The Bedsit

By Chris Knight

On a wet summer evening in New Zealand, a 46-year-old History teacher who went out shopping for a magazine, made a split second decision to buy a lotto ticket.
Little did he know that the consequences of the impetuous sudden purchase were about to change his life forever. He spent a measly 2 dollars and won 400 000.
With the winnings, he decided to buy a Bedsit and complete the transition from teacher to Landlord. A step that was going to embark him on a journey that was about to change him forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491877593

Chris Knight

Chris Knight is a research fellow at UCL and author of Decoding Chomsky: Science and Revolutionary Politics.

Book preview

THE BEDSIT

Chris Knight

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AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2013 Chris Knight. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 8/29/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7758-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7759-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 1

HAROLD GALAN GLANCED at his G-shock timepiece. 12.50 pm caught his pensive bloodshot eyes. He stood up and took a step back from his study desk that was now heavily littered with papers and books. His head hurt, and he momentarily felt a throbbing rush of pain. He had been reading since 9 am, and he temporarily saw stars. He stood still, massaging his temples with his index finger knuckles in consoling therapeutic relief. As his fingers gently completed their synchronized concentric circle routine he wondered about some lunch.

The 46-year-old New Zealander looked about his home study office. He stood still, silently brainstorming through his possible plans for the day. Firstly he really needed to eat. He was running-on-empty, not firing on all cylinders. He was now so distracted by the pressing hunger that he could no longer hold a thought in his head. Yet he was too lazy to go the measly 20 steps to the kitchen and fill his belly. He could see the white fridge door flashing before his eyes intermittently, as he looked at his shoes that seemed mysteriously super-glued to the navy-blue study carpet floor at that moment.

The grey-haired, silver-goatee sporting, bespectacled man stood frozen in his tracks. He rested his anxious hands on his hips and stood staring into space. He was still thinking or rather marveling of a day just one month ago, that had changed the course of the then History teacher’s life forever.

By sheer chance he had procured a scratch-n-win lotto ticket for 2 dollars on that wet Friday night. He had initially ducked into a local news agent from the pouring rain, just to purchase a Time magazine on his way home from school. However, as fate would have it, his eyes had met Sam Marshall’s. Sam, the jovial news agent, who had stood beaming at him from behind the shops brightly lit counter, as he’d sought refuge from the elements, standing on that rain soaked shops awning–covered doorstep, shortly after making his hasty purchase.

He’d attempted to shelter there momentarily, beneath his soggy newspaper that shielded his grey-suited forearm, before he made a mad beeline dash to his nearby parked car some 50 feet down the street.

At that moment something had just clicked, in the two men’s exchanged glances. Harry had seen roulette wheels, revolving kaleidoscopic, blackjack wheels beckoning to him in Sam’s eyes, as the big bubbly gent had barked, Fancy a scratchy t ’day Harry? Ordinarily he wouldn’t have risen to the bait, and he would’ve just dismissed Sam’s perceived mocking sarcasm with a shrug of the shoulders and a smirk. But that day he had been destined for bigger things, ginormous things. Things that looking back, he could still not believe had happened, but they had happened.

He had turned and strolled up to the counter and dropped a 2 dollar coin into Sammy’s hand without so much as uttering a word. Seconds later he had stood at the counter, his eyes ablaze with bewilderment and almost falling from their sockets in shock, when they focused to see three, 400,000 dollar marks lined up in smudged black ink in a nice little row, on his winning ticket. His eyes had frozen as he looked disbelievingly at Sam. Harry’s jaw had also dropped like a hangman’s bridge as everything in the room had fallen into slow-motion. The next time he’d looked, Sam was standing right in front of him, slapping his shoulders with both palms, and yahooing at what seemed like deafening blasts.

Harry had snapped from his 5-second-stare, and had leapt some three feet in the air himself, and similarly screamed hysterically Yeah, yeah, yeah!, as loud as he could. He’d then suddenly stopped when he realized some twenty customers were staring at him. He had smiled awkwardly, cleared his throat in some nervous embarrassment, possibly blushed, and apologized with a flashing left-to-right sweep of his humiliated eyes and an apologetic self-effacing smirk of his thin pursed lips. In a quick exchange of nervous nods and glances and a splutter of some pent-up laughter, he soon made peace with his startled onlookers, and within a few moments his audience had dispersed, and had averted their collective gaze. They soon had their noses back in their open books, newspapers and magazines, and Harry’s heartbeat soon returned to normal, as he stood at the counter, and completed the winner’s claim form.

