Going Under Cover

Chapter 4

4

The day ended quickly, much to my pleasure. It had been a boring one and as I sat there lazily leaning back in that uncomfortable contraption that Mr Smith called a 'chair', I found myself ticking down the time. It was like that old show '24:00', where the clock would flash dramatically every so often.

And that just shows you how bloody exciting my life is compared to everyone else.

I had of course had the enormous joy of being allowed in the presence of Janette and her son as she came in for a lottery ticket, dreaming about actually winning for once. Sometime I even suspect that her life is more sad than mine, and maybe even sadder than Mark's. And that is saying something.

The only time Mark enjoys himself is when his mother finally goes to bed, only then does he lead another life. Just like Batman might I add. He goes out on the 'rave', partying through the night and sometimes, when he is feeling wild and way too crazy, he might stay out until one in the morning. I have a hard time in not saying 'hold it there tiger', as you can tell. That forty year old is just too hip for my tiny mine to comprehend at all.

And then I can see him come stumbling home from the local pub, waking up everyone on the street except for Janette herself, much to my disgust. I would have thought that woman would have been a light sleeper, with one ear always open, listening for any gossip around the area. Not that there was much gossip to be had. The last time the old timer's tongue had waggled was when Ryan and Betty were found talking to each other. Now that had caused a stir around here.

Anyway, back to the story of Mark. He often did not end up in the right house however. His sense of direction seemingly busts up when he has a drink or two in his system, just like myself really. Mark sometimes ends up banging on my front door, yelling 'Mother, let me in!' By now, I'm used to it. I put on my dressing gown and slip downstairs, opening the door just to show my annoyance. Those odd times where I don't close the door quick enough, he throws out some pick up lines.

But don't get me started on those. I don't want to turn anyone on too much.

And then, as I watch from my sitting room window, he waddles down my pathway and makes his way home.

I can't say much however, I don't even get that amount of excitement in my life. God forbid the night that I drink too much whiskey and let him in. Now, that would be a night that I would regret for the rest of my life.

"Cassy, darling, are you not leaving?" Mr Smith's odd accent brought me out of the hideous image that was forming in my mind. I never thought that I would be glad that he talked to me often.

"Yeah," I said in reply, grabbing my overly large bag, which held everything that I would ever need in the case of an emergency. My mobile, money, ID, pads, anything really. I even had a box of plasters which oddly came in handy sometimes.

"I'll walk you home then," Mr Smith stated like it was a matter of fact. I nearly stopped on my journey to the door. Ah, hell no.

"No, no. I'm fine. You have a good night Mr Smith," I answered quickly, nearly running away. Now, where Mark's attempt at a pick up line is poor and slightly innocent, Mr Smith's is full on professional. I could almost imagine him as a young man in Paris, full of charm and courage as he kissed young, foreign girls' hands and whispered words that they could not understand to them.

"I can't have a young beautiful girl like yourself getting lost," he replied, smirking at me as I turned around briefly. I felt a shiver run up my spine, and not a good one at that. This man couldn't, no wouldn't, take no for an answer. Never did it occur to him that in the last six years of my living here I have never gotten lost.