He stared in disbelief. At some point it occurred to him that he had been standing there, in silence, for some time, but he had no idea how long.
Instinctively drawing in two full lungs-worth of air through his nostrils, he looked away and focused on the last shards of daylight fighting their way through the closed silver blinds on the other side of his bedroom.
Whatever was to happen next, Ben Wade knew his life had taken a turn. He had always expected to have a life of seeing the same grey faces, five days a week. The same zombies, in the same seats on the 0808 from Theydon Bois as the 1717 back from Liverpool Street. The same karaoke every other Friday down the Fox and Lamb, the same pilgrimage to the Neon Club every Saturday night and then fighting through the resulting hangover at Sunday league the next morning. At some point he’d meet a decent girl, get married and she’d drop a couple of kids to carry on his name. And it wouldn’t be one of those slappers from Neon – although at the moment, it was better to push one of these slappers out of bed on a Sunday morning than no-one, he supposed.
These thoughts ran through Ben’s mind, but his subconscious found it harder to avoid the matter in hand.
The worn Sainsbury’s bag on the bed caught his eye again. Finally he sat next to it, letting out a noisy sigh, the sound breaking the silence and grounding him. Without giving himself more time to digress, he grabbed the bottom of the bulging bag and emptied its contents – wads and wads of neatly packed fifty pound notes.
The only sound he could hear was the pounding of his heart. Possessed by his subconscious, he slowly spread the notes across the bed, his eyes and fingers dancing over the money. He estimated at least fifty grand there – maybe more – and his heart quickened.
With his breath increasing, Ben laid back and let out a long and gratifying, “Aaaaaaaargh!” The white ceiling was suddenly a cinema screen, fast-fowarding images of a flash car racing down a motorway, a Caribbean beach, a helicopter skimming the New York skyline at sunset. More images, and each one starring Ben Wade and a huge white smile!
Satiated with the snapshots of the playboy life to come, Ben put his hands behind his head with a confident laugh.
No more debt! The first thing he would do would be to replace that old stereo for one with a famous brand name and a tape deck that actually worked. Then some new threads – even better, that bespoke two-tone suit he’d wanted for over half of his 32 year long life! And finally, he’d have the spare cash and the motivation to learn to drive that flash car he was going to get. Actually, he was going to be sensible and get something like a VW Golf. A brand-new convertible one, with a 300-watt system, tinted windows and a personalised plate! Then he was going to slap down a cash deposit on one of those brand new flats they were building next to the tube station. The penthouse, of course!
Ben Wade relaxed with a long sigh into how he was going to work every last penny, his smile growing along with his shopping list.
So much so, that he found it easy to ignore, at first, the gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Gnawing that increased from a mild stirring of acid to that feeling you get when you wish you’d declined that generous helping of chilli sauce on that large mixed kebab – “wiv’ everyfin’” – after a fifteen-pinter the night before. On the point of feeling like he was getting a hiatus hernia, Ben could no longer ignore the fact that his subconscious wasn’t ‘sub’ any more. Slowly his wide smile closed and the sparkle in his deep brown eyes diminished. The ceiling became a ceiling again and he stared blankly at it. It took the edge off the pain in his stomach. Slowly he sat up and toyed with the money again.
Picking up as many wads as he could, he closed his eyes - perhaps to hold on to his dream a bit longer, or like a clairvoyant, trying to sense something about the cash.
This money had come from somewhere. Someone was missing thousands of pounds that had been carefully counted and cautiously bound together with elastic bands.
Ben reasoned with himself. What kind of idiot would leave an old carrier-bag full of £50 notes, in a rubbish bin outside a train station?!
But someone did. Who? And more importantly – why?
“This is just typical of my life,” thought Ben, rolling his eyes, “Always so near and yet so bloody far!”
He reasoned again. No. He had found it, and there was no indication as to who it rightfully belonged to. Finders-keepers-losers-weepers! And it was probably accounted for by now anyway – insured somehow!
“Oh yeah?” asked Ben’s conscience, “Cash? In a Sainsbury’s bag? Insured? I don’t think so.”
He reasoned again. Maybe this person could afford to lose it. Maybe there’d been a bank robbery and the robber dumped it and hadn't come back for it yet. The bank could write it off. They’d gouged enough in charges out of people over the years anyway. In that case, didn’t he deserve it more?
