Chapter 2

Chapter 2 
The next day followed a pattern Barry had grown to hate. He arose at 7:45 every weekday morning and was outside by 9:00. The feeling of hatred for a routine is unusual for Barry as normally he has a great affinity for them, but then because the cleaning of windows was involved in this particular one it was impossible to enjoy. Not that Barry really disliked cleaning windows mind you, what he disliked was the way the people he cleaned windows for treated him. Today, one of the houses he had to clean on his round (round maybe being the wrong word to describe his consortium of extortionists) was thirty-seven, Woodlands Close. He’d only had this client for a few months and although they were one of his better customers, there was still something very peculiar about them. Every time he went to clean their windows there was a person inside the house, but they would never answer the door and instead play a strange game of hiding from him. The stealth manoeuvres were poorly executed, so Barry would always know somebody was in. All Barry wanted was this weirdo to open their side gate for him: it was always padlocked, and so if they were to open it up it would save him the hassle of having to climb over. The entire situation was highly irregular and very annoying. After doing the front windows—and then with great difficulty managing to make his fat body clamber over the side gate—he proceeded to do the back ones. Whilst cleaning the kitchen’s window, a banging noise from behind in the garden startled him from his work. Barry turned around to see there was a small wooden shed that’s door had been wedged shut by a broomstick, and evidently there was something inside trying to get out!
13 The banging sound continued to resonate clearly. Gradually the door edged open. The propped up broom keeping the door closed and whatever was inside restrained slid over, clattering onto the stone path. Emerging out from the shadows within was a very large Rottweiler. ‘Shit,’ said Barry in resignation to the probable likelihood of his impending death. If there is one thing Barry despises more than anything it’s dogs, which probably has something to do with how he’s been attacked by them on numerous occasions. Dropping everything he dashed for the side gate as quickly as his short, fleshy legs would carry him. The dog though had seen the whites of Barry’s eyes and couldn’t resist the temptation of the chase, even when it knew perfectly well that its prey was only the harmless window cleaner. Having opted to wear shorts this day, Barry now realised this was a bad decision: those rippled-with-fat calves were simply irresistible, looking like two juicy, bouncing hams to a hungry Rottweiler. Shrieking like a little girl, he climbed over the side gate of thirty-seven Woodlands Close faster than he’d ever done it in the past, and miraculously, even managed to escape physically unscathed. Don’t feel sorry for the dog though as it didn’t have to go completely empty handed, successfully getting a hold of Barry’s left shoe and pulling it off his foot while he was busy scaling the gate. ‘That’s bloody brilliant that is,’ said Barry, now safe at the front of the house. Knocking heavily on the door he really began to get annoyed knowing somebody was in there, that this person would not open the side gate for him, and now had irresponsibly failed to secure their dangerous dog properly.
14 His knocking increased in authority, and when that didn’t work he resorted to shouting through the letterbox: ‘Hey come on mate, open the door, I need to talk to you. Your dog got out of yer shed and attacked me. I can’t finish cleaning the windows.’ There was no reply. Barry peered through the glass of the door but couldn’t see anybody. ‘Look mate, I know you’re in there, just answer. Help me help you.’ Still nobody came. Cursing under his breath, Barry posted his business card through the letterbox, with a note on the back explaining how he couldn’t finish the job because of the loose dog. Moving onto the next house in his round, he was still close enough to keep an eye on thirty-seven Woodlands, just to see if anybody came or went. Ten minutes into cleaning his next house, he saw somebody through the glass of the door picking up and reading his business card. ‘I knew it; I knew somebody was in there.’ For the second time that day Barry ran, (this being a very rare occurrence, he was rapidly out of breath) and when he came to the door the elusive sneak was still reading his card, oblivious to the fact they’d been spotted. Barry knocked on the door, putting an end to the bizarre game. The sneak had been caught red-handed, hiding in their own home. A young, spotty-faced boy Barry guessed was aged about sixteen answered. ‘Why—didn’t you—get the—door—earlier?’ were Barry’s first angry words, spoken between giant gulps of air. ‘What, oh I mustn’t have heard you,’ replied the boy nervously.
15 ‘Oh—okay.’ With his heart rate returning to normal, Barry began to recover the full use of his vocal cords and lungs. ‘Look—I just want you to open the side gate and put your dog away properly. Then I’ll be able to finish cleaning your windows. I’d also like to get my shoe back.’ The boy looked down at Barry’s shoeless left foot and the hairy big toe that protruded out from a dirty sock. Knowing this strange young man was lying, Barry reasoned the lad’s probable cause for not answering the door earlier was because he didn’t have any money to pay the bill. With the help of the boy, Barry got his shoe back from the dog whom up till then had been contentedly chewing it. ‘So mate, what’s your name?’ ‘Peter,’ answered the boy. There was an extreme shyness about Peter but Barry couldn’t sense it. ‘So how come you’re always at home?’ Peter gave up the game and stopped lying, it being pointless, as Barry was clearly aware he’d been in the house every time he’d come to clean the windows. ‘Since I left school I haven’t managed to get a job. That was over a year ago now.’ Peter was it turned out seventeen, not sixteen as Barry had presumed. ‘No one wants to give me any training or employ me. I’m not very good in interviews, I’m shy. That’s why I didn’t answer the door when you came. But that don’t matter that much anyway coz normally I don’t even get an interview. I’m sorry I didn’t put the dog away properly.’ For a moment Barry was taken aback by Peter’s open confession to suffering with shyness, but then he felt sorry for Peter, knowing exactly what a rocky transition