LOVE YOUR COUSIN

I have been writing this drama novel since about 2006. Here is a synopsis:

"Love Your Cousin" (working title)

Cousins Alice and Dave meet for the first time in their lives when they are summoned by their uncle Peter’s carer, Ellen. Peter has just passed away, and Ellen wishes them to deal with the estate. They both have their eyes on the inheritance, but something seems set to thwart them. They battle life, lawyers, each other, a curse, and love.


I am now at about chapter 14, and reckon the book will go on to around 25 chapters total. Here is chapter 9 for a taster:

Love Your Cousin
Chapter 9 – “We’re Cursed”
by Nick Morecroft

          “Do come in, David isn’t it?”  Dave stepped into the small office and was surprised for a moment at the springiness of the carpet.  Glancing around, the surprise dissipated.  Despite the drollness of the building, the money earned by Harry Sullivan, expert legal advisor, must be considerable.  Money in the finely woven dark coffee colured carpet, money in the Swedish chandelier, to which Dave gave an involuntary nod of approval, money in walnut based leather armchairs, deep and rectangular, like some sort of water channels from a castle.  Dave had seen similar before, and knew they took two rugby player sized men to shift.  Money in the brown and black hardback volumes lining the shelves like an orgy of OCD, golden titles gleaming.
          Harry’s smile, perfect, clean and straight, reminded Dave of Alice’s near immaculate teeth, only Harry’s didn’t seem plugged in.  The unusually tall man  hunched in a slight bow as he gestured Dave to one of the armchairs.  Dave lowered himself, ready for a three grand bum cushion.  He sank in.  Perfect.  Odd how even though life was jigging like an epileptic monkey with broken limbs wrapped in razor wire, he could still draw comfort from house art.
          Harry sat down opposite, the expensive armchair managing to proportionally match his oversized height.  He bridged his hands, interlocking the bony fingers, kind of like a gently brooding psychiatrist was the impression Dave got.  This gave Dave a rush of hope that perhaps there was a person here prepared to tackle his problems.  He had drawn a blank with Darren.  In fact, more than a blank.  Darren had sided with the enemy.  Darren had had a long talk with the Andersons.  The result of which was that he had persuaded them to drop the indecent exposure charge, but had advised them to sue Dave for damages due to negligent and incompetent advice.  Dave had fumed and ranted at Darren, who had calmly pointed out that he sided with the Andersons out of moral and professional honour.  Dave had called him a spineless invertebrate, with a distinct lack of manhood.  Darren had looked around to make sure there were no witnesses, then grabbed his manhood, and said “I’m more man than you’ll ever be,” leaving Dave sticking up two fingers furiously at his receding back.
          Now the Cheshire grin of Harry Sullivan opposite gave Dave the warm and fuzzies again, after a while of feeling distinctly deserted.  Andy and Mikey had sided with Darren, blessing Dave with only a cold shadow of sympathy.  Suzy of course had bubbled and frothed all over him, though at the same time bursting into fits of giggles interspersed with embarrassingly loud proclamations of “’e waved ‘is bum at them!”
          “Now you understand that any advice I give in the next half an hour is strictly casual advise.  If you decide to act on any of it, that will be your decision and your responsibility.”  Dave nodded, eager to get on and make the most of his time.  “Now you said on the phone that there is a case being raised to sue for unprofessional advice.”  Another nod.  “Tell me from the start what happened.”  Right, set and go, and make it swift.
          “Alan and Sheila Anderson are a couple in their late fifties.  Both retired, and both pointlessly wealthy.  They are friends of a solicitor friend of mine, Darren.  He referred them to me as a favour, to help me gain clients.”
          “Clients for?”
          “Ah.  I’m a, well I work as a…” damn it was tricky sometimes trying to explain his role in life, his reason for breathing.  Especially to himself.  No.  Actually it wasn’t so difficult personally, just to a world that desired articulate job titles, like Vision Technician for a window cleaner.  “I’m a high-art property advisor.”  When Harry’s expression showed no sign of change, he added, “I have a special understanding of the modern art in architecture market, particularly in domestic residences.  I advise people on the value of prospective purchases.”  Harry nodded sagely, though what particular blend of sage he had chosen to ingest Dave wasn’t sure.
