The council tax hike was confirmed on a Tuesday morning.
“Your new monthly payment will be £187.33”
Levin stared at the figure. Not round. Not even. Just enough to feel vindictive.
He added it to the spreadsheet, deleting the old value with a sigh. Then he opened his email, and there it was: “Your new car insurance renewal quote is ready.”
He clicked it, already bracing.
“This year’s premium: £742.10. That’s a 10% increase.”
No claims. No points. No change.
Just more.
“Broken Britain is writing to me,” he muttered. “One envelope at a time.”
He reloaded the spreadsheet.
Reran the numbers.
This time, the shortfall was clear. He was losing £168 per month.
Later that day, at Barclaycard, he processed address changes and stale phone numbers with robotic precision. No one noticed his silence — Levin was always quiet. But inside, the maths had taken over. Every tap of the keyboard echoed with figures. Rent. Tax. Fuel. Bread.
At lunch, he didn’t eat. Just drank a lukewarm tap water from his flask and stared at the floor tiles.
He thought of a phrase he’d once heard on a YouTube documentary:
“The illusion of middle-class life on a working-class income.”
He felt that like a bruise.
That evening, he cycled to the Co-op as the sun dipped behind the tower blocks.
The sky was a washed-out orange, the kind that made everything look cheaper.
He locked up his bike and walked in with his reusable bag, but he wasn’t just shopping.
He was scanning. Not the shelves — the ceiling. The corners. The blind spots.
Where were the cameras? Where did the security guard hover?
Did the staff ever leave the till unmanned?
He caught himself.
“What are you scoping for?”
“You’re not going to do anything.”
He shook the thought off. Moved to the back where the yellow-stickered items lived.
He grabbed a small tin of tomatoes, reduced to 39p, and some instant coffee sachets.
Then he stopped. Held a packet of green tea powder in his hand. A six-pack of slim sachets. £2.60. He turned it over, looked at the nutritional info, the barcode, the weight. Too light to trip a sensor.
He put it back.
He left the shop with his paid items.
Walked past the security guard.
Felt nothing but cold.
At home, he ate rice and scrambled egg.
He didn’t turn on the heating. He didn’t watch any videos.
He sat with his spreadsheet, now colour-coded red and amber.
He added a note at the bottom:
“Shortfall: ~£168/month (projected)
Options: ???”
He stared at the question marks.
Then closed the laptop and sat in the dark again.