Chapter 3: The £8.50 Investment

Chapter 3: The £8.50 Investment

A plan without action is just a fantasy. Elara had spent two sleepless nights poring over the pile of Julian’s discarded letters, cross-referencing dates and amounts, her laptop glowing with obscure legal forums and the dry text of the Limitation Act 1980. The grief that had hollowed her out was now packed tight with cold, hard purpose. She was no longer a victim; she was an architect.

The first obstacle was critical. For her plan to work, the newly awakened creditors needed to know where to find their target. She needed Julian's new address. Asking him directly was out of the question; it would reek of suspicion. But Julian’s greatest weakness, the one that had allowed him to hurt her so deeply, was also his most exploitable flaw: his profound, unshakeable arrogance.

She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over his contact. Her heart gave a traitorous flutter of the old pain, which she ruthlessly suppressed. She composed the message with the detached calm of a surgeon.

‘Found a box of your old mail while I was clearing out. Some of it looks official. Where should I send it?’

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. The three dots appeared almost instantly. He was, as always, glued to his phone. His reply was a perfect distillation of his character: smug, demanding, and utterly clueless.

‘Oh yeah that stuff. Knew I forgot something. Send it to 14B Regents Court, Flat 3, NW3. Don’t suppose my old HyperX headset was in there? The one with the blue trim.’

He was asking for scraps from the life he’d detonated. The casual entitlement of it was breathtaking. It fueled the fire in her gut.

‘No,’ she typed back. ‘Just the letters. I’ll post them tomorrow.’

She didn’t post them. The box of letters was her arsenal. With the address secured, she moved to the next phase.

The following afternoon, Elara bypassed her usual study carrel and found a quiet, forgotten corner on the third floor of the university library. Tucked away behind shelves of political theory was a small alcove with two old, coin-operated public payphones—relics from a bygone era that were perfect for her purpose. No caller ID, no digital trail.

In her pocket was a pre-paid debit card she’d bought with cash from a corner shop that morning. She had loaded it with exactly twenty pounds.

She spread out the eight most promising letters on a dusty windowsill, arranging them in order of age. The oldest was at the top: a final demand from a high-interest credit card company for £850, dated five years, eleven months, and one week ago. It was teetering on the very edge of the six-year cliff, about to fall into the abyss of unenforceability. It would be her first target.

Taking a deep breath, Elara picked up the heavy plastic receiver of the phone and dialled the number. The sterile hold music started, a tinny rendition of a forgotten pop song. Her palms were sweating, but her mind was icily clear. She was walking a fine legal line. She couldn't claim to be him. She couldn't create a payment plan. But she could make a one-off, anonymous payment.

“Capital Resolutions, my name is Sharon, how can I help you?” The voice was bored, automated.

“Hello,” Elara said, her own voice carefully neutral. “I’d like to make a payment on an account, please.”

“Of course. Do you have the account reference number?”

She read it out from the crumpled letter. There was a pause filled with the clatter of a keyboard.

“Okay, I have the account here for… a Mr. Julian Croft?” Sharon’s tone sharpened with interest. “This account has been dormant for some time, miss.”

“Yes, I know,” Elara said smoothly. “I’m a friend. He’s trying to sort out his finances, and I’m just helping him with the admin. I’d like to make a small payment towards the balance on his behalf.”

It was a perfect, plausible lie. The world was full of well-meaning friends and family trying to clean up the messes of people like Julian. Sharon didn’t question it. To her, this was a dead account miraculously showing a flicker of life. It was commission.

“Very well. How much would you like to pay today?”

This was the critical moment. The magic trick, as Barry the supervisor had called it. The linchpin of her entire plan.

“One pound,” Elara said.

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “...Excuse me? Did you say one pound?”

“Yes. Just one pound, please. It’s all he can afford right now, but he wanted to show good faith.”

Another lie, polished and smooth. The keyboard clattered again. “Okay… one moment.” Elara held her breath. She heard a click. “Alright, I’ve processed a card payment of one pound on the account of Julian Croft. That has been successful. The outstanding balance is now £849.00. Thank you for your payment.”

The most important part was unspoken, hidden in the digital ether of their system. By accepting that single, insignificant pound, the six-year statute of limitations had been nullified. The clock on Julian’s debt hadn’t just been paused; it had been smashed to pieces and a brand new one had started ticking in its place. Bam.

A wave of triumph, so fierce and potent it almost made her dizzy, washed over her. She hung up the phone, her hand trembling slightly. She had forged the first link in the chain that would bind him.

She picked up the next letter. A defaulted mobile phone contract from five years and ten months ago. She dialled. The process was the same: a bored agent, a plausible lie, a single pound payment. Another clock reset. Bam.

Again, and again, she worked her way down the pile. A store card he’d maxed out on video games. A personal loan he’d taken out for a ‘business idea’ that never materialised. Each call was a nail being hammered into his financial coffin. With every pound she spent, she felt the power shifting, flowing back towards her. He had stolen her financial security in one single, cowardly act. She was destroying his one meticulously placed pound at a time.

An hour later, it was done. She had made eight payments to eight different creditors. She checked the balance on her pre-paid card. She’d spent £8 on the payments, and the card itself had cost 50p.

Total cost of her revenge: eight pounds and fifty pence.

She leaned her head against the cool glass of the library window, looking out at the students walking below, oblivious. None of them could imagine the devastating financial ordnance she had just unleashed from a dusty payphone. It wouldn't be immediate. It would take weeks, maybe months, for the letters to be generated, for the newly re-energised collection departments to gear up and start the hunt.

Julian was still basking in the glow of his new monitor, paid for with her life savings. He was still laughing with his new girlfriend, living a life built on theft and deceit. He believed he had gotten away with it. He had no idea that for the price of a couple of coffees, she had just purchased his future.

A cold, sharp smile touched her lips. Julian had mockingly called his theft an #investment on Instagram. But this, this £8.50, was the best investment she had ever made. The trap was set. Now, all she had to do was wait.