51
Jimmy Patel looked up as the door opened and the bell tinkled. It was ten o’clock at night, which was about the time that the drunks started to turn up. The problem was that drunks were often the best customers – they wanted more booze or cigarettes or a snack and generally they didn’t quibble about the prices. They didn’t usually steal, though. Not like the schoolkids who came in during the day. Jimmy’s father had Sellotaped a notice to the door saying that no more than two schoolkids were allowed in at the same time, but if Jimmy had his way he wouldn’t let any in. They had the morals of sewer rats, and were just as cunning and quick. They’d shove a chocolate bar or a pack of sweets down their trousers and run out of the shop before he could do anything. Not that there was much he could do. He couldn’t lay a hand on them, and they knew it. And the police weren’t interested. The first few times he’d called nine nine nine but the operators had said that it wasn’t an emergency and that he should call the local policing team. But they almost never answered their phone and when they did they said that shoplifting was very low on their priorities.
It might have been low on their priorities but it was important to Jimmy and his family. Margins were tight, and his rent and rates were all going up faster than inflation, and every pound that walked out of the door represented food off his plate. Jimmy worked twelve hours a day, every day, but he doubted that he ended up with more than if he was on the dole claiming benefits like most of his customers.
The man who walked into his shop wasn’t on the dole, though. The stethoscope around his neck suggested he was a doctor, and by the look of it a man who’d had a hard day. Jimmy Patel smiled at the customer. There had been a time when Jimmy had thought about becoming a doctor, but his father had persuaded him that he was needed in the shop.
‘All right?’ said Jimmy.
The doctor grunted and walked down the centre aisle of the shop, looking left and right.
‘Can I help you find something?’ called Jimmy, but the doctor ignored him. Jimmy looked over at the curved mirror on the wall near the ceiling that gave him a view of the parts of the shop he couldn’t see from behind the till. The doctor reached the end of the aisle and stood looking at the cleaning products. He bent down and took out an orange plastic bottle. He stared at the label for a few seconds, then turned and walked back to the till.
Jimmy looked at the bottle the doctor was holding. Mister Muscle drain cleaner. ‘Blocked drain?’ asked Jimmy.
‘How much?’ The doctor’s voice was hard and lacked any emotion. He sounded as if he’d just come off a long shift.
‘You know what, you’re better off with the bigger size,’ said Jimmy. ‘You get twice as much but it’s only 20p more. We’re getting a deal at the wholesaler.’ He gestured at the bottle in the doctor’s hand. ‘That’s old stock. You’re better off with the bigger one, seriously.’
The doctor looked at Jimmy blankly, nodded and then went back down the aisle. He reappeared a few seconds later holding the larger size.
‘There you go, that’s much better,’ said Jimmy.
The doctor tucked the bottle under his left arm and fumbled for his wallet. He handed over a ten-pound note.
‘Do you want a bag for that?’ asked Jimmy.
The doctor turned and headed for the door.
‘Hey, your change!’ The bell tinkled as the door opened and the doctor stepped out into the street. ‘Hey, mate, don’t forget your change!’ shouted Jimmy. The door banged shut and Jimmy cursed under his breath. He opened the till, put in the ten pounds and quickly counted out the change. He stepped out from behind the register and hurried over to the door. He pulled it open and looked down the street. The doctor was sitting on the pavement, his feet stretched out into the road. Jimmy opened his mouth but before he could say anything the doctor tilted back his head and began to drink from the orange bottle.