free is always good. More importantly, the soup and salad is cheap, there’s an all-day breakfast that’s a fiver and plenty of fancy-sounding dishes that won’t cripple my finances for the rest of the month. I might have to go without food for the rest of the day, but I could likely handle it.
I find myself glancing towards the bed that’s folded up into the wall. Towards the envelope of money.
Sounds good.
We send a couple more messages back and forth, finalising the time, and it all seems very normal. Very simple. It’s like I’m a real human being. Like the shadow of Ben isn’t hanging over me any longer; as if everything will be all right in the end. That’s what people kept saying five years ago and I’m still waiting.
Our messages dry up as Billy nudges his way back into the apartment. I close the door behind him and then take my space on the sofa, him at my feet, curled up and ready to sleep. I should be doing some of my university work – my Childhood and Youth Studies course isn’t going to complete itself – but it’s almost impossible to concentrate.
I’m home alone, just me and Billy.
And the money.
It’s still calling, wanting to be counted. To be touched. So much money.
I turn on the television to distract myself, flicking through the Freeview channels until I find something that isn’t full of gurning, grating idiots shouting at one another. It takes a long time. With the background noise sorted, I do some more searching on the laptop, looking for news stories or social media posts about missing or stolen money in the local area. There’s still nothing.
I’m definitely going to hand it in to the police. It’s a bit late in the day now, so probably tomorrow.
Somebody must have noticed it missing by now. It’s too much money to ignore. I wonder if it’s dodgy. I know the new plastic notes are supposed to be impossible to counterfeit, but, if that’s the case, then… what? It has to be real, so someone will want it back.
My stomach gurgles, reminding me that I’ve not eaten since the Weetabix I had this morning. Billy grumbles as I remove my foot from under his chin and head to the fridge. It takes me a second or two to realise that there’s even less inside than I remember. There’s a bottle of chilled tap water, a couple of carrots, a tub of almost-finished margarine, two eggs and an apple. There’s also a large bag of porridge oats underneath the sink that was on offer six weeks ago and will last for months, plus the remaining Weetabix in the box. It’s not real Weetabix, of course. It’s the own-brand Weety-Bits. Aside from Billy’s food, that’s all there is to eat in the flat.
It’s a little after seven p.m. but I make myself a bowl of porridge on the hob, measuring out the oats and water because I don’t want to make too much and end up wasting it. By the time I get back to the sofa, Billy is in full-on snoring mode. It’s gently melodic, as if he’s keeping time for an orchestra. I’m careful not to step on him as I curl my feet under myself on the sofa and check the web one more time to see if anybody has reported the missing or stolen money.
Not yet, but I’m sure they will.
If I’m honest, this is my life now. There was a time when it might have been the odd dinner party, or nights out at the cinema. Where I’d pay £6 or more for a glass of wine and not even think about it. Where I’d get a taxi home, tipsy and giggling. Now, it is bowls of porridge, a snoring dog, nonsense on the television and me attempting to do my university course. I tell myself it’s all a means to an end. I’ll graduate one day and then I can look for a job that pays more. When that comes through, I can find somewhere bigger and better to live. Time is all it takes. Well, time and money. I want it to be my money, though. Money I’ve earned. Something I’ve worked for.
I’m definitely handing this money in. I’ve got Parkrun in the morning, then work, then I’ll go to the police station after that.
My phone rings once more and one of Billy’s ears pricks up, even though he doesn’t open his eyes. The screen reads unknown and I let it ring off. Whoever it is will leave a message if it’s important. I find myself staring towards the bed that’s hidden in the wall once more. The money is calling me again, but it’ll be gone tomorrow and everything will get back to normal.