EXTRACT:
Small Change by Jerry Raine

1.

WHEN CHRIS SMALL came home from work on Friday evening, there was a large policeman standing outside his gate. He was at least six foot four and was staring at the pub over the road, no doubt wishing he could have a pint. It was nearly ten o’clock and Chris was thinking about having a pint too, but instead he walked over and said, ‘Evening all.’
The policeman looked at him with a scowl and said, ‘I haven’t heard that one before.’
‘Sorry,’ Chris said. ‘I live here. Can I squeeze through?’
The policeman stepped away from the entrance to Chris’s lodgings, a rickety brown gate between two brick walls, and said, ‘Well you’d better go up then. There’s been a robbery.’
Chris felt his stomach turn. ‘What kind of robbery?’
The policeman looked at him as if he were an idiot. ‘The kind where they take things.’
Chris decided not to pursue the matter and walked quickly up the cement steps that led to the front door. It was wide open and one of the other lodgers was standing there with his girlfriend. ‘What’s going on?’ Chris asked him.
‘We’ve been bloody robbed,’ the lodger said.
Chris had never found out his name. He was a skinny, unwell-looking kid in his early twenties, who always wore jeans and a leather jacket. He was also a heavy metal freak and rented the room below Chris’s. He often played loud music that thumped through the floor and he had long dirty hair and a permanent lump high on his left cheek.
‘You mean all of us?’ Chris asked.
‘Well I have. You’d better go and check your room.’
Chris squeezed past them, nodding at the girlfriend. She also had long dirty hair and wore a leather jacket, but unlike her boyfriend, she was on the plump side.
Chris walked down the linoleum-floored corridor past the bathroom, then turned left up the flight of stairs that led to the first small landing. John, a middle-aged bus driver, was standing outside his room. He nodded at Chris and said, ‘They got my stereo, the sods.’ He looked as if he were about to burst into tears. He was a lover of country music and spent long hours in his room, listening to records. Conway Twitty and Tammy Wynette.
Chris poked his head around the door and looked in. ‘Well at least they didn’t take your records.’ He could see stacks of them sitting on the floor.
‘No one’s interested in vinyl these days,’ John said. ‘One of the saving graces of the LP is that nobody wants to nick them.’
Chris smiled. He was glad to see John hadn’t lost his sense of humour. He patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll go and see what my room’s like.’
He stepped up to the next landing, walked past the vacant room on his left, and pushed open his door at the end of the corridor. Inside he found a policeman looking out of the window at Elmhurst High Street. ‘Nice view?’ Chris asked, and the policeman jumped with surprise and turned around.
‘Not bad,’ said the policeman. ‘If they cut away a bit of the tree out there.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know who’s responsible for that.’
‘The council, probably.’
There was a tree growing from the pavement below that was starting to obscure Chris’s only window. He didn’t mind too much, though, because he didn’t plan on living there forever. He looked around the room and saw straight away what was missing.
‘Shit!’ he said.
‘Pardon me?’ said the policeman.
‘My stereo’s gone, and my TV and video. And none of it was insured.’ Chris slumped on to the bed and watched the policeman get out his notebook. He pulled up one of Chris’s matching two chairs, thin white metal with a hard seat, and took down Chris’s details. He was a big man with a friendly, red face.
‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked.
‘Two years. Obviously one day too long.’
‘Is anything else missing?’
Chris glanced around. ‘No. There’s not much room for anything else.’
His room had pink walls, a single bed, a white metal table to match the chairs, a portable gas heater, and one wardrobe. There was also a crappy old fridge where he kept a pint of milk and one week’s food.
‘And how much were the stolen belongings worth?’ asked the policeman.
Chris knew exactly how much they were worth because he’d only bought them about a month ago. He’d thrown out all his old gear and purchased the new appliances on his Visa, at Dixons in Bromley. He’d caught a black cab home with the three boxes loaded in next to him. ‘The TV was £260. The video was £150, and the stereo was £500. £910 altogether.’
The policeman wrote the figures down. ‘Well, maybe they saw you bringing them in. That’s what often happens. They see you unloading and it sets their minds working. Either that or they see the empty boxes down by the bins. Did you leave the boxes down there?’
‘Yeah. Where else am I going to put them in a room this size?’
‘It’s best to conceal them if you can. Break them up. Stick them in a black bin bag. It happens all the time.’
‘I’ll make a mental note of it,’ Chris said bitterly. ‘But what about the other rooms? How did they manage to do them all?’
‘Just bad luck,’ the policeman said. ‘Probably did yours first then the others on the way out. Three lodgers and none of you were in. What about that room next door?’
‘That’s been empty for a while.’ The last tenant had been a mad alcoholic, prone to midnight fits. He would throw furniture around the room and rant and rave. Thankfully, the landlord had thrown him out after a few weeks.
The policeman looked at his notebook. ‘And the landlord’s a Mr Packard?’
‘Yeah, he lives in Spain. His ex-wife collects the rent.’
The policeman nodded. ‘There’s been a lot of this going on recently. Sometimes a gang will hit a town, do several robberies, then move on when they’re finished.’
