It was past midday when Kelvin emerged from the bedroom and padded through to the kitchen in his nightwear and slippers. After yawning and stretching, he pulled up the front of his tee-shirt with one hand, reached down into his shorts with the other and gave his scrotum a good scratch. As he did, he thanked fuck for the deep, satisfying sleep induced by the bit of Black Moroccan he had smoked the previous night. He also thanked fuck the dogs weren’t there to slobber all over him. But he thanked fuck most of all for the coffee machine on the bunker next to the kitchen window. It wasn’t one of those cheap, plastic affairs that squeezed coffee out of pissy wee capsules, but a proper, gleaming silver, barista-style espresso machine with levers and dials, the last major purchase by his father before he passed away.
Yawning again, he carefully lifted a tiny corner of the net curtain over the window and double-checked that Karoline had remembered before leaving for work to tether their pair of Russian huskies to the clothes poles in the back green. Then he turned his attention to the machine, ready to participate in the coffee-making ritual. That was when he noticed the envelope propped up against the front of the machine. And saw the red and yellow Royal Mail sticker alongside his name and address. Signed for, the sticker jeered at him.
“Stupid, stupid fucking Swedish cunt!” he roared, grabbing the envelope and setting off a barrage of barking outside.
How many times did he have to explain it to her? Don’t answer the fucking front door. Not until he had checked the CCTV monitor in the hallway and given the okay. The camera above the door was there for a fucking purpose. Sheriff Officers chasing him for unpaid fines, other assorted debt collectors after him – for years and years, that camera had ensured they were all kept at bay.
And what else had he tried to drum into her? Never, ever sign for anything when he wasn’t there. So what does the thick cunt go and do, eh?
He tossed the envelope onto the kitchen table and proceeded to make his first coffee of the day. By the time he sat down at the table, mug in hand, the barking had subsided, but his anger hadn’t. He was going to have to do something about Karoline. He had met her online a few years back. They took to each other immediately, like a pair of kindred spirits. And she was young, blonde and blue-eyed to boot. It hadn’t taken much to persuade her to come and live with him in Edinburgh. They shacked up at first in the flat he was renting from a friend. But his friend kept harping on about the rent not being paid, so that didn’t last long. Then, after telling his father a sob story about him and Karoline having nowhere to live, they moved in here, back to his old bedroom. They and their first husky. Well, Karoline had a thing about big dogs, didn’t she?
As he always had been to his two children, his father was a very generous man. Or a soft touch. Whichever way you described it, he never asked for a penny from him and Karoline, even though Karoline was out earning. No rent, no money for electricity or for food. It was bliss. But then Karoline started spinning a line about Sweden. About how easy it was to claim benefits over there. And how easy it was to obtain social housing. All Kelvin had to do was find a temporary job, work for just a little while and immediately begin claiming. He wouldn’t even have to learn Swedish. And there would be no-one chasing him up to find another job. It sounded like more than bliss.
So, after a wee bit of persuasion, the old man agreed to drive them and the dog all the way from Edinburgh to Stockholm in his white van. Before they left, he and Karoline loaded up the van with as many supplies as they could find in the house – when the old man wasn’t looking, of course. He had a habit of stockpiling things like toilet paper and tins of food. He wouldn’t miss what they took. And if he did run out of anything, he could just go out and buy more. They, on the other hand, had no idea when they would receive their first benefits money.
Anyway, the line that Karoline had spun turned out to be just that – a fucking line. They were allocated a nice big flat in Stockholm, sure enough. They also began receiving benefits, which was when they went out and got themselves another husky, a companion for the first one. But then the authorities kept chasing him to find work. And no-one would employ him unless he took steps to learn the language. There were also things, home comforts, he just couldn’t buy over there. Through contacts of Karoline’s he could get his hands on plenty of weed okay, but getting hold of the papers to go along with it was well-nigh fucking impossible. In the end, his father had to post him a supply of Rizlas. Cost the old bugger fifty quid to send them, apparently.
So the bottom line was a big fuck you to Sweden and a trip back to Edinburgh for them and the dogs.
“The only way you pair will be able to move in here again,” his father had told him in one of his Skype calls to Stockholm, “is over my dead body.” Well, wasn’t that statement almost fucking prophetic, eh?