          “Go on,” Harry prompted.
          “Well, I met up with the Andersons, who were looking at a number of properties.  They wanted to move home, and into one that might fit in with their vomit truck of furniture.”  One of Harry’s eyebrows lifted.  “All of their original choices were bogus.  Either prefab scams or just ridiculous, plain ridiculous.  I managed to come up with some options.  Not fantastic, but neither were their tastes, so the best given the situation.  What I suggested to them, were good investments.  While not cutting edge, they were quality designs and will hold their price.  The house they chose was quite a sum of money, but it was worth it.”
          “So why the case?”
          “They got advice from another property manager.  One clearly with no clue about modern art, which is the case for most.  This ponce told them it was a flawed investment, and no one in their right mind would buy the house back for any more than a third of what they paid for it.
          “Money for the property has already changed hands, and they are refusing to move into it, saying they were conned by me, probably on a backhander from the estate agents.  They have got it in their minds, with the help of my ex-friend Darren that I am liable for their perceived loss.”
          “You are.”  Dave goggled.  Particularly as Harry hadn’t changed his saturnine smiling gaze, as though the statement had been some ventriloquists trick.
          “What!  How…”
          “Well it all depends on your credentials.”  Dave’s heart sank.  This country should burn in it’s own credentials, burn until people could see the wood.  Dave also felt slightly irked as he realised Harry had already made the assumption that he had few or none.
          “How’s that?  Why?”  Dave tried to keep the anger from his voice.
          “Well it’s what they’ll ask in court.  With what authority do you speak?  How can you prove the soundness of your advice?  The way that is done, is to produce qualifications and certifications.”
          “But they’re not compulsory to practice.”
          “They are if you want to stay out of the courts.”
          “That’s hardly fair.”
          “That’s the justice systems for you.”
          “It’s crap.”
          “It works.”
          “How?  By prosecuting people for being different?”
          “Yes.  Exactly.”  Dave couldn’t answer for a moment.
          “That’s insane!”
          “It’s perfectly sane, and fair.  The system is designed to protect people from criminals.  Criminals don’t behave like the rest of us.”
          “So I’m a criminal, in your eyes?”
          “No, just in yours.”
          “I don’t understand.”
          “Understanding is not required.  That’s why I’m here.  Look you might have a chance if you can prove your competence.  Could you approach previous clients, get testimonials?  It would help if they were professionals of good standing.”  There was a nasty taste in Dave’s mouth.
          “I don’t have any, at least none that would count.  The Andersons were my first real clients.”
          “You’re buggered then.”
          “That’s your professional opinion is it?”
          “No prior working history, they’ll laugh at you and throw away the key.”
          “Hey, everyone has to start somewhere.  You’re not being very helpful you know?”  The three grand armchair now felt like a worn out bus seat.
          “On the contrary.  I’ve given you precisely what you needed, half an hour of honest professional advice.”
          “Shame it’s not an honest profession then.”
          “Throwing stones won’t improve your situation.”  Dave took a deep breath.  Why was it things kept going downhill.  These legal and financial services that were constantly advertised as being friends of the downtrodden were all a sham.  Dave had never thought too much of advertising anyway, but now he sensed a great filthy layer of deception.  The world was a bleak place.  Dave knew his time was up and that Harry had said all he was going to on the matter.  The impulse to hurl another phrase of hate Harry’s way died in it’s inception.  He was fed up of conflict for now.  Better to leave with love in the air.  He rose from the armchair and stuck his hand out.  Harry elevated, and shook it.
          “Nice chandelier.”  Dave commented.
          “Why thank you.”  Beamed Harry.

