Indebted

The wiper juddered across the windscreen, not quite keeping the beat of the music emanating from the radio. The rain could only just be bothered to fall, just enough to require the occasional wipe from the barely capable wipers. They should have been changed when the van was in the garage, but of course that would have meant spending money. Anyway, they still cleared most of the window, and the van had only needed the clutch repaired. The mechanic said the gearbox was on its way out, but it still moved the van. It would have to do for some time yet, just until things picked up a bit.

‘Money’s too tight to mention…’ sang Mick Hucknall on the radio, a song from several years ago, and playing without possibly knowing the ironic relevance of the day ahead.

Paul sat forward in the seat, straining to see through the small droplets on the screen. ‘I think that’s her, behind the Fiat, on the left’. The rain was falling a little harder now.

The 2 men sat next to Paul sat up. The front of a Transit van may have a passenger seat designed for two, but probably two children. Two small children. The two men had very broad chests, which is why Paul hired them. If ever there looked like being trouble, these two somehow calmed it without needing to say too much; there very presence would put a lot of people off complaining too much. Paul called them the gorillas, but not to their faces. Never to their faces.

She was walking towards her home with a half-filled plastic shopping bag in her left hand and her front door key in her right, already taken from her coat pocket, even though she had to walk past 3 more houses.

Paul readied himself, picking up his clipboard and mobile phone. As he did, he realised that he still hadn’t paid the monthly bill for the phone, which was now 4 weeks old. ‘Must do that tonight,’ he thought.

When he took the keys from the ignition, Mick Hucknall fell instantly silent. The radio automatically turning itself off, which left the sound of the gorillas unfolding themselves from the front of the Transit.

‘Mrs. Barras?’ Paul called from across the street as he walked towards her. ‘Mrs. Barras, isn’t it?’

Paul had sniggered at her name every time he looked at the Distraint Order, he would loved her name to have been Margaret, or Maureen, or Michaela. He wanted to call her Mrs. M Barras, thinking it really would embarrass her.

Mrs. Barras knew who it was. She didn’t know Paul’s name, or the name of the gorillas, but she had had letters warning her that the bailiffs would be coming. She didn’t know when they would come, but she knew they’d come.

Mr. Anderson at number 45 had the Bailiffs when he hadn’t paid his Council tax. He told everyone in the street that he had already paid the bill, but no one really believed him. He told tales of how the bailiffs had taken all of his valuables, but no one really believed him, because no one had anything of any value.

His valuables had been the microwave oven, which he used to re-heat his coffee when he had let it go cold. This amazed him.

‘Mrs. Barras, can I have a word with you for a moment?’ said Paul.

‘I sent a letter to the council you know, they said they would sort it out.’

‘Mrs.