Kelvin took a sip of his coffee and permitted himself a tiny, wry smile when he thought of his father coming out with that statement. But he was still angry with Karoline. The sum and substance of the matter was that her lies – or her stupidity – over Sweden had resulted in him wasting the best part of a year of his life. And then there was this business of her failing to understand simple instructions about opening the door and signing for things. Added to that, the girl was rapidly going to fat; the last time he shagged her, it was like mounting a beached fucking whale. Yes, he was definitely going to have to do something about Karoline.
He took another sip of coffee. Then he tore open the envelope. There was a one-page letter inside, with a one-page document stapled to it. His heart sank when he saw the letterhead of a firm of solicitors – in Callander of all places. Who the fuck lived in Callander? He was about to find out.
Yawning again, he carefully lifted a tiny corner of the net curtain over the window and double-checked that Karoline had remembered before leaving for work to tether their pair of Russian huskies to the clothes poles in the back green. Then he turned his attention to the machine, ready to participate in the coffee-making ritual. That was when he noticed the envelope propped up against the front of the machine. And saw the red and yellow Royal Mail sticker alongside his name and address. Signed for, the sticker jeered at him.
“Stupid, stupid fucking Swedish cunt!” he roared, grabbing the envelope and setting off a barrage of barking outside.
How many times did he have to explain it to her? Don’t answer the fucking front door. Not until he had checked the CCTV monitor in the hallway and given the okay. The camera above the door was there for a fucking purpose. Sheriff Officers chasing him for unpaid fines, other assorted debt collectors after him – for years and years, that camera had ensured they were all kept at bay.
And what else had he tried to drum into her? Never, ever sign for anything when he wasn’t there. So what does the thick cunt go and do, eh?
He tossed the envelope onto the kitchen table and proceeded to make his first coffee of the day. By the time he sat down at the table, mug in hand, the barking had subsided, but his anger hadn’t. He was going to have to do something about Karoline. He had met her online a few years back. They took to each other immediately, like a pair of kindred spirits. And she was young, blonde and blue-eyed to boot. It hadn’t taken much to persuade her to come and live with him in Edinburgh. They shacked up at first in the flat he was renting from a friend. But his friend kept harping on about the rent not being paid, so that didn’t last long. Then, after telling his father a sob story about him and Karoline having nowhere to live, they moved in here, back to his old bedroom. They and their first husky. Well, Karoline had a thing about big dogs, didn’t she?
As he always had been to his two children, his father was a very generous man. Or a soft touch. Whichever way you described it, he never asked for a penny from him and Karoline, even though Karoline was out earning. No rent, no money for electricity or for food. It was bliss. But then Karoline started spinning a line about Sweden. About how easy it was to claim benefits over there. And how easy it was to obtain social housing. All Kelvin had to do was find a temporary job, work for just a little while and immediately begin claiming. He wouldn’t even have to learn Swedish. And there would be no-one chasing him up to find another job. It sounded like more than bliss.
So, after a wee bit of persuasion, the old man agreed to drive them and the dog all the way from Edinburgh to Stockholm in his white van. Before they left, he and Karoline loaded up the van with as many supplies as they could find in the house – when the old man wasn’t looking, of course. He had a habit of stockpiling things like toilet paper and tins of food. He wouldn’t miss what they took. And if he did run out of anything, he could just go out and buy more. They, on the other hand, had no idea when they would receive their first benefits money.
Anyway, the line that Karoline had spun turned out to be just that – a fucking line. They were allocated a nice big flat in Stockholm, sure enough. They also began receiving benefits, which was when they went out and got themselves another husky, a companion for the first one. But then the authorities kept chasing him to find work. And no-one would employ him unless he took steps to learn the language. There were also things, home comforts, he just couldn’t buy over there. Through contacts of Karoline’s he could get his hands on plenty of weed okay, but getting hold of the papers to go along with it was well-nigh fucking impossible. In the end, his father had to post him a supply of Rizlas. Cost the old bugger fifty quid to send them, apparently.
So the bottom line was a big fuck you to Sweden and a trip back to Edinburgh for them and the dogs.
“The only way you pair will be able to move in here again,” his father had told him in one of his Skype calls to Stockholm, “is over my dead body.” Well, wasn’t that statement almost fucking prophetic, eh?
