Twist Of Fate

Three

HARRY 

"You up yet?!"

I jolt awake, as the screech from downstairs permeates my sleep. The bedside clock reads eight forty seven a.m. Too fucking early, in other words.

I ignore the shouted question, and roll over in bed. If I don't respond, maybe she'll take the hint.

"Harry!" 

No such luck.

"What?!" I shout back, irritably.

"You're awake then?"

"Fucking hard not to be with you screeching like that!"

There is a pause, and a low mutter. Presumably she is spitting expletives under her breath. At least I don't have to listen to it, I suppose. Makes a change.

"You getting up today or what?"

"Gimme chance, woman, I only just woke up!" I roar back. Is it too much to ask for a bit of peace?

Downstairs I hear cupboard doors slamming furiously in the kitchen and I close my eyes, sighing in frustration at the realisation that I can stay in bed as long as I want, but she will make damn sure I don't get another wink of sleep.

I kick the covers off furiously, leaving them in a heap at the foot of the bed in defiance. I head to the bathroom for a shower, only to discover that the hot water is being temperamental and switching from boiling to freezing and back again, repeatedly, in a matter of seconds. Or maybe that bitch downstairs is deliberately turning the taps on and off to get me moving quicker. I growl under my breath at the thought.

Once I am back in our bedroom I leave the wet towel on the bed and throw my hair into a knot at the back of my head, before jogging quietly down the stairs in a pair of jeans and a worn-out white tshirt. 

"You were home late last night," she remarks casually as I sit down at the table and pick up a piece of cold toast from the plate.

"Don't start, Sofia."

"I'm not starting, Harry," she snarls. "I'm just saying. It was past one when I looked at the clock and you weren't in bed. The pub shuts at midnight."

"So?"

"So, it doesn't take an hour to walk across the fucking estate!" she hisses.

"I was busy."

"Busy doing what? Or should I say, who?"

I roll my eyes, but a vision of Katie, the barmaid at the Flute and Fiddle, kneeling before me with her mouth round my dick at the back of the pub a couple of weeks ago dances in front of my eyes. Sofia doesn't know about that, as far as I know, but she has an uncanny knack of finding shit out.

"I thought you weren't starting," I remind her.

"Are you fucking someone else again?"

"For fuck's sake, woman!" I bang my fist on the table, causing the plate to jump an inch in the air and land with a clatter. I get to my feet.

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere I don't have to listen to your shit."

"Harry! Harry, don't walk out of here. If you fucking walk out of this house now I swear to God you needn't bother coming back! I'm sick of being your doormat, Harry. Harry! Are you fucking listening to what I'm saying -"

The slam of the front door cuts off her tirade as I leave the house, a piece of toast hanging from my mouth, pulling my jacket on as I jog down the front path. I can hear muffled crying coming from the home I have left behind, and I am almost tempted to turn back, but instead I cross the road and head towards the high street, chewing the toast, keeping my head down. 

It's too early for the pub to be open, and most likely no one is out of bed yet that would want to hang out, either. The idea of texting Katie springs to mind briefly, but I dismiss it almost immediately. I certainly don't need any more grief from Sofia, and to go out of my way to seek out Katie for a couple of hours' fun would probably tip Sofia over the edge if she ever got wind of it. And I get the impression Katie wouldn't hesitate to shoot her mouth off if she were provoked. I prefer my women on the side to be discreet.

I know I shouldn't be thinking like this, but if Sofia would just loosen up once in a while I wouldn't be tempted elsewhere. Would it kill her to make the effort with me occasionally? It's not like I would ever say no to the offer of a shag, or even just a hand job to be quite honest. I'd take what I can get at the moment, it's been that long since Sofia was interested. If I hear 'I'm tired' one more time, I won't be held responsible for where I stick my dick next time. There are plenty of women this world willing. Not just Katie.

I lift my head as a delicious smell wafts towards me from Mick's, the local greasy spoon at the end of the block. My stomach rumbles in response. Half a piece of toast isn't going to keep me going until whatever time is safe to return to the house, and who knows how long it will take Sofia to calm down? The temptation of a cooked breakfast is too much to bear, so I increase my pace almost to a jog and head in the direction of the front door of the café.

This place survives on its reputation alone: it is known throughout the estate for serving the best fry-ups this side of the community centre. But it doesn't look inviting from the outside. The windows are partly steamed up with condensation from within, which serves to hide the grime collecting in the wooden frames that are slowly rotting away. The shutters that protect the shop-front at night from attempted break-ins and petty vandalism are filthy and hanging crookedly, the left side higher than the right and dangling precariously above the door as I push it open to make my way inside. The sight of sticky tabletops covered with blue gingham plastic covers greets me as I wipe my feet on the dirty mat, and a couple of lone diners look up when the door clangs shut behind me. 

Once at the counter I order a full English and a pot of tea, and just as I have sat down at a table in the far corner to await my food the door opens again and a girl enters. I recognise her immediately: it's the mousy little barmaid from the Flute; the one who is terrified of everyone and everything. Chloe. I keep my head down and my gaze up, observing her with discretion as she approaches the counter nervously and waits to be served. 

What is the deal with her? Why is she so jumpy all the time? She has a permanent rabbit-in-the-headlights look on her face. I watch as she orders a coffee and fumbles with the coins in her purse, accidentally dropping a couple on the counter and glancing up at the assistant who is waiting with an outstretched hand and a bored expression. 

"Sorry," she mumbles hastily, and quickly hands him some change. He drops it into the till without a word, and she waits uncomfortably at the end of the counter while he busies himself making her drink. She gives him a hesitant smile as he sets it down in front of her, which he doesn't return, and then brushes her hair out of her eyes as she picks up her takeaway cup with a muttered thanks. As she turns away towards the door she catches sight of me, and does a double take. Something makes me look away from her; whether I feel ashamed at being caught witnessing her awkwardness and discomfort, or whether I'm just avoiding any potential interaction I'm not sure, but when I look up again the door to the cafe has closed behind her and I can see her hurrying away, her shoulders hunched, her gaze trained downwards on the dirty pavement. 

I stare after her retreating back for perhaps longer than I should, but once my breakfast is set in front of me with a clatter and a grimace I forget all about the strange girl who is afraid of everyone, and concentrate on my own problems; like how I am going to avoid another argument when I finally venture home, and whether or not Chris will be around later for a couple of beers and some business deals. The bills won't pay themselves, and I have to do whatever I can to make ends meet.

---***---

Just a short one for now, to introduce Harry properly into the story. Things are about to take an unexpected turn, and the next chapter will be up imminently!

What do you think so far?