William's Startling Emails

  William’s Startling Emails

  William’s Startling Emails

  Josephine Falla

  Copyright © 2012 Josephine Falla

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicestershire LE8 0RX, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1838599 331

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For David and Michael

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  CHAPTER 1

  It was during one of his periodic bouts of smouldering resentment at the way his life had turned out that William Penfold first thought of emailing God. It seemed more modern than praying, somehow. More up to date. Anyway, he didn’t want to pray. He wanted to protest. He’d been on this earth about 70 years or so, he thought, give or take. He wasn’t quite sure of the exact length of time. The point was, he did not like the way he was living. It was not comfortable enough. Most of the time he was angry about things. He didn’t want to be perpetually angry. He wanted serene comfort. He would tell the Lord about it all and see if He could put it right.

  Informing the Lord about his situation by email meant deciding what the best address was. He gave the matter some thought. TheLord@cyberspace.com didn’t seem right, somehow. Neither did theAlmighty@heaven.org.uk; he had a sudden feeling that ‘orgs’ were something to do with websites, not emails. Besides, who was to say that God resided in the UK? He could be any nationality, surely? Or, even more likely, not of any nationality. Nor of any particular gender, either.

  That idea startled him. He paused to consider if he wanted anything to do with a female god. On the whole, he thought, no. Having a woman in charge might take him back to the days when. On the other hand, if that was what he had to deal with, he had no choice. He would have to assume it was a male god unless proved wrong. So what did he want to deal with?

  He wanted to deal with the Boss. The Boss of all Bosses. Were there any other gods? There were certainly other religions, other beliefs, each of which was convinced that it was THE one. Each belief had its own god. There must be dozens of gods. Might be, anyway. Well, he couldn’t send emails to all of them, on the off chance.

  In the end, he settled for topgod@theuniverse.com. It seemed to cover all situations. He took a slow, leisurely drink, sat back in his chair and considered what he wanted to say. The anger was still bubbling inside him but was partially suppressed on account of the need to consider the correct choice of words. Words that would convey his sense of fury and despair. Words that would spur the Almighty to act in a compassionate and helpful way. Eventually, he typed:

  Dear God

  You useless bloody waste of space – why don’t you help me? I can’t stand any more and what the fuck do you do? Nothing, sod all!

  Yours sincerely

  William Penfold

  He took another swift drink and considered what he had written. He wasn’t pleased with it. It could be improved. He gave it some thought, then altered it to:

  Dear God

  You useless bloody waste of space – why don’t You help me? I can’t stand any more and what the fuck do You do? Nothing, sod all!

  Yours faithfully

  William Penfold

  Manager

  He read it again. The capital letters definitely gave it a more respectful tone. He was surprised to see that he had added ‘Manager’ to his name. He had forgotten that. That belonged to the days when. He couldn’t remember, however, what he had been ‘manager’ of. But it didn’t matter.

  He clicked on Send and set off for the pub. There he met up with Jimmy Donovan; they downed a few pints, at first in a convivial mood. As the evening progressed they became more morose. Jimmy said he knew where they could get some really good stuff that would cheer them up but they would need money. Real money. Neither of them had more than the price of a few more pints. William became inwardly angry again. He left in a bad mood and set off towards his home, mumbling and swaying slightly. As he turned into his street, a downwardly mobile row of rather grubby terraced houses, he saw his nextdoor neighbour, Mrs. Brenner, on her doorstep, letting in her cat.

  “Evening,” he said, “cat’s alright then.” Why he said this, he didn’t know. He loathed Mrs. Brenner. And her cat. Interfering old biddy.

  “Drunk again, then, Mr Penfold.”

  “Mind your own bloody business.”

  Sod her. Sod the lot of ’em. He got into his home, searched round for something to drink and found an already-opened can of lager which still had some left inside. He sat down in front of the telly. Question Time. It must be Thursday. Bunch of tosspots arguing over something or other. Incomprehensible. He switched channels but found nothing remotely watchable. The computer. He’d do something on the computer. If it still worked. He’d find an interesting website to look at. He lurched, stumbling, towards his PC and half fell into his chair in front of it. He opened his email programme.

  Christ! There was a reply from God!

  God had sent him a reply!

  Some stupid bugger from Google! Must be. Someone who was going to fine him for something or other.

  All the same, he’d better open it. He found himself curiously apprehensive. There seemed to be a lot of an enveloping darkness around him and the bright screen seemed to be compelling him to absorb its message.

  He clicked on ‘Open’. The message read:

  What do you think is your problem?

  That was all. No ‘Dear William’, no ‘Regards, God’. Just ‘What do you think is your problem?’ He felt the fury well up inside him. Of all the stupid, patronising, brainless cretins – what an answer! If God didn’t know what the problem was, who did?

