Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
I double-check my hair to make sure it’s secure.
Gah, I have so much of it. It’s so thick the wavy, multicoloured tresses get in the way.
Once I’m reassured it won’t, I drop to my knees and reach into the old red toolbox.
Methodically, I empty the box of its contents and then carefully pull out the bottom tray and place it on the floor beside me.
Story perches on the sofa. Her blue skin blends into the seventies flower print. She kicks her legs, bouncing them against the cushion. “What happened at the weekend?” she asks. “You’re upset more than usual.” She pulls her legs up to hug her knees.
I narrow my eyes at my observant friend and shake my head dismissively. I haven’t told her what happened with the angel.
I’m too embarrassed, too ashamed.
Not that I have anything to be ashamed about; it’s all on him, I mentally grump.
I never tell Story much of anything. I’m a terrible friend.
“Thanks, Novel. So are you saying I’m always miserable?”
Story groans and flops back onto the sofa. I force myself to give her an explanation. “I liked a guy, and he was… horrible to me.”
I don’t fuck children. His voice echoes in my head, and I can’t help cringing.
God, I wish I would have come back with something like Good, ’cause I don’t want to fuck you anyway. Or called him out on it instead of standing there with drool on my chin.
Gah. I rub my face.
“Ah, I understand. I’m sorry… If you ever want to talk about it?” Story sits back up, pretty face scrunched up with concern, and she nibbles on her lip.
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.” In twenty years. “I am fine, thank you.”
She eyes the bruises on my right hand but says nothing more.
Which I appreciate. She’s right. I am upset, and maybe it’s why I’m going to do something crazy. It’s earlier than I’d planned.
I need to do this.
Rolling my shoulders and wrists to limber up, I grab and turn on the small black torch. I shove it in my mouth—my jaw clicks as I grip it with my teeth. Heck, I so need to invest in a head torch.
I dip my hands inside the box. When they reach the bottom, they disappear into the magical void that the tray was covering.
Taking a few nervous deep breaths, I lean forward, and my shoulders rub against the smooth metal edges as I wiggle my upper body inside the small space.
It’s a tight fit.
The toolbox acts as a small dimensional storeroom—a magical break in our reality, a rip in time and space. A tiny pocket world that’s attached to the toolbox. I can’t explain it any more than that… The magic and theory behind it is mind-boggling. All I know is that it works.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” Story asks from outside.
“Oe-ay.” No way, I tell her—or as best as I can with my mouth full.
The beam of the torch brightens the four-foot-square space that is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves.
My tummy scrapes uncomfortably against the lip of the box.
Grandad packed the storeroom with everything he deemed important.
The space inside here is limited, so he had to be careful.
Priority has to be given to the most important stuff.
So I can’t throw everything I own inside it, which is a shame.
I groan. Doing this upside down makes me feel dizzy. I spread my legs wider on the outside to anchor myself, and I drop another few inches. The box digs into my thighs.
Grandad didn’t have to dangle, I think with a grumble. No, he could place a hand inside and think of what he wanted, and the object, if it was in here, would appear in his hand.
The magic of the box doesn’t work like that for me, and the toolbox didn’t come with instructions. I don’t know how to fix it, so I will continue to dangle.
It was one more thing that didn’t come up for discussion when Grandad got poorly. When he was fighting for his life, it was the last thing on our minds.
Mmmh. I wrinkle my nose and tip my head. The light beams towards the floor. There’s stuff on the lower shelves I will never reach. I’m certainly not crawling inside here. Goosebumps rise with the thought. Nope. No way. I’m happy to keep my bottom in my own world, thank you very much.
I really do need to invest in a head torch and perhaps a rope.
If I secure myself with a rope, I might get down a little further and a little closer to the lower shelves.
If I had a big friend to help me, that would also be easier.
It’s sad that I’ve got nobody but Story whom I trust to watch my back.
I haven’t even told her about my hybrid heritage. It’s the price of keeping myself safe, keeping her safe. I can’t trust anyone to keep what I am a secret.
Above me, Dexter also meows his concern. The sound echoes around the storeroom, and soft, squidgy warmth fills my chest.
“Purrrt,” he inquires. Story says something I can’t hear, and Dexter yowls. Oops. I don’t think he quite understands my disappearing upper body. I snort. Who am I to interpret what’s going on in his kitty-cat brain?
He’s probably hungry.
I’ll run out of air soon if I don’t get a wiggle on. This place is dangerous. I give myself a mental shake and rotate my torso to the shelf that has rows of carefully stored potion balls. I’ll need these for my mission.
The mission I have dubbed Operation Get Your Own Back. I grab a handy cloth bag from a peg hanging off the shelf and start filling it.
Ouch. I wince. “Ickle… it… exter… hmmm-mm—” I growl out when a deliberate claw pricks against my calf. The torch rattles between my teeth.
I better get moving. It’s already getting hard to breathe. I’m also unwilling to be a cat scratch post. Just in case, I grab one more potion ball for luck. There, perfect.
I squeak and almost drop the torch and bag as, with another dig of kitty claws, the little shit jumps up. Ginger pads and the occasional claw now knead my bottom.
Bloody cat.
Bag in hand, I clench my thighs and abs and wiggle my way out. Dexter drops to the floor.
I put the bag down, spit the torch out, and take in a lungful of fresh air. The ginger menace wraps himself around my legs and chirps away. He rubs against the bag of potions and then he helps me put everything away.
“Did you get everything you need?” Story asks.
I shoot her a grin.
“Are you sure I can’t come with you?”
“No, but thanks for asking. I need to do this by myself. Dexter,” I grumble as he smacks my face with his tail and a bit of fur finds its way into my mouth.
I pull a face as I wipe my hairy tongue across the back of my hand.
