Kelvin ended the call on his iPhone, sat back in his chair and raised a victory fist in the air. Yes! He knew that the personal touch would do the trick. The Kelvin charm always worked. And it had just bought him a big slice of extra time. That was on top of the two months’ delay he had already caused simply by doing sweet fuck all.
When he got up that day, another one of those Royal Mail Signed for letters was waiting for him at the coffee machine. But its presence didn’t rile him this time, because he had given Karoline the okay to answer the door and sign for any deliveries from the postie. It was the only way he would find out what Gilbey and those lawyer cunts in Callander were up to next. And what they were up to was threatening him with a totally ridiculous deadline for paying the so-called Personal Bond.
Their letter was still in his hand. He read it again just to remind him how ridiculous it was:
When he got up that day, another one of those Royal Mail Signed for letters was waiting for him at the coffee machine. But its presence didn’t rile him this time, because he had given Karoline the okay to answer the door and sign for any deliveries from the postie. It was the only way he would find out what Gilbey and those lawyer cunts in Callander were up to next. And what they were up to was threatening him with a totally ridiculous deadline for paying the so-called Personal Bond.
Their letter was still in his hand. He read it again just to remind him how ridiculous it was:
We are disappointed not to have had further contact from you or from agents on your behalf. As previously stated, our client is determined to recover the amount due to him and the estate of his late wife amounting to a total £10,125. Repayment in terms of the Personal Bond is now overdue.
To give you a final opportunity to avoid formal proceedings, settlement of the amount in full must be received here by a secure and appropriate means by Friday, 6th November, 2015. Failure to make complete settlement within that time will result in formal Court proceedings against you which will include a crave for interest and expenses. No further intimation will be made.
It was when he read it the first time that he decided on the phone call, the personal touch. It would be one last attempt at sweetness and light. If he spoke direct to the person who sent the letter, he could undermine Gilbey’s influence over his lawyers and show that he wasn’t as bad as Gilbey was obviously portraying him.
He hadn’t been able to get hold of the man until now, which was well into the afternoon, but it had been worth the wait. He managed to spin a shitload of great lines to him, telling him in his sweetest voice that he was still going through the grieving process; that he was struggling to deal with a whole range of organisations, such as insurance and mortgage companies, regarding his father’s estate; that there were no liquid funds currently available from the estate with which to pay the Personal Bond; and that it would take many months yet before matters could be settled. He also confirmed he would shortly be hiring a lawyer of his own. Well, Mister La-di-da Gunner fucking Graham listened ever so politely, didn’t he, and responded very sympathetically. And the call ended amicably. So a major result. One up on cunt-face Gilbey!
Some of what he had told the lawyer was actually true. He had been in touch with the old man’s insurance and mortgage companies, but only because neither of them wanted sight of the Will. The only thing they had asked for was a copy of the Death Certificate. But it was a waste of time, really, because all that the insurance people were going to do was pay off the small mortgage that was left on the house. End of story. No big insurance pay-out for your son and heir, then, Pop? Thanks for nothing.
Anyway, it was getting late. He could hear the dogs whining away in the garden, desperate to be taken for their daily walk. It wouldn’t be to the woods down the road, though, because the dogs had been banned from there after some stuck-up cunt had reported him to the Council for not lifting their shite. No, it would be a five-minute spin to the beach at Silverknowes, where the toffs lived. The dogs could run daft and shit with impunity down there without anyone bothering them or him.
As he got up to go, Kelvin thanked fuck that his father’s white van was still parked in the driveway and hadn’t gone the way of the old one. The previous one had “disappeared” one night when the old man and his fat-arse girlfriend were away on holiday in Australia, having left Kelvin to fend for himself with only a few bob and some food in the fridge. Well, a boy had to survive, didn’t he? So he sold the van for scrap to a mate. The money kept him in blow for a wee while. Because he knew that his father would know the truth, neither of them reported the alleged theft to the pigs.