* * *

          “Aaaaaaah!”  Alice screamed at the top of her lungs.  The worst had happened.  They had taken the Audi.  Her beloved car, her legs.  There was no one to hear her scream except neighbours, and they were out.  She was alone in the flat, staring at the piece of paper with the name that was beginning to take on a demonic presence in her mind.  Bregan Asset Procurement.  It listed her car, and their assessed value, which was insultingly low.
          First had been the summons to a meeting with her bank manager.  The meeting had turned out pleasant to begin with, soon turning into a sweaty palmed nightmare of recrimination and accusation.  Alice felt like she was sat before some judge, accused of horrors against mankind.  She had left literally shaking.  It had taken a ten mile run to burn the edge off the anxiety.  After which she had collapsed asleep for four hours in the afternoon.  The worst thing was waking up at six, knowing she couldn’t sleep again for many hours, and there was no one about to distract her or talk to.  Often loneliness would come out from under it’s roadside rock to bite her on the ass with cold metallic teeth.
She was still at odds with Dave, since having bailed him from his arrest.  She had been reassessing the sense in telling him too much about herself.  So she found herself sleepless, alone in the flat with night drawing on.  Why was the onset of dark always a grim time?  She felt herself clawing to get company.  Even considered calling one of the girls, but that prospect didn’t pose much comfort.  In the end, she had popped to the video shop, ignoring all the happy couples and group of friends.  Holding a clutch of uplifting comedies and a person sized bag of toffee popcorn, she sloped back to the flat and sobbed all the way through, back to back.  Low point number one.
          The next low point was predictably worse.  She found herself almost consciously ducking her head every so often, rather expecting the boom to knock her out cold.  It did hit, but only with enough force for a blinding headache, never enough for the oblivion of unconsciousness.
          A letter, dripping with heart attack, had arrived about eight weeks ago.  A court summons.  Ten days later, she stood in the musty courtroom.  Stale grey fabrics on 1980’s metal framed furniture rather than the oak panelled affair she had always imagined.  Grim, imposing, and nearly as oppressive as the hard browed little judge.  A woman in her late forties with the unyielding manner of one in their late nineties, combined with the ugly ferocity of an untamed pit-bull.
          To say Alice felt cowed was an understatement.  Any resolve she had managed to muster had fled her like a bad case of incontinence.  She kept chanting inside, for chanting was the maximum articulation she felt capable of; “I am innocent, I am innocent…”.
          The case against her was made deftly.  The prosecutor for the bank was clearly an old hand, and dispatched a barrage of facts, figures and contractual clauses in a monotone drawl, seemingly without ever taking an in-breath.  If it wasn’t for the nightmarish unjust assassination of the truth and her integrity, she may well have been hypnotised to sleep.  The judge looked like she was just enduring it in order to draw things to a quick conclusion and be rid of the pallid prosecutor and Alice’s sorry guilty face.
          She felt like she did in the doctors, as though she were greatly imposing and wasting the time that was meant for far more important cases.  Everything seemed to be set up to perpetuate her guilt.  The prosecutors’ case was so well put in fact, that she started to wonder if she had actually done something wrong.  After all, she did indulge heavily in credit facilities.  Maybe it was in fact immoral, and she had been kidding herself and living the life of a criminal all this time.
          So when it came time for Alice to defend herself, she was speechless.  The inner chant had faltered.  The judge barked at her to respond for the second time.  She blurted then that is was all a mistake, that she didn’t think it was right.  It didn’t’ go down well.  The judge, one Mandy Terrance, got in a  huff at her lack of preparation and absence of a real defence.  Then Ms. Terrance softened, albeit in a menacing candy sweet witch of the north wind sense.  She had said that in the absence of any clear opposition to the prosecutors case, due sentence would be passed.
