Robbing Peter

It was around the time I'd got into debt buying Marxist literature. I intended to sell it on, without profit, but couldn't even give it away. Nobody believed in politics anymore. It was all about solutions. I'd started to agree but didn't have any.

It was a last gamble as the cushion from the redundancy had now worn so thin I was left sitting uncomfortably on the cold hard floor, listening to the drip, drip, drip of the room filling with a sea of debt. Guess who couldn't swim or stop that tide coming in. With no visible means of income support and no money coming in, I was left having to rob Peter to pay Paul.

Paul's the local loan shark. At least that's what some do-gooder paid to get a temporary glimpse into how we have to live for a piece in the broadsheets, with suitably grainy accompanying pictures, would call him. We call him loads of names but usually refer to him as him we owe money. The one whose zero tolerance, another phrase I've never heard said just seen written, to missed payments has given him the nastiest reputation. I've seen people in tears when they found the Post Office shut for lunch and his money was due that morning. Success has brought him the tackiest cars and rings for all his fingers. The sort that leave dents in a fight. Or when how much is owed and by what date needs re-explaining. I'd only borrowed from him when the much more agreeable, in the way shit tastes better with sugar, Peter had said I could borrow no more. So one night my brilliant business mind had come up with the wheeze of paying one back with the money I'd borrowed from the other. It was a system that had worked for the banks for years.

A few weeks went by with me making no payments, meaning I got promoted. To the top of his wanted list, his first 'to do'. I didn't feel that worried, but had started to expect, when I peeped from a crack in the ever-drawn curtains to see a wanted poster with my name stuck to the lamppost. I'd took the batteries out of the bell and become skilled at hiding out of sight from anyone looking through the letterbox. The post being pushed through was enough to give me palpitations before I'd even opened it.

Having no money means going without and you can cope with this to a point. Don't look at the colour supplements when you're on supplementary benefits. What really throws the spanner in the works is when something leaps out from nowhere to confront your empty bank account and there's nothing there to fix it with. Which was why I'd had to borrow. No car means no transport. I couldn't drive around the industrial estates looking for jobs that didn't exist.

The whole family was having a run of bad luck. We were shopping, me cunning disguised by a hat, for the usual economy brands and reduced items when we succumbed to a special offer for fancy toilet paper. After the crap food, and I really could taste the difference, the whole family got a bout of diarrhoea, putting paid to our pretensions of grandeur. The fancy paper intended to be saved for impressing the relatives on their next reluctant visit was used in half the usual time. Never mind, there were plenty of other things they could look down on us about.

I was putting the bins out when I looked up to see but too late to move from, a finger covered in heavy rings as it jabbed me in the cheek. It hurt. I knew the threats were just a preamble to the violence so didn't even listen. I didn't have the money anyway. Marx had let me down by not selling out. I was expecting it but it was still a shock.

Where do you learn to headbutt? I've never seen lessons advertised, but some people have a real ability to do it right. It felt like Paul was world champion, leaving me on my haunches cartoon birds flying round in circles twittering. Whenever I've tried it, purely to buy some time while I run away, I've ended up more hurt than the intended victim. Left clutching my head as I crumple up to minimise the surface area they can give a kicking.

While still bleeding, I had a rush of blood from my head and decided it was time for some revenge. The sort that I could actually carry out. Low key, no violence, I wasn't capable of that. Patched up at the kitchen sink, I decided to return to the Paul's basement flat late that night - but not too late - to carry the plan out. All I needed was a bottle of water.

I tried to look inconspicuous on the street carrying the bottle. It wasn't too hard, only the cold made me look a little out of place. I walked past once then steeled myself and removed the cap. No curtains twitched. From the top of the steps leading straight to his front door I started to pour and watched the water trickle down the short flight of concrete. A thin layer of water was all I left as I set off back to the destination of my alibi, my own bed. It was freezing as I walked, the empty bottle placed quietly in one of the obtrusive wheelie bins that lined the road.

I knew it had worked when he failed to show up the next day and keep his promise to cause me more harm. But it was all just a guess as to what went on until I saw him near the pharmacy in the small parade of shops with some awkward crutches, property of the local hospital. I slipped away and waited for the story to feed back. It soon did. Round here no one likes a bully so couldn't keep their mouth shut with the glee of this ones mishap. A broken leg from a slip on his return from the pub that was being put down to icy steps and the fault of the council. All those tacky ambulance-chasing adverts would soon be getting a call from a now captive viewer asking if the council could be sued.

It wasn't over but it had bought me time. Not bad for a small outlay at the supermarket. The only thing I've ever bought from the economy range that's been worth having.