Hayley's done all the running in finding us a new place; and as I felt a sigh coming on in the pub when she asked me to walk her part of the way home, I gave myself a big slap round the face and stopped that resentful breath coming out.
It's my sex that makes women fearful of walking home alone. It's her that's walked over to the house viewing (I was at work) and walked back to report back. So STFU looby and walk her to the bus stop.
She'd been to see a room on the first floor of a house owned by an Indian couple. "She had a...Sahara on, you know, and they were so polite. I felt like a queen! The husband said that they've got a few other people looking at it tomorrow but said 'my wife likes you'." It'd be £480 a month, an exploitative rent for a room but when halved we could save up for when we can get exploited more expensively.
There was a kerfuffle at the table opposite. A couple were talking to a homeless man, but some blokes at an adjacent table start haranguing the couple; the argument developed noisily before it was forcibly becalmed by the barman.
Hayley was refilling her coffee (she's not a big drinker, restricting herself to speed, coke and crack), and I went and sat with them. "I saw and heard all that, and I'm really glad you were helping that homeless bloke before that twat behind us stuck his oar in. It's a sad state of affairs when people object to you giving help to people."
We sat with them for half an hour. He had simply been giving the homeless man a number to ring at the council to see if they could help him. "And then he said 'you've just given that man false hope." "Don't worry mate, it's because they're cunts themselves." When we left them I stuck a single finger up at him, which I regret he didn't see. I was in the mood for putting him down with a weapon he'll never possess.
I lost the phone Esther lent me ages ago and replaced it with a similar model. It was an old one which fetches 40 to 60 quid on ebay. I hardly use it, as having a smartphone is like having a demanding toddler in your pocket.
On the bus from work the other night, sweaty, manky, feet aching, Esther rings and demands her phone back. I explain the situation and say that by a fluke, having changed my jacket tonight, I can give her the new one if we meet down the pub opposite her house when the bus got in, as I'd like a drink after nine hours at the dishwasher.
An unknown number rings me. A black man's voice announces himself. "Hi, this is O'Neil." I have no idea who O'Neil is but the man's such a cunt that I break the normal rule of obfuscating people's real names on this blog just this once. "Is that looby?" "Who are you?" "Esther's friend. Have you got that phone? Where are you?" "I'm on the bus?" "Where on the bus?" "At the airport, what's all this about then? I'm meeting Esther at a quarter past ten."
"You'd better have that phone." "I've got the phone, what's the problem?"
He then kept ringing me repeatedly, leaving message after threatening message, until my mouth was dry with fear as I walked through Castle Park to meet him. She's slept at mine a couple of times but we went a shorter, more twisty way home through a park she'd never venture into nor remember, so she wouldn't be able to give my address to the bloke who fancies himself as Bristol's answer to Jimmy Cliff.
"I'm coming now. No, no, I'll see you before you see me. You'd better have that phone otherwise I'm coming through your door." A few minutes later: "I know people. They're coming." (I've added punctuation, of which he is ignorant.) And then, a longer voicemail. "Ahhh, blood claat, you some pussy..." in this big man Jamaican patois intended to intimidate the white man. It worked.
I changed my route with a mental "fuck you", and texted them.
"Hi, I am sending this to you both. I was perfectly happy to meet you tonight with the new phone, so that this ridiculous affair could have been brought to an end, but there is no way I am meeting you now after receiving these threatening texts and voicemails. I have saved all of your texts and voicemails and I'm perfectly happy to take them to the police tomorrow morning should they continue." To my surprise, silence.
I met Hayley briefly last night. She passed me the post-work resuscitation potion, before withdrawing it. "Hang on, let's make it stronger," and rubbed it in her crotch before handing it back to me. Her advice was to tell Esther to go fuck herself. I haven't done that, because me and Esther have spoken for the last time.
