Estimated reading time: 15 minutes
Sitting in his parked Toyota Hybrid – one that he had opted for ahead of his initial preference of petrol, thanks in large part to a fellow salesman’s patter – Mick, opened the app on the iPad and pulled up the latest sales dashboard.
Pinching the screen, the page refreshed and his name fell from second to third position on the leaderboard.
“Bastard must have been sandbagging those,” he mumbled to himself.
He popped down the visor mirror and checked for errant strings of chicken from his lunch fillet roll, before getting out of the car. It was a bright and sunny day. Perfect for door knocking. The estate was in a well-to-do area. The road entrance curved down and around a small green in the centre, empty save for a border of sapling trees and a shrub fixture in the centre. On either side of the curving road stood various detached and semi-detached, white pebble-dashed houses. As the road dropped and veered right, drivers had a majestic mountain view above the roofs of houses at the foot of the estate. The lawns were freshly cut, and Mick didn’t need to watch his step, assured that any freshly baked dog shit would inevitably be hoovered up by owners the minute it touched the ground.
According to his tablet, his first port of call was Mr. Richards of Number 37. Resident intel was patchy, thanks in large part to the previous owner of his newly assigned patch and their reluctance to take notes. Mick adjusted his shirt collar, and strode with purpose to the door.
“Not interested,” came the shout through the door as his finger was raised to press the buzzer. Mick smiled at the fish lens of the doorbell camera system and slipped a business card through the letter box.
Victoria Duignan in No. 39 was a lonely widow and not a big electricity user. She did, however, make delicious pastries. He knocked on the door, and was greeted by the woman, who, despite it being mid afternoon, was still dressed in her pajamas.
“Sorry,” she said, holding a stubbed tissue to her nose. “I have Covid. Otherwise, I would invite you in.”
Mick and his disappointed stomach wished her well, leaving another business card on a side table by the door. Walking to the next house, he began jotting notes on the tablet. The chat applet blinked. A message from management addressed to the field sales team.
Sales count double for the rest of the day, folks. Log your commits now!
The next house he visited was a Ukrainian family. Their English was poor and between using a translator app and trying to pitch his company’s service, the communication gap was a bridge too far. Time was money, and there were still, by his reckoning, another twenty-four houses to canvas.
Next up was another family of refugees, which made Mick dramatically evaluate the potential of his patch, subsequently lowering expectations of reaching six sales that day – a figure that should have been achievable for someone of his experience in an estate of this size.
Carefully bypassing existing customers which would be of no use to him, he approached a small manicured lawn, with hewn stone slabs leading up to the front door. The door was freshly painted, and he pushed the alarm, receiving a customized jingle to a television show that he couldn’t place. He was about to fish out another card and pop it through the letterbox, when the door opened.
“Oh. Hello there.”
The man was in his fifties with spindly thin arms and a small round belly that stretched his mustard cardigan. He had a bald dome with a wrap of thick black hair like a paintbrush on the sides. The man adjusted the glasses on his nose, to get a better look at his guest.
“Mr. Trilby?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, there. My name’s Mick Torrance and I’m from Augirva – the electric energy company. Sorry to interrupt you.”
The man waved away the salesman’s casual apology and smiled.
“You’re a lot more handsome than the last caller I got. Ghastly, he was. Reece, or Rhys, I think he was called. And I suppose, you’ve come here to sell me your latest plan?”
“No,” Mick replied, hugging the tablet to his chest with one arm. “I’m here to make sure you’re not getting ripped off by your current provider.”
Mr. Trilby leaned against the doorframe, pursed his lips and stared at the young man. Several seconds passed with neither breaking eye contact.
“Very well then,” he finally said, and pushed the door open wide. “Come on in.”
The older man stood half-in, half-out the doorway, and Mick had to squeeze past sideways, choosing the rather uncomfortable face to face slide ahead of the equally unpleasant alternative.
“On your right,” Mr. Trilby said. “Take a seat.”
The sitting room was small, dark and musty. There was a door that led to the hallway, and another exit where he could spy the lower steps of a flight of stairs, its entrance partially covered with a heavy drape. There was a fireplace to the right, its chimney bunged up with newspaper. On the wall opposite sat a TV on a tall table. There was a column of DVDs beside it. Romcoms and series boxsets that Mick only recognised by name. A paint splatted radio/cassette recorder was on the floor by the wall. The hosts were amiably talking about 90s music, an era Mick had spent his childhood.
“Keeps me company,” Trilby said. “It’s good security too.”
“How so?” Mick asked, seating himself on a low couch along the wall.
“Burglars. The voices will make them think there’s more than one person here.”
“Oh, so you live alone?”
