The man sat on the worn-out, scuffed grey couch, only half paying attention to the TV. On the flatscreen in front of him (a surprisingly high-end appliance to find in a government-funded council flat, but such were the discrepancies of the national welfare system) a football team in burgundy and sky blue found themselves in dire straits against their white-clad opponents, who hovered around the goalmouth like vultures around a wounded prey. Seeing that the outcome would hardly be favourable for his preferred side, the man reached for the remote at his side, switching off the set with a disgusted grunt:
"Useless bloody blight'ahs...!"
His attention now fully drawn from the afternoon sport, he whirled around in his seat to shout down the corridor:
"Oi! Where's me bloody pizza 'en?!"
The cry initially met with no response, other than the faint shooting noises already coming from somewhere down the hallway. Then, after a moment, a massive woman, with badly dyed scarlet hair and clad in a dark blue tracksuit, came lumbering out of the kitchen, raising her voice to match his:
"Woooooot?!"
"Me blimmin' pizza!", the man repeated. "Ah asked yez ta make it me bloomin' ages ago!"
The woman scoffed, as if her interloper's had been an utterly unacceptable request, and sneered:
"Make it yerself!"
The man gasped, his face flushing crimson. He raised an arm and gritted his teeth, as if intending to say something unpleasant, then relented, and instead directed his cry to the noises at the end of the hall:
"Oi! Laddie!"
A teenage voice rose above the sounds of shooting:
"Wooooot?!"
"Be a mate an' go down the chippie f'r me?"
"Can't be buvvered, innit", the voice retorted. The man once again flustered, rising from his seat as if intending to storm the youth's room and drag him out by his sensitive parts. Instead, however, he once again backed down, heaving a sigh as he reached for the bottle of Jack on the table next to the couch:
"Woss a bloke got ta do ta get a leetle nosh round 'ere?! Bloody 'ell!"
He took a few generous swigs of whiskey, then got up off his seat once again, this time making it to the door before being intercepted by his giant-sized companion:
"Where ya goin'?"
"Down Ladbroke's, leyke!" What business was it of hers, anyhow? Nosy fuckin' cunt! What was he thinking, shacking up with her?
"Did ya get me giro?"
He flashed her his toothiest, cheekiest grin, relishing his chance to finally get one back at her:
"Get it yerself!"
Then, with a wink, he grabbed his jacket and strode out the door, before his companion or anyone else could stop him.
Once outside, he took a whiff of air before setting off at a bouncy pace, enjoying his freedom. Trips to the bookie were amongst his few chances to get a reprieve from the woman and her son. As happened whenever he managed to break free from their grasp, the man wondered just exactly what had possessed him to involve himself with a woman with a kid. Him of all people - the ultimate free bird- having to play Daddy to some pimple-faced snot! Cor blimey, O'Riley! Slag was not even that good a shag!
And they drove him up the wall, too, those two did. Absolutely mental! The bird had been talking some bollocks about him knocking her up - absolute rubbish, he knew. He knew better than to go in unprepared with these birds; they were just looking for an excuse to snag a bloke and tie him down for life, were these slags. That is why he always kept his sport bag hidden away, at the ready; should the need arise, all he would have to do was take it and walk out the door.
As he walked towards the town centre, vaguely considering if it was worth continuing to bet on his team of worthless wankers, his mobile phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He whipped it out quickly, fully intending to hang up if it was that fat cow checking on him. When he saw who it was, however, his heart skipped a beat, and he pressed it to his ear quickly.
"I need you. Get your ass down here", said the American voice at the end of the line, without even as much as a greeting.
"Ah'd luv to, luv", the man replied, with a chuckle, "but ah'm skint."
His interloper did not miss a beat:
"I've checked. A one-way flight costs around 300 pounds for you. You think you can come up with that much?"
The man considered this for a while. It would be a way to escape his captors, and not at all out of his reach financially; he still had some fallout from his previous career stashed away in a safe place. Neither the cow nor the little runt knew about it, of course; for all they knew, he was as skint as an alley cat. And he would not have it any other way; if those two found out about his "cushion", as he called it, he would be destitute in less time than it took to eat a bacon buttie off Gregg's. The point was, 300 quid was not hard for him to round up, and the outcome would be worth every penny. He spoke up again, not wanting to sound too eager:
"When d'ya need me, 'en?"
"As soon as you can be here", was the answer. "But it has to be before Friday night."
Crikey! That was tight! He would have to put in a couple of solid days down at the pier. But it would all be for a good cause - his freedom.
"Alrite. I'll try me best."
The voice at the other end brightened up considerably:
"Thanks, dude! Keep me posted!"
The man hung up, sliding the phone into his pocket, and grinned. Here he was looking for a way out, and it had fallen right on his lap. And doing something he liked, as well! Could not be better!
It was still with the same goofy grin plastered on his features that he turned on his heels, all thoughts of sporting bets quickly discarded, and all but ran back home to get his little black bag from its secret spot. Goodbye, Flat 305-D, 25 Waltham Forest Estate, he thought as he jogged briskly back to the council blocks; his old life was calling, and he was going to answer.
