Got to Cash Converters just after they’d opened. Floor was still wet.
Put my chrome Smeg kettle on the counter. Still in its original box. Foam inserts included. Instruction manual in five languages.
The bloke behind the counter didn’t even touch it. Started tapping at a sticky-looking keyboard. Green glow on his face.
“One Fifty.”
“One hundred and fifty?”
Laughter. “It’s a kettle. One pound fifty.”
He spun the screen around. Showed me the numbers on the screen. £1.50.
Tried to argue. “That was five hundred quid new. It’s a collector’s edition.”
“It’s a kettle.”
Told him I’d got it in John Lewis. It was in perfect condition. No dents. No limescale. I didn’t want to take out the box, but thought he might.
He tapped the screen again. “Computer says £1.50, it’s £1.50.”
No point arguing with a machine. Looked past him at the graveyard of appliances, chargers, and DVD box sets no one ever wanted.
“What’s the trade price?”
Click, click, click. “Can give you a fiver.”
Had a mooch about the shop to see what they had. There was a stuffed squirrel on a plastic motorbike. Was tempted.
Found a white plastic Amazon Basics kettle, wedged between a George Foreman grill and a stack of off-brand toasters. Looked like it had survived a house fire.
“How much is that?”
He twisted round to look at it. Click, click, click. “Five pound fifty”.
Fine. At least I can use the kitchen again.
Walked home through the park, new kettle under my arm. He wanted 25p for a bag.
Flat door was wide open when I got back. Must fix that. Stepped inside. Air felt heavier than it should. Quiet in a way that made my ears noisy.
Shrugged it off and put the kettle on the kitchen counter. Nice to feel safe in here again. Peeled the sticker off.
That’s when I heard it. A scrape.
Wasn’t sure if it was the rip of the adhesive at first.
But then again. Scrape. Pause. Thump.
I stopped. Listened.
Stood there a while. Nothing.
Wanted to run. Another scrape. Louder. Another thump. Bigger. Frightened me to buggery, it did.
It came from low down, near the floor. Not the fridge. Not the washing machine. The fucking bin cupboard.
There was a gap along the edge of the door. Wide enough for a shadow to leak into the light.
A Scrape. A shuffle. Mind was going to impossible places. Not again?
Really didn’t want to, but knew I had to look in that damned cupboard.
Grabbed the handle. Was cold enough to feel damp. Pulled it open with one hand, ready to strike with the other.
Not sure, but think I might have screamed. Had to stand up, shake my tingly arms. Deep breaths.
Two dark and soulless eyes blinked up at me.
Wedged into the corner, nose pressed deep into the hole. Wagging tail thumping against the plastic bin.
It didn’t move forward. Didn’t back away. The bane of my life, the reason I’m in this mess. The destroyer of worlds. Staring into me.
Have been going back and forth for an hour. But I know what to do. Going out to get a few things.
next: 52. Fixing Broken Things
previous: 50. Haunting My Own Flat