Chapter 28
When I left the office to come here, I made out like I was going to do a very thorough job and then I’d take my lunch after to ‘run some errands’ while I had the car. My hands quiver as I start the Range Rover because the errand I am running is one I should not be going on.
Very badly, I want to show Paula Homerton the error of her ways.
There are rules, of course, and this is a test of them, taking direction from my moral compass, checking if it needs to be recalibrated when it comes to female landlords.
Which is why I am in Bothwell. I know this is where Paula lives because she’s the only Paula Homerton in Scotland, making her exceptionally easy to find.
It took mere seconds on Brian’s phone as I sat in a vacant shop in Motherwell yesterday.
Silly, silly Paula. I was so disappointed in her I shook my head in the cold, dingy ex-grocers.
Paula, you were on television. You should know people might have a nosey, see what the baby in your belly ended up being.
FYI, she had a girl named Natasha. This sensitive information is quickly accessible on her Facebook because her privacy controls are not strong enough. A lesson for us all on internet safety.
And don’t get me started on her Instagram, which is where I found out that on Thursday lunchtimes she takes her daughter and her dog for a walk to get a cake or cookie from the local bakery.
Paula then proceeds to take a picture of her and Natasha eating it at home with witty reviews of that week’s treat in the caption.
Natasha is only three, but Paula claims she is capable of giving feedback on a doughnut such as ‘This is more squishy and delicious than daddy’s butt’, and on an empire biscuit: ‘Empire is bad, Mummy. There should be no empire.’ Maybe, just maybe, Natasha is capable of these witticisms, or more likely, Paula is a deeply lonely person who seeks validation from people online through fabricated stories about her child who is no more exceptional than any other three-year-old, which is fine.
There are few pictures of her husband, Natasha’s father, on her feed. He appears to be away a lot on film shoots for work.
TV widow again this week and look what this wee monkey is up to hahahaha!
She wrote this on Monday, alongside a picture of Natasha on the kitchen floor surrounded by flour she had dropped all over the marble tiles and smeared various tracks into with her fingers.
The husband would be an ideal target if only he were involved in Paula’s business, but he seems to have nothing to do with it.
Everything is solely in Paula’s name. Based on the information I have, I can’t go after him or I’d have to punish myself, someone who also tangentially profiteers off it all.
The bakery would have been an excellent location for spying except there was no seating area for me to wait in.
Which is what led to me purchasing and now eating a sausage roll direct from the paper bag, trying to keep pastry crumbs in the car to a minimum, while watching Paula’s house, looking for signs of life.
She lives on a road that is a dead end. Her house is the very last one in the row and beside it is a turning circle so cars can escape – that’s where I’m parked.
This is not an inconvenience that will draw anyone’s attention, as no one is here.
In fact, I’ve not seen another soul since I arrived.
It’s starting to creep me out to the extent that, if I were not here for an important purpose, I’d have left already.
Licking a fleck of pastry from my lips, I focus on that purpose and try to formulate a suitable punishment for Paula that does not involve me getting my hands dirty. Nothing comes to mind.
Instead I chew, thinking that the sausage roll is pretty tasty.
If I were pathetic enough to review my meals online I’d say it was delicately spiced.
Marks would be lost because it’s not hot enough.
I’ve had to pop the heating on in the car to warm me while I listen to the latest episode of The Property Pros.
Now I’ve done some digging on Malcolm, a man I already found fascinating, he has a new layer of intrigue.
It appears Malcolm does not actually have his own property portfolio, at least not one he discusses in public or has any obvious affiliations to online or through tax records.
This has, in turn, made me even more convinced that he and I are kindred spirits, making our money out of this racket because of necessity, both of us understanding how deplorable it would be to actually commit to being a landlord.
He is, however, a bit of a horror in the way he deals with the people on his podcast. Today’s guest is a landscape gardener who’s offering ideas for how to lay lawns and plant flowers that will make a house attractive without needing a lot of upkeep from landlord or tenant.
The gardener lady has just spoken about the need to let lawns grow longer than tenancy agreements often allow in their terms so that pollinators can be supported in spring and summer.
‘Well, I have an even better idea than that, Judy,’ Malcolm butts in before her point is fully made. ‘Two words for you: plastic lawn.’ In the seconds of Judy’s silence that follows I turn the podcast off. It’s only making my anger bubble higher within me and that’s no good for anyone.
When I’ve finished the sausage roll, I open the driver’s door and wipe the stray flakes of pastry off my legs and onto the road.
Despite my best efforts, I have made quite a lot of mess inside the car, which is another thing to try and fix before I’m due back in the office.
As I shut the door, I visualise the journey back to work, if there are any petrol stations with vacuums I can use to clean everything up.
My brain is blanking on where I could go as I get back into position behind the wheel, only to see Paula coming down the road towards me, pushing Natasha in her buggy.
Without Malcolm talking I can hear everything on the street even with the windows closed.
There’s a squeaky wheel on the pram, and Natasha is garbling to herself, a paper bag from the bakery in her clutches, ‘Luv u mama’ on repeat.
In an instant I see this for what it is, the essence of why I cannot victimise women.
It would be cruel and wrong to perform anything that could affect this sweet child who, as I suspected, has no real views on the British Empire.
‘Careful with the yum yum, darling. We can’t have it looking messy in our pictures, can we?’
I am glad I came, tested myself and did not fail to keep to my moral code. It’s then I remember the hoover in the office is cordless so I’ll be able to use that to clear the crumbs and Brian won’t have any reason to moan at me. This is all working out wonderfully.
Paula doesn’t flinch at the sound of my engine starting, too busy negotiating herself and Natasha through her gate, up to her front door, taking both of them safely inside.
I turn off the handbrake and am about to drive up the road, when for some reason Malcolm’s podcast kicks back in even though I thought I’d disconnected the phone from the Bluetooth.
I fumble with the controls to stop him talking over the gardener about how marvellous the artificial lawn has been for humanity.
The next bit is all a blur. Afterwards, when I try to make sense of it, this is what I think happens.
For a reason unclear to me, Paula is pulled back out onto the street.
Maybe she heard someone, a man probably, calling her out to the road, asking for directions, although I didn’t see anyone else around.
All I know is that as I fannied about with the stereo she went back out, and before I knew it she wasn’t where she should have been.
Instead she was in front of my car and I was pulling out quicker than I should have, probably.
When I replay the moment in my memory afterwards, it is slowed down and I notice every detail: the swing of the Perfect Property Solutions-branded air freshener from the rearview mirror, how Paula shrieks as the metal bars at the front of the Range Rover smash into her, this invisible object.
Before my body and brain figure out what the hell is happening and react accordingly, I’ve driven over her, first with the front wheels and then the back.
When I stop the car, I’ve every intention of helping her, honestly I do.
It’s just, as I sit, my shaking hands on the steering wheel, processing what will happen next, I realise helping Paula will only hinder me.
The police will come and I don’t know how I can explain why I was here and what I was doing, which in turn may raise questions about where else I have driven this car, and so I restart the ignition and drive away, unable to look in the rearview mirror because I cannot bear witness to what I have done.
If I don’t follow the rules, if I don’t punish only the truly deserving, then what am I?
Who am I? The only answer I can formulate is this: I am a monster. Oh God, what have I done?