Seven Daze (5 page)

And she was off.

As the train reached her stop so she could change to the tube, they said goodbye. Curiously, Jim thought it was a very quick goodbye considering the length of the call. There’d also been no mention of future calls or contact. Again, curious. He expected at least, “I’ll ring you tomorrow,” or maybe even a pause so he could ask her out. But nothing.

Starting the long walk back to the hotel, Jim wagged his hot ear trying to clear his head.

How do you make ten grand in a week?

The waiting and wonder of Charlotte’s swift entry and disappearance was soon over. A text message buzzed onto his phone less than half an hour after her call. He retrieved it with a smile.

We’ve just been on news again; they called us mystery heroes :)

Though disappointed by the smiley, he was glad there was no
lol
or
omg
. He wasn’t quite sure what either of them meant. The whole mobile phone and texting phenomenon had passed him by on his last stretch. Everyone seemed to have sprouted a phone from their forearm and be constantly sending and receiving messages. What was so important that had to be read there and then? He didn’t get it. If you had something to say, something important, why not ring?

He reconsidered. If your name’s Charlotte then a text is fine. Pausing midway across Lambeth Bridge, his drunken, chubby fingers took ages to type the small phrase,
Thanks. I’ll
put telly on.

The rapid car journey, his newly acquired ten-grand debt and Charlotte’s earbashing had made five pints feel like two. As a preferred method of sobering up, he’d take strong coffee any day. Despite being a memorable day, it had to be his worst ever. Perhaps more alcohol was needed. Evening was drawing in and he’d walked miles, yet he felt more awake than ever.

Thinking again of Charlotte, sat opposite him in the coffee shop, talking to him, apparently enjoying his company, he shook his head. What was going on?

After walking the final mile to the hotel, he went to his room for a wash before dinner. He was hungry. Two cheese sandwiches and miles of walking left you empty, but he’d gone through and out the other side of hunger. Still, evening dinner was included in the price so at the very least he’d waste it to get his money’s worth.

Before leaving his room, he paused. The couple next door didn’t sound like they were in. He really hoped they weren’t in the dining room. He could picture it now. “Oh, come and join us, you must join us.” He didn’t need a couple of randy middle-aged probable swingers talking to him while he ate his pie and chips. He decided if they were in the restaurant he would about turn and walk out, and find a burger joint or fish and chip shop, if such things existed in London.

They weren’t in the dining room. Relieved, he sat at the lonely one-chaired table that had loser written all over it. Surrounded by travelling salesmen, conference attendees and even the odd holidaymaker who’d booked on the cheap, they were a pitiful combination. Jim had no previous experience of budget hotels, but he’d bet his granny they were all like this. Soulless, yet functional beds for the travelling fraternity with a tasteless meal added. Looking again at his co-dinees, a forty-something balding man, a thirty-something receding man and a couple of jolly looking holidaymakers, the male not having the fullest head of hair, he wondered if the hotel offered a discount for the follicly challenged.

He sipped the tap water provided. No doubt they’d let the water stand all night so people would instead buy their vinegarish house red. Gazing at the other diners who had hair, he wondered if any of them owed ten thou to an East End wannabe Kray brother. No, they were all spoon salesmen, insurance execs and yokels from the sticks visiting head office and sampling the finest Soho had to offer while their wives thought they were in late meetings.

Soho.

He should have been there now, blowing a fortune on coke, hookers and champagne. A night of celebration after a hard day. The first contract would have led to another then another. Pretty soon he’d have made enough to quit. He could have bought a farmhouse somewhere in Devon and made goat’s cheese or grown organic vegetables or some shite. There was supposed to be no more buying and selling. That had ended. No ripping off old ladies, either. Or young ones. No ripping off city workers. No ripping off youngish city divorcees who talk a lot.

No ripping off Charlotte.

Shaking his head, he sighed and looked at the kitchen. The saloon-style swing doors revealed a waitress attempting to carry four plates at once. Whether she was trying to look professional or was just lazy wasn’t clear. Offloading her plates of brownish stew at two tables, she returned to the kitchen for more. Beef stew in summer? Jim wondered what delights their winter menu would contain. The waitress returned with a plate for him and a short grunt. He thanked her and asked for a drink.

“The bar’s open.” She walked away.

He worried the stew with his fork, but ate less than he thought he would. Ten grand wasn’t very appetising and though he’d tried to push it aside, it was always there niggling away in his brain’s trying-to-forget compartment. Every five minutes or so it would return and remind him he was in the shit.

Leaving the restaurant, he headed for the bar and ordered a pint of flat beer. Quietly supping it at a table, the only other noticeable drinker was a sharp-dressed city worker talking loudly on his mobile about profit projections. He was so obviously booked into the wrong hotel it was embarrassing. Hidden in the shadows was another balding forty-something civil servant or executive. Jim considered going over and introducing himself, but that would mean talking pretend shop and he knew he wasn’t good company. The guy didn’t look too interesting either. He looked happy alone and in the shadows.

