Cold Call

Cold Call

In the dingy corner shop, the man held his last ten-pound note to his chest.

‘It’ll work,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘Persistence pays.’

He thought of his boy. Shoes worn through, quiet on the bus, quiet about the cancelled weekends too.

The man had done courses, filled out applications, and made calls that nobody returned.

One day he broke down and called his family for help.

They told him to be a man. After that, they stopped answering his calls.

‘Persistence,’ he said.

He put the note on the counter. Mrs Patel moved it aside and filled his small black case with blue dust cloths.

Outside, the grey sky hung low over the street.

The man pulled his scarf up and walked through the estate. The air smelled of damp concrete. A mattress leaned against a fence. Bins overflowed. A yellow football lay burst beneath a hedge.

Children in dark uniforms passed him. One dragged a loose shoelace through a puddle.

For a moment, he wished he was back at school.

An hour later, he reached Pemberton Heights. He rubbed his calves and looked at the houses. New bricks. Pavements clean enough to eat from. Houses all the same, built for brochures.

He unfolded a scrap of paper from his wallet.

Birthday ideas.

Tudor book.

Football.

Chocolate fudge cake.

New shoes.

He folded it and tucked it away.

He knocked at the first house.

No answer.

The wind cut through his scarf as he turned away.

At the second house, a black Range Rover sat outside. Rain beaded on the polished bonnet.

His fingers stung when he knocked.

A young man opened the door. Clean shirt. Hard eyes. ‘What is it?’

He held up the case. ‘Dusters. Two quid.’

The young man looked him over, stopping at his tatty trainers. ‘You serious? Mate, get yourself a proper job.’

‘I’ve tried, but—’

‘Tried,’ the young man said. ‘I did a year as an intern before I got anything. You won’t make money shoving rags at people.’

The door shut before he could answer.

The man turned to the Range Rover. He stood there a moment. His knuckles tightened around his bedsit key. He dragged it across the bonnet. The scratch sang through the quiet.

He drew in a staggered breath and walked on.

Wind chimes clinked in the drizzle.

At the next house, a woman in a cashmere cardigan answered.

He held up the case. ‘Dusters. Two quid.’

She looked past him and rolled her eyes. ‘I do my bit for charity.’

‘Charity?’

She smiled. ‘The National Hedgehog Trust. So, no.’

The door shut. He stared at the laughing hedgehog knocker before moving on.

Doors opened and closed.

Rain hit his face. He moved from door to door.

At the next house, a robotic mower wandered over the grass.

He practised a smile in the door’s dark glass. Then knocked.

A girl in pink rubber gloves answered.

He held up the case. ‘Dusters. Two quid.’

She looked at him, at the case, at the rain. ‘Go on then.’

He gave her a pack of dusters.

She gave him the coins. ‘Hang on.’ She went inside and came back with a steaming cup of tea. ‘Here, you look frozen.’

He put the case down and took it with both hands. ‘Thank you.’

It was weak and too sweet, but it warmed him.

‘Best get back to it.’ She smiled before closing the door.

He stood there in the wind and thought about his family. How they never checked if he was all right. If he was still alive.

He drank the tea and watched his breath rise white in the air. The rain came down a little harder.

The cup was empty. A chip ran along the rim. He set it on the wall, picked up his case, and went on.

At the next house, he went up the path. The wind pushed him back a step.

No answer.

The sky darkened.

He crossed the street.

The black Range Rover screeched to a stop beside him. Rap music shook through the doors.

The young man jumped out. White vest. Tight cream trousers that clung to his thin legs.

He pointed at the scratch. ‘Think I wouldn’t notice? Scumbag. What’s your problem?’ He grabbed the case.

The man held on.

They pulled. Struggled. The handle snapped.

The man fell back into a puddle and cold water soaked right through his coat.

The young man stood over him. ‘You’re lucky I don’t call my dad. He’ll break your fucking legs.’

He got in the car. The tyres spun on the wet road, throwing water against the kerb.

The man stood and, one by one, gathered the scattered dusters. Water ran from his hair into his eyes.

In the gutter, a paper bag lay split open. He took out the soggy tuna sandwich and read Mrs Patel’s handwritten note. Persistence.

The black ink blurred.

Rain hammered the rooftops. His socks squelched inside his trainers as he moved under an oak tree and sat on the case.

Bus lights passed through the storm. White smears in the grey.

His phone pinged. A voice note from his son.

He wiped his finger dry on his trousers and pressed play.

‘Hi, Dad. Tudors again. I asked Miss Moss why Henry the Eighth had so many wives. She said he was an evil man. Said the rules don’t consider women. I didn’t understand. Anyway, can’t wait for the weekend. Mum and her boyfriend are fighting again, so—’

It cut off.

