Think Yourself Lucky Read Free

If the culprits haven't gone out to work I expect they're watching television or more likely on the internet. I feel as if I'm surrounded by an electronic mind that swarms with random thoughts. How much of my day happened as I've told it? All that matters is this will. I've reached Mr Accident's house.
    It's well out of sight of mine, around more than one bend. With its carriage lamp sticking out of the shallow porch of plastic wood it looks as if it wants to be an inn, unless it's wishing it were in a street a lot more historical than this one, where a caravan squats in a neighbouring drive and half a car is littered all over another. His house makes me think of a child wearing a bit of a costume in the hope it will let them pass for a character. It has no more chance than him, but where is he? I'm enraged to think I've given him time to finish with his gutters. I dodge around the house and find him perched at the top of a two-storey ladder.
    I'm glad my rage hasn't deserted me, but then it never does. I watch him poke at the gutter above his head like a bird searching for insects to crunch. The trowel he's holding dislodges a sodden wad of leaves, and as he flings the blockage onto the concrete outside the house he sees me. The ladder wobbles and the gutter gives a plastic creak as he grabs it with his free hand. "What are you doing there?" he gasps.
    "Just going for a walk so I'll feel better."
    "Forgive me, I didn't realise you were ill."
    "Forgiveness is no fun, and I don't mean that kind of better." I take a step towards him before enquiring "And what are you up to? Doing somebody out of a job?"
    "Pay a man to do a job you can do yourself and you've cost yourself twice over."
    I should have known he'd go in for homilies. He lets go of the gutter and rests his hand against the house while he squints at me. "What kind of work do you do? We don't seem to know much about you, Mr..."
    "You'll know enough." I can tell he's hoping I've no job so that he can lecture me about it. "I wonder what you'd want to say I am," I muse aloud. "Just call me Lucky, and a collector if you like."
    "I will if it's appropriate. What do you collect, may I ask?"
    "Let's say payments that are due." I'm at the foot of the ladder now. "Today I'm after payment for an accident," I advise him.
    "I wish you joy of it. If people paid up when they should there'd be no need for your kind of profession."
    "I'm glad you agree," I say and take hold of the ladder.
    "You carry on with your good work. I don't want any help."
    I plant one foot on the lowest rung. "I am."
    "I've already told you I can do this by myself. Please just leave it alone." With a grimace that quivers his floppy jowls he adds "And me, if you don't mind."
    "I mind," I tell him and climb another rung. "I'm only doing what you asked for."
    There's a loud clang below us. He has dropped the trowel, and now he's staring at it as though he should have kept it for a weapon. "What are you playing at, you lunatic? Get off my ladder."
    His situation has caught up with him at last. That often happens, and watching the delay can be half the fun. "I keep telling you what I'm doing," I remind him. "Collecting."
    He slaps the wall under the gutter with both hands and stifles a cry. "Collecting what, you—" Apparently he can't think of a strong enough word, unless even in these circumstances politeness won't let him discharge it. "Get off there this instant," he says as if he imagines I could be a child, "or you won't like the consequences."
    "I'm glad you've brought those up. That's exactly why we're here. Don't tell me you've forgotten what you said to Mrs Rubbish not half an hour ago. Someone scraped their car and all because of you distracting them."
    There's recognition in his eyes at last, and it's on the edge of fear. "If you're after compensation you must know this isn't the way—"
    "It isn't just the car. It's never just that kind of thing. It's everything you are," I say and scurry up the ladder