Identity Crisis

"Aren't you going to answer that?" Deb frowned, her immaculately made-up face marred by the look of irritation clouding it.

"No. It's probably a wrong number," Tom glanced at his mobile, "Yup, thought so," pressed the button to drop the call, then switched it off entirely.

"What if work calls? Maybe you should leave it on?"

"No, this is your time, my love. No interruptions."

He pulled her towards him and kissed her without much conviction.

"Tom, not here, love."

She shrugged away from him and as she did so her sleeve caught on the Supersize McDonald's Strawberry milkshake on the overcrowded formica table between them. The no-spill lid shot off and the thick sugary sticky pink glop spread over the table like volcanic lava.

"Oh! It's all over my dress! I've had enough of this Tom. Take me home this minute!" If her face had been clouded before it was positively stormy now.

Tom sighed and left the scene of disaster to a spotty youth who advanced towards it at the speed of a reluctant tectonic plate. The cloth in his hand already so grubby Tom now started worrying if he might have exposed himself and Deb to food poisoning here, as well as them having had a dreadful time.

"It's so sticky! These wet wipes are getting nowhere cleaning it off," she continued to complain as Tom drove her home to her flat.
"And you can forget coming up for a night cap sunshine. I'm not in the mood"

In the mood no, in a mood yes, Tom thought. Yet another aspect of his life swiftly headed down the toilet pan.

He tried not to think about Deb's non-stop ear-bashing as he entered his own flat a little later. He supposed he should have offered to pay for dry-cleaning the dress but he was way beyond that point by now. Too little, too late, in more ways than one.

The flat was cold, dark and he didn't want to be there any more. Didn't want to be anywhere anymore. He couldn't even go on the internet and lose himself surfing and socialising. He hadn't Twittered for THREE WEEKS! His computer sat dusty on his desk - mouse sadly neglected, monitor blank and dead.

Ignoring the unopened pile of envelopes on the table in the center of the kitchen/diner/living room area with imposing views over the town centre, he headed straight to his well-appointed ensuite bedroom with ample fitted storage. Kicking his shoes and socks off and without any further ceremony he climbed into bed and pulled the duvet over his head waiting for the mercy of sleep to give him some respite.
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"Of course you can move back in with us sweetie! I can't think of anything that would make me happier! And Dad feels the same way. Don't you Dad?" His Mum said.

Mr Turner looked up from his fat-free cholesterol busting meal obviously relieved to be distracted from the unappetising melange his wife referred to as his 'medicine-food'.

"Yes, come home by all means. But I can think of a few things that would make me happier. Pie and chips for one." His smile was the one he used when he was not entirely joking, and Tom knew he was glad to have him move back.

"I'm just not happy living on my own. I've given it a try and I'm happier with you guys."
His finger traced little circles on the plastic table cloth and he didn't look them in the eyes. Please, please let them swallow that as a reason.

'Well if you're not happy, you're not happy. Come home to us and let me look after you my bunny."
"Thanks Mum."

Oh God - he had forgotten about the babying in his desperation to find a solution. Still it was a small non-monetary price to pay - the sort of price he was still capable of stumping up for, and far outweighed the attractions of living in a shop doorway somewhere - which was the only other option available to him.

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"Is that the last of it?" Mr Turner asked, leaning against the cab door of the hired Luton van.
"Yes Dad. I said there wasn't much. A small white van would have been big enough."
"Always better to have some extra space - just in case. If you have space to spare, no worries, but if we can't get it all in, that would mean driving back and fore all day. Waste of fuel and time."

Tom couldn't face arguing. The Luton van loomed huge around the small pile of his belongings made to look even more insubstantial by the space around it. Not much to show for four years of independent living. Just some clothes, his computer, his music stuff and a few bits and bobs from the kitchen. Dad had been good enough to pay for the van hire as a welcome home present so it was his choice.

At least he didn't have to try and sell the flat, he had put his foot down with Deb when she tried to persuade him to buy somewhere.

"I'm not ready to commit to buying a property Deb. I'll rent and see how it goes."
Despite her passionate insistence that rent was throwing money down the drain and anyone savvy started climbing the property ladder asap (she actually said 'aysap') he was equally adamant.
It was the only financial decision he had made for himself since they started going out together and it was the only one that hadn't turned round and savaged him in the gluteous maximus.

It only took a couple of hours to put his stuff back in his room at home. He had always thought of his parents house as home, even though it wasn't the house he had been raised in. But when his parents bought this house they had made sure there was a room for him, "For when you want to stay over."