          So Alice left court with a numb head, and a lost heart.  Life was closing in around her.  She had been sentenced to an eternity of repayments, plus seizure of any major assets.  Alice knew this to mean her car and flat.  Bankruptcy had been mooted as an option, but one Alice had instinctively dodged.  That would be the final straw for her at Joseph and Steins.  They would have no scruples in shedding her dead weight if she became bankrupt.
          The horror of it all was not being able to speak to anyone about it.  She felt miserably alone.  She found herself on the verge of telling the checkout girl at the supermarket, or the elderly couple she often passed on her runs, but had never exchanged more than niceties with.
          To put the cream on the cake, she could only find TV programs on starving people in third world countries.  Instead of making her feel like her situation wasn’t so bad after all, it pushed her harder down into a heavily compressed wedge of self pity.
          Was this where parents came in?  Hers had been absent for years, and she often wondered if life would seem less bleak with parents or some kind of family.  Everything she saw seemed to indicate that while you choose your friends and whether to see them or not, your family could not get rid of you, no matter what kind of failure you were.  Family, she deduced, were the ultimate support network.
          She had picked up the phone to call Dave a number of times, but some compulsion or block stopped her.  Did she need to sort this out by herself?  Surely most people were strong like that.  The only time when she felt at all strong was when she ran.  Her physical wellbeing continued to be a reliable cornerstone.  Just her luck, she’d probably break a leg in the near future.  Maybe she could race wheelchairs.
          Besides, she didn’t think Dave would be much use if she did call.  He seemed in at least as bad a state as her.  Plus she didn’t want to risk his acid tongue.  He seemed deft at hitting her in the legs when she was already unstable.
          Right at that moment, car loss in her hand quivering, she decided against screaming again and sat down.  She started to breath deeply, in and out, some sort of manic hybrid of relaxation and hyperventilation.
          What to do, what to do.  Back track.  What did she need?  To keep the car.  No, more than that.  The big one.  Make the bank go away.  The only thing that would do that was to pay them, or make them admit their guilt.  The latter seemed highly improbable, the solicitors working for he bank seemed far more greasy than her remaining funds could afford to battle.  That left paying them.  There was only one way.  Uncle Peter’s house.  She had made several abortive attempts at getting legal advice on the potential inheritance, but had always been interrupted by a viciously poor timed life.
          No more, she thought.  That house was clearly hers.  Maybe Dave’s too, maybe not.  It was definitely emergency time.  Time to go at it and not stop until she had it.
          She picked up her phone and dialled work.  Paula answered, ideal.  She croaked an apologetic plea of illness, which was easily accepted.  She rarely had time off, being a mixture of health freak and guilt monster.  The dirty deed done, she leapt up and grabbed her diary.  There was an advisory firm by the name of Smithe and Carbine.  Smarmy name, but when she had spoken to them before, the gravelly voice of Carl Smithe had reminded here more of a coal miner, especially with it’s northern assertiveness.  He had sounded like a voice of experience in the area of inheritance complications.  A slightly scary voice at that.
          Alice had a bit of a superstitious side.  She decided that if he was available to see her today, that would be a good omen.  After a moments reflection on this notion, she tweaked it.  The sooner in the day he was available, the better the omen, and more golden the future.
          Three minutes later Alice was jigging from foot to foot.  Carl Smithe had had a perfect slot at ten.  Fifty minutes time.  It was a fluttery jig, for she still felt raw, but a jig all the same.