It wasn’t long before his father bought a new white van. Which he paid more than four grand for. Four grand for a second-hand van, Jesus Christ! Originally, the old man had asked for his help to locate suitable vans for sale on those auto trader sites, but Kelvin pretended the Broadband connection wasn’t working. He knew the old man had hidden a stash of cash somewhere to pay for the van and he wanted to get his hands on some of it before it all disappeared. But he was fucked if he could find it. Then good old Aunt Abi comes to the rescue. That was before she and her bastard husband moved out of Edinburgh. Not only does she find a possible van on the Web in double-quick time, but she also drives the old man all the way to the back end of Fife to see the thing, even though she’s just passed her fucking driving test.
So end of that particular story as well, except that the van was still out there and still in good nick. He had been sorely tempted to sell it immediately after the old man passed away, but he was glad now he didn’t. If he did keep it, he would have to sort out all the usual shit – DVLA, road tax, insurance, MOT. All in good time, though. Just like everything else, including Gilbey’s lawyers, all in good time.
He hadn’t been able to get hold of the man until now, which was well into the afternoon, but it had been worth the wait. He managed to spin a shitload of great lines to him, telling him in his sweetest voice that he was still going through the grieving process; that he was struggling to deal with a whole range of organisations, such as insurance and mortgage companies, regarding his father’s estate; that there were no liquid funds currently available from the estate with which to pay the Personal Bond; and that it would take many months yet before matters could be settled. He also confirmed he would shortly be hiring a lawyer of his own. Well, Mister La-di-da Gunner fucking Graham listened ever so politely, didn’t he, and responded very sympathetically. And the call ended amicably. So a major result. One up on cunt-face Gilbey!
Some of what he had told the lawyer was actually true. He had been in touch with the old man’s insurance and mortgage companies, but only because neither of them wanted sight of the Will. The only thing they had asked for was a copy of the Death Certificate. But it was a waste of time, really, because all that the insurance people were going to do was pay off the small mortgage that was left on the house. End of story. No big insurance pay-out for your son and heir, then, Pop? Thanks for nothing.
Anyway, it was getting late. He could hear the dogs whining away in the garden, desperate to be taken for their daily walk. It wouldn’t be to the woods down the road, though, because the dogs had been banned from there after some stuck-up cunt had reported him to the Council for not lifting their shite. No, it would be a five-minute spin to the beach at Silverknowes, where the toffs lived. The dogs could run daft and shit with impunity down there without anyone bothering them or him.
As he got up to go, Kelvin thanked fuck that his father’s white van was still parked in the driveway and hadn’t gone the way of the old one. The previous one had “disappeared” one night when the old man and his fat-arse girlfriend were away on holiday in Australia, having left Kelvin to fend for himself with only a few bob and some food in the fridge. Well, a boy had to survive, didn’t he? So he sold the van for scrap to a mate. The money kept him in blow for a wee while. Because he knew that his father would know the truth, neither of them reported the alleged theft to the pigs.
It wasn’t long before his father bought a new white van. Which he paid more than four grand for. Four grand for a second-hand van, Jesus Christ! Originally, the old man had asked for his help to locate suitable vans for sale on those auto trader sites, but Kelvin pretended the Broadband connection wasn’t working. He knew the old man had hidden a stash of cash somewhere to pay for the van and he wanted to get his hands on some of it before it all disappeared. But he was fucked if he could find it. Then good old Aunt Abi comes to the rescue. That was before she and her bastard husband moved out of Edinburgh. Not only does she find a possible van on the Web in double-quick time, but she also drives the old man all the way to the back end of Fife to see the thing, even though she’s just passed her fucking driving test.
So end of that particular story as well, except that the van was still out there and still in good nick. He had been sorely tempted to sell it immediately after the old man passed away, but he was glad now he didn’t. If he did keep it, he would have to sort out all the usual shit – DVLA, road tax, insurance, MOT. All in good time, though. Just like everything else, including Gilbey’s lawyers, all in good time.