The day before I got fired, I bought a TV. A huge one, that I couldn’t afford. I bought it on credit. I bought it in the good faith that I had a steady income. I bought it like how regular people buy stuff. I walked into a nice shop, in a nice shirt. I combed my hair. My knuckles were not bleeding. I exchanged niceties, even banter with the assistant.
I was in a good mood.
‘What do you need it for?’ The guy asked.
‘You watch a lot of films?’
‘Something is about to start that I intend to see in good colour.’
‘Have you heard about the LRI Trials?’
‘Is that the research facility that fucked up all those kids?’
‘Depends what side your sitting on, but it’s that. That’s what I’m going to watch.’
‘On a three thousand pound TV?’
‘You’re daft, mate. Think of the porn you could watch!’
As he was drawing up the contract, he asked me things about myself. Where I lived, what I did for work. He asked me what my name was. I think I paused a little too long because then he said:
‘You’re not in witness protection, are you?’
‘You’re not one of those kids?’
I didn’t break.
‘Watch the trial. I think it will be interesting.’
He nodded, and handed me the paperwork.
I left with a spring in my step and my TV in the back of a van.
I had to make the place nice you see. I needed to prepare for V.