31 Years Banked

Stumbling into the street, face flushed from the over consumption of Shiraz, stomach groaning under pressure from the hefty rare steak which had followed his all time favourite, stuffed mushrooms laced with garlic. The aroma still lingering, fighting with the spicy fragrant tones of the aftershave Gary had dowsed himself in earlier that evening. He looked like he had walked straight from the window of Burtons, his speedy advancement at 31 to Bank Manager, due to an unexpected vacancy, had given him the salary he had longed for but had no idea how to manage.
The wind was a pleasant refresher but the rain barely had chance to touch his skin as he leapt into his treasured BMW and stretching his long legs across the black leather seats he collapsed. Thirty minutes later, “Your home boss”, Dave said his voice slightly rose in an effort to awaken the now snoring Birthday boy. As he picked his way carefully up the path he groped around for his key. He took the package Stu had slipped him earlier from his blazer pocket and laid the contents out on the coffee table. Grabbing the suede bean bag in one hand and flicking the remote control with the other he flopped down and gazed at the magnificent view which dominated his loft apartment. Only the second time he had partaken and as the syringe dropped from his grasp it would be the last.
Stumbling along the street, the raw skin on his heels chafing with every step. Cold from the biting wind, damp and heavy as the rain penetrated his grubby threadbare garments, his stomach twisting and groaning from hunger, Barry wondered into the yard behind the Angel Arms. He cared little for his life and hated himself for not having the strength to end it. His speedy decline from Bank Manager had followed a period of deep depression that still lingered.
The fire had taken his home, his young family and his life as he had known it. Now at 31 he roamed the city streets of Manchester, lonely and lost, his only motivation was to relieve the ache of hunger, the only feeling he could relate to. He was always sure to find a discarded meal here amongst the restaurant waste. He dragged the empty plastic crate into position and clambered up the side of the industrial sized bin and lowered himself slowly, so drained from pacing the tarmac. He picked through the remains and before long the cramps had subsided and his stomach settled.
Exhausted he stretched out his long legs, glad to finally be off his feet, and dug his way into the garbage to shelter from the weather; he wouldn’t be seen here and moved on. He wasn’t bothered by the stench that naturally lingered in such places, his sense of smell taken in the frantic battle to save his loved ones. “This would do for tonight” he thought. It was to be his last.
At the City’s land fill site the coroner speculated “Let us hope that hypothermia took him before the crusher did”
Greater Manchester Police said that they were not treating the deaths as suspicious.
The Local news crushed fears that mortgage rates would be affected.