The illness had wrecked him. Pneumonia dragged him to the edge and he nearly died. But it wasn’t medicine that pulled him back. It was the rage and the bitterness. The thirst for revenge. Slowly, painfully, he clawed his way back. He’sstronger now, but not entirely whole. He tires fast and his breath catches in his chest at unexpected moments. He’s learned to pace himself. After all these years, the fire in him hasn’t gone out. Not yet.
He can’t just sit here watching, like some washed-up old ghost. He’s waited too long, been too patient, but truth and justice will prevail.
Janey must pay for what she did. It’s only right.
He taps his fingers on the tabletop, thinking fast. He knows the Windermere area vaguely from a family break many years before. It’s a good few hours’ drive from here, maybe more, so he’ll need somewhere to stay. A small B-and-B would do – nothing fancy. Just a place to sleep while he plans how to get close to her.
His eyes drift to the cracked leather wallet lying on the counter. He knows it’s nearly empty without needing to check. A gas bill sits on the mantelpiece, unopened.
He needs money, and quickly.
His reliable, but battered old Nissan is parked on the overgrown driveway. The thought of selling it occurs to him, but he dismisses it almost immediately. He’ll need a car to drive to the Lake District and to get around while he’s there. Besides, it’s too old and rusted to fetch much.
His mind races through other options. Pensions are already drained. Meagre savings long gone. He chews his lip, cursing under his breath. He looks around the room and then it hits him.The house.
He sits up straighter, the glint of an idea growing. He owns this house – clinging to it by the skin of his teeth over the years, but now it’s his. He could get a loan, secured against the property. Enough for him to get by while he’s up there and some to cushion him should it take longer than he anticipates. Five thousand should do it.
He almost laughs at how simple it seems now that it’s clicked into place.
Of course, he’ll need a reason – a good story for the bank. They’ll want to know what the money’s for and, more to the point, how he’s going to pay it back. But that’s easy enough.
A few home improvements. Repairs. He wants to get the place spruced up so he can take in a lodger. Make a good bit of reliable, long-term income.
He’ll say whatever he needs to.
It’s been a long time since he’s had a plan with any real purpose, but this is it. The opportunity he never thought he’d have. A chance to put things right.
He allows himself a tight smile.
The bank is quiet, the hum of the air-conditioning faint and irritating. The row of friendly clerks behind glass has been replaced by angular standalone stations bearing touchscreens. A lone woman in a suit patrols the floor, assisting people.
He adjusts his collar and forces a smile. She barely glances at him as she checks the appointment he made on a handheld tablet, directing him to a hard seat near a closed door. What happened to the comfy chairs, the plants, the coffee machine he’d seen in here once?
When he’s called through to the office, he puts on his most affable face. The sort of man who wouldn’t dream of causing trouble.
The adviser – a portly man with thinning hair and straining shirt buttons – listens to his story, nodding at the right moments.
‘You see,’ he explains, forcing a smile, ‘the place needs a bit of work. Nothing serious, just aesthetics. If I did it up a bit, I could rent out a room. You know how it is – pensions don’t stretch far, these days.’
The manager grunts in agreement, glancing through the paperwork. ‘So how much were you hoping to borrow?’
‘Five thousand would be ideal. Just enough to get things sorted.’ He adds, ‘Rented rooms are in great demand in the area, so I’d make that back in no time.’
A few keystrokes later, the printer starts up. The adviser gathers the paperwork and says, ‘Secured against the property, you say? Shouldn’t be a problem. You’ll just need to check and sign these forms. For this modest amount, we should be able to process it quite quickly after some cursory checks.’
As he grips the pen, the thought strikes him that he might never have to pay back the loan. A dark satisfaction blooms in his chest.
Following a short wait, his application has been approved. By the time he leaves, the money is promised to his account within twenty-four hours and he feels lighter than he has in years.
Finally, everything is falling into place.
Back at home, he makes a list – things he’ll need for the trip. Binoculars. Flask. Torch. A decent jacket – one without holes. Some sturdy boots. He’ll fill the car’s tank, refresh the engine oil, check the tyres and make sure everything’s good to go. The last thing he needs is to break down halfway there.
He cancels his daily paper, scrubs the worst of the mildew from the walls, and packs his rucksack with the essentials. He’ll take his camera, too – could be useful.
Once it’s all organized, he sits in his worn armchair, the house quiet around him. The silence presses in, thick and heavy, and he can’t help but feel the gnawing edge of anticipation prickling at his skin.
His thoughts turn again to Janey – how she might react when she eventually sees him. That perfect, put-together image of hers cracking as the past catches up with her.