Twist Of Fate

One

CHLOE

Another dull, grey morning. Another bus rumbling past. Another argument between the couple in the flat downstairs, screaming obscenities at each other that are barely muffled by the creaky floorboards and the paper-thin walls. Another trashy chat show on the television, another cup of tea forgotten, another cold shower because the boiler is temperamental and my landlord refuses to come out and fix it.

Another day in my life.

I stare blankly out of the kitchen window of my flat as I finish the last of my cereal. From here, I can just see the corner of the high street in the distance, between the wall of my building and the adjacent row of shops barely a stone's throw away. Most of my area of London is built like this: row upon row of cheap accommodation; stacking people on top of each other to combat the increasing housing problem, in unattractive brick buildings with no character, no life and no soul. Flats above shops, owned by the council and funded by the taxpayer, inhabited by single parents struggling to make ends meet or old people who have nothing to show for their seventy-plus years on this planet. Or people like me: no prospects, no family, no assets; just a few items of clothing, a couple of tins of beans in the cupboard and a job serving drunken reprobates in the pub on the edge of the housing estate.

I'm due to work the evening shift tonight. Weekdays and weekends blur into one in this part of the world. Not many people around here have a job - they don't have to be up early so they spend most of their evenings drinking away their money or snorting it up their nose to get a cheap high and forget their miserable reality. I may be just as miserable as they are, but drink and drugs have never appealed to me, therefore I don't fit in with their crowd. And they don't hesitate to remind me.

The afternoon is warm and close by the time I make the short walk to work just before my shift is due to start. The park is empty as I cross the children's play area, reading for what feels like the millionth time the graffiti scrawled onto the rubber matting beneath the one remaining tyre swing: AINT NO HEROES. GRASS. These senseless words have been here since I moved in, and probably for years before that, sprayed in yellow paint by a nameless, faceless thug. 

No children play here. It is used by the local teenagers as a place to smoke weed, drink cider out of cans and set fire to other people's possessions. I have learned to avoid this route in the dark, instead choosing the well-lit streets which take me twice as long but are by far the safer option. However, at this time on an early-May afternoon, it poses no threat.

I push open the door of The Flute and Fiddle and walk quickly across the room to the staff door at the side of the bar.

"You're keen."

"I'm only ten minutes early," I reply, ignoring the mocking stare from Katie, one of the other barmaids, and let the door shut behind me, muffling the steady hum of conversation filtering through from the bar lounge. I haven't brought anything with me except my phone and my front door key, both of which are stowed deep in the pocket of my jeans. I know better than to leave anything of value lying around in this place. I grab a small, burgundy waist apron from the back of the door and put it on, adjusting the strings at the back so my thighs are covered. I quickly check my appearance in the mirror before opening the door through to the bar. 

Katie is serving Jock, one of our regulars. His eyes are staring at her breasts in her tight top as she pulls the beer pump, filling his pint glass. His hair needs a brush and his clothes need a wash, but this is nothing out of the ordinary. His gaze flicks to me as I step behind the bar, and he gives me a brief nod of acknowledgement.

"Evening Jock," I greet him.

"Looking good, girl," he observes, his eyes sweeping up and down my body, and I disguise my shudder of disgust and paste a smile on my face. He beams back toothlessly, and turns his attention back to Katie as she sets his drink down on the bar in front of him. He counts out the coins into her outstretched hand before turning away and taking a seat at one of the grimy tables, facing the window.