A short story by Ben Duncan
Last year, with what he thought was a very fitting service, his wife had finally retired aged seventy-seven.
Now, almost on the anniversary of that event, Ross had finally saved enough money to pay the final instalment so he could also retire. He was eighty-one and, after a lifetime of toil, more than ready to move on.
Admiring the snapshot of his wife — his favourite picture of her, taken on their first holiday to Windermere — he moved aside the retirement cards from his former colleagues and lit a candle and placed it at the base of the picture frame. Eyes closed, trying desperately to recall an assembly from his school days, he said a short prayer in his head.
Examining the bank balance on his computer screen, he said into the small device provided by UKRetirementServicesTM, ‘I’m ready to join you my love.’
His wife, or the digital representation of his wife, answered that she was happy to hear that, and couldn’t wait to welcome him. She finished by saying that, for a limited time only, a -15% referral award could be applied to children and grandchildren.
As with any regular morning, Ross took his pills.
He took vitamins for his deficiencies.
He took blood thinners for his weak heart.
He took pills for high blood pressure.
He took pills to combat anxiety.
And finally, he took some new pills to reduce the chances of him shitting himself in public again.
Routine complete, he felt even and relaxed. He sat back down at his computer to complete the process of paying off the balloon payment at the end of his financing agreement with UKRetirementServicesTM. This was it. Despite the anti-anxiety medication, he had butterflies in his stomach. In the event the payment was sent, there would be no turning back — it would all be over. He felt elated, buzzing with energy. This was the beginning of the end.
Logging on to the website, he pulled out a folder from his desk and located his bank details. Entering the numbers onto the web page, he triple- and then quadruple-checked them: sort code, account number, amount, user code. His finger shook over the mouse button, and then, closing his eyes, he clicked it. When he opened them, the screen was static and nothing had changed. In a panic he hit F5, refreshing the page. The browser turned white, and on it he saw the numbers 500 with the words: Internal server error.
What do I do, what do I do? Ross asked his son over the phone. Ross had refreshed the page again, and this time he had been returned to step one: input user credentials. No confirmation had been received in his inbox, and therefore he had to conclude that he had been the victim of an error.
His son Charlie told him not to panic, these transactions are always registered somewhere. After all this, it will just be a question of tying up the lost record with the details on the transaction — that is if you put in the correct account code. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it’ll eventually find its way to the right place.
Before calling his son, Ross had tried to contact UKRetirementServicesTM, but could only find a chat-bot online, one which looped him back again and again to the FAQ page, which was of course no help at all. There was no phone number for the company, either. Ross even dragged out his old paper records complete with welcome pack, but found no telephone number and no email address that wasn’t a generic inbox that almost nobody ever checked.
He called his bank next, who told him that he would need to wait for the payment to clear before lodging a dispute. The customer service representative could see that the money had left his account already but the transaction had not yet cleared at the receiving end. Until then, there’s nothing we can do, sorry. Have a great rest of your day.
Four days had elapsed since the payment left his bank account, and still there was no confirmation email. From the bank’s perspective the payment had yet to clear.
In anticipation, before even trying to pay the final instalment, Ross had started packing his belongings away.
I know, I know, he said to Charlie, the company said they would do that, that it was all included in the package, but I was just too excited. These last few months have been terrible.
Boxes stacked around his flat led credence to his impending vacancy, which when the estate agent knocked to show prospective tenants around, Ross felt the need to explain: There’s been a problem.
The estate agent said, on hearing about Ross’s problem, Your problem is not my problem. I have a contract here which says your tenancy is ending, and there’s two people out there who are very excited, and very keen, to move in. Now, please, move aside.
And so the couple were shown around Ross’s flat, a flat he had shared with his wife for so many years. There was the coffee table where they had played chess so many times, his wife the ultimate champion. There was the folding leaf table where they had enjoyed so many fantastic meals together. Her Thai curry was Ross’s favourite, and she adored Ross’s mushroom pasta. Then there was the jointly made roast dinners — wow, what a treat!
During the viewing, Ross stood in the corner and tried to keep quiet. He felt like some kind of unusual fixture, a thing that used to serve a purpose but now the knowledge of how to use it was lost.
He said to Charlie that what he felt like was a ghost. He said that overseeing the viewing made him feel as if he had already retired and this was some kind of out of body experience or astral projection between this world and whatever waited for him on the side of endless sleep. I guess it’s actually more like a nightmare, he said.
The estate agent, talking to the viewing couple, nodded in the direction of Ross, stood still against the wall. Apologies for the inconvenience. Please, ignore him, he’s not here.
As much as he wanted to, Charlie couldn’t help his dad. Charlie had his own retirement to think about, and he had his children’s retirement to think about, as far away as that may seem. One day you’re twenty, then the next thing you know you’re forty-five and looking at your retirement fund and thinking, Oh, bugger. Still, Ross talked possible solutions with Charlie, but his son could sense the undertone, now maybe verging on criminal, and so in the end he ruled out helping altogether. There was simply no way he would take any kind of risk right now. Even having this conversation made him feel … made him feel — oh, I don’t know, just kind of weird.