          “So you’re saying you accepted the sentence without contesting it?”  Carl near growled at Alice, though not aggressively, more decisively.  All the same, she felt herself receding into the depths of the chair, if that were possible.
          “I…did contest.”
          “Oh, how?”
          “I told them they were wrong.  That I hadn’t taken any such loan out.”
          “That’s not a contest.  Why didn’t you listen to your brief, or get him to make it?”
          “She tried, but she was new, and seemed nervous.  The Barrister for the bank was clearly a pro.  We didn’t have a chance.”  Alice felt saltiness in her tear ducts.  She made an effort to clench them shut.  Why was she being victimised by a man who was supposed to be helping her?
          “It’s pretty moot now anyway.  Judgement has been passed, and there are only two courses of action open to you, and both involve money, which is why you’re here.
          “So if I can get the house and sell it, what are my options?”
          “Hire a good barrister to make an appeal.  I know of one, he’s good enough to take on anyone working for the bank and give them a kicking.  Only he ain’t cheap.  your other options is simply to pay the bank off.  They would drop the interest you’ll otherwise pay, and maybe even give you a discount for quick payment.  Problem is that bank probably know their error, they just don’t want to admit to it.”
          “Those bloody…I knew it!  God I’d like to give someone there a bloody nose.”
          “It wouldn’t help the situation, but I’d like to see that.”  Carl was an odd man.  very much the miner type she thought, big meaty, rugged.  But also cynically suited to his current role.  She liked his informality, finding it calming.  “If you could secure the house, and presuming the dividend is enough, you should win this one way or another.  I might add though that principles aside, you may prefer to just pay the bank rather than opt for an appeal.”
          “How so?”
          “Well even with a good barrister, nothing is guaranteed.  Also it will be a gruelling process, it will wear you down.”
          “I thought the barrister would take the brunt of it?”
          “No.  They will take direct flak and do the legal work, but the process is relentless.  There won’t be a day when you’re not involved one way or another.”
          “Yes, but there would be good chance of winning wouldn’t there?”
          “Probably.”  Something about that one word answer wasn’t entirely convincing, no matter how flat and clear the delivery.  “Plus they’d have to involve your workplace.”
          “Eh?”  Alice was startled anew.
          “They would need to know everything.  All conversations, all correspondence.  Plus the payroll information.”  Carl could see her alarm.  “There’s no avoiding it.”  Alice slumped.  Her hopes of legally breaking teeth had just fluttered away.  It had all been founded heavily on so many if’s anyway.  The inheritance itself seemed like a big if.  Alice couldn’t stop the empty feeling of having been robbed and not being able to do anything about it.
          “It’s all so hopeless, I have no control over the situation do I?”
          “Now don’t lose heart there.”  Carl’s voice tuned softer.  “Just take things one at a time.  Start with this house.”
          Alice sighed.  “You’re probably right.  How do I go about it then?”
          “You need concrete proof if possible, of the assets being willed to you.  In the absence of that, you need concrete proof of an absence of a will, and a clear list of all surviving relatives.  Once done, I can contract an independent executor.”
          “There may be some proof available.  I have a letter from my uncle, the departed one, to his wife written after she died.  It…”
          “Wait a moment, did you say written after she died?”  Alice nodded.  “Why’d he write it then?”
          “I think he was a bit odd,”  Alice tapped her head with a finger.  “At least near the end.  I never knew him actually, I just talked to his carer.”  Carl frowned slightly.
          “So where does this letter come in?”
          “Well we, well, Dave and I, Dave’s my cousin.  We thought it may be taken as a will.  Peter mentions that if she were around, he would have left everything to her.  We thought that might be taken as a wish to leave assets to the family that remained.”  Carl sat silently for a period, jaw muscles flexing.
          “What about other family, particularly on her side?”
          “Nothing, as far as we know anyway.  Ellen, that’s the carer, contacted everyone in Peter’s address book, and Dave and I were the only ones to appear.”
          “That’s not enough I’m afraid.  You may be able to kludge an inheritance claim through.  But if someone turned up at a later date, you might have to sell up or fork out, depending on where you were with the assets.  To really be sure and safe you’ll have to go back through everything and try your hardest to locate other relatives.  The most likely interpretation of the letter is that everything is willed to his wife’s side of the family.  Unless no one was left, then you’ll get nothing.”  Bonk.  Alice’s heart thudded like a dead chicken on a car bonnet.  The hope was there, but her arms were too short.  Now if that wasn’t the essence of bloody annoying, she didn’t know what was.  However, as remote a chance as it was, she didn’t know what else to do.
          “How long do you think the whole think will take…”
          “If there is no other family?  A year thereabouts.”  Carl looked as though he might say more, but he must have noticed the look of disappointment.  He merely sat back in his chair.  “All I can say is other people get in the same sort of trouble.”  Alice looked puzzled.
          “What, you mean other people get framed for fraud by their bank and have a dead uncle whose house they can’t inherit?”
          “Well not quite like that, but what I meant is that everyone has their problems.  Don’t feel alone.”  She could see that he was trying to console her, and was grateful.  But the last statement just seemed to emphasise her sensation of bleak moors with not even a shaggy pony or tuneful songbird for solace.
          “So that’s it?  I just find what I can among my uncle’s possessions?”
          “That’s it.  You’re going to chase this then?”
          “What else?”  Alice spread her hands like an Atheist preacher.