  Angrily, he pressed File and then Print. He wanted to see this email, see it in all its rudeness, study it to work out its origin. Only then did he remember that he did not have a printer. Why he did not have one he did not know. But he didn’t. The email was there, but he could not print it. His anger grew, fuelled by frustration.

  He needed a drink. Boy, did he need a drink! The lager was finished. He swayed along the passage to the kitchen and began hunting for something, anything, to drink. Amidst all the assorted piles of empty cans and bottles, at the back of a cupboard, he was in luck. One more can of lager. Looking round, he saw a pile of various pills behind the toaster. He could not remember what they were for or when he was supposed to take them, but he knew they were important.
Blue ones, he thought. I have to have two blue ones, I remember that. And three of those little white ones. He opened a packet of capsules. They were pink. Damn.

  Finally he took one of the pink ones and two white ones. I’ll have the blue later on, he thought. When I’ve found them.

  There was a half-open packet of digestive biscuits on the table, so he took those back with him to the sitting room. Right. Now, what to say to God? The cheek of it! ‘What do you think your problem is?’

  Well, what was his problem? He paused. Was it that he couldn’t remember what he had been manager of? Was it that he didn’t seem to be having a comfortable sort of life? Was it that he just didn’t have the sort of drink he wanted? He didn’t really care for all this beer and lager. He knew that but he couldn’t afford anything better.

  So was his problem drink? Was that it?

  No. He liked drink. That wasn’t his problem. His problem was that he couldn’t afford it. He didn’t have enough money. That was his problem.

  Pleased at having solved the question posed to him on the email, he constructed his reply.

  My problem is obvious. I haven’t got enough money, have I? Why can’t You do something about it? And why don’t You do something about Mrs. Brenner while You’re at it? Deck Mrs. B., she’s a nasty old cow.

  William Penfold

  Administrative Manager

  Triumphantly, he pressed Send.

  Then he lay down on the sofa and fell asleep. In the middle of the night he woke up and was amazed to remember that he had put ‘Administrative’ in front of ‘Manager’. What on earth did that mean? What was an administrative manager? Puzzling over this he fell asleep again.

  Next day dawned bright and sunny, but that was lost on William, as he didn’t struggle off the sofa until after ten-thirty. He tottered to the toilet, which fortunately was downstairs, and from there to the kitchen. There was very little to eat in the kitchen and, more importantly, nothing to drink. Nothing that he wanted to drink, anyway. Even the milk smelt a bit funny. No tea then. No coffee. No proper drink. A few slices of bread. Small tin of beans? Nah. Most of the label had come off, but the bit that was left didn’t look like beans. He would have to go to the shop, the mini-market, two streets away.

  Money. Had he got enough? A hasty search revealed a five pound note and four one pound coins. That was it. He tried to remember when the Social people would call. They usually sorted out his money. Sometimes he wrote down when they said they were coming. Sometimes they wrote and told him, gave him dates, but he almost always threw those away. He didn’t know. He would have to live on the fiver and the coins until they came. Anyway, the electricity was working. Must be. He’d had an email from God, hadn’t he? Wait till he told Jimmy Donovan! He’d piss himself laughing.

  No. No, definitely not. He must not tell Jimmy or anybody else anything at all about the email. Especially the social workers. They would – what was the word? – they would section him. Again. They would take him away to that place with red curtains, where they hadn’t let him out and tried to stop him drinking and tried to get him to talk about the time when. Well, he wasn’t going to talk about the time when, so there. They were always asking him about voices, but he didn’t hear any voices, he kept telling them all. No voices. Now emails – different thing altogether. But this was private. This was real.

  CHAPTER 2

  He set off, banging his front door firmly behind him. Outside, an ambulance was parked. He held on to the doorpost in sudden terror. Had they come for him? So quickly? But no – two ambulance men were rolling a stretcher out of Mrs. Brenner’s. She was on the stretcher, pale and unconscious, with a livid mottled bruise on her forehead.

  “What’s the matter with her?” he asked the men.

  “Dunno at this stage. She’s got a bad bruise on her head. Must have fallen and hit herself on something.”

  “Struck by a thunderbolt, I expect,” he muttered, as he watched the ambulance drive off.

  The implication of what he had just said didn’t sink in straightaway but when it did he felt his legs begin to crumble beneath him. Was this God’s doing? And, if so, was it because he, William Penfold, had requested it?

  Surely not! Surely the Almighty would not deliberately floor Mrs. B. just because he had suggested – no, demanded – it? All the same, it was a funny sort of coincidence.

  He turned and went back into his own house. He stared at the computer. Another email, he would send another email. After much thought he typed:

  What did You do that for? I didn’t really mean for the stupid old bat to get hurt like that. What I want is money.