Kelvin took a sip of his coffee and permitted himself a tiny, wry smile when he thought of his father coming out with that statement. But he was still angry with Karoline. The sum and substance of the matter was that her lies – or her stupidity – over Sweden had resulted in him wasting the best part of a year of his life. And then there was this business of her failing to understand simple instructions about opening the door and signing for things. Added to that, the girl was rapidly going to fat; the last time he shagged her, it was like mounting a beached fucking whale. Yes, he was definitely going to have to do something about Karoline.
He took another sip of coffee. Then he tore open the envelope. There was a one-page letter inside, with a one-page document stapled to it. His heart sank when he saw the letterhead of a firm of solicitors – in Callander of all places. Who the fuck lived in Callander? He was about to find out.
We are aware of the recent death of your father and offer sympathy in your loss. We should report having written to your late father’s solicitors in the knowledge that your late father had granted a Personal Bond through that firm in favour of his sister, the late Mrs Abigail Gilbey, and her husband Brian Gilbey. In case you should not have a copy of the relevant document to hand, a copy is enclosed.
We have been instructed by Mr Gilbey on behalf of himself as an individual and as sole Executor in the estate of his late wife to intimate a claim against your late father’s estate in respect of the total amount due in terms of the Personal Bond which we have calculated to amount to £10,125 representing the principal sum involved of £7,500 and seven additional annual payments of £375 each.
We would be pleased to have an acknowledgement in very early course and to have confirmation from you or agents on your behalf that your late father’s estate will be able to meet the amount due in terms of the Personal Bond. At that stage, please also advise us if there is any further formality you would require from us or our client in order to bring the matter to a conclusion.
So this was the doing of that prick, Brian, his Aunt Abi’s husband. He knew Aunt Abi had died – of cancer – shortly before his father popped his clogs. But that was all. He never heard anything about the funeral arrangements. And the old man wouldn’t speak about it; Abi and him had apparently fallen out when he was over in Sweden. In fact, by the time he came back to Edinburgh, the old man’s paranoia was so rampant he had managed to fall out with all his sisters.
He read the letter again and went on to examine the attachment. The latter was a straightforward enough document dated some time in 2008. It was signed by his father and witnessed by his father’s best friend, who was also now dead. And it did seem that his father’s estate owed the amounts quoted by the solicitors.
He sat back in his chair, his stomach in a knot. Up until that moment, he thought he had it all sewn up. His father’s rapidly failing health as a result of a congenital heart problem was another reason – maybe even the main reason – for him and Karoline moving back in, albeit under protest. He wanted to be there when “the event” took place so that he could get his hands on the house without anyone else interfering. And they made it just in time, because no sooner had they settled in when the old man was carted off to the Infirmary in an ambulance, never to return.
He had waited for a couple days after the death before contacting the solicitors who held his old man’s Will. He phoned them using his best tearful voice and arranged to come round to collect the Will. The lady he saw there couldn’t have been more helpful. She was almost tearful herself when she handed him the Will in a beautiful manila envelope. With no questions asked, he had the Will in his possession. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. But the fat bitch said nothing about the existence of a so-called Personal Bond for ten fucking grand!
He took a mouthful of coffee. It was cold and foul-tasting.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he screamed.
Outside, a fresh round of barking erupted, louder, more fierce and more sustained than before.
He read the letter again and went on to examine the attachment. The latter was a straightforward enough document dated some time in 2008. It was signed by his father and witnessed by his father’s best friend, who was also now dead. And it did seem that his father’s estate owed the amounts quoted by the solicitors.
He sat back in his chair, his stomach in a knot. Up until that moment, he thought he had it all sewn up. His father’s rapidly failing health as a result of a congenital heart problem was another reason – maybe even the main reason – for him and Karoline moving back in, albeit under protest. He wanted to be there when “the event” took place so that he could get his hands on the house without anyone else interfering. And they made it just in time, because no sooner had they settled in when the old man was carted off to the Infirmary in an ambulance, never to return.
He had waited for a couple days after the death before contacting the solicitors who held his old man’s Will. He phoned them using his best tearful voice and arranged to come round to collect the Will. The lady he saw there couldn’t have been more helpful. She was almost tearful herself when she handed him the Will in a beautiful manila envelope. With no questions asked, he had the Will in his possession. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. But the fat bitch said nothing about the existence of a so-called Personal Bond for ten fucking grand!
He took a mouthful of coffee. It was cold and foul-tasting.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he screamed.
Outside, a fresh round of barking erupted, louder, more fierce and more sustained than before.