His Mum was always wanting him to stay over. He never had. But now here he was. Feeling more settled and safe than he had for years. It felt like home, because here he was loved and when the world turned ugly he knew that being with people who loved him was the only way to survive. He was lucky to have this. It was time for him to take a deep breath and start putting his life back on track.

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Dave Donnelly known to his mates as HotBlack leaned back in his leather computer chair and stretched his arms. His shoulders were aching from the hours he had spent at the keyboard. He rolled the chair back and heard the familiar scrunching sound as the chair wheels crumpled one of the many empty Red Bull cans that littered the floor.

His centre of operations was a medium sized upstairs room in the council house he shared with his girlfriend. It was packed tight with boxes and packages apart from the space he had carved out from the warehouse-like stacks in order to house his IT equipment.

Dave was known as HotBlack because he was very fat, always wore black and he and his Geek friends saw the Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy as their bible. All his mates had H2G2 nicknames, he even called his girlfriend Eccentrica, which she thought was nicely exotic - if she'd been much of a reader she would have thumped him.

He was feeling very proud of himself. On the screen was the confirmation of an expensive order of computer equipment to be delivered to his address in the name of Tom Turner which he had ordered using some credit card details he had 'obtained' along with Tom Turner's personal details.

Dave Donnelly had not stopped at simply appropriating the identity of HotBlack Desiatu, he had made a habit of assuming other people's identities. Well, it beat working for a living.
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Absent mindedly Tom answered the phone.

"Can I speak to Tom Turner please."

"Who is it?"

"This is Terry from Windmills debt collecting agency about your Bankleys Credit Card debt. This is our last attempt to resolve the matter before we instruct the bailiffs."

"What do you mean bailiffs?"

"You haven't read the court order?"

"No."

"Tough - it's on record as having been delivered. What can you offer us in payment NOW to prevent the bailiffs coming in?"

"I haven't got any money. I can't pay you anything."

"Then we will be instructing bailiffs to visit tomorrow and remove goods to the value of the debt."

"I've moved - you don't have my address - it's pointless turning up there - it's a rented flat and empty."

"What is your new address?"

"I'm not prepared to divulge that information."

"You are playing a silly pointless game Mr Turner. We have ways of tracing people."

At this Tom panicked, could they trace the call? How much were they capable of? He didn't know. Shaking and with his heart thumping out of his chest he disconnected the call and switched off the phone.

He promised himself he would save and save until he had enough money to pay the credit card company off one day. But it was impossible right now. Oh God, what if they did trace him? Could they take property belonging to his parents? Might they ring him at work? If they did what would happen? Would he be sacked? For the first time he wondered whether he had the courage to kill himself. It might be the best way to solve all this.
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HotBlack and Eccentrica rolled up the garden path unsteadily. It had been a good night at the pub. They were quite simply bladdered. So they didn't notice anything amiss at first.

Then they saw the notice marked "Walking Possession Order FAO Mr Tom Turner"

"Someone's been in here. Did you remember to lock the door before we went out?" HotBlack asked Eccentrica.
"I thought you locked it, Hottie baby."

"Oh you stupid cow!"

He rushed upstairs - his stash of boxes were gone. The possession order listed other items that the Bailiffs were planning to return to collect the next day.

"But it's a mistake Dave. Who is Tom Turner? Tell them they made a mistake and get them to bring the stuff back."

Even in his inebriated state Dave realised that it would be better to let the bailiffs do their worst rather than admit to them how they had his address associated with Tom Turner's credit card.

"Shut up and go to bed."
"But Dave."
"SHUT UP!"

Eccentrica shut up, but he hadn't heard the last of it by a long chalk.
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Tom sat on the edge of the bridge. Beneath him the grey muddy waters swirled uninvitingly. He'd been there for a few hours trying to get the courage up. If he waited much longer he hoped he might become unconscious with cold and then fall involuntarily and hopefully drown without knowing too much about it.

The phone rang.

For once the sound didn't set his nerves to jangling. He was past caring now. They could say, do what they liked. Soon he would be beyond their reach whatever powers they had to trace him.

Calmly he rummaged for the phone in his inside jacket pocket. With a very steady voice he said, "Hello Tom Turner here, how may I help you?"

The conversation that followed was a blur. All that sunk in was that miraculously somehow, the nightmare was over. Full and final settlement were words which echoed round and round his head.

The most wonderful words he had ever heard in his life.

He climbed back over the parapet and stood looking down at the water from a completely different perspective. Lifting the phone high above his head he flung it as far as he could and laughed hysterically to see it disappear with a splash under the surface, never to bother him again.