***

          A wry smile spread suddenly across Dave’s face.
          “Do you find the sentence amusing Mr Baker?  With your income you will be paying out for a few decades.  I would not find that amusing if I were you.”  The brillo pad haired judge glowered with authoritative menace.  Humour void.  It was okay, the humour hadn’t been intended for the judge.  Dave caned the happy face.
          “No sir.”  The judge ended the proceedings, and the silence of the courtroom was broken.  Dave’s lisping brief offered him a limp handshake.  Dave quickly shook the man, and turned to catch the eye of the Andersons, who were moving to leave.  They stopped, and his smile returned.
          “Enjoy the meal,” he said.  They goggled at him.
          “You got what you deserve.”   Sheila stabbed at him with her finger, gaudy gold chains clicking on her wrist.
          “We all do,” Dave winked.  Sheila frowned, gave up on mouthing another retort, and dragged Alan off.  Only when they were gone from the courtroom did Dave sag, his proud chest deflated.  Bastards.  He might as well have a ball and chain clasped on his ankle, they key never to see the light of day until they were well in their graves.  Still, it didn’t prevent a bit of acid fun.  An edge of the smile returned, though rather like a joke told in a deaf school.

***

          Alice’s back was warm and damp.  She wiped a wave of sweat from her brow before it drowned her eyes.  She shifted the backpack again and turned into the driveway of Joseph and Steins.  Chanting under her breath, she hoped to god Dr Parvesh Noonvar was right about the technique.  She had been mesmerised by him for many a morning slot on the TV.  The man seemed to exude karmic confidence.  His theory seemed to be that you could prepare yourself for upcoming calamities by thinking through the possibilities, and repeatedly chanting a formulated plan of action.  Drilling the plan into your short term memory, saturating yourself with it, was supposed to ensure success.
          “Race, I’m in a race..race..race.  I’m in training for a race race race.  Gonna win win win,”  came the chant of the morning.  Thirty minutes early, should be plenty, plus maybe there was no one here.
          “Mornin’ Miss Williams, in training?”  Jeremy, the death defyingly cheerful security officer greeted her as she squelched past the reception desk towards the elevator.
          “Yes, in a race.”  She threw a smile out.
          “Good luck Miss Williams,” he said as the elevator doors were closing.
          “Thanks.”  She wondered if she should have stopped to talk more, but knew she needed to maintain the momentum.  The elevator pinged on her floor, and she walked into the office.
          “Alice, what the?”  She twirled to see the one person she didn’t want to, Imelda.  What’s she doing here so early?
          “What’s up?  Oh!”  Sally stood up from behind the desk partition.  Imelda and Alice stood face to face, Imelda looking just out of beauty salon, Alice straight from having jogged five miles through London back streets with a small but full backpack on.  Just at that moment an elephantine bead of sweat chose to pool from all corners of her face, and entered a free fall to splash down on the floor.  Imelda jumped back.
          “Ew!  That’s disgusting.  What are you trying to do Alice, I didn’t know it was national gross-out day.”  Alice teetered between keeping the chant in her head and rushing forward to hug Imelda in a sweaty embrace.
          “What happened Alice, I didn’t think it was raining?”  Sally chimed.
          “It’s sweat Sally, it’s what happens when you run.”
          “Oh.”  From the flatness of Sally’s response, it wasn’t clear whether she was being blonde or on a wind up.
          “And for what do we deserve this displeasure?”  Imelda asked.  Then her eyes flew wide.  “Oh!”  Alice’s stomach clenched.  “You crashed your car, or it’s broken down.  Probably broken down, it’s over two years old, practically a vintage.”  Chant, chant, the plan.
          “I’m in a race, or I will be in six weeks time.  I’m training.”  She waited for a reaction, then quickly added as a qualification, “it’s a national race.”
          “You’re not going to come and sweat on us for the next six weeks I hope?”  Imelda wrinkled her nose.
          “You sure the car’s okay?”  Sally asked.
          “I’ll only sweat on you if you crowd me before I get to take a shower.”
          “Well go on then, I’m sure there’s some office rules about sweating on company property.  Probably have to get some of the cleaning bill taken out of your wages.”  That was enough.  Alice made a fast twirl on the spot, hair flying out, and strode off to the showers.  Imelda’s voice squealed out from behind her.
          “Eurrrr!  You sprayed me.  It’s vile.  I’ll have you for… for…”
          “For harassment with bodily fluids?” suggested Sally.