His subconscious soon poured water on that theory. “Okay then – if you want to get far-fetched – how about this; some little kid has been kidnapped and is right now tied up in a cold, dark cellar, frightened and crying, and this is the ransom money that gets them back to their parents. When the kidnappers see no cash there…”
He didn’t want to progress down that route. He didn’t think it was realistic but maybe the bank robber story was a little bit ‘out there’ too. In either case, he had waited at least 45 agonising minutes after dropping his Metro into the bin and seeing the queen’s Mona Lisa smile peeking out between a Twix wrapper and an empty beer can. He’d looked around for film cameras, thinking it was a set-up. He’d looked into the eyes of every passer-by for a give-away sign. He’d endlessly prayed no-one else would glance into the bin, until, finally, coast clear and heart hammering against his chest cavity, he snatched the bag from its undeserving and stinking hiding-place and bolted, the wind biting his face and not even daring to look behind himself. It would have only ended up on the rubbish tip anyway (unless the bin man had spotted it, and Ben couldn’t bear the thought of seeing some nobody’s face on the cover the local rag, “Council Worker Finds Big Tip In Rubbish Bin”).
Whoever had lost it would have considered it gone and started the grieving process by now. It was logical and only reasonable that he should keep it. He decided it was a karmic gift. A God-given reward for the years of struggle through a crap upbringing, the scraping through university for a business degree (all for the daily grind of being an undervalued and underpaid pen-pusher at a City underwriters?!). This was for him, a glimmer of hope against no chance of ever owning his own home, or having a decent girlfriend and a nice car.
That was it. Decision made. The money was his. He knew his conscience didn’t like it, but it would have to shut up and lump it. The acid in his stomach bubbled again and he forced a belch in a vain attempt to calm it.
Needing a change of scenery, he went into the dark living room, dropped his behind on the settee and clicked the “on” button on the remote. He tapped out a king-size Rothmans’ from the half-empty pack on the coffee table, lit it and watched closely as the end burned orange. He slowly drew two long drags from it, and anticipated the nicotine rush circuiting his veins, ending with a slight high that took him, for a second or two, out of his own body.
It was concentrating on this that caused the story on the local TV news to filter through a little slower. It took him moment to recognise the tube station behind the reporter and make the connection. The reporter seemed to be speaking at double-speed and Ben only caught a few phrases, such as, “life savings”, “carrier bag”, “collapsed”, “hospital”, and “distraught”. The phrase, “one hundred and twenty five thousand pounds” was the one that really ricocheted though his mind.
Ben Wade figured himself the star of a different film now. After a moment’s pause without thought, he roughly stubbed the cigarette out and raced back to the bedroom, stopping at the door. He stared at the cash on the bed. It was still there, beckoning him like an irresistible stranger, sprawled naked on the bed, whilst his imaginary wife was innocently coming up the path.
Making his way over to the money, he dared to caress it again. His fingers ran across the red ink like Braille, sending tiny waves of electricity through each nerve ending. Yes. There could easily be double the amount of his original estimation.
He gulped and noticed how dry his mouth was. Funny, looking back on it, that this was the catalyst to the next scene in Ben Wade’s particular life story.
He went back to the living room and waited for the full story. It seems that the 87-year-old Mrs Ethel Solomon had collapsed at the station at lunchtime and had been taken to a hospital around three miles away. Police had checked through a trolley she had with her, stuffed with clothes, and some old photographs of who they assumed to be her husband and daughter, and some letters from her daughter postmarked Australia. A statement from the hospital said that Mrs Solomon had come round from her heart scare and was now “comfortable”. They anticipated a full recovery. She had confirmed that she had been pressured into selling her one-bedroom flat to developers and she had £125,000 from that sale. She had been scared of going into a home, or having nowhere to go and planned to go to Australia to find her only living relative, her daughter, who she had last heard from 17 years ago. Mrs Solomon had taken the money to the station with her but had been distraught find it gone and couldn’t remember anything after that. The police had scoured the CCTV footage from the station and there had been no trace of what had happened to it.
Ben clicked the television off at this point and sat in the dark silence of the room.
Okay. They know it’s missing. But the CCTV had caught nothing…yet. But how could he be sure? Maybe if they thought to look a bit later in the day they would see this man sitting outside the station for ages and then quickly take something out of the bin and run. If that wasn’t suspicious… Ah, but they hadn’t. And who was to say they would? But what if they did? His face would be on the news. But wasn’t that just a small risk for £125,000? If he just kept it in the house and spent it little by little, if he got found out he could give most of it back and just say he didn’t know about the little old lady collapsing. He didn’t even entertain thoughts of the other questions that might follow, such as, “Well, why didn’t you hand it in?” What would anyone who hadn't been in this position know about it anyway?
