REVENGE
By Bill Ward
Copyright 2013 Bill Ward
License Notes
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CHAPTER ONE
Christmas was fast approaching. Not that Tom was feeling very festive as he hurried down Sloane Street, past the fashionable designer shops, towards where he’d parked his car. A sharp cold wind caused him to pull the collar of his old brown leather coat tightly around his neck. It had a rather worn look, not unlike its owner. In truth both had seen better days. He lowered his head and focused his eyes just a few feet ahead on the pavement, to escape the worst of the biting wind’s force. He drew small breaths through tightly clenched teeth, protecting his lungs from the frosty night air. He could just glimpse, out the corner of his eye, the shop windows screaming out their messages of goodwill, their brightly lit decorations illuminating the pavement. No doubt a lot of creative thought had been put into designing those windows, in an attempt to grab the attention of passing pedestrians.
It wasn’t just a result of the cold weather that Tom didn’t linger to look closer at what was on show. Even though he didn’t have many to buy presents for, he couldn’t afford to shop in this part of London without taking out a second mortgage on his home, or more accurately speaking what would be in fact a third mortgage. And Christmas or not, he had more pressing financial challenges than just buying a few presents. His bank had seemed to take delight from pointing out to him that, even before the further recent plummet in house prices, he had no remaining equity in his house to secure any additional borrowing.
He hated the way banks always made him feel like Oliver asking for more food. He had laughed at the suggestion he could meet with one of the bank’s business advisors, who somehow might be able to help. Tom knew from previous experience that would probably be someone much younger, who had never owned a business, or worked in the real world outside a bank. He had replied as politely as he could that perhaps, given the bank’s recent performance, they might have greater need of his advice. In truth, given the amount of sarcasm in his voice, he wasn’t actually all that polite.
He fondly remembered the days when he could pop into his local bank and have a chat with a manager he had known for years, and who shared a common interest in racing. Now it was a call centre and an impersonal secure message informing him of the bad news. Tom was certain if he treated his customers with the same contempt exhibited by the banks, he would soon have no customers. The problem was everyone needed a bank and they were all as bad as each other.
As a result, presents this year would once again have to be measured more by the thought than the value. Not that that was an entirely bad thing. It was more in the original spirit of Christmas and he actually quite enjoyed shopping for presents on a budget. Out of necessity he was creative in his selection of presents and generally it was appreciated by the recipients.
A heavy overnight frost had been the prediction and for once it seemed the weather forecasters would be right. That in turn was expected to lead to at least a week of snowfalls and icy roads, which in turn would bring chaos to Britain’s eternally ill prepared transport system. It would also inevitably result in horse race meetings being cancelled and for someone who owned a small betting shop, which barely provided an adequate income at the best of times, any reduction in turnover could only be viewed as impending disaster. Thus, despite generally enjoying Christmas, he wasn’t feeling very festive.
While the big betting shop chains thrust every form of slot machine at their customers, Tom’s clientele were mostly true horse racing aficionados, who gathered to share a coffee in the company of likeminded fans of the sport and debate who would win the next big race. Neither did they bother betting on the laughable virtual racing now beamed to shops. Even the coffee he provided was free of charge and if there was no real racing, then there was little revenue. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was a one off occurrence but over the last couple of years, there had been an increasing number of such occasions, resulting in a loss of revenue. The success or otherwise of running a betting shop was beginning to be far too dependent on the whim of the weather gods.
Tom moved at a brisk pace, encountering very few pedestrians going in the opposite direction. Anyone with half a sense was at home with the central heating on full blast. Tom had been willing to gamble on the bad weather not deteriorating further and had ventured out to meet his brother for dinner in a very smart Knightsbridge restaurant, owned by a famous television chef. In truth he hadn’t cancelled because this year it was his brother’s turn to pay and trips to swanky eateries at someone else’s expense were rare treats. The food had lived up to expectations. Dishes with unpronounceable names had tasted amazing. Indeed this pilgrimage they both made annually, on the first Friday in December to celebrate Christmas and keep in touch, had been a truly pleasant evening. For at least a few hours he had been able to forget about his financial plight.
Colin was ten years his junior. Unplanned