He pressed record. ‘I’m out getting your birthday present. Can’t wait to see your face. Love you, lad. See you at the weekend.’

He sent it.

The soggy sandwich lay beside him. He ate the dry parts.

Across the road, a refuse lorry stopped. A man wheeled a bin over and clipped it onto the lifting arm. The bin rose, tipped, and rattled as the rubbish fell out. A broken picture frame. Wine bottles. A teddy bear with one ear missing.

For a moment, he saw his head beneath the wheel, crushed flat.

The thought passed as quick as it came.

He looked at the packaging as the refuse truck ate it. Bright colours. Shiny smiling faces. Big slogans. It wasn’t the things people bought. It was what they promised.

The man thought of his boy. The shoes. The birthday weekend.

He opened the case and tore a wrapper. The duster hung limp in his hand. He folded it into a neat square and held it up.

Orange leaves fell and blew across the street as he walked to the next house.

A fat pug sat in the window, collar tight and shining.

He straightened his shoulders and knocked. Loud. Quick.

A woman opened the door, still in her pyjamas.

He held up the duster. ‘Afternoon, madam. Pets First Foundation. We’re trialling these with pet owners. No harmful fibres like you get with regular cloths. Better for the animals, better for the home.’

Her eyes went to the pug. ‘Harmful. Is that true?’

‘We wouldn’t sell these otherwise.’

‘How much?’

‘Six quid a pack.’

‘I’ll take two.’ She hurried inside. ‘Don’t worry, muffin, mummy’s sorting it out.’

Cupboards opened. Drawers slammed.

She came back with her purse and pressed the money into his wet hand. Then she went to the bin and threw away the old dusters. She nodded at the man before shutting the door.

He stepped away, waiting for shame. It didn’t come.

The man looked at the houses. Gardeners kept the hedges ruler-straight. Two cars sat on the drives.

The wind slipped through his coat as he rushed from door to door. He promised miracle dusters. Hypoallergenic. Charity packs. Sometimes they sold. Sometimes they didn’t.

Soon his case felt light, his pocket heavy.

Black clouds swept in. Thunder shook the air.

He came to a house with an electric car, four recycling bins, and a sign that said, We Compost.

Sprinklers hissed across the lawn.

A man in a yellow raincoat tipped eggshells and potato skins into a bin.

The man tore open a pack and hid the plastic in his pocket. He held up the cloth.

He stepped forward. ‘Good afternoon, sir. I’m with Green Future Alliance. We’re trialling these. No plastic fibres in them. Eco-friendly. They last an entire year. Cuts landfill significantly.’

The eco-man pinched the cloth between finger and thumb. ‘Feels a bit thin, doesn’t it?’

‘Less material. Less waste. We’ve only got one planet, and it’s worth saving, isn’t it?’

‘Bloody right. We do our best here. Compost, recycling, all of that.’

The man stood there, his trousers clinging to his legs.

The eco-man studied him. His brow creased. ‘Must get people who don’t care at all.’

‘I do.’

‘How much?’

‘Eight pounds.’

The eco-man let out a short laugh. ‘Eight pounds. That’s nothing, is it.’ He took out his wallet. ‘I’ll take three. My son’s terrified. Global warming. This will put his mind at ease, knowing people are out there fighting for his future.’

He pressed thirty pounds into the man’s hand and waved off the change.

The notes were warm in his hand and looked no different to honest money.

The eco-man went on. ‘But do make sure you’re working for the right kind of organisations. Lot of greenwashing out there.’

The man turned away. He tried to stand still but the wind pushed him forward.

His phone pinged. Another voice note. He pressed play.

‘Mince and dumplings for dinner, Dad. Gravy was lumpy. Peas like bullets. I ate it, though. What did you have? Hope it wasn’t as bad as mine.’

The man pressed record.

‘You got something hot. That’s what matters, son. If it wasn’t for free school meals, I’d have starved.’ His thumb brushed the damp case. ‘Anyway, I’ve wrapped up your present. Can’t wait to see your face when you open it.’

He sent it.

Thunder rattled the sky.

The man sat under the oak tree and counted the money. Notes and coins. Ninety-two pounds.

He sat on the case, laughing. He didn’t stop when the tears came. He thought of his boy. New school shoes. Chocolate cake. Candles. For once, he came through.

A beetle crawled across his hand. He watched it, making no attempt to brush it away.

The storm broke overhead.

He let his back rest against the trunk and drew in a staggered breath. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sound of rain.

His phone rang. The name Medusa flashed on the screen.

He answered. ‘Yeah.’

‘Weekend’s cancelled,’ the woman said.

‘Please. No. Don’t do this to me. To him.’

The line went dead.

He stood at the edge of the road, his vision blurred.

Lightning split the sky.

The phone fell from his hand.

A bus came fast around the corner.

He stepped out—