‘Great,’ Chris said sarcastically. Was that meant to make him feel better?
The policeman stood up. ‘Well, that’s all I need for now. We’ll check out the usual villains and let you know. I doubt if you’ll get your stuff back though.’
‘I didn’t think I would.’
‘And I should get the landlord’s wife to fix a stronger lock on the front door. That one was forced open with hardly any effort.’
‘Right.’
‘If you need me, just ask at the station. My name’s Larry Williamson.’ He reached in his pocket, brought out a business card, and handed it to Chris.
Chris was amazed. Did policemen have business cards these days? ‘Okay, thanks,’ he said.
He watched him leave then put his head in his hands. He had been looking forward to watching ‘Frasier’ on TV, his usual Friday night viewing. Now what would he do? He glanced at his shelves and noticed that his dozen or so CDs had also gone, including the latest Mark Eitzel that he’d only bought a few days ago. He swore. It was only a small collection but he’d been having fun buying new music after throwing out all his vinyl and cassettes.
Then he remembered his only other expensive electrical item, one he had totally forgotten about. He stepped over to the wardrobe and opened the door, then bent down and lifted a pile of T-shirts and jumpers off the bottom. He breathed a sigh of relief; it was still there.
It was a laptop computer that he’d bought several years ago with the intention of playing computer games. It was worth over a thousand pounds but he’d soon grown weary of it, not having the patience to learn more than about five per cent of its capabilities. Still, he was glad the thieves hadn’t got their dirty little hands on it. He covered it back up with the clothes then sat down on the bed and thought of the weeks ahead. What the hell was he going to do in his spare time without a TV and stereo? He couldn’t afford to go and buy another set. He was a victim of crime for the second time in his life, and it was a feeling he didn’t particularly care for.
2
THE NEXT MORNING Chris went to work as usual, leaving the house just after eight. It was dull and overcast outside, which summed up the way he felt. He hated working on Saturdays when the rest of the world was lying in. When was the last time he’d had a weekend off? He couldn’t remember.
He was working six days a week on his own, in a privately owned off-licence called Rowan’s in Lambs Conduit Street in London, his only day off being Monday. It was getting him down working so many hours and he was trying to persuade his boss, Rowan, to take on a Sunday part-timer so at least he could have a two-day break. But Rowan, like most bosses Chris had worked for, was tight-fisted, and didn’t trust any newcomers. Chris felt he was doomed to working alone until Rowan regained his health.
Six months ago, Rowan had suffered a stroke and now only came to the shop to pick up bottles of wine (he had been told to give up whisky by his doctor), so Chris’s only companion was the radio. He didn’t mind that too much as Rowan was a bit of an oddball, but sometimes he felt his life was drifting by without any human contact at all. Apart from the customers, who were only interested in small talk, he didn’t speak to anyone all day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent conversation or even laughed out loud at something. Things would have to change soon or he’d surely go mad or start talking to himself.
As he walked towards Elmhurst station, Chris was still seething about the previous night’s losses. Without a TV and stereo he felt he would go stir-crazy in his little room, with even more silence than usual to contend with. The only positive thing about the robbery was that Mr Heavy Metal underneath had also had his stereo nicked, so there would be no head banging music coming through the floorboards for a while. Chris hoped Heavy Metal was going a little stir-crazy too, but at least he had a girlfriend to keep him occupied.
Stir-crazy.
Chris had first heard the term in an Eagles song way back in the seventies. It was in a song called ‘Doolin, Dalton’ on their second, and best, album, Desperado. There was another song on it called ‘Twenty-One’, all about the exuberance of youth, and Chris could remember singing along to it on his car stereo, wondering what it would be like to reach such a ripe old age. Now, without too much blinking, he had suddenly reached the age of thirty-nine and would be reaching the dreaded forty next year.
So what exactly had he achieved in his life this far? It was a conversation he had with himself nearly every waking moment, and his life achievements could be listed as follows:
1. He had about a thousand pounds tucked away in a building society for emergencies;
2. He had a job, albeit yet another one without any long-term prospects; and
3. He was still alive.
He supposed the last point was the most important, but if he wasn’t really living his life, was there much point in still being around? Could he really face another thirty-five years of going through the motions? He knew he had to get rid of such negative thoughts, but how? Maybe a new girlfriend would do the trick, but that was easier said than done; he hadn’t been out with anyone for nearly a year.
It was an eighteen-minute walk to the station and the last hundred yards were down a steep hill. Chris let the momentum carry him along until he was almost running. Coming home in the evening it was a tougher walk; he had to trudge up the hill, and it was always very tiring after a long day. The exercise kept him fairly fit though because, with the walk at the London end added on, he reckoned he was doing about five miles a day. It certainly helped to keep him trim.
