Another Little Slice

Title reccomendations are welcome, by the way. As of now, I'm writing under the title "Poole" for reasons I can only really explain post-reading. I don't like it though.

Anyway, sorry for dropping paragraphs on you without revealing much of the story. The brief build up to this is that the guy, Chris, who was running from the police in the first part is now home, having escaped successfully.

I don't proof-read before posting these, not even a skim, so forgive any glaring errors. The editing process will come later for me!

-------
"Hang on mate, I'll just grab it," he said. "Cheers for this, by the way."
The driver nodded and Chris chucked his phone onto the back seat before jogging up to his door. He let himself in and looked in the living as he passed it. He saw the DVD player's clock, it was 10:40. Peeling his jacket off and hanging it from a chair at the foot of his stairs, he glanced into the dining room. Neither his mum nor brother were awake. He delved a hand into his mother's handbag, sat on the same chair, and lifted her purse out.
Chris jogged back outside, a £20 note in hand.
"Here you are mate, cheers."
"Cool, there is yours," said the driver, handing back a couple of pounds change.


Chris jogged back into through the front door, pushed each trainer off with the other foot and kicked them under the stairs.

He rummaged in his fridge for a moment before he found some sliced ham. He defrosted two slices of bread  in the microwave, stripping down to his boxers while doing so, and piled his sandwich together as he walked into the living room.
Chris' mother loved chintzy decorations; she believed she was brightening the place up. On the faded powder pink walls hung ceramic cats with bow-ties, wooden hedgehogs with homely phrases etched in, and a flat, stick-on dado rail that ran a dirty gold smear across the room. His dad had always complained openly about how awful it was up to, during and after the divorce six months before his death. He was ill for years before he passed away, but his weakness didn't extend to politeness.
"I wish you'd take that shit off the walls," he'd say. "It's like a fucking time warp in here."
He was never overly aggressive or even angry, just brisk and honest to a fault. He cared more about saying what he wanted to say than he did about what the person listening might feel.
Chris flicked on the TV and looked through the listings. Nothing but the usual mid-morning rubbish.
-------