I walk slower nowadays. My shoes are developing holes, my socks rub my feet and besides, I’m not exactly in a hurry to get anywhere.
I’m moving up towards the Market Square, and just passing the door of the mini-supermarket, when I catch sight of the ‘Lotto’ sign. I stop and think for a moment. What did he say? “There you go, mate. Buy yourself a Lotto ticket – you might get lucky.”
A voice inside me says, “What have you got to lose?” It’s a stupid question really as two pounds is two thirds of my income for the day and would go a long way towards buying me a meal.
I guess the incident with the guy burning the twenty-pound note has affected me. However, I’m surprised to find myself stepping into the store, especially as nowadays, crowds are something I try to avoid, and this place is heaving with people.
The next thing I remember is filling in some random numbers at the Lotto display stand and then I’m queueing to buy my ticket. Each of the three checkout tills has long queues at them. It seems everyone is buying food, drink and Lotto tickets, hoping they will win the £168 million from this week’s record breaking rollover.
Observing people is one of the skills you learn as a detective. I watch the two slightly overweight girls buying magazines with diet plans on the cover, and the man in his forties trying to hide a soft porn magazine with a newspaper until it becomes time to pay. I see a younger man, a shop worker by the look of his cheap suit, white shirt and plain blue tie. He tries to avoid paying for one of the two computer magazines by hiding it inside his jacket as he pays for the other one.
In the next queue to me, I see the man who pretended he was going to give me a twenty-pound note and then burned it. Like me, he’s also got a Lotto ticket, and I just hope he doesn’t win.
He’s still carrying the large parcel he had when he burned the note and now has a roll of wrapping paper under his left arm. He is oblivious to everything and everyone around him, raising his voice whilst on his mobile: “Listen, you piece of shit. If you don’t get yer act together and get my girls to their appointments on time, I’ll come and break yer fucking legs. Do I make myself clear?”
Once I reach the counter, I hand over my two pounds. In return, a ticket is dispensed from the machine which the shop assistant then gives me, together with my receipt.
As I make my way out of the store, Mr Loud is also leaving.
I look away from him for a moment as I take the last step from inside the doorway. He turns to eye up an attractive young girl walking into the store, loses his balance, and drops what he’s carrying to reach out and grab the nearest thing to save himself from falling. The only problem is, that ‘thing’ is me – he’s a heavy man – and takes me with him so we both end up on the ground. My Lotto ticket drops between us, as does his parcel, the wrapping paper and even his mobile phone.
He quickly changes from ‘Mr Loud’ to ‘Mr Angry’ and it appears it’s all my fault. He grabs me, but soon lets go as he smells my, shall we say, lack of eau de toilette. He swears and curses at me, kicking out with his right foot. He screams, “Get away from me or I’ll kill you, you human piece of crap,” and from the tone of his voice there could be some truth in his threat.
People walk round us but no one comes to help. I can’t say I blame them. He makes a menacing figure and besides, it’s all over in a few seconds.
I scramble across the shop floor and reach out for my Lotto ticket, which I manage to retrieve after he lands his second kick. I use the upright post of the shop exit door to get to my feet and scuttle out as quickly as I can. The words that reverberate round my head are the last thing I heard him say. He called me a ‘human piece of crap’.
It was a mistake to have gone into the shop. I need to get away as quickly as possible and gain as much distance as I can from this guy.
As I make my retreat, I can see him on his hands and knees retrieving his belongings, still swearing and cursing.
My experience over the past few months has taught me to keep out of trouble, even if it means backing down. In better times, as a former policeman, I would have stood my ground but things have changed, and I can afford neither the luxury of pride nor doing the honourable thing.
Nowadays I don’t walk down the middle of the pavement like normal people. I scurry along like a rat, keeping to the inside, following the contour of every building. I’ve changed from a person into a shadow figure. I no longer look people in the eye. As I walk the streets, I tend to look down, which means I can tell you a lot about people’s footwear!
I’ve learned where every alleyway is, where it leads and which shop doorways or recesses will offer me cover. Doorways to churches, meeting rooms and building exits have become my natural haunt. I see things which are hidden to other people. It’s the best way to survive.
After what I’ve just been through I decide to keep a low profile. I’m shaking a little – more than a little really. I put it down to the rain and the cold of the night. I’m not