He finished the pint in three long mouthfuls; the city worker was really that embarrassing to listen too. Leaving the glass on the bar, he went upstairs.

Next door were still out which was a small blessing. A lack of anything to do, and the dull headache he recognised to be an evening hangover made him switch the telly on.

Geoffrey was indeed mentioned on the London news. Jim again put it down to London’s lack of humanity that it could be newsworthy. Like a talking dog or a town mayor who’s walking backwards for charity, the item made the light-hearted part at the end of the program, just after the daily count of murders and muggings. In a short, ten-second piece, showing file film of a hospital, the reporter did indeed refer to them as mystery heroes and good Samaritans. Apparently, Geoffrey was recovering well and Jim thought no doubt looking forward to his next line of coke.

Sighing again, he channel-hopped. Avoiding soaps and documentaries, he found the film channel. An old action film was on with the swearing and killings dubbed out to convert it into a PG. This proved a distraction as he lay on his bed, willing sleep to come.

The text message startled him. He’d been drifting off, his mind in some film-inspired daydream. Accessing the message,
Just had my tea; burnt the
pasta lol,
he wondered again what the fuck was going on. Maybe she was lonely. She must be to send complete strangers details of her culinary disasters. Jim wondered just what she’d be doing now. She’d probably be in her luxury flat sat on some hugely comfortable fluffy sofa with her legs tucked under her. An explosion of cushions would surround her; maybe her cat was asleep on one of them. Fresh from the shower she’d be in a dressing gown applying polish to her nails, or maybe plucking at her thin eyebrow strands in front of a mirror. There’d be a documentary on the television, but she wouldn’t really be watching it. Her mind would be thinking of tomorrow’s meetings or who to send a text to.

Jim sighed as he typed,
Bet it was better than mine. We had
beef stew
.

Now fully awake and with the time nine o’clock, the rest of the night lay in front. While inside, he’d been waiting for this evening. Three years of pent-up frustration that should be being released had been cancelled. The moment had gone.

He thought again of Charlotte. Alone in her flat, surrounded by the trappings of luxury. What would ten grand be to her? A month, two months wages? It couldn’t be far from that. After tax, rent and everything else he supposed it would be nearer six. It could be even more. He’d heard of these Londoners supposedly on huge wages, but after removing the cost of living in London they were poorer than a Glaswegian bouncer.

He couldn’t do it anyway. That caring woman who’d overturned all sense of London tradition by helping someone; she didn’t deserve what he was thinking. Their chance meeting shouldn’t lead to her having a broken heart or wallet.

Beef stew. Omg. What sort of
hotel is it?
her text said.

He smiled but knew she’d come to her senses. Today had been a huge shock; her mind hadn’t rationally dissected what she was doing. The messages would end tomorrow. He knew that. And then he’d really be alone.

It’s not the Ritz that’s for sure,
he replied.

Lol,
her quick reply.

They’d end tomorrow. Definitely. She was good-looking though. He remembered once more looking at her face in the coffee shop while she sipped that coffee and milk mutation. Clear complexion, confident. He also remembered the horror on her face as she saw Geoffrey, the tears when she thought he was dead.

She’d got in his brain. Nothing was going to happen between them, it couldn’t. She’d come to her senses tomorrow. Even if she didn’t, how long could he keep up the pretence? How long before he slipped up? All she had to do was ask him a question about statistics and he was a goner. No, this ended tomorrow.

In the meantime, he needed sleep. Though his head was in full hangover mode, his mind was whirring. Sleep was far away.

Alcohol was the answer. Lots of it. Picking up a jumper, he headed downstairs. The bar was similar to before: quiet, brightly lit and impossible to relax in. The city boy had scarpered, probably to more livelier surroundings and the balding civil servant had also gone to wherever those creatures go at night. The only drinker was a suited and well-rounded middle-aged man reading the evening paper. The restaurant waitress was also sitting at the bar sipping from a bright red bottle of alcopop, while the barman wiped glasses with his towel occasionally making conversation with her.

Armed with a pint and a scotch, he took the far table. His neighbours still hadn’t appeared. Jim didn’t like to think what or who they were up to. Downing the scotch in one, he shuddered as its fiery goodness burned. Sipping the pint, he looked again at the barman and waitress.

She was totally absorbed in her phone, fiddling with buttons while he occasionally whistled or strutted like a peacock round the short bar area. His obvious attempts to impress her lost while she sent or received messages. “Are you going out over the weekend?” he asked her. She shook her head as a reply, her eyes not leaving the phone.

Jim pulled his own phone from his pocket. His eyes cloudy, from both the long day and drink, he scanned through the phone menus. He wondered again what made these little things such coveted gadgets. Soon enough his brain on autopilot commanded his chubby fingers to open a new text.

Having a drink in bar.
His thumb hovered over the send button. It’s over tomorrow, he told himself. Maybe, just maybe, the mention of a drink might force something before she realises what’s going on. He pressed send. If she replied saying she could do with a drink, he’d ask her out.

Placing the phone down, he looked back round the bar. