What do you think about my novel so far?
CHAPTER ONE THE LIFE OF JAMES
James Pearson’s Tuesday died the way most of them did: under the fluorescent lights at CoreTech Systems, fixing a printer that hated him.
It was a CTX-4000, beige, built before he was born, and it had jammed on page 17 of someone’s quarterly report. James had three tools: a paperclip, a screwdriver, and the quiet rage of a 29-year-old assistant technician who’d wanted to own a tech company by now. Instead, he was elbow-deep in toner. His manager, Keith, walked past and said, “Pearson, try turning it off and on again,” like it was scripture. James didn’t. He never did. The printer won anyway.
He clocked out at 5:30pm, wiped the black off his hands, and traded the hum of servers for Mrs. Henderson’s spaniel. Benny was old, blind in one eye, and paid better than CoreTech by the hour. A tenner to loop Victoria Park while Mrs. Henderson watched Countdown. James liked Benny. Benny didn’t ask about five-year plans. ___________________________________________
He practiced juggling by the war memorial at Leicestershire’s edge. Three balls, red, blue, green. He’d been doing it since university, back when “tech company owner” still felt like a plan instead of a joke. Today the green one slipped. It bounced off the path, rolled toward the duck pond, and stopped dead in a patch of mud. He left it there. Some days you don’t chase the ball.
Back home, the flat smelled like microwave curry and damp. Bills on the table. Rent due tomorrow. He emptied his pockets onto the kitchen counter: Benny’s tenner, £3.80 in shrapnel, a button, and a receipt from the chippy. He counted it twice. £40 short. Again.
His ears wiggled. They always did when the maths didn’t work and Mary Pearson’s voice crept into his head: “You should’ve stayed at university, love.”
Then his phone lit up on the counter, face-down, buzzing against the laminate. He flipped it. Ronald Applebys texted:
Need u.
£50.
Tonight.
Please.
James stared at the text. Ronald hadn’t said “please” since Year 1. And he never offered money. Not since he moved away back to leistershire.
“Well that’s just great,” James said to the empty kitchen.
He typed back:
What’s the catch?
CHAPTER TWO THE PHONE CALL
Ronald Applebys replied:
No going in the basement. Not even the police should go down.
No touching the thermostat either.
James frowned. The police bit was odd. But £50 was £50, and rent was tomorrow. His ears wiggled. He typed:
Fine.
What time?
Ronald said:
12:00 to 7:00
No negotiations
James was odded out about this. Ronald always let a bit of wiggle room for these sort of jobs. “Mabye he's just changed.” thought James although he knew something was wrong, but he had to get his rent payed one way or another.
James reread it three times. The basement rule was new. The police rule was insane. And since when did Ronald give a damn about the thermostat?
What's in the basement, Ronald? he typed. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
£50. 12:00. Take it or leave it.
James glanced at the red eviction letter magnet-stuck to his fridge. He could hear his landlord's footsteps in the hall upstairs, like a countdown.
Fine he sent. But I'm bringing a torch. And mabye a crowbar
No reply.
James swore under his breath. He wasn't prepared for this. He decided to text his mum.
If i am not back by 8am then call the police.
James looked at the clock on the wall. 11:28pm. He knew to walk was about 46 minutes so he decided to run it just to get there on time.