This short story is brought to you by the author of Maggie's Milkman and Extraordinary Rendition.
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He had the arrogant strut of a man who had lived in the same
street all of his life; this was his manor, his patch, his territory. He eyed
everyone else with a sense of suspicion; they were impostors, interlopers,
trespassing on his turf. It didn’t matter that these people had paid good money
for their flats and houses, in his mind they didn’t belong here. Unlike him they
hadn’t been born here, hadn’t grazed their knees on this tarmac when they were
young, hadn’t earned the right to live here. And look at them, trying to
gentrify the place with their paint jobs, and pot plants and urban spaces,
their residents meetings and their neighbour watch. They hadn’t need residents meetings in his
day, people just got on. These meetings were just an excuse to snoop on what the
neighbours were doing. The bloody busybodies; they had to control not only their
own lives but everyone else’s. Well, he wasn’t having any of it; they asked him
not throw his cigarette butts into the street, but he’d always done it, he
wasn’t going to stop now. They’d asked him to clean up his dog’s shit, but who
were they to tell him what to do?
He crossed the road over to his car, a cigarette in hand and
his bull terrier at his heel, they’d even asked him to put his dog on a leash
but it didn’t need a leash he’d trained the hound, it didn’t need a lead.
That bitch Mrs Edwards from number 17 was on her balcony,
god she was the worst, what is wrong with these people? So fucking precious. He
could almost hear her tutting at him. Last week she’d even had a cheek to tell
him to put a shirt on as his bare chest was upsetting her children. What was
the world coming to that a man’s hairy chest upset kids? Those damn kids needed
to man up, grow a backbone, stop being such girls. But of course Mrs Edwards had
complained about the sexist language he’d used.
‘Ah Mr Llewellyn,’ she shouted across to him. He ignored the
voice, he didn’t need to be nagged, his wife’s nagging was bad enough, he didn’t
need an extra portion from a comparative stranger.
‘Mr Llewellyn,’ she called again, but again he ignored her,
he took a long drag on his cigarette, threw the remains under his car and
opened the door. The hound jumped in obediently and he followed.
‘Mr Llewellyn, her voice sounded urgent, like she was
annoyed with him for ignoring her. He slammed the door shut and smiled to
himself, he wasn’t going to kowtow to her typ…
Boom! The explosion rocked the street, shattering windows
and setting off car alarms, babies cried and dogs yelped.
Mrs Edwards had her head in her hands, she’d tried to tell
him that petrol was leaking out of the car but would the cantankerous old fool
listen to her? Well he’d got what he deserved.
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