cold snap - part 2

Some people found their passion. He just found a bag of tins.

Tuesday 21 April 2020

He started getting nods in the street.

People with masks pulled low gave him little waves, like they recognised him somehow. A woman outside the Co-op handed him a packet of Hobnobs. “Just a thank you,” she said, and smiled like she meant it.

He didn’t know her name. Wasn’t sure which flat she lived in. He said “cheers” and kept walking.

The bag over his shoulder was heavier now — not with gear, but with tins, boxes, and things he kept forgetting to buy. Baked beans, cornflakes, long-life milk. He started writing them down in his notes app. One list blurred into the next.

He wasn’t charging for the food. That would’ve ruined it. The drugs still paid well enough. For now.

The texts were getting ruder. Less patient.

“You said ten minutes.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Have you gone soft or what?”

Mike from 6E was waiting by the bins when he arrived. Smaller than usual, swallowed by a coat that wasn’t warm enough, fingers tapping against his thigh like they couldn’t keep still. Pupils like pinholes. Jaw grinding on nothing. He smelled like sweat that hadn’t dried.

“I sent the money,” Mike said, voice too quick, too eager. “Check again.”

“I don’t have it.”

Mike started with excuses, then something sharper, almost pleading. “You can’t just leave me hanging. You know what I’m like.”

He didn’t remember making the decision, but suddenly his arm was across Mike’s chest, pinning him hard to the brick. Mike’s breath caught. His head knocked back. A smear of grime on the wall.

“You think I care what you’re like?” he said, voice low, close enough that Mike flinched. “Don’t ever lie to me. Not for twenty quid. Not for anything.”

Mike’s hands fluttered uselessly. His lower lip trembled. Eyes glazed — someone who’d been chasing something too long and was scared of stopping.

“I— I didn’t mean—”

He pressed harder. Just enough to make him feel it.

Then Mike’s hand went to his pocket — shaking, fumbling — and came out with a crumpled note. Damp. Folded soft from being held too long.

He snatched it. Adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

Mike stayed where he was, chest rising fast, eyes glassy. He didn’t speak. Just watched him go, as if waiting to be released from something that hadn’t finished happening.

It was over in seconds. No one saw. Or if they did, no one looked twice.

He took the stairs two at a time after that, suddenly aware of his own breathing, the pressure behind his eyes. At the top landing, he paused. Let it settle.

Then he reached into the bag and pulled out a tin of tomatoes for Mrs Price in 4B.

By the next morning, the whole block seemed to know him.

He was stopped at the gates by two PCSOs — one young, one older — both in hi-vis jackets and polite smiles. He thought they were going to ask about noise complaints or the stairwell crowd. But instead, the older one said, “We’ve heard what you’ve been doing. The community support, all that. Would you mind if we got a photo?”

He paused. “A photo?”

“For the newsletter,” the younger one added. “Could go in the paper too, if that’s alright.”

He almost laughed. But they were already framing the shot. One of them asked if he could hold the bag up a bit, so the items inside were visible.

He held it up.

Toilet roll, a four-pack of baked beans, and — tucked behind them, almost out of view — a small white envelope folded twice.

They didn’t notice.

They thanked him. Said it was good to see people stepping up.
“In times like these,” one of them said, “you see who people really are.”

He said nothing.

That evening, someone had written “thank you dave” in marker pen across the lift door.

The letters were uneven. The “e” backwards.

He touched the ink with one finger. Just to see if it was dry.

It was.

Because even fake heroes need a coffee now and then:
buymeacoffee.com/wayneexton