“What do you want?”
“I’d like to trade.”
“Is that right?” says the invisible voice with surprise. “Well, go ahead and trade. We won’t stop you.”
And the peephole scrapes shut.
“Hey, maybe I want to buy something from you!”
“Yeah?” Once again the peephole scrapes open, and this time I’m examined more intently. “Step back from the door!”
Apparently I passed the examination, as I hear the bolts being drawn on the other side of the door.
“Come on in.”
Inside, the shop has also been transformed. Now there are grilles on my right and on my left, right up to the ceiling. Behind one of them, there’s a guy slumped in a chair with an assault rifle in his hands. Opposite me stands another guy, unarmed as far as I can tell.
“Spread ’em!” I’m frisked professionally. “What, no weapons whatsoever?”
“What for?”
The guy sniffs and steps to one side, gesturing me forward.
There’s only a small length left of the counter, and even that is all shut off behind thick metal bars. Everything else has been walled over. It’s recent work, I can still catch the smell of fresh plaster.
Behind the counter is a face that I can’t quite place. I know I’ve seen him somewhere before. He’s wearing a wool hat, a warm sweater, and a scarf wrapped round his neck.
“Well?” he says, eying me doubtfully, “what have you got?”
He took a look at my cigarettes and pushed them carelessly to one side – I’d brought six sealed packs with me and one that was half full. The condoms, on the other hand, caused great amusement.
“Now that’s what we’re really after! Selling like hotcakes. What the fuck do you expect me to do with them?”
He slides the pack back across the counter towards me.
“You can keep ’em. Never know when you might need them, eh? What else have you got?”
“What else do you need?”
The shopkeeper laughs.
“We need everything. What exactly do you have?”
“All sorts of clothes.”
A cynical laugh tells me all I need to know.
“Electronics”
The same reaction.
“Look,” he says, nodding at the cigarettes, “I’ll take these. I can give you food and ammo, but not much.”
“I need tinned meat.”
“Two tins! And a pack of hardtack on top.”
I’m in no position to haggle, so I agree to the deal.
“You can bring the same goods again. Water, beer, fizzy drinks – those I’ll take, too. Spirits are always welcome. Can’t imagine what else you’ll find. You’re going through flats, I guess?”
“That, too.”
“Then we’re agreed. Don’t bother with any other junk, and wait till you’ve got a decent weight together. Don’t even think of bringing two or three packs.”
Behind me, I hear the bolts scraping back again. So that’s the end of our business. Fair enough, it’s no loss to me. I don’t smoke so I don’t need the cigarettes. And from what I remember they can be found quite often in the empty flats, so that’s something to work with.
And another thing. There are empty plastic bottles lying around everywhere, and nobody seems much interested in them. Their loss! It took no time at all to get together a couple of dozen containers of all sizes. Now here I am, filling them with water from the pipe. I also found a gas canister with a torch on it, which I use to solder (or stick) the plastic rings left on the bottle necks back onto the sealed tops, matching them by colour. It took a while, but now I’m a dab hand and the results look pretty good. Sure, it’s not mineral water. But it’s not from the sewer either, at least I hope not. It tastes just like ordinary drinking water, and from what I remember the shopkeeper said there was a market for that.
To let you in on a secret, I couldn’t stop myself. I did eventually visit my old home. No, I didn’t go into my flat, but I did hang around the doorway for a while. The panes in the windows were unbroken, which meant the nasty surprise left by those arseholes was still there, biding its time. If it had already been tripped, then every pane in the apartment and in the stairwell would’ve been smashed.
However, I did find my jacket by the burnt-out car. With my knife in one pocket and my water bottle in the other. The bottle goes on my belt, the knife in my pocket, and jacket, which has sadly lost any form of respectability, goes into the bushes. It was scorched, and I didn’t want it.
Now the saucepan’s full! I pour the water into bottles. I’ve got just over a dozen already, so I can go see the shopkeeper. I select the most attractive-looking containers – you’ve got to keep up appearances, and I’m a man of my word. Ten bottles makes fifteen litres, which should be weight enough to satisfy the shopkeeper. I already had a decent backpack, the fruits of another flat-gutting expedition. The bottles fitted perfectly.
So once again I’m standing in front of the familiar shop door. The procedure’s the same. I’m frisked by the guard and then I start to put out my bottles on the counter.
“Well,” murmurs the shopkeeper, looking at the fruits of my labour, “you did it. Good man!”
The water is removed under the counter.
“What do you want, then?”
“I want to eat! Tins – meat, instant soups, everything!”
Thus, we begin to haggle. After a few minutes, I leave the store and can feel the weight of groceries in my backpack. That’s enough to live on for a few days! With what I’ve salvaged from abandoned flats, there’s really no need to worry for a while.
Slam! My eyes go black for a second.
“Stop right there, you bastard!”
It’s not like I’m about to take off running – that was some smack in the stomach they gave me. I see three wankers of some sort. Surprise, surprise, I know one of them. It’s the same guy who ran away from the two tooled-up gorillas before.
“Are you fucking stupid?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You think you can just walk straight past us?”
There’s something I’m missing. They pull me up on my feet and shove me against the wall, then they explain the balance of power to me, punctuated by a few “friendly” pokes and jabs. Turns out these three represent the shopkeeper’s “protection”, and anyone who wants to do business with him has to slip a little something to them in return for access. Nothing too extravagant, just ten percent of each deal. Hmm, interesting. I wonder if those gorillas in imported camouflage know about this arrangement?
“Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, fool, you’re better off making friends with us. If you fuck about, you’ll pay for it! What’s your address?”
“What address?”
“Not your fucking safe-deposit box, obviously! Where do you sleep?” shouts the biggest of them in my face. Honesty’s the best policy, so I give them my street, building, and apartment number. I say nothing about the office –