***

          Alice lunged for the phone on top of a pile of boxes.  It span off and clattered to the floor, opening up.
          “Bugger,” she muttered, clambering round the heaped boxes and chairs to reach it.  A distant man’s voice was talking.
          “Hello…hello…Alice?”
          “Hi, sorry, dropped it.  Dave, is that you?”
          “The Christmas bunny himself, who else?”
          “Of course.  Look Dave, things are a little difficult right now.”
          “They are?  Do tell.”  Alice hesitated.  She had not wanted to get into anything.  Not with Dave, not with anyone, not right now.  However, she couldn’t easily deny his curiosity, and something in her wanted to spill.
          “You know the thing with the bank?”
          “Yeees,” Dave drawled.
          “Be sensible, please.”
          “I am.”
          “Hmm.  Well they won.  They’re getting everything.  Correction, they’ve got everything.  Bastards took it all Dave.  One monumental incompetency on their part, and now they’ve screwed me out of all I’ve worked for, ever.”  There was a husk of choked tears on the last couple of words.  Alice really hadn’t intended saying anything, but it just came tumbling out.  Tears flash flooded down her cheeks, and she rocked back and forth on a box.
          “Alice… are you okay?”  Dave asked quickly.
          “Mmm-hmm.”  She manage to moan a non-verbal affirmative.  “Give me a moment,” she said before diving into another fit of sobs.  Once that had subsided, she sniffed and blew her nose.
          “Okay?” Dave asked again.
          “Yes.  It’s just, difficult.  The car and flat were all I had, and I had worked hard for them.  They were my only real achievements.”
          “I’m sure that’s not the case.  You’re saying they’ve taken you flat?  And car?”
          “Yes.  Both.  God if I could hit someone I would, and they wouldn’t get up again.”
          “Why don’t you?”
          It’s not that easy, and it wouldn’t get my things back.”  There was a pause.  “Anyway, their offices are in Belgium.”
          “Hah!  So what are you going to do?”
          “Dave, I just don’t know.  There’s rented accommodation I guess, but with my finance being royally screwed I can’t see me lasting too long in that.  It’s not like I can just go back and live with parents, not having any.  No one at work is an option.  No doubt I’ll have to dodge rent or find myself a good quality cardboard box.”
          “There is one other option.  You won’t like it though.”
          “Dave, I can’t sleep at the office, they have cameras.  It’s been hard enough covering up for my having lost the car…”
          “You could stay at mine…”
          “They think I’m training for a mara… stay at yours?”  There was an awkward pause.  Dave wondered if she was about to launch into some horrified barrage of accusations of him being a pervert, or as usual, off his head.  “You mean bring some stuff over and sleep on your sofa?”
          “Well… in a way,” Dave faltered.  “I thought…”
          “I’m afraid I need something a little longer term.  Once the flat is gone, I won’t have the cash for another mortgage for, well for a few years.  God it sounds like a life sentence.”  Dave gave a small wry chuckle.
          “What’s funny?”
          “Oh, it’s just a strange notion I thought of just now.  Us two spending the next few years in some kind of virtual jail.  It’s like we’re imprisoned by ropey finance.  So much money is owed, and what with the cost of living, you can’t afford to do any more than exist.  Breathe, sleep, eat, work.”
