30 Days in June

cleaning the toilets so long as it was in the city. I was part of the morning stampede across London Bridge, brushing shoulders with men and women dangling expensive leather briefcases. It was exciting to be surrounded by so much adrenaline, so much success, so much money. It was a godsend compared to the lonely nights when I first arrived in London, before I managed to get a job. There was so much of everything in the city, including people, that it was nearly impossible to stand out, and I managed to blend in, just as oblivious as everybody else. Of course, without meaning to state the obvious, that was exactly what I needed at that specific point in my life.

Payday was a big deal. It wasn’t like I was hard up. Rent in London was nothing like it is today, when you have to pay a small fortune to live in a shed or a cupboard under the stairs like Harry Potter. Catching the tube didn’t eat into your pocket like it does these days. It was so much more realistic – more achievable - for a singleton on basic pay to enjoy London, not just survive. I never went without. But still, I counted down the days from about the middle of the month. I ticked off each passing day like it was a success. Payday was a big deal because, suddenly, I was flush. I had notes in my pocket I could flash between my thumb and forefinger at the bar. Not that the barman took much notice, of course. I could mingle with those who really had money (and not just for a day or two). It felt that, just for a few hours, I belonged in this city of success, extravagance and greed. Of course, I was a pretender, but my whole life was a pretence, so what did one more thing matter? I was hungry to earn more, to live like this all of the time.

And, of course, it was payday when I first met Jenny. It always had an extra special place in my heart after that.

That was nearly thirty years ago. As soon as I earned real money – monopoly money void of any real meaning - I quickly became bored of it. And not only did I become bored of it but, in a perverse way, I became ashamed by it. I resented people who were given outrageous bonuses when others could barely rub two pennies together and, more significantly, I despised the fact I was one of them. Rather than flashing my cash, I tried to hide it; I never openly discussed salaries and, when pushed into a corner, I pretended to earn much less than I really did. I pretended to be an average Joe, grafting just to make ends meet. Only the people who knew nothing about me were taken in by this fallacy.

This is the first month I've counted down the days since I was a fresh-faced teenager in a cheap suit.

June 2018.

Only, this time I haven’t felt expectation. I haven’t longed for the days to pass, keen to get to the other end, over the line. This time I haven't started counting from the midway point. No. I've counted from the very first day of the month, since my name from my previous life was uttered in that lift foyer. Apart from the last few days, when I've just wanted it over, this time I've longed for the days to slow down, to halt, to never end. I know there is no prize waiting for me at the end of the month. I know that whatever is waiting for me is the most horrific thing I'll ever encounter in my life.

For weeks, I've been looking around for signs, glancing over my shoulder and reading into things that just weren’t there. It has become a habit, a nervous tick, and I continued to do it as I walked back to my boat. The sun has been relentless, working overtime, and people of all ages were out, enjoying it. I longed for a cool breeze to dry the layer of sweat that permanently covered my forehead, to blow away the body odour hiding beneath my tee-shirt. I know I'm a hypocrite, just like everybody else – I'm not really that different - that as soon as the sun is replaced by grey skies, shoulder to shoulder clouds and constant, relentless drizzle then I’ll call for it to come back, tell the sun that all is forgiven, you're not so bad after all. I quickened my pace, lengthened my strides, desperate to get home, to open all the windows, lie on my bed and just wait.

Now I'm here, though, the air is stale and suffocating and I just want to break free and get back outside again. The boat is empty, of course. Erica no longer lives here. I'm not even sure who Erica is any more. The sweat on my forehead doesn't dry; it trickles into my blinking eyes. Kicking off my shoes at the sink, I reach between the gap in the net curtain and urgently push open a window. My big toe stubs against the kitchen surface, yet again. When will I learn?

“You fucking little bastard,” I shout, hopping on one foot.

I run over to my bed now, desperate to disappear within the security of the duvet, to hide away and pretend that none of this is really happening.

It is only when the corner of the duvet is in my hand and I am ready to give it a good yank that I see it, lying right in the middle of the bed, just demanding to be noticed. Still, I think about ignoring it, pretend I haven’t seen it, but my eyes remain fixed, staring like a madman.

The envelope is crisp, white and unexceptional. My name is written in blue pen across the centre.