Chapter 16
My choice not to dwell on Willie last night was absolutely the right idea.
After a long, deep sleep, my dreaming self has sorted itself out.
I wake with a solid belief that Willie’s death was unfortunate, but in the pursuit of ideals and societal change it’s justified.
His passing the equivalent of an egg thrown at a politician on the campaign trail, or the mild inconvenience of waiting in traffic because a march for a worthwhile cause is passing through the road you wish to take.
In the grand scheme of things, Willie being dead is trivial.
When everything is over and done with, it will not even be a footnote in the history of the change in how property in this country is managed.
I get it now, why Nicol was so high and mighty.
It’s not his fault he’s been doing it all wrong.
He shouldn’t be trying to get things changed, he should be the change.
The first thing I do once I’m padding about the flat is turn on the radio and put it to a local channel.
If Willie is thought to be murdered it will surely make the news round-up.
I wait and wait, endure the overly chatty DJ, the anticipation of the news like waiting for my Standard Grade results to come through the door.
When the jingle of it plays I notice the wobble of my chin, the nerves pulsing through it, my teeth nearly chattering.
My stomach heavy and gurgling. The first story is about the king visiting an event later today in Glasgow, the next is about the price of energy rising.
A Tory MP has been arrested for rape, there’s a cup match on this afternoon and a player says he’s ‘looking forward to the game’.
Then it’s over. No mention of murdered men in parks at all.
The loss of Willie is insignificant and, apparently, not considered unusual.
When the station is back blasting Franz Ferdinand, I turn it off and then wander to the living room window, peer down on the street and find it’s the usual load of parked cars and no people.
No police van lurking, nobody checking on what I’m up to.
I crank the window open a smidge to get some fresh air in; the smidge becomes smaller when the cold of outside hits me.
The sun is shining an orange-tinted glow on everything.
I absolutely believe I have gotten away with what happened in the park.
Once I’ve had breakfast and washed, it’s time to begin.
I get out my laptop, break the spine on a notebook I found in the hallway cupboard o’ shite, having stolen it in a last act of defiance after being released from the solicitors, alongside a pen I stole from there too because I strongly believe in stealing stationery from employers.
I search for ‘Fixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer Scotland’ and scroll through the results, prepared for the task of finding the right landlord in the right location with no links to me or Perfect Property Solutions to take the best part of the weekend. It ends up taking two minutes.
Fixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer
Series 23, episode 7.
First broadcast 07/09/17.
MALCOLM stands in a gloomy living room in Tollcross with PETE. PETE (late teens/early twenties), his teeth covered in metal braces, is wearing a white shirt and navy blazer. A mahogany dresser is behind him, the walls are painted brown. Sunlight sneaks in through burgundy frilly curtains.
MALCOLM
So what are your long-term plans, Pete? I know this isn’t your first property. Will there be more once this is renovated and on the market?
PETE
Definitely. I want to keep growing my empire until I’m in a position where I can earn a passive income from it and live a digital nomad lifestyle.
MALCOLM
An admirable ambition.
OFF SCREEN: JEMMA shouts, ‘Shut the fuck up.’