“More or less. Tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee, please. Milk. No sugar.”
Trilby closed the door, and lowering himself to one knee that gave a loud audible pop, he adjusted the volume control on the radio, making it a few decibels louder.
“Now,” he said. “That’s better. You’ll have to forgive an older man for his eccentricities. Right, coffee, you said. And you’ll be needing to see a recent bill, I presume?”
“If you have one handy.”
“I have many handy,” the man said, excitedly. “Won’t be a minute.”
As soon as he left the room, Mick logged into the tablet again. There was a new notification from management. Davey K had just closed another two sales, doubling to four with the accelerator bonus, which meant he leapfrogged Mick in the table. The notification under Chat showed someone was typing, and he waited patiently for the message to appear, priming himself for more bad news.
Potential four-liner. In with a landlord. Wish me luck!
Eva Kripps. Easily the best salesperson he had worked with in his decade in field sales. Beauty could open doors, but she showed real tenacity to secure the deal. Eva had clients on her patch who practically called the offices in advance, confirming dates for when her annual visit would occur, sometimes rearranging holidays to accommodate the sales agent.
There was the sound of cutlery at the end of the hallway, but as yet, no sign of Mr. Trilby.
Everyone else very quiet. Steve? Mick?
The GPS tracker on the tablet tracked their movements, and the nudge was unnecessary. They could tell he was in the field. No skiving here. Micromanagement at its finest. Mick started to type, thought better of it, and then deleted the message.
Mick’s too busy catching the low hanging fruit that Emmet Fitz left behind last year.
That almost goaded him into replying, and he would have were it not for the emergence of the smiling Mr. Trilby again, carrying a tray with his coffee.
“All those miles you put in, you must burn a lot of calories. Have a bite to keep your energy up.”
As he lowered the tray to a coffee table in front of the couch, Mick saw a saucer laden with chocolate biscuits, stacked in a small tower. Another plate had a sandwich, diagonally cut in four corners.
“Had I known you’d put on a feast, I’d have come here first,” Mick said, making light work of two of the sandwich pieces.
“You mean I wasn’t your first? I’m insulted!” Trilby exclaimed in mock jest. “Don’t you boys write notes on that thingy-majig?”
“Oh, we do,” Mick said. “Depends on the person.”
“So, you’ll be saying how wonderful my homemade biccies are then.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Well, why not?”
“‘Cos I haven’t tasted them yet.”
“You tease!”
Mick was pleased when the man fetched a chair by the door and placed it across from the table. The couch, which he struggled to lean forward on, by default moved his centre of gravity to somewhere low to the floor. The cushions on either side didn’t give much space for a second person. He was glad it was the start of the shift instead of the end, or he could find himself struggling to rise off the couch.
“Oh, Gods aplenty! The bill.”
Trilby disappeared once again offering Mick another chance to review the comments on the device. A second colleague had made a sale. Checking his watch, he had a couple more hours to make his move. No need to panic. It was important not to outstay his welcome. Cut his losses if needed. He broke off a biscuit in his mouth, surprised as a thick strawberry layer oozed and threatened to spill over his lip.
“The strawberry filling is the best part,” Trilby said, returning, watching the man dab his mouth. “Here’s the last twelve months. Will that suffice?”
Mick nodded and cleared space on the table for the pile of documents. He quickly plucked the first pages of each month and discarded the rest on a pile by his side. He flicked between the sheets, trailing a finger down to the expenditure total.
“Mr Trilby, the plan you’re on…it’s at least five years old. With your current provider I mean.” Trilby shrugged, prompting Mick to continue. “Putting aside our deal – which I’ll get to – ALL deals in the market are far more cost-effective than what you’re on now.”
There was laughter from the radio, which seemed to reach Trilby whose cheeks flushed red. His fingers were fidgeting with the tablecloth. Leaning back, Mick pinched another biscuit, careful this time not to make a mess.
“Your most recent bill,” Mick continued. “They have you on the day rate, on a fixed plan that expired in 2021. How no one saw fit to take you off that deal, is beyond me. Actually, I do know.”
“You do?” Trilby said, eyes hopeful.
“They’ve been making good money off you for a long time.”
Mick watched the little body of the man slowly fold inward at the realisation he had been duped. As a seller, he had seen it many times. Usually with pensioners who had to navigate scammers. Punished for being their trusting self.
Mick felt a headache coming on. The temperature in the room had risen and the curtains were drawn which seemed to smother the heat. Reaching across for his coffee, he took a sip, wincing, tasting sugar. It was also very weak and not very warm, which didn’t help his mood. Trilby’s attention was aimed at the ceiling and Mick was pleased not to draw attention to the error in the coffee.