Adding to Ross’ problems, the tenancy period on his flat was almost up. The property management company, Rainbow Lettings, sent a letter explaining that new tenants had been selected. Later on, the estate agent told Ross that the new tenants had been chosen by putting names into a bowl and randomly choosing one. It was the only fair way, he said.
Ross asked his son what he should do, should he just give up?
Charlie offered nothing and left. When Ross tidied up the drinks and the plate of Bourbons he noticed that Charlie had left something behind. In the crack of the cushion lay a tiny Victorinox Swiss Army knife, special edition 2021.
Message received, loud and clear.
He found a box of his retired wife’s clothes, a box that UKRetirementServicesTM had accidentally left behind when she retired. Ross suspected what he needed might be in there, and lucky for him, there was a pair of women’s tights, albeit with ladders.
With these over his head, Ross lurked at the end of a narrow street not far from his house. His heart beat wildly, hands trembled.
He hadn’t felt such panic, such excitement, since Chris Jones persuaded him to hide in the supply closet for an entire Spanish lesson. The initial plan was to emerge just after the teacher arrived, giving everyone a laugh. But then Chris said to Ross, Wait, what if they say we’ve been doing gay stuff. After briefly considering the theory, and concluding that people like Mark Burton would definitely tell everyone they had been doing gay stuff, they felt they had no choice but to wait out the duration of the lesson, hoping the teacher wouldn’t enter the cupboard for whatever reason. It was the longest hour of Ross’ life, and yet he remembered the prank fondly. It was the only time he ever acted out in school, and something he told few people about.
After a short, agitated wait at the end of the narrow street, Ross heard footsteps approaching. He stepped out, tiny Swiss Army knife thrust out before him like he was offering a pamphlet on the plight of Palestinians.
Give me money, Ross said.
Ross didn’t have much time to consider the suitability of his would-be victims, and in retrospect he would have passed on them. The man was large, had big arms, no hair and reddish skin like he was permanently angry. Despite his perceived angriness the man laughed, and his companion, a blonde woman with enormous pock-marked lips, joined in with the joyfulness.
Ross felt so enraged that the second defiant act of his life wasn’t being treated with the seriousness he thought it deserved. He quickly jabbed the knife into the man’s bare bicep, and the knife actually seemed to buckle under the resistance. The man laughed even harder, his head titled back. He didn’t seem to be aware that he had been stabbed. A gooey liquid streamed down his arm. The leaking fluid looked like transparent cottage cheese mixed with coagulated strands of blood.
Not sure what to say, Ross said to him, You have been stabbed!
The man laughed again, clutching his chest and coughing. The couple walked away, laughing. Codger says, give me money! Ha ha ha. You sir have been stabbed! Limbs everywhere, what a fucking classic.
The echoes of their laughter ran along the street, and Ross felt like the entire world could hear his humiliation.
Evicted from his flat, Ross made his way to Charlie’s house, but was told he couldn’t stay for long. The tenancy agreement on his son’s house only permitted five tenants. Charlie said he could come during the day, but couldn’t sleep there.
I know this comes as a blow, Charlie said, especially with everything that’s happened, but we can’t risk being out on the street as well.
He said he hoped his dad would understand his predicament. All the food and drink and everything else he needed would be here, but please, come in the back way where there’s no camera.
At night Ross gravitated underground for warmth. With his duffel bag he found himself on the lower level of a multi-story car park. Twenty yards or so from the entrance was an encampment of cardboard, wire fences and supermarket trollies. Surveying for a site to kip, Ross was interrupted by a man in a bomber jacket who asked if he could help.
Ross said he was just looking for somewhere to sleep.
Please, the man said, step into my office.
Ross and the man retreated behind a wire fence and sat down on two ratty office chairs. The man told Ross that he was in charge, and staying in the encampment would cost, but he was a reasonable man and they would be able to work something out. When Ross shirked at the idea, and said he had very little money, the man began selling the encampment to him.
All the heat from the cars, it keeps the place warm and dry, which will be a big problem in winter, trust me. It’s a fair rate, believe me. Others will charge much more for a similar spot.
There seemed to be nobody else around, but Ross had nowhere else to go. After his resolve melted, he was shown to a spot which he was told could be his. To sweeten the deal, the Boss threw in some free cardboard boxes — new boxes as well — and offered some frayed timber and a crate which could be used to build a privacy shield.
Look, Ross said, I have limited money available, I couldn’t stay for long.
Ah, the Boss said, so it’s a job you want is it?
With no stars, his first job was to clean the toilets. Ross would have to work his way to the kitchen.
It’s a privilege, his supervisor said.
It was 11am and Ross was starting his first shift. Already, a few people he recognised from the car park had come in for a coffee and to sit somewhere warm. Others, groups of young men and women, came in still wearing clothes from the night before, eating little.
