THE LATE-NIGHT SHOPPER by Oliver Maxey

As the sliding doors rolled back and he crossed the threshold of the supermarket, the darkness and stillness of the night gave way to the sterile glare of the lights and insipid muzak. He picked up a basket and wandered past the newspaper racks as slowly as he could without attracting attention.

Good news: he wasn’t on the front page, at least.

He scuttled past the fruit and veg, scooping up a fistful of bananas. An old Asian lady unloading giant bags of potatoes onto the display looked round at him lazily and he glanced the other way, then felt compelled to follow his gaze towards the fresh herbs.

He looked at his list again – it seemed a random jumble of letters, so he screwed it up and resolved to pick up what he needed from memory: just the components of a sandwich, some crisps – and some razors and shaving cream. He had to have a shave or it would be obvious he’d been sleeping rough. Plus a beer or two – anything that would help calm his nerves.

A pimply teenager pushing a trolley laden with dog food nudged past him, clipping his ankle. “Sorry mate,” the youth muttered. He mumbled something back, without looking. Don’t make a scene, he told himself.

To make things more difficult, he’d never been in this store before. Asking for help was impossible in the circumstances, so he just had to follow his instincts: the marge would be near the milk, the cheese near the marge, the ham a short hop from the cheese.
His shopping done, he headed for the tills. A full-figured older lady was sitting at a till with no queue, so he half-ran towards her, then stopped himself and slowed to a walk.

As his purchases rolled along the conveyor belt, he picked up a copy of the Radio Times to thumb through; anything to avoid making conversation. All the while, his ears were tuned in to the sound of his buys beeping through. But then a new noise registered. A deeper noise. A bad noise. The razors weren’t scanning. The cashier put her mouth towards her intercom and made an announcement to the whole store.

“Geoff, can we get a price check on Wilkinson Sword, 10-blade pack?” His heart almost stopped as they waited for assistance. The cashier repeated her call over the tannoy before a tiny manager eventually appeared.

“That one’ll be £7.89, love,” he said. “You nearly clocking off now?”

“Chance’d be a fine thing,” she chuckled back. “Another two hours yet.” For god’s sake do your talking in the staff room, he thought. Not here. Geoff smiled.

“Oh well, nearly the weekend, eh?” He strolled leisurely back into the store, in the direction of the warehouse.

The cashier handed over the change.

“Have a good night dear,” she said. He nodded without speaking or meeting her gaze, and walked as briskly as possible towards the sliding doors. Once outside, he sucked in the cold night air like a newborn baby, then stopped for a second.

“Sod it,” he thought: “I didn’t use my Nectar card.”