  William Penfold

  Administrative Manager

  Firmly, he pressed Send. For some time he continued to stare at the screen; then he hauled himself to his feet and wandered along to the kitchen again, but there was still nothing much to eat or drink. Lots of empty cans and bottles, all over the place, but no new, full ones. Opening one of the cupboards proved lucky, though, for he found three slices of bread at the back which didn’t smell too bad. He put two of them into the toaster, which reminded him of the pills he hadn’t taken, as they were stacked in a heap behind it. This time he found and took two of the blue ones, and a white one, just to be on the safe side. There was a scraping of marge, to go with the toast, and just water to drink. Well, better than nothing. But not much.

  Time to go shopping. He set off along the passage, past the toilet, and paused at the doorway of the sitting room. He found he could not resist going closer to the computer. Slowly, almost in a trance, he reached forward and opened the email programme.

  There was a reply. Another missive from the Top Guy. Or Gal.

  Hand shaking he clicked on Open. It said:

  Mrs. Brenner needs help.

  Bloody hell! She needs help! I need help. How can I help her? Why should I anyway? I don’t even know what hospital she’s in, do I?

  Shopping. Do some shopping. Get some food. Get something to drink. He set off briskly, in a determined mood. Outside his front door, in front of the step, was a large ginger cat.

  Mrs. Brenner’s.

  Animal and man regarded each other. Christ, was this what the Top Guy meant? Was he supposed to look after the moggy till the old bat came home? His heart sank. He didn’t want – what didn’t he want? He didn’t want the responsibility. He couldn’t look after himself – he knew that – he hadn’t done any looking after anybody or anything since the time when and he sure as hell didn’t want to be bothered right now with a flaming cat.

  Damn and blast it. He hadn’t got money for himself, never mind a cat.

  He turned to close the front door firmly but the cat was quick. It was inside before he had a chance to kick it out of the way.

  He shrugged and turned towards the shops. In the mini-market he bought milk and bread and a tin of beans. He was about to reach for a can of lager when he thought of the wretched cat. What did cats eat? Had he ever had a cat? As usual he couldn’t remember. Tinned mice perhaps? Eventually, he found the pet food section and bought the largest, cheapest can of cat food he could see. There was enough left over for two bottles of cheap beer. He set off back home, muttering curses to himself about the arrival of the cat into his daily routine.

  Once home, he made himself a coffee and a piece of toast and sat down in front of the telly. He had forgotten about the cat, but it appeared from nowhere and started to rub itself against his trousers.

  Hell’s bells, it wants food, he thought. Muttering to himself he rose unsteadily to his feet and swayed towards the kitchen. There he managed, after a struggle, to open the tin of cat food and dished out a portion of it into a saucer. The cat fell on it instantly. After a little thought, he filled another saucer with a little milk. There. That was the animal settled.

  He watched it finish the food and have a sip or two of the milk, then he opened the back door wide and invited his unwelcome guest to leave. The cat took one look, turned, fled down the passageway from
the kitchen and shot upstairs.

  Blast and bugger it, it’s gone upstairs. He hadn’t been upstairs for ages. He found he could manage perfectly well without the trouble and worry of getting up and down the stairs. He didn’t want the cat up there. If he let it go up there it would make a home up there, and bring its friends in.

  He pondered the situation. Eventually he decided that he’d have to get the cat down and he started on the precarious and wobbly business of ascending the stairs. About 10 minutes later he reached the top. There were three rooms upstairs – the main front bedroom, a smaller one at the back and a tiny bathroom, which he never used these days. He stumbled into the main bedroom. It contained a double bed with rumpled bed clothes, which obviously hadn’t been slept in for ages. There was an old battered dressing table and an old battered wardrobe, whose door was swinging open. He lurched forward to close the door – and the cat leapt out with a rush. “Damn thing,” he muttered. As he touched the door he caught a glimpse of a jacket inside the wardrobe, hanging on a battered coat hanger. Suddenly interested, he tore the jacket off the hanger, sat on the bed and inspected the garment.

  Well, it must be his. He didn’t recognise it. But it was his house, wasn’t it? He stared at it closely. It was good quality. It reminded him of the days when. He felt in all the pockets. In the inside breast pocket he found a wallet. In the wallet he found a credit card in the name of W. Penfold. And some money. Actual money! Notes and coins. Excitedly he added it up. £76.84 pence! It was his. Must be his.

  He put the jacket on. He felt different. A different sort of man. The sort of man who had a credit card, who had money in his pocket, who wore a jacket. As in the days when.

  He stood up, still unsteady. Got to get down the stairs. Worse going down than coming up. Gingerly, he began the descent. God, he needed a drink. As he negotiated the last step, he realised that he didn’t know where the cat was. It might still be up there. Well sod it, it would have to stay there. He wasn’t going up there again for any fuckin’ moggy.