Ignoring me, he pokes his head into the toolbox, and I quickly close the lid. “That is no place for a cat.”
“Come on, I’ll feed you before I go. Today you have salmon. Yes, salmon. Yummy, yum-yum.”
Story giggles.
I gingerly walk across the garage, dodging Dexter’s winding form, and feed the greedy little monster. With that accomplished, I change into my sneaking clothes, say goodbye to my friends, and head to the bus stop.
Resting my full weight against the plastic bus shelter, I do a final check to make sure I have everything.
I might be stubborn and impulsive, but I hope I don’t fall into the trap of too stupid to live.
What was that Friedrich Nietzsche quote?
“Die a hero or live long enough to become a villain”? I shrug. I’m so up for that.
My grandad’s house sold, and wow, it knocked me for six.
God, it was painful. I avoid looking towards the house.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t live around the corner.
The first time I saw the For Sale sign—it went up the day my uncle kicked me out—it made everything so real.
Not that living in the garage wasn’t real.
It was just that I had a hope that maybe…
Maybe my uncle would change his mind. I huff out a self-deprecating breath. How stupid is that?
I couldn’t stop myself from going online daily and checking the listing.
To torture myself.
I dip my head and push my hands deep into my pockets. When the listing updated to say the house was under offer, and then a Sold sign appeared… I was miserable. Then with all the angel bollocks on top of all that, something inside me snapped.
I huff and stare down the road. The bus should be here in a few minutes.
I know it’s ridiculous, and that it is just a house, but it was my connection to my grandad and my home.
An end of an era. An end of my childhood and my innocence.
Uncle Ph… I grind my teeth. The Nobhead had no right to throw me out like rubbish.
Heck, I’ve been contributing to the bills for the past three years. Nobhead could have given me a little warning, some time to prepare. I didn’t expect any money from the house, and I didn’t expect a free ride.
I scratch my nose. So I might have… urm… hacked into his computer system. He really should have changed his password.
I wave the number fourteen bus down, and the doors swish open. I smile at the driver and show him my bus pass. The bus pulls back into traffic as I walk down the aisle and settle on to a bench seat.
It’s been a few weeks since the house sold, and I’ve been patiently waiting for the perfect time, for the ideal opportunity. While I’ve been working my ass off and living in a garage, the nobhead moved into a new fancy four-bedroom house at the end of a brand-new cul-de-sac.
Tonight he’s taking his new girlfriend out for a night on the town, a meal, and some drinks. Quick to spend his newfound wealth.
When I finally get to my destination, I tug the baseball cap low and pull the hood of the shapeless black hoodie over my head. I hunch my frame and swagger along the street. I look like a teenage boy.
In the shadows, I watch the house. A taxi pulls up, and Nobhead leaves for the evening.
I wait a few more minutes and then scramble over the back wall and use a glass cutter to carefully remove a square panel of glass from the back door.
I slip my hand inside and grasp the key that he’s conveniently left in the lock.
The door silently swings open. My trainers squeak on the kitchen tiles as I confidently strut into the kitchen, running my fingertips across the black granite surface as I pass. Fancy.
Diligently, I go through the house room by room to make sure that it’s empty. The place is nice. Like most new builds in England, the room sizes are a tad small. They’ve painted the walls a clean magnolia, so everything is new-build bland. All so new, including the furnishings.
I set the countdown timer on my phone, dig into the rucksack, and grab a handful of the potion balls. I then repeat my walk-through.
In each room I visit, I whisper an incantation to activate the magic and then drop a glowing orange potion ball, which is the size of a marble, onto the floor.
I take nothing.
Just off the kitchen in the attached garage sits a thing of beauty, a shiny red Porsche. I run a fingertip across its perfect paintwork. Gosh, the nobhead was really having a midlife crisis.
Is this what my grandad’s life was worth, a fancy house and a fancy car? With a sad smile, I balance the last potion ball onto the car’s wiper blade.
“Sorry, little car,” I mumble.
I head back to the kitchen—and with a last look around to make sure I’ve not forgotten anything and that this moment is ingrained into my memory—I smile and nod my head. I’m out of the door.
Within seconds, I’m over the wall and halfway down the street.
The timer on my phone goes off, and I pull it free from my back pocket. I swipe the screen, turning it off. I don’t see, but I hear the explosions.
Wonderful things, those little potion balls.
A satisfied hum leaves my throat as I almost skip down the street. I force myself to hunch, and I keep my head low.
Nothing to see here.
Gosh, I’d love to see his face when he lays his eyes on his smouldering property. He put every penny into that house and car.
The guild will investigate and confirm it was arson.
“What a relief,” he will say, “I have the very best insurance.” The horror he will feel when he tries to claim on the policy he diligently set up. “But I am insured,” he will argue.
“The policy was cancelled,” the insurance company will argue back. His email to the company telling them he got a better deal with another supplier will be irrefutable proof.
His beloved car suffers the same fate.
What a terrible coincidence…
He really should have changed his password.
I get on the bus, avoid the seat with the chewing gum, and slump and lean my head against the window. The growl from the rumbling engine makes the whole side of the bus vibrate, and my teeth rattle.
I feel lighter than I have in months. Smoke rises in my peripheral vision. As the bus chugs past, I turn my head. Forehead to the glass, I watch the magically contained fire. The house is already almost ash.
I allow the wickedness I feel on the inside to show for a second on my face. He shouldn’t have taken my youth and gender as a weakness.
Kicking me out of the house without giving a shit for my safety was his first mistake.
Stealing my car was his second.
I’m not a hero. If I have to be the villain—I shrug—so be it. My lips twitch into a smug smile. When I’m pushed, ha, when pushed, I refuse to be a victim—and I’m no one’s fucking damsel in distress.
Welcome to homelessness, Uncle Nobhead.