          “Doesn’t sound funny to me.  Sounds more like a grim future.”  There was a pause, followed by a sound of revelation, “Oh!”
          “What?”  Dave asked.
          “It also sounds like…no.”
          “What.  No wait, are you talking about the curse?”
          “No.  Yes.  I don’t see how…I mean I just can’t believe…”  Alice trailed off.  “Anyway, didn’t they say we were both subject to this so-called curse?”
          “Well seeing how I’ve just been sentenced to forty years of payments in reparation for my, fine advice, I’d say that counts.”
          “You are kidding?”
          “Nope.”
          “Really?”
          “Really.”
          “Surely you could go bankrupt?  I know I considered it,” Alice told him.
          “They offered it, I declined.  Why, I hear you ask?  Revenge.”
          “How does that work?”
          “If I go bankrupt, I don’t have enough control over my finances to stage an appeal.  By agreeing to the ridiculous payment scheme, as long as I can pay my way and make the monthly payments to the creditors, I can try and build a secret stash on the side to fund a good appeals lawyer.”
          “Do you really want to get back at these people that bad?”
          “It’s the principle.  I don’t overly hate them, I just despise the way the lame system chose to recognise small minds over my judgement.  All on account of me not having the right bits of hallowed paper.”
          “So am I an intended cog in this plan?  I assume you were hoping to charge me rent.”  Alice sounded curious.
          “In a way, but only in the last few minutes.  I was phoning to see if you knew of anyone who might need somewhere to live.  When you told me your ills, it all just seemed to click into place.  I would want some kind of rent, but I’m sure it’ll be cheaper than anything else you can get, especially if you wash my socks.”
          “You’re kidding, right?”
          “Well maybe we’ll start with shirts.  Yeah I’m kidding.  You said you wanted somewhere longer term.  Well I reckon it’s gonna take some time to get anywhere with my plans, so you should be safe for at least, say, a year.”
          “I can’t believe this.  A few weeks ago, any thoughts of moving would have been centred around what newer bigger flat I could afford.  Now I’m on the brink of doubling up with my cousin like some immigrant family.”
          “So that’s a yes?”  Dave asked, a bit meekly.
          “I suppose.  How much room have you got?  And I hope you’re house broken.”
          “Well I usually leave the toilet seat up, at least when I’m doing the washing up.”
          “Dave!”
          “Just winding you up, which isn’t difficult, and a lot of fun.”
          “Hmph!”
          “I’ve a kitchen, bathroom, lounge, main bedroom and a spare, which can be yours once I clear out the rubble sacks.”
          “The…”
          “You’ll see when you get here.  I had a moment of, shall we say, inspiration.  Only my imagination may be a smidge bigger than my skill.”
          “You’re worrying me Dave.”
          “Oh it’s all perfectly habitable, don’t worry.  And stylish to boot.  At least unique anyway.”
          “I guess you’d better give me the address.  Look Dave, I didn’t want to sound ungrateful.”
          “It’s fine.  Look, we’ll be helping each other out this way.  A cousinly thing to do.  Well a family thing to do.”
          “It is strange having family,” Alice mused.
          “Well I guess I’m a strange kind of family to have.”
          “You can say that again.”
          “Wench!”