Chapter 25 - Simon, Thursday

Happy fucking birthday to me.

I’ve never really enjoyed my birthdays, but even by my standards this one is starting pretty badly. The throb in my head won’t go away, and I wonder if I might have concussion? It’s tender to the touch, and there’s even a bit of a lump. No cuts or bleeding, which is a relief, but it hurts like hell. I should have gone to the doctors yesterday, just to get it checked out, but how on earth was I ever going to explain how it happened? I guess I could have pretended I’d been mugged, but I’m so ashamed of the whole incident I just want to forget it ever happened.
So instead I went back to work. I ended up being quite late back - once I’d pulled myself together, I then had to make myself look more human - wipe the snot off my face, and make my eyes less red. I wandered round for a bit, breathing deeply and trying to calm myself down, but everywhere I went I felt like I could see him out of the corner of my eye, talking to someone, sneering and pointing at me. By the time I got back to work my heart was racing and all I wanted to do was cry. But such is the atmosphere at work at the moment that no one noticed or cared that I was late back, so I went and hid in the toilet for a bit, until I felt calm enough to go back to my office and face people. Thankfully nobody bothered me all afternoon, and I was able to sneak out at five without being noticed.
When I got back the flat was deserted - John must have been on nights - so I was able to hide in my room feeling sorry for myself without anyone expecting me to explain what was the matter with me. Both Jim and Dave phoned, leaving messages of support about the whole work thing. And Mum phoned to remind me to go round for tea after work today, but I didn’t speak to any of them, and ended up falling asleep in my clothes.

So this is how it feels to be 38. Great. I’m not a fan so far. I wish I could stay in bed all day, but I’ve got to work. People complain about working on their birthday, but I don’t usually mind - what would I do otherwise? Sit around at home counting how many people have forgotten me again? It’s not like I’m going to have a big party or do anything exciting, so I might as well go to work and forget about it. And thankfully I’ve managed to keep it a secret at work, so no one ever makes a fuss. Or perhaps they know and just despise me? Aah, fuck it, who cares!

I got ready for work, slowly reassembling myself until I look pretty much like the man who left the house yesterday morning. My suit looks a bit dishevelled, but it’ll do - who knows how much longer I’ll be wearing it for anyway? I thought I was going to get out of the house without speaking to anyone, but just as I was getting ready to leave Mum caught me.
“Happy birthday love!”
“Thanks Mum.”
“I won’t sing to you, I’ll save that for your birthday tea.”
“You don’t have to Mum, not now I’m a grown-up.”
“Ooh, but it’s your birthday, someone’s got to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you! And you’re still my little boy.”
Dear God, I’d swear she was drunk, only she doesn’t drink.
“Okay Mum, well you sing to me later, I’ve got to get to work now or I’ll be late.”
“Okay love, see you at teatime, don’t be late, it’s your favourite!”
“Bye Mum.”
“Bye love.”

Shit, the last thing I need today is birthday tea with Mum. This whole thing is like some stupid bad joke. The phone rang again, but I left it ringing and headed out of the flat. As I locked the door I heard the beep as the answering machine kicked in, and it sounded like Jim leaving a message. He’d find me later no doubt, but for now I didn’t want to speak to anyone.

There was a bit of a queue at the bus stop, which was a surprise as the bus wasn’t due for ten more minutes. So rather than stand shuffling and avoiding eye contact with strangers I nipped into the newsagents for a paper. I took my time, browsing the magazines, wondering if that be a more entertaining way to spend the bus journey, but I got slightly overwhelmed by the enormous choice, and the only things I really wanted I was too scared to buy, and couldn’t read on the bus anyway. So I picked up my usual paper and queued behind some school kids at the counter. One of them was trying to buy scratchcards, and George the newsagent was having difficulty making them understand that he wasn’t going to sell them any unless they could prove they were over sixteen. Eventually the ringleader got sick of arguing, slammed his chocolate down on the counter and said,
“Fuck you then, we’ll go to the one in the High Street - they’ll sell you as many as you like, and fags and booze too. Loser.”
“Watch you mouth you scrawny bugger. If I see you in this shop again I’ll kick you arse, now fuck off out of my sight.”
Go George!
We had one of those, “it’s not like in our day” type conversations, despite the fact that he’s probably twenty years older than me. He had a point though, I’d never have spoken to someone like that when I was a teenager, and certainly wouldn’t have had enough spare cash to waste like that. God, it makes me feel so old.
I headed for the door, and George shouted for his wife, no doubt to tell her about the continuing decline of Western Civilisation in general, and teenage boys in particular. Without really thinking I put my hand out to pick up some chocolate, but then I remembered it was my birthday and I deserved a special treat, so instead of the usual KitKat I grabbed a couple of bars of Dairy Milk, put them in my pocket and opened the door.
Then I felt a hand on my arm, and before I realised what was happening George was screaming at me and pulling me back into the shop. I didn’t let go of the door at first, so it turned into some ridiculous tug of war - George pulling me, me hanging onto the door. And then I started to hear what he was screaming:
“You thieving fucker, you think you can come in here and chat to me then just help yourself to my stock on the way out? I’ve had my eye on you for weeks, but you’re always too sly for me, but not today, I see what you put in your pocket, give it back!”
I let go of the door handle and burst into tears. Not just a gentle trickle, but great big wailing sobs. It stopped George shouting at me for a minute, but then he grabbed me by both arms and started shaking me.
“Pull yourself together, be a man why don’t you. If you think crying’s gonna get you off the hook you’ve got another thing coming!”
Then he reached into my pocket and snatched back the chocolate while I just stood there wailing, letting the paper fall out of my hands, hanging my head and shaking as I wept.
“You can stop that right now”
It was George’s wife.
“I’ve called the police and they’re on their way. Crying won’t help you know. You should be ashamed of yourself, stealing when you can bloody afford it! At least when kids do it you know they’re doing it because they’ve got no money, but you, you in your suit, you make me sick.”
I hadn’t meant to upset George’s wife, so I started saying I was sorry, and kept saying it although it was hard to understand as I was sobbing and gulping for air at the same time.
By the time the police arrived I was on my knees, whimpering and saying over and over how sorry I was. George and his wife just stood there in disbelief, occasionally shooing away the odd customer who wanted to come in to buy something. One bloke got a bit arsey because he couldn’t get any fags and called me a twat on the way out. He had a point. Next thing I know there’s a policewoman standing in front of me, asking George what had happened. George’s wife said something about CCTV, and pointed to a camera that I’d never noticed in the corner of the shop, then George pointed at the chocolate that was laying at my feet.
The policewoman knelt down to talk to me:
“You okay love?”
“I’m sorry”, I wailed, snot running down my face, mixed with my tears.
“Come on now, you need to tell me what happened. Sitting on the floor sobbing isn’t going to help any of us”
She gave me a tissue, and I wiped my face. But I didn’t want to get up, because I wasn’t even sure my legs would hold me.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“I don’t know”, I sniffed, “I don’t remember”
“These people tell me you’ve been stealing stuff from them for some time, now you want to tell me about it here or you want me to take you to the police station and let you tell someone else?”
Police station? Fuck.
“No! I didn’t mean to! It’s my birthday! My head hurts!”
“You’re not making much sense love, you okay? You want me to get someone you know to come and help you?”
God, now she thinks I’m some kind of retard.
“No, I’m okay. I’m sorry.”
“Yes love, we know you’re sorry, we’re just not sure what you’re sorry for. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you down to the station to sort this out, these people have got a business to run and you sitting in their doorway bawling your eyes out doesn’t seem very good for business.”

Fuck.