Preparing his cleaning equipment, Ross heard giggles coming from outside the storeroom. He was the oldest employee by at least twenty years and people were already treating him like he was unwanted.
When he got to the toilet he moved aside to let a man out. The man was shaking his head and mumbling something incomprehensible. As a general assessment, Ross felt he was trying to communicate disgust, but maybe he didn’t speak English or maybe he was high. When Ross entered the toilet, he found a curled, nutty shit in the urinal. The putrid reek hit the back of his throat. His stomach convulsed, eyes naturally locating the toilet in the cubicle. He turned away, facing the mirror, but there it was, his nemesis facing him like a coiled python.
This was too much, he couldn’t do it. He told his supervisor that he couldn’t do it. He wanted to work, he really did, but he couldn’t do that. He asked if he could just clean tables, he wouldn’t mind doing that. He was good at wiping things down, very conscientious in that regard.
His supervisor said, Well, somebody has to clean that shit up, and if you want to prove to your younger peers that older employees are still worth something, that they just aren’t useless tottering oxygen thieves, then you should close your eyes, stick your hand in a plastic bag, and scoop that probably still-warm turd out of the urinal.
~
After paying his rent for a small area of floor space on the lower level of a car park, Ross had some money left over from his pay packet. Feeling haunted by the events of his first working day, he accepted an offer from a fellow lodger and huffed some Sally.
He had finally run out of his prescribed medication, and now he felt everything far too much.
He lay back on his cardboard boxes, took his shoes and socks off, and buried his toes in the silky fabric of his sleeping bag. Warm pulses surged up his body, and suddenly nothing seemed to matter. UKRetirementServicesTM could keep his money, he didn’t need to retire. Life wasn’t that bad after all.
This relief, of course, was only temporary.
By the time a week had passed in this fashion, Ross began to feel resentful, and then he felt guilty for feeling resentful. His new life wasn’t so bad, even if he wouldn’t ever get to retire. And yet he felt there was something missing, something important left unfinished, but he couldn’t quite define what it was.
He started declining offers of Sally, and instead decided to keep his head clean, spending his money on something else. Under his crate he began work on a secret project.
Ross scavenged for parts in bins: rope, leather, twine. He found a camping multi-tool still in the box, and used this to construct a shepherd’s sling.
Cleaning tables, he started to fantasise about acting out. Next month he would be 82, and yet a fire now burned in his chest. It was only a small fire, nevertheless a fire which pulled him through the days.
On his break he found an empty alley nearby and practiced using his shepherd’s sling, firing sauce pots against the wall. After a few days the wall was dotted with bursts of ketchup in varying stages of dryness.
Things can change, he told himself.
Things can change.
There’s still time.
Crouching in a bush near Charlie’s house, tights once again pulled over his head, Ross waited for his son and company to leave for their usual Sunday service. As Charlie ushered the kids out of the flat, Ross checked the rocks in his pocket. Taken from the crumbling roads, they had all been especially chosen for this mission. Each was a roughly spherical and grape-sized bullet weighing approximately the same as a sauce pot.
Family cleared, Ross emerged from the bush after checking along the road to make sure it was clear of any onlookers or sweepers. He took up a position underneath the CCTV camera outside his son’s house. Checking again that nobody was looking, that there was nobody in a window or on a doorstep, he then took the shepherd’s sling from his pocket and placed a rock in the palm. He started rotating the sling over his head, generating speed. The head of the CCTV camera looked down at him like an animal tilting it’s head. Ross aimed for the eye and released one half of the string holding the palm in place. As he did so, the CCTV camera emitted a hiss of gas. The jagged rock pinged off the lens, a small cloud of glass erupting. His tired legs unable to escape from the gas, he felt his heart tighten. Before he knew it, he was on his back, and felt like a bowling ball was being pressed into his chest. Every breath felt shorter than the last, and he knew that without his medication, this was the end.
Two young boys arrived, gaiters up over their mouths, and crouched down at Ross’s prone body.
He’s still breathing, one said.
He’s fucked, the other said.
Check what’s he got in his pockets.
A sweeper arrived on the scene, sirens blaring and blue-red lights scanning the surrounding houses.
Grab those rocks, quick.
The fuck is this rope thing.
Dunno, just take it.
The boys stood and, rocks in hand, started throwing them at the approaching sweeper.
Ross was in the closet in Spanish with Chris Jones.
Quick, now! The teacher is gone and we can finally leave.
Ross emerged from the dark closet, and the room might have been the classroom he remembered, but also it was somewhere else, a place familiar and yet strange. The room was filled with light and love.
From behind, Chris Jones pushed him on. Come on, he said. Quick, hurry!
Ross knew, emerging into the room, that someone was in there waiting for him, someone that he hadn’t seen for what felt like a very long time.
Overgound Underground: fiction, poetry, visual-linguistic ephemera
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