At the station he bought a newspaper and walked through the piss-smelling tunnel beneath the tracks. Emerging on platform two, he sat on a bench and scanned the front page but, seeing there were no disasters in the world, turned to the back page instead. After a few minutes of taking nothing in, he looked at the trees that grew high above the platforms.
Elmhurst was a pleasant part of suburbia in which to live, and Chris didn’t mind commuting everyday into London, as it was only a thirty-minute ride into Charing Cross. It was almost like living in the country, and in a way, he thought he had the best of both worlds: he could be entertained in the dirty city at night, and then escape to the clean suburbs afterwards. Yes, Elmhurst was an okay kind of place to live – he could just do with a little excitement to liven things up.
His train arrived on time about five minutes later, and he stepped through the sliding doors. It was still too early for most shoppers to be travelling into town, so he found an empty bay of seats and sat down.
As the train pulled away, Chris spread the newspaper on his lap and took a small pack of cards from his jacket. He had found them in a drawer last night and played a few games of patience before going to bed. The cards had helped to drain his tension away because he was forced to think about something else. He had read somewhere that this was a common trait in men; to unwind they needed to do something of a practical or problem-solving nature like DIY or fixing their car, whereas women would more readily talk about their hang-ups. Chris hated cars and DIY though, so cards were a good alternative at the moment.
As he played, Chris sensed someone looking at him, and when he glanced up, he saw a fair-haired girl a few seats away staring. He looked back down at the cards, played a few more minutes, then looked back up. She was still staring so he nodded and smiled, and much to his surprise she stood up, came over and sat down opposite.
‘I saw you playing,’ she said with a smile. ‘I like to play cards as well.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Chris said. ‘What do you play?’
‘Blackjack.’
‘Okay.’ Chris scooped the cards from the newspaper, shuffled them quickly and looked at the girl. ‘What shall we play for?’
She reached in her coat pocket and took out a box of matches. ‘We’ll have twenty each and see who wins.’
‘You’re on,’ Chris said, and watched while she counted them out.
She was dressed all in black: slacks, pullover and thin jacket. Her hair came down just below her ears in a boyish style, and she had a pixie face with thin lips, almost no cheekbones. Chris watched as she reached over with a handful of matches and placed them on his newspaper. On her own lap she spread a carrier bag, and counted twenty matches for herself.
‘Ready?’ Chris asked. ‘I’ll be banker.’ Then he started dealing.
It only took him a few hands to realise that the girl in front of him knew exactly what she was doing. Chris hadn’t played blackjack for years, couldn’t remember the finer rules of it, and soon she was spiriting the matches off his newspaper and over to her carrier. She smiled when she won and looked very serious when she didn’t.
‘Do you play regularly?’ he asked between hands.
‘Quite regularly,’ she said.
‘My name’s Chris, by the way.’
‘Mine’s Edie.’
‘Where do you play?’
‘Casinos,’ Edie said, nonchalantly.
Chris dealt some more, now knowing he was playing someone who took it quite seriously. She played in casinos. Who was this strange girl?
It only took another five minutes and all of Chris’s matches were gone. He smiled at Edie and said, ‘You play very well.’
‘Thanks. But you’ll have to learn some basic rules. Your game is obviously a little rusty.’
‘I haven’t played for a long time. I’ve never learnt it properly.’
‘I can see that,’ she laughed.
Chris decided to take a chance. ‘Maybe you could teach me how.’
Edie looked at him warily and then smiled. ‘Maybe I could.’
‘Another game?’
‘Okay.’
Chris watched again as she counted out the matches. She had nice long slim fingers, no rings.
They joked a bit as they played and as the train filled up around them several people started watching. Chris wished the train journey was a little longer but soon they were approaching Charing Cross. He had managed to win a few hands this time but knew it was more down to luck than skill. And Edie still had the majority of the matches.
‘So what are you coming into London for. Shopping?’ she asked, as the train pulled into the station.
Chris packed up the cards and put them back in his jacket. ‘I work up here. How about you?’
‘Work as well. If you’d like a cheap meal why don’t you come and see me later?’
Chris was amazed at the invitation. ‘Where do you work?’ he asked.
‘You know the Trocadero?’ Edie said. ‘There’s a restaurant there called Mario’s. I’m a waitress. I’ll be working until eight.’
‘I know where it is,’ Chris said. ‘I don’t finish till eight either, though. It’ll take me half an hour to walk there.’
‘I’ll wait in the coffee bar.’
They left the carriage together and walked down the platform. Edie was only a few inches shorter than Chris, probably about five-eight, and he guessed she was about twenty-five. It felt good walking beside her and he thought back to an hour ago, and how depressed he’d been feeling. Now, all those thoughts had been banished from his mind. Maybe the excitement he needed in his life was about to begin.
When they reached the station concourse he shook Edie’s hand and said, ‘See you later’.
She smiled and they headed off in different directions.

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About Jerry Raine

Also by Jerry Raine:
Smalltime

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