It was going to be hard but he would get over it. He stood up and switched the light on. He was back in reality, but a richer one. Uncomfortable for a while, yes, but he’d forget about Mrs Solomon. She’d be okay, wouldn’t she? No-one would see her helpless. She obviously needed to be in an old people’s home, with company and comfort until she probably died in a couple of years. He was sorted.
Ben purposely emptied his mind and relieved the fridge of a can of Stella. He took a big refreshing gulp that soothed the dryness in his mouth and awoke his senses. Walking back to the sofa he started to think about dinner. Boy, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. Somewhere between bending his knees and his backside touching the settee, his conscience intervened again. What about Mrs Solomon? Was she “sorted”? Was it right that after a lifetime of paying a mortgage, taking care of her late husband and raising her daughter that she should finish off her life with strangers and carers? And what if they were those nasty ones that you see on the news, bullying old people?
“What if…”, “What if…” No doubt the police would somehow trace her daughter and she would come over and collect her mother, and she’d get to know her grandkids, maybe great-grandkids and finish her life happy, loved and in the sun. No amount of money could compensate for that and they’d be so happy to be together again that they wouldn’t even care about the money. Everybody happy.
Unless they didn’t find her. Then poor old Ethel would be penniless and alone.
“Oh for GOD’S SAKE!!!” yelled Ben. All these thoughts were driving him nuts! He had to get out, get some air, get away from the money and make a decision, stick to it and not think about it any more! He downed another large gulp of Stella, grabbed his jacket and made for the street door. Picking up his keys he changed his mind and decided to take the money with him. He was scared to take it with him but he was more scared of coming back to it, knowing it was waiting there. If he chose to do the ‘right thing’ then seeing it still on the bed when he got back might cloud his judgement. He was also scared of not coming back to it – that he’d come back and find it gone. Without looking directly at the money, he scooped it into a sports bag, zipped it up and hit the outside world. He didn’t dare look behind him, lest he found the strength to go back indoors.
He walked determinedly, without pausing or looking anywhere but directly ahead. Not because he knew where he was going, he didn’t, but to try and escape the endless pros and cons, the theories, reasonings and scenarios of him being hailed the good Samaritan, the young playboy or the desperate man.
He only stopped when he realised that his feet, thankfully at the opposite end of his body from his brain, had taken him to the hospital where, in a bed somewhere, lay Mrs Ethel Solomon. He looked at the clock above reception in Casualty. It was 2.20am and it was typically busy for a late Friday night. It wasn’t difficult to convince the young receptionist that he was Mrs Solomon’s nephew and only living relative in the UK and had travelled from Bournemouth when he heard the news. He found out that she was in room 8 on Lewis Ward but she was resting and that he would have to come back at 8am for visiting hours.
Pretending to leave, he slipped, unnoticed, into the main building of the hospital and up to Lewis Ward.
Once the Ward Sister had left her post at the other end of the corridor, he crept in from the stairs, relieved to find that room 8 was the first one to his right. So this was Mrs Ethel Solomon. He stood at the door and watched her for a moment. She looked so fragile and helpless against the crisp white bedding. Ben noticed that the lines on her brow seemed subtly pronounced and he thought she looked uncomfortable. Right then he resigned himself on what he had to do. There was no going back, he was here, in this moment, now. He had asked himself enough now on what was worse – a life of struggle, yet having known he’d done the ‘right thing’, or taking swift action in order to take the opportunity of a lifetime?
He moved toward her and silently placed the bag on the bed. He gently lifted one of the pillows behind her and held it in his hands, thinking. She stirred as his body shadowed between her and the light of the corridor. He didn’t want her to wake and see him standing over her. He wanted to take care of the situation quickly and quietly and get hell out of there.
After placing the pillow at the end of the bed he turned and left, turning only to look at Mrs Ethel Solomon and take a mental picture of how peaceful and comfortable she now looked. He felt glad to have done this favour for her.
On the long walk home, Ben smiled at the thought of getting back to his crappy rented flat and to paying off his debts. In fact, he looked forward to the sobriety of them. He could only imagine the joy that Ethel would feel when she awoke to find a sport’s bag containing her life savings.
His conscience glowed through him and he was light on his feet.
