Newt forced himself to say thank you before he walked away.
Two weeks on, he’d lost count of the number of jobs he’d applied for, though he’d counted his interviews. Seven. At every one of them he’d been asked about a criminal record and that was that. Did he have it tattooed on his forehead? Surely not everyone was going to ask that question. How long was he supposed to persist before he accepted no one would give him a chance? He didn’t want to rely on benefits.
There was no choice but to keep trying. Knowing his luck, after he finally got a job, some former inmate would turn up and out him. He couldn’t even do voluntary work without a Disclosure and Barring Service check being done, which he would fail. If there was any chance of him being around kids or vulnerable adults, he definitely wouldn’t be given the job.
He tried to go into every interview feeling confident, believing he had a chance, because he was aware that a downcast manner would have a direct effect on the person interviewing him. He wanted them to think he was bright and cheerful, only it was getting harder and harder to maintainthat façade.
That morning, he’d caught the bus to Tonbridge to attend an interview with an insurance company with an office just off the High Street. The interview had gone really well, and he’d actually thought he might have a chance until the woman had asked the fucking question. As he’d answered, she’d scooted her chair back, as if she thought he was going to attack her. Newt saved her having to say no. He just got up and left, barely managing not to slam the door.
As he walked towards the road he gave a heavy sigh. He understood why people weren’t willing to offer him work but it still hurt. A sudden loud rev from a motorbike made him jump and he looked up to see a bike with two people on it coming towards him. The bike was travelling very close to the pavement. As they went past a guy who was chatting on his phone, the guy riding pillion reached out and grabbed it. The robbed man yelled, the bike sped up and Newt jumped into the road.
The bike toppled, so did those on it and so did Newt, all of them skidding along the ground.Oh God, that hurts.But Newt had the phone in his grip and he held it tight. A boot hit his ribs and he cried out and curled up. Bit late to consider he should have thought before he leapt, then he heard the bike roaring away and he was left lying there. The whole thing had taken seconds.I’m an idiot.
“Oh my God, are you all right?”
He uncurled to see the man who’d been robbed staring down at him. Newt held out the guy’s phone.
“Oh Christ. You could have been killed for a bloody phone! But thank you. Really, thank you.” He put it in his pocket. “Can I give you up a hand up?”
Newt let the man pull him to his feet. His jacket wasripped, which had probably saved his arm from the same fate. They walked—Newt limped—off the road onto the pavement. He leaned against the wall of a pub. His legs were shaking. That had been stupid. He had enough problems without risking his life helping a stranger.
“You’re bleeding. Your face.” The man offered him a tissue.
“Thanks.” Newt dabbed his cheek.
“Well, that was a few minutes of excitement I’d not anticipated. Let me buy you a drink. You look like you could do with a sit down.”
“Thanks.” Newt wasn’t going to turn down a free coffee.
“What about this pub? Is it any good?”
“I’ve never been in.”
“We’ll give it a try.”
It was only a few steps to the entrance and Newt followed him inside.
“Take off your jacket. Check your arm,” the man said.
Newt struggled out of it. His sweater was ripped.Fuck.When he rolled up the sleeve, he could see his left arm was grazed, but not badly.
“Oh God. I feel terrible. Your jacket and sweater ripped, your face cut and you’re going to have bruises. But I am very grateful for my phone. Sit down. What can I get you? Alcohol or a coffee?”
“A coffee, please. Black.”
Newt sagged into the chair. He’d been reckless. What if the police had been called? He’d have been in trouble even though he wasn’t at fault. Except, they might say hehadbeen at fault. A few weeks of freedom and he was breaking his own rules.
Stay out of trouble.
Keep your head down.
Mind your own business.
The guy was coming back from the bar. He looked to be in his early forties, and was taller and broader than Newt, with silvery-grey hair. Good-looking if Newt had been into smart, older guys. He liked guys the same age as him. Blonds in particular. Though he shouldn’t be particular. He’d be lucky to find any kind of boyfriend. He imagined one asking if he had a criminal record. Newt didn’t even know what he’d say.
The man sat down. “They’ll bring the drinks over. My name’s Max Turner. Thank you again.”
“Newt Jones.”