The salesman flicked to the oldest bill, twelve months earlier, and noticed a brownish thumb print smudge in the upper corner. He checked his fingers and saw they were clean.
“Did you ever speak to any of my colleagues from Augirva about changing your plan?”
The man dropped his gaze back to Mick and shook his head. “I don’t get anyone come here. I think they presume no one’s at home, what with the curtains being closed.”
“You mentioned a caller earlier.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You said I was more handsome than the last caller you got.”
Mr. Trilby blushed again, screening his eyes with his palm, before waving his face. “Is it warm in here, or is it just me?”
The heat was growing. Uncomfortably so. Despite this, Mick smiled and took another sip of his lukewarm coffee. Flirting with customers was a big part of the job, and he wasn’t averse to using the dark arts to land a contract.
“Is there a reason you close them during the day? The curtains, I mean.”
“Not really. It’s a very airy house, you see. Belonged to my daddy, and passed onto me. Built in the 1920’s. It’s very badly ventilated. The drapes keep the draft out. I assure you, no vampires here!”
Trilby’s laughter joined those of the radio host, and Mick felt himself sink deeper into the couch. He rubbed the side of his temple, before reaching for the documents.
“You OK?”
“Me? Fine,” Mick said. “Warm day.”
“Warm summer,” Trilby agreed.
“So, do you want the good news or the bad news?”
“Bad news. Always. Give it to me hard and fast, Doctor.”
The smile of Trilby curled upward on one side, as he leaned back and sat upright against the hard back of the tall chair. His fingers were loosely clasped together in his lap. The light in the room had gotten dimmer. Objects had grown shadows, creeping in on what was already a small room, and getting smaller by the minute. Mick felt for his collar, anticipating a tie that he could loosen, before realising he had deposited it in the car. His open collar was already unbuttoned and he scratched his neck.
“Bad news is you’ll be getting lots of salespeople showing up on your door in the coming months.”
Trilby leaned forward, measured and slow. “Whyever so?”
“‘Cos once news gets out about these biscuits, they’ll be queuing to sign you up. Mobile phone. Broadband. Gas. Electricity.”
Trilby laughed, and clapped close to his chest. “Bravo, young man! I’m so happy I took a chance on you.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“And, the good news?”
Mick’s attention was elsewhere. His ear was tuned to the radio again. The hosts were talking about a new feature film to hit the cinema that weekend. Starring Hollywood stars Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, in a movie romance where fate conspires to bring two people together against the odds. Mick eased further back on the couch, and despite his discomfort, chuckled to himself.
“Classic movie.”
“Never seen it.” The words came out in a tired slur – a long, tiring week catching up with his limbs. The headache was getting worse. The pain had expanded, with his throat constricting.
“Here,” Trilby said. “Finish your coffee. Warm days call for warm drinks, as my dear mum used to say.”
He handed the young salesman the cup, which he tipped back. “Sorry, I…don’t know what’s—” Mick’s body spasmed into a series of coughs.
“Goodness, groceries!” Trilby said. “All that coughing. You just put your feet up and rest a little. I’ll get you some water.”
Mr. Trilby lifted the young salesman’s booted feet off the floor and pivoted him along the couch. More racking coughs exploded from the man’s chest.
Trilby moved fast, clicking a button on the cassette tape deck of the small radio. He left the room through the other side of the draped curtain. At the foot of the stairs was a box filled with electrical equipment. He took out his phone, and hit dial. The coughing on the other side became worse, and he heard something topple over and hit the ground.
“You still coming for those goods? OK. Well add another one. Three grand for the lot. Latest model. I dunno. Apple I think.”
Trilby peeked around the curtain and saw the table on its side. The biscuits were scattered across the floor. The mug had fallen and softly landed on the couch. Not the first stain he’d had to clean. Convulsing and looking up at him through the gap in the curtain was the stricken purple face of the salesman. The eyes were beetroot red, and foam seeped out at one corner of the mouth.
“I’ll leave them at the usual spot. Drop the money over this evening.”
There was a thumping noise in the ceiling directly above, followed by a muffled cry. Trilby thought back to the taped movie review. A match made in heaven, with two strong protagonists. And now, against all odds, appearing on the scene, on his very doorstep, a new love interest. Talk about breathing new life into an old classic. He was going to have so much fun.
From the small sitting room, a clawing hand slowly reached out, blindly groping for the curtain. Lips parted, with bubbles forming instead of speech. A coughing fit splattered crimson across the chin. Desperate, cheek glued to the bloodied floor and one eye swimming in its socket, Mick looked up, pleading with the face that peeked out from behind the curtain.
“OK,” Trilby said. “See you then. Not before 7 o’clock mind you. Got a hot date.”
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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