Ben Wade felt – well – like £125,000.
Instinctively drawing in two full lungs-worth of air through his nostrils, he looked away and focused on the last shards of daylight fighting their way through the closed silver blinds on the other side of his bedroom.
Whatever was to happen next, Ben Wade knew his life had taken a turn. He had always expected to have a life of seeing the same grey faces, five days a week. The same zombies, in the same seats on the 0808 from Theydon Bois as the 1717 back from Liverpool Street. The same karaoke every other Friday down the Fox and Lamb, the same pilgrimage to the Neon Club every Saturday night and then fighting through the resulting hangover at Sunday league the next morning. At some point he’d meet a decent girl, get married and she’d drop a couple of kids to carry on his name. And it wouldn’t be one of those slappers from Neon – although at the moment, it was better to push one of these slappers out of bed on a Sunday morning than no-one, he supposed.
These thoughts ran through Ben’s mind, but his subconscious found it harder to avoid the matter in hand.
The worn Sainsbury’s bag on the bed caught his eye again. Finally he sat next to it, letting out a noisy sigh, the sound breaking the silence and grounding him. Without giving himself more time to digress, he grabbed the bottom of the bulging bag and emptied its contents – wads and wads of neatly packed fifty pound notes.
The only sound he could hear was the pounding of his heart. Possessed by his subconscious, he slowly spread the notes across the bed, his eyes and fingers dancing over the money. He estimated at least fifty grand there – maybe more – and his heart quickened.
With his breath increasing, Ben laid back and let out a long and gratifying, “Aaaaaaaargh!” The white ceiling was suddenly a cinema screen, fast-fowarding images of a flash car racing down a motorway, a Caribbean beach, a helicopter skimming the New York skyline at sunset. More images, and each one starring Ben Wade and a huge white smile!
Satiated with the snapshots of the playboy life to come, Ben put his hands behind his head with a confident laugh.
No more debt! The first thing he would do would be to replace that old stereo for one with a famous brand name and a tape deck that actually worked. Then some new threads – even better, that bespoke two-tone suit he’d wanted for over half of his 32 year long life! And finally, he’d have the spare cash and the motivation to learn to drive that flash car he was going to get. Actually, he was going to be sensible and get something like a VW Golf. A brand-new convertible one, with a 300-watt system, tinted windows and a personalised plate! Then he was going to slap down a cash deposit on one of those brand new flats they were building next to the tube station. The penthouse, of course!
Ben Wade relaxed with a long sigh into how he was going to work every last penny, his smile growing along with his shopping list.
So much so, that he found it easy to ignore, at first, the gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Gnawing that increased from a mild stirring of acid to that feeling you get when you wish you’d declined that generous helping of chilli sauce on that large mixed kebab – “wiv’ everyfin’” – after a fifteen-pinter the night before. On the point of feeling like he was getting a hiatus hernia, Ben could no longer ignore the fact that his subconscious wasn’t ‘sub’ any more. Slowly his wide smile closed and the sparkle in his deep brown eyes diminished. The ceiling became a ceiling again and he stared blankly at it. It took the edge off the pain in his stomach. Slowly he sat up and toyed with the money again.
Picking up as many wads as he could, he closed his eyes - perhaps to hold on to his dream a bit longer, or like a clairvoyant, trying to sense something about the cash.
This money had come from somewhere. Someone was missing thousands of pounds that had been carefully counted and cautiously bound together with elastic bands.
Ben reasoned with himself. What kind of idiot would leave an old carrier-bag full of £50 notes, in a rubbish bin outside a train station?!
But someone did. Who? And more importantly – why?
“This is just typical of my life,” thought Ben, rolling his eyes, “Always so near and yet so bloody far!”
He reasoned again. No. He had found it, and there was no indication as to who it rightfully belonged to. Finders-keepers-losers-weepers! And it was probably accounted for by now anyway – insured somehow!
“Oh yeah?” asked Ben’s conscience, “Cash? In a Sainsbury’s bag? Insured? I don’t think so.”
He reasoned again. Maybe this person could afford to lose it. Maybe there’d been a bank robbery and the robber dumped it and hadn't come back for it yet. The bank could write it off. They’d gouged enough in charges out of people over the years anyway. In that case, didn’t he deserve it more?
