The Passenger by Daniel Hurst (ready to read books .TXT) 📗

money that could have stayed in my bank account instead of ending up behind the counter of a betting shop somewhere in Brighton. Johnny always promised me he would get himself straight and that we would have a healthier relationship, but he would let me down every time.

But no more. From now on, I’m taking back greater control of my finances.

Like today, for example. I’m on my way into the bank to pay in a cheque that I received from one of my colleagues. I had lent her twenty pounds a few months ago when she was struggling to last until payday, and she has finally paid me back, although in the form of a cheque, which was a little surprising and more than a little annoying. I’m not sure why she couldn’t just give me the cash, but she is a lot older than me and of that generation that did most of their transactions with a chequebook. But it was nice of her to finally pay me back, and it will be good to have that twenty pounds in my account in a short while. It’s not much, but in my circumstances, every little bit helps.

I turn off the Promenade and see the glass doors of my branch on the next street. Pushing the doors open quickly and stepping inside, it’s a relief to be out of the blustery weather for a moment. I catch a quick glance of my reflection in the doors as I pass through, and it’s evident that my hairstyle has been no match for the bracing wind on the seafront today. But never mind.

I’m here to cash a cheque, not win a beauty pageant.

I’d ideally like to use the self-service ATMs to the left of the banking hall to process my cheque, but I see there is a long queue of people already waiting to use them, so I take my place in the shorter line for the cashier desks instead. In a way, this is better because it’s nice to actually talk to somebody instead of just dealing with an automated machine. This is how it was in the old days before technology crept into our lives.

But I still wish my colleague had transferred me the money instead of handing me a bloody cheque.

As I wait in the queue, I check my phone for messages, not that I’m expecting to have any. Sure enough, there are none. Nothing from Louise. Nothing from Johnny. Nothing from anybody. Forget beauty pageants. I guess I won’t be winning any popularity contests either.

It takes several minutes of edging along the carpet in this banking hall, but eventually the customers in front of me get seen to, and now it is my turn to step up to the glass screen and speak to the little old lady behind it.

‘Good morning. Just paying in a cheque, please,’ I say as I slide the piece of paper through the slot onto the cashier’s desk.

‘You don’t see many of these anymore,’ she says to me, waving the cheque at me on the other side of the screen, and I laugh because she is right.

I wish she would tell that to the woman who gave it to me.

I wait patiently as the friendly cashier punches several numbers into her keyboard and glances at her computer screen a couple of times before finally telling me that it is done.

‘Would you like a receipt and statement of balance?’ she asks, and I tell her that I would.

As she prints one off, I think about how pleasant this woman is. I’m not sure I would be this chirpy if I did her job, but not everybody is like me, I suppose.

Not everybody is forever dreaming of something better just beyond their reach.

‘There you go. That’s all done for you,’ the cashier says as she slides a couple of slips of paper back through the slot, and I take them.

‘Thank you,’ I say as I turn to walk away, glancing down at the paper as I do.

The first one is the receipt confirming the amount of £20 has been paid into my account today, while the second one is the current balance of that particular account.

It’s that second one that causes me to panic.

‘Wait,’ I say, turning back to the desk and cutting in front of the old man who was just about to take my place. ‘This isn’t right.’

‘What isn’t right, dear?’ the cashier asks me, my distressed state still not enough to put a chink in her friendly customer service.

‘My account. It says that there’s only sixty-seven pounds in it. But there should be more than that. A lot more!’

The cashier frowns a little but returns to her keyboard, where she hits several more numbers before reaching out for the edge of her computer monitor and turning it around so that I can see what is displayed on the screen.

‘This is your account, correct?’ she asks me, referring to the long line of numbers across the top and the sort code beside it.

My eyes scan the numbers, and I can see that they are the ones that belong to me. But before I can answer her, I again notice the numbers at the bottom of the screen, and they are the ones that cause me to grip the marble counter between us tightly.

It’s the balance of the account.

Where has my £5,000 gone?

17

AMANDA

I’ve just finished telling the man who is trying to take all my money in the present about the man who took all my money in the past.

After that frantic moment in the banking hall of my local branch two years ago, I started to find out why I hadn’t heard from my boyfriend in two days. Johnny had cleaned out my account after getting my bank details from the numerous statements I had lying around at my flat, transferring the funds from my account to his. He had got all my money through a combination of my carelessness with