The Sit

She looked at it and pinched the hem of her cardigan. The contract sat on the coffee table between them. Alongside it, a tray containing a cold pot of tea and a plate of iced biscuits.

‘It- it’s a lot of money, isn’t it?’ Evelyn said.

Dean, already perched on the edge of the sofa, sat even further forward. The knees of his suit shone. His capped teeth shone even brighter.

‘It is a lot of money, Evelyn – do you mind if I call you Evelyn?’

She acquiesced coyly.

‘Evelyn, I agree, twenty thousand pounds is a lot of money, but what you have to ask yourself is; what price do you put on your peace of mind? You see, Evelyn, you’re not just buying a new set of five-star energy rated windows.’

He held his hands out, open palmed. Evelyn noticed the sovereign rings, and the thick gold name bracelet on his wrist. Her son had worn one of those for a while, back in the eighties.

‘Evelyn, you’re buying windows that will save you up to a thousand pounds a year on your heating bills. That’s one – thousand – pounds!’

He smiled lasciviously.

‘How many nights at the bingo is that!’

Evelyn loosened a thread at the hem. She glanced at the clock. Over an hour had passed now. It was almost time for her soaps.

‘I- I think I just need some time to think about-‘

‘Is that you?’ Dean asked. He had followed her gaze to the mantlepiece and was nodding at an ornate picture frame.

‘Oh… yes,’ she said, embarrassed.

Walking across the room, Dean crouched to study the faded image.

‘Weren’t you a cracker? And who’s that with you, your husband?”’

‘Dickie,’ she said, almost a whisper.

‘Soldier?’

‘Royal Tank Regiment.’

Dean didn’t hear the answer, so engrossed was he with the line of photos that chronicled the couple as they had aged together. The final picture, in which Dickie was clearly ill, looked recent. Tasting blood in the water, Dean made a leap of faith.

‘I’m sure you miss him every day.’

‘Every day, yes.’

But especially now, thought Evelyn. If Dickie were here now he’d take charge. Always did. During the war he used to beat up men like Dean. Spivs. He’d send this one packing with a flea in his ear, that’s for sure.

Dean sat back down.

‘He was clearly a hell of a man, hell of a man.’

His perpetual smile suddenly faded.

‘Which brings me on to another very important question; do you know how safe your neighbourhood is nowadays?’

Dean fixed Evelyn with a stern, serious look.

‘Well, no?’ she replied.

‘No, but as it turns out I do.’ He pulled a ring binder out from his briefcase.

‘Before I came to see you tonight, I logged on to the governments web site and downloaded all of the burglary statistics for this area, and do you know what I found?’

Evelyn could feel a migraine coming on. Oh, she wished he would stop talking.

‘Look, can we just-‘ She started to say. But it was no use. He was already well into his stride.

And that was how it kept on. For the next two hours, Dean talked incessantly at Evelyn, pausing only to make phone calls to his boss, during which he asked for, and dutifully received, permission to lower the price of the sale. After the fifth call, the quote on the table had been reduced to a quarter of his opening gambit. Yet still his droning continued.

‘Now if you were to ask me, if you were to say, ‘Dean, what colour would Dean recommend?’ Dean would say this-‘

‘Alright!’ Evelyn snapped. She could stand no more. It was nearly midnight and the stabbing behind her eyes was so fierce she could barely see.

‘I’ll sign.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Dean, glimpses of fatigue showing in even his smile.

Stumbling to her feet, Evelyn walked over to her bureau.

‘It’s alright, I’ve got a pen here,’ Dean said, but Evelyn ignored him. She produced a key from her purse and used it to open a drawer.

Inside sat a bunch of pens and other assorted stationery, all neatly organised. Behind that lay her husband’s Enfield Mk I. service revolver.

‘The only question you have to answer now,’ Dean said, ‘is what colour would you like. With twelve on offer, there are so many choices.’

Evelyn stared into the drawer.

Yes, she thought. Choices, choices.