prior to moving to the Cowichan Valley, so it was likely to be pretty full. That in mind, he opened the door carefully, ready to catch anything that might fallâbut there was nothing to catch. The box was empty.
Surprised, Greg immediately thought that he must have opened the wrong box. But a quick check of the number put that idea to rest; it was his box all right. Yet somehow, in almost two weeks, he appeared to have received no mail at all.
This oddity was not enough to dampen his recovered spirits, but it did add to the feeling of being slightly less than at home as he took the elevator. Entering his apartment, he was aware of the dank smell that abandonment had produced. He went immediately to open the balcony door, thinking as he did so that the place seemed smaller, no doubt the effect of spending nine days rattling around in his parentsâ big old barn.
Crossing to his bedroom, he noticed that the light on the old telephone answering machine was blinking. That was another oddity, since he rarely used his landline. Heâd only kept it connected because, despite using his cell almost exclusively, he wasnât quite ready to cut free from the old ways. Whoever had called on the landline must have got his number from the book.
Intrigued, Greg examined the machine. He hadnât used it in so long that it took a moment to find the âplay messagesâ button. He located it at last and pressed, and the message emerged loud and clear:
Mr. Lothian, this is Malcolm Spender from Island Electronics. The cheque you tendered for the flat-screen TV you purchased last week has been returned NSF. Please contact the store as soon as you get this message. This is Tuesday. If we have not heard from you by the end of the week, the matter will be put in the hands of the authorities. Thank you.
TEN
âI donât understand,â Greg said. âIâm Greg Lothian, but Iâve never been in this store before, let alone bought a TV here.â
He was standing in the showroom of Island Electronics, a small establishment on Fort Street which he hadnât known existed till an hour before. The man he confronted, who was not the Malcolm Spender of the phone message, did not seem impressed. He fetched a file from the office and opened it to produce an invoice and a cancelled cheque with the letters NSF stamped in red. âThis is your name, isnât it, sir? And your address?â
Flabbergasted, Greg looked at the cheque. The name and address were certainly his. The signature even looked something like his own. But the bank was one heâd never used in his life.
The cheque was for twenty-seven hundred dollars.
âThis is ludicrous,â he breathed. âThis isnât my cheque. I donât have an account at that bank. What in the hell is going on?â
The clerk shrugged, then looked beyond Greg to another man approaching. âHey, Malc,â he called, âthe bum cheque guyâs here.â
âI tell you Iâm notâ â Greg began, but was cut off by the newcomer.
âWho are you ?â Malc demanded.
âI told you,â the first clerk said. âItâs Lothianâthe guy who ripped us with that dud cheque.â
âI didnât,â Greg snapped.
âHeâs not,â Malc added. âThis isnât the man who bought the TV. This isnât Lothian at all.â
⢠⢠â¢
It took a long time, a stack of ID and several phone calls, but at last the facts of the matter were sorted out. Greg was the victim of fraud. He couldnât think how it had happenedâand then he remembered: the theft of his wallet from the gas station. Thatâs what must have done it. Heâd cancelled his credit cards and replaced his driverâs licence, but the documentation in the stolen walletâincluding, of course, his Social Insurance cardâhad been more than enough for identity theft. That possibility might even have