He still could not get the image from his mind. It was now a month later, and here he was still reliving that magical moment. The moment that the Gods had smiled at him, the moment that thunderbolts had rippled overhead, and lightning had struck him, scorching him in its favor. He was destined for better things. That moment was one he would certainly never forget. He could see himself once again clumsily completing the form on that old clipboard. His hands had shaken as he’d scrawled his name, address and phone number from trembling fingertips. Sam had merely laughed heartily as he’d deciphered the shell-shocked victor’s poor penmanship, amidst nervous chuckles and goodwill grunts, as he re-confirmed the particulars to Harry, who still in some state of shock, stood merely nodding agreeably, albeit some three feet off the ground.

Harry slapped his reminiscing thigh, and broke from his study-room-stare, screaming ‘yeah’ once more to his elated self as he marched into the kitchen that was still littered with beer cans and celebratory empty pizza boxes.

The kitchen was a pigsty and he glanced about in disapproval, momentarily gulping in a sudden gush of guilt as he realized the extent of his sloth, and saw how far he had let himself go since his big win. It was just as well he was a bachelor; no wife would have put up with such a shambles. He stood at the counter making his sandwich, in a space he’d hastily cleared by brushing aside a few dented cans of Lion Brown. He stood munching his ham sandwich, which he’d doused in Wattie’s tomato sauce and he looked at his watch, 1pm. He really felt a new man now that he had quit his job. His employment shackles had now well and truly fallen from his wrists and ankles, and he rubbed his hands triumphantly together.

He had the whole Monday November afternoon stretched out in front of him. The weather was nice, a warm early summer New Zealand day. He grinned as he reached for a draught beer from the fridge, and thought of his poor colleagues cooped up in the staffroom at Stafford Street High school. He could just see the stooped, cardigan wearing figure of his former employer, Principal Dingle, buzzing around the scattered clusters of remaining teachers, who stood sipping end of lunch time last minute cups of tea, and moaning to each other about their low salaries, excessive working hours and difficult students.

He could see the P.E teacher, Mister Cole, in his light blue Adidas track suit, and orange luminous Nike running shoes, showing off his biceps to some of the women teachers he secretly fancied. He could see the trendy fluorescent pink gym-whistle swinging around his neck, on a tie-dyed brightly colored neck strap, and his toned suntanned arms, as he gestured to another member of staff across the conversation humming, oversized room. His tanned head would of course be immaculately shaved, as usual, and his black pencil-line-goatee meticulously trimmed as he flashed his eyelashes at Miss Wilson, the shapely young school librarian. She was pushing 40, but was well kept and could easily pass for 29. She supposedly jogged every morning, and attended aerobics classes at a local gym, 3 times a week.

Many male teacher’s eyes secretly followed her everywhere she went, and it was widely rumored she’d ruined a couple of marriages, and broken a few senior boys hearts, in her flirtatious trail of naïve destruction along the way.

Suzie Wilson was every man’s dream, blond, blue-eyed, big busted and kind to boot. Nick-named Barbie for obvious reasons, half the school had secretly fallen in love with her, many boys had suddenly developed a curious interest in reading, and visiting the library in their free periods.

She was single too, which only enhanced the fantasies that many adolescents entertained about her.

Harry left her in the staff room, with Dingle fussing about in the background, trying to track down which teacher was supposed to be on the roster for the school gate duty that afternoon. He could picture some staff trying to escape his pressing enquires by feigning busyness or hiding behind their newspapers.

Harry was suddenly broken from his hypnotic, staring-into-space trance, as the fridge door swung shut with a muffled thud, and he headed back to his study, can in hand, and sat back at his desk, on top of which was a copy of The Press, spread open to the real estate pages. He glanced down to a column of listings and corresponding prices which he had circled. His eyes stopped at a title he had circled with a vivid red circle, approximately an hour ago. The caption simply read, BEDSIT 200,000 or nearest offer. Phone Alan at Harper Real Estate. The Christchurch 03 telephone suffix caught his twinkling eye. His eyes widened, as a rush of ambition surged through him; there was his next income. His working days were over, at the ripe old age of 46, too. He would be collecting from now on; he would no longer be paying but would be paid. The tide was turning, things could and would change.

He smiled a strange smile, as a chirpy pleasant voice announced, Good afternoon, Harper Real Estate, Alan speaking.

Good afternoon, Alan, began the astutely focused 46-year-old former history teacher. This is Harry Galan, and with an enthusiasm that no-one could dampen, Harry began to express his interest in the purchase of a bedsit that he hoped was about to change his life.

CHAPTER 2

ALAN HENDERSON BEAMED as he slouched back into his reclining brown vinyl office chair. He fingered the stretched office phone cord playfully as though it was a giant strand of hair and he was a hair stylist about to set it in rollers on his index finger. He tapped his toes nervously as he jotted down Mister Galan’s contact details with some excitement in his appointment diary. He was bubbling with intrigue and elation at the prospect of a potential sale. The 35-year-old office boy had not had a sale in weeks and his commission was dying a slow, drawn-out natural death. Albert Harper, the owner/operator