Chapter Three
Neville Logan
The words catch in my throat, my vocal cords paralysed by shock. Bradley Stern’s words, delivered in that cocky, couldn’t-give-a-damn tone, reverberate through my head.
‘It’s hurting me as much as it’s hurting you, Nev,’ he drawls, like we’re old mates.
I fucking bet it isn’t, I think bitterly. There’s no camaraderie here, only betrayal.
Bradley’s just yanked the rug out from under me, and now he’s got the audacity, the absolute nerve, to call me ‘Nev’, as if we’re pals. The cunning little bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.
I can’t hold back any longer. ‘We had an agreement, Bradley,’ I snap, my anger boiling over. ‘I gave you all the materials at cost. I cut you a good deal.’
The betrayal stings. How could I have been so blind to his real intentions? But this ends now. He’s not getting away with it. Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.
He shrugs, maddeningly casual. ‘The work is shoddy, Nev,’ he says, his eyes like flint. ‘I’ll have to pay to get it redone.’
The fury inside me flares. How can I not have seen this coming? People warned me about Bradley’s reputation, but I was desperate. He circled me like a vulture over an injured animal. Now his scarred cheek twitches as he meets my gaze, and I realise just how cleverly I’ve been played.
Bradley Stern isn’t a friend. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I am the lamb.
‘You’re a piece of scum,’ I shout, raising my arm to punch him. His two gorillas immediately step forward and grab me. ‘I should have listened to what people said about you.’
‘It was shoddy work, Nev,’ he says calmly.
‘I’ll take you to court,’ I growl.
‘Try it,’ he says. ‘If you can afford a solicitor, which I doubt. First rule of business, Nev, know your clients. Now, I’ve got a mess to sort out, so either walk out or get thrown out.’
‘Stop calling me Nev! I did a good job and you bloody well know it.’
‘Yeah. At the start. When I paid you half the money. Then it all went downhill, didn’t it?’
The houses I built were perfect, and he bloody well knows it.
He’ll have tenants in them within weeks, collecting rent, while I’m left with nothing.
After paying the builders, I’ll be lucky to have two grand left.
Meanwhile, Carol’s on my back for overdue child support and is threatening to take me to court.
‘I can’t let you see them, Nev. Not if you don’t support us,’ she said.
Once Bradley had paid the final invoice, I planned to give her three months in advance plus the back pay. Now, all I can scrape together is the back pay, and God knows how I’ll afford the next payment.
‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ Bradley says heartily, tapping me on the shoulder. I shrug him off. Right now, I could kill the bastard. ‘You forget all that court nonsense, and I won’t tell anyone the work was shoddy.’
‘I didn’t do shoddy work,’ I yell.
‘That’s the deal, Nev. Now get the fuck out of my office before I change my mind.’
His goons take a step forward, but I don’t give them the satisfaction. I turn and walk out.
It’s a ten-minute walk to town, and I head straight to The Crown. A waitress walks past me with plates of fish and chips. My stomach rumbles.
‘Ploughman’s?’ George, the owner, asks.
‘Not today. Just a pint.’
‘I’ll bring it over.’
I sit down, and to my horror, my mind drifts to ways of ending it all. Pills? I wouldn’t know what to take. Hanging? I’d probably botch it. Maybe throw myself under a bus. Or I could use the car exhaust… I jump when George places the pint in front of me.
‘I was just telling those fellas,’ he says, nodding to a table of suited men, ‘what a great builder you are. Showed them the extension you did here. One of them’s looking for someone. Want me to introduce you?’
Fate, or what?
Here I am considering suicide, and it turns out that maybe someone is watching over me after all. ‘Sure,’ I say, grabbing my pint.
I follow George. The men look up. They’re wearing slick suits and have a confident air about them. They’re of the type who never have to worry about bills or bailiffs.
‘This is Neville Logan,’ George says, ‘the builder I told you about.’
One of them stands and offers his hand. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Daniel Neal. My wife and I are buying a house that needs renovating. We’ve had plans drawn up, but haven’t found the right builder yet.’
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘Sorry?’
‘Where’s the house?’
‘Just outside Wootton.’
I nod. ‘Nice area.’
He looks unsure. Maybe he expected me to be more eager.
‘We’ve met with a few builders, but didn’t click. Maybe you could come over this evening, see the plans?’
‘You’ll get a fucking good whisky while you’re there,’ the other man pipes up.
Neal looks uneasy again. The other guy waves George over like he’s a waiter. ‘Three more shots, my good man.’
Bloody rich wanker, I think. He seems buzzed, and I doubt it’s just the booze.
I turn back to Neal. ‘Give me your address. What time?’
‘My wife’s doing a day shift. She’s a surgeon at the Churchill Hospital.’
Oh, fantastic. Surgeon wife. Fat monthly income.
‘We’re free at eight.’
I’m doing bugger-all else, so I agree. ‘Okay,’ I say, downing the shot.
He scribbles the address. I recognise it: a fancy apartment block about a mile from my own grotty flat in Cowley. ‘See you later,’ I say, heading back to my table. ‘Actually, maybe I will have that ploughman’s,’ I tell George.
Later, fortified by good bread and cheese, I leave the pub and head to Carol’s. The gate creaks as I open it, and she pulls the door open before I knock.
‘The kids are having dinner at my parents’,’ she says.
‘That’s okay,’ I reply, masking my disappointment. I pull out my wallet and hand over the cash. She counts it, then looks up. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Stern screwed me over. He’s not paying the rest.’
She sighs. ‘For God’s sake, Nev, this isn’t enough, it’s not even all the back payment.’
‘I know. I need the rest for rent.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Please,’ I say, grabbing her arm gently. ‘I’ve got something lined up, a new job. It’s a big renovation. I’ll pay you everything. Just let me have the kids one Saturday.’
She bites her lip, thinking. ‘It’s getting hard without your help, Nev. If it weren’t for Mum and Dad…’
‘One Saturday?’ I plead.
She nods. A wave of relief hits me.
I’ve got a good feeling about this Neal job. Maybe, just maybe, things are finally looking up.