Odd Socks

It's the Tenth Day of Christmas and here is another Christmas rewrite. This story was submitted to be reviewed by my colleagues on the MA course. The rewrite is based on their suggestions and comments. Which do you prefer?
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It was seven minutes past midnight when the doorbell rang. I looked at my clock and pulled my duvet up over my head, thinking whoever it was would go away. The second ring was long and hard, a shrill sound that bored into my brain, and then it stopped. I lay still, clutching the top of my duvet, listening for clues. Had the late night campanologist gone away? No, it started again, a drilling ringing that screamed at me impatiently. I swung my legs out of bed, threw on a rugby top and made my way through the flat to the front door.

I opened the door a crack to reveal two men in suits. 


‘It’s 12.07’ I said, as way of hello. 


‘Mr Da vee es?’ the shorter man asked. It was the usual Czech bastardisation of my surname.


‘Yes,’ I said, I’d long ago given up trying to correct them. 


‘We're from the foreign police.’ He showed me his warrant card.

‘Please pack a bag and come with us. It's time to go home.’


‘This is home,’ I said scratching my head.


‘You are being deported,’ the policeman said handing me a piece of paper. ‘You have Twenty minutes to get what you need.’
I stared at the two men, expecting them to laugh, to reveal the joke but they didn’t.

‘Why?’ I asked. 
I opened the paper. It was my deportation order.

 ‘Nineteen minutes,’ the taller cop said.

‘Why?’ I asked again.

’Eighteen!’


I turned and went into the flat. What should I take? I was usually a skilful packer but with only seventeen minutes to gather my thoughts and my things I was struggling to focus. 
I randomly threw things into my suitcase and rucksack and then took them out again. I didn’t need a pillowcase did I? Why was I being sent home? What had I done?  I cleared my head and made a mental list. iPad, iPhone, MacBook and chargers, socks pants, shirts, and I was going home so umbrella and raincoat.

‘Two minutes,’ It was like being on the Great British Bake Off, or Masterbake as I liked to call it. 
I was ready.


‘Let's go!’ I said, resigned to my fate. 
They led me out of my flat, not helping with my luggage.

‘Wait!’ I went back in and picked up Bunny, my childhood cuddly toy. It was tatty and grubby, but I never would have forgiven myself if I'd left him there.

Blue lights flashed all the way to the airport. There was no check-in, no security, no passport control; I was just led straight to a midnight plane and told to get on. There was one seat left, 23C; my favourite.

The plane was full of other Brits, men, women and children looking bemused, baffled, angry. No one spoke; they just stared ahead with bloodshot eyes. The plane rolled slowly forward. I buckled up and tried to sleep, listening to the roar of the engine as taxi turned to take off and we leapt into the sky. A jet full of expats about to become repats. I looked down and saw I had odd socks on.

I stopped talking and looked at the job advisor who was stifling a yawn. But she'd asked me why I didn't have a job so I was telling her my story. So far I’d felt confused, lost tired but not angry. But this woman irritated me. She barely hid her contempt for me, like all of this was my fault. There were plenty of jobs on her books but none for people like me.  The job centre was full of us, a whole load of expats coming back to Britain. We’d become the pariahs of Europe, unwelcome outside our own borders. Now we were home stealing the jobs, school places and hospital beds of those who never went away. Pensioners from Spain, DJs from Greece, and English as a foreign language teachers from across Europe had replaced Indian doctors, Polish plumbers and Indonesian nurses.

Are you happy now Prime Minister Farage?

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This short story is brought to you by the author of Maggie's Milkman and Extraordinary Rendition. 

I see this as more of a work in progress than the finished article.

It was seven minutes past midnight when the doorbell rang, I looked at my clock and pulled my duvet up over my head, thinking whoever it was would go away. But they didn't. The second ring was long and hard, a shrill sound that bored into my brain, and then it stopped. My heart was beating in the silence. Had the late night campanologist gone away? No, it started again, a drilling ringing that screamed at me impatiently. I swung my legs out of bed, threw on a rugby top and made my way through the flat to the front door. I opened the door a crack to reveal two men in suits.
‘It’s 12.07’ I said, as way of hello.
‘Mr Davies? the shorter man said in a Czech accent.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘We're from the foreign police.’ He showed me his warrant card. ‘Please pack a bag and come with us. It's time to go home.’
‘This is home,’ I said scratching my head.
‘You are being deported,’ the policeman said handing me a piece of paper. ‘You have 20 minutes to get what you need.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘19 minutes,’ the taller cop said. I opened the paper, it was my deportation order.

‘Why?’ I asked again.
’18!’
I turned and went into the flat, ‘I was usually a skilful packer but with only 17 minutes to gather my thoughts and my things I was struggling to focus.’
I randomly threw things into my suitcase and rucksack, I make sure I had the important things, iPad, iPhone, MacBook and chargers.
‘2 minutes,’ It was like being on the Great British Bake Off, or Masterbake as I liked to call it.
I was ready.
‘Let's go!’ I said.
They led me out of my flat, not helping with my luggage.
‘Wait!’ I said. I went back in and picked up Bunny, my childhood cuddly toy, it was tatty and grubby but I never would have forgiven myself if I'd left him there.
Blue lights flashed all the way to the airport, no check-in, no security, no passport control, just led straight to a midnight plane and told to get on. There was one seat left 23C, my favourite. The plane was full of other Brits, men, women and children looking bemused, baffled, angry, resigned to their fate. I buckled up and closed my eyes, listening to the roar of the engine as taxi turned to take off and we leapt into the sky, a jet full of expats about to become repats. I looked down and saw I had odd socks on.

 The job advisor stifled a yawn looked bored. But she'd asked me why I didn't have a job and I was telling her my story. She barely hid her contempt, there were plenty of jobs on her books but none for people like me.  The job centre was full of us, a whole load of expats coming back to Britain. We’d become the pariahs of Europe, unwelcome outside our own borders. Now we were home stealing the jobs, school places and hospital beds of those who never went away. Pensioners from Spain, DJs from Greece, and English as a foreign language teachers from across Europe had replaced doctors, plumbers and nurses. Are you happy Mr Farage?

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