His subconscious soon poured water on that theory. “Okay then – if you want to get far-fetched – how about this; some little kid has been kidnapped and is right now tied up in a cold, dark cellar, frightened and crying, and this is the ransom money that gets them back to their parents. When the kidnappers see no cash there…”
He didn’t want to progress down that route. He didn’t think it was realistic but maybe the bank robber story was a little bit ‘out there’ too. In either case, he had waited at least 45 agonising minutes after dropping his Metro into the bin and seeing the queen’s Mona Lisa smile peeking out between a Twix wrapper and an empty beer can. He’d looked around for film cameras, thinking it was a set-up. He’d looked into the eyes of every passer-by for a give-away sign. He’d endlessly prayed no-one else would glance into the bin, until, finally, coast clear and heart hammering against his chest cavity, he snatched the bag from its undeserving and stinking hiding-place and bolted, the wind biting his face and not even daring to look behind himself. It would have only ended up on the rubbish tip anyway (unless the bin man had spotted it, and Ben couldn’t bear the thought of seeing some nobody’s face on the cover the local rag, “Council Worker Finds Big Tip In Rubbish Bin”).
Whoever had lost it would have considered it gone and started the grieving process by now. It was logical and only reasonable that he should keep it. He decided it was a karmic gift. A God-given reward for the years of struggle through a crap upbringing, the scraping through university for a business degree (all for the daily grind of being an undervalued and underpaid pen-pusher at a City underwriters?!). This was for him, a glimmer of hope against no chance of ever owning his own home, or having a decent girlfriend and a nice car.
That was it. Decision made. The money was his. He knew his conscience didn’t like it, but it would have to shut up and lump it. The acid in his stomach bubbled again and he forced a belch in a vain attempt to calm it.
Needing a change of scenery, he went into the dark living room, dropped his behind on the settee and clicked the “on” button on the remote. He tapped out a king-size Rothmans’ from the half-empty pack on the coffee table, lit it and watched closely as the end burned orange. He slowly drew two long drags from it, and anticipated the nicotine rush circuiting his veins, ending with a slight high that took him, for a second or two, out of his own body.
It was concentrating on this that caused the story on the local TV news to filter through a little slower. It took him moment to recognise the tube station behind the reporter and make the connection. The reporter seemed to be speaking at double-speed and Ben only caught a few phrases, such as, “life savings”, “carrier bag”, “collapsed”, “hospital”, and “distraught”. The phrase, “one hundred and twenty five thousand pounds” was the one that really ricocheted though his mind.
Ben Wade figured himself the star of a different film now. After a moment’s pause without thought, he roughly stubbed the cigarette out and raced back to the bedroom, stopping at the door. He stared at the cash on the bed. It was still there, beckoning him like an irresistible stranger, sprawled naked on the bed, whilst his imaginary wife was innocently coming up the path.
Making his way over to the money, he dared to caress it again. His fingers ran across the red ink like Braille, sending tiny waves of electricity through each nerve ending. Yes. There could easily be double the amount of his original estimation.
He gulped and noticed how dry his mouth was. Funny, looking back on it, that this was the catalyst to the next scene in Ben Wade’s particular life story.
He went back to the living room and waited for the full story. It seems that the 87-year-old Mrs Ethel Solomon had collapsed at the station at lunchtime and had been taken to a hospital around three miles away. Police had checked through a trolley she had with her, stuffed with clothes, and some old photographs of who they assumed to be her husband and daughter, and some letters from her daughter postmarked Australia. A statement from the hospital said that Mrs Solomon had come round from her heart scare and was now “comfortable”. They anticipated a full recovery. She had confirmed that she had been pressured into selling her one-bedroom flat to developers and she had £125,000 from that sale. She had been scared of going into a home, or having nowhere to go and planned to go to Australia to find her only living relative, her daughter, who she had last heard from 17 years ago. Mrs Solomon had taken the money to the station with her but had been distraught find it gone and couldn’t remember anything after that. The police had scoured the CCTV footage from the station and there had been no trace of what had happened to it.
Ben clicked the television off at this point and sat in the dark silence of the room.
Okay. They know it’s missing. But the CCTV had caught nothing…yet. But how could he be sure? Maybe if they thought to look a bit later in the day they would see this man sitting outside the station for ages and then quickly take something out of the bin and run. If that wasn’t suspicious… Ah, but they hadn’t. And who was to say they would? But what if they did? His face would be on the news. But wasn’t that just a small risk for £125,000? If he just kept it in the house and spent it little by little, if he got found out he could give most of it back and just say he didn’t know about the little old lady collapsing. He didn’t even entertain thoughts of the other questions that might follow, such as, “Well, why didn’t you hand it in?” What would anyone who hadn't been in this position know about it anyway?
It was going to be hard but he would get over it. He stood up and switched the light on. He was back in reality, but a richer one. Uncomfortable for a while, yes, but he’d forget about Mrs Solomon. She’d be okay, wouldn’t she? No-one would see her helpless. She obviously needed to be in an old people’s home, with company and comfort until she probably died in a couple of years. He was sorted.
Ben purposely emptied his mind and relieved the fridge of a can of Stella. He took a big refreshing gulp that soothed the dryness in his mouth and awoke his senses. Walking back to the sofa he started to think about dinner. Boy, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. Somewhere between bending his knees and his backside touching the settee, his conscience intervened again. What about Mrs Solomon? Was she “sorted”? Was it right that after a lifetime of paying a mortgage, taking care of her late husband and raising her daughter that she should finish off her life with strangers and carers? And what if they were those nasty ones that you see on the news, bullying old people?
“What if…”, “What if…” No doubt the police would somehow trace her daughter and she would come over and collect her mother, and she’d get to know her grandkids, maybe great-grandkids and finish her life happy, loved and in the sun. No amount of money could compensate for that and they’d be so happy to be together again that they wouldn’t even care about the money. Everybody happy.
Unless they didn’t find her. Then poor old Ethel would be penniless and alone.
“Oh for GOD’S SAKE!!!” yelled Ben. All these thoughts were driving him nuts! He had to get out, get some air, get away from the money and make a decision, stick to it and not think about it any more! He downed another large gulp of Stella, grabbed his jacket and made for the street door. Picking up his keys he changed his mind and decided to take the money with him. He was scared to take it with him but he was more scared of coming back to it, knowing it was waiting there. If he chose to do the ‘right thing’ then seeing it still on the bed when he got back might cloud his judgement. He was also scared of not coming back to it – that he’d come back and find it gone. Without looking directly at the money, he scooped it into a sports bag, zipped it up and hit the outside world. He didn’t dare look behind him, lest he found the strength to go back indoors.
He walked determinedly, without pausing or looking anywhere but directly ahead. Not because he knew where he was going, he didn’t, but to try and escape the endless pros and cons, the theories, reasonings and scenarios of him being hailed the good Samaritan, the young playboy or the desperate man.
He only stopped when he realised that his feet, thankfully at the opposite end of his body from his brain, had taken him to the hospital where, in a bed somewhere, lay Mrs Ethel Solomon. He looked at the clock above reception in Casualty. It was 2.20am and it was typically busy for a late Friday night. It wasn’t difficult to convince the young receptionist that he was Mrs Solomon’s nephew and only living relative in the UK and had travelled from Bournemouth when he heard the news. He found out that she was in room 8 on Lewis Ward but she was resting and that he would have to come back at 8am for visiting hours.
Pretending to leave, he slipped, unnoticed, into the main building of the hospital and up to Lewis Ward.
Once the Ward Sister had left her post at the other end of the corridor, he crept in from the stairs, relieved to find that room 8 was the first one to his right. So this was Mrs Ethel Solomon. He stood at the door and watched her for a moment. She looked so fragile and helpless against the crisp white bedding. Ben noticed that the lines on her brow seemed subtly pronounced and he thought she looked uncomfortable. Right then he resigned himself on what he had to do. There was no going back, he was here, in this moment, now. He had asked himself enough now on what was worse – a life of struggle, yet having known he’d done the ‘right thing’, or taking swift action in order to take the opportunity of a lifetime?
He moved toward her and silently placed the bag on the bed. He gently lifted one of the pillows behind her and held it in his hands, thinking. She stirred as his body shadowed between her and the light of the corridor. He didn’t want her to wake and see him standing over her. He wanted to take care of the situation quickly and quietly and get hell out of there.
After placing the pillow at the end of the bed he turned and left, turning only to look at Mrs Ethel Solomon and take a mental picture of how peaceful and comfortable she now looked. He felt glad to have done this favour for her.
On the long walk home, Ben smiled at the thought of getting back to his crappy rented flat and to paying off his debts. In fact, he looked forward to the sobriety of them. He could only imagine the joy that Ethel would feel when she awoke to find a sport’s bag containing her life savings.
His conscience glowed through him and he was light on his feet.
Ben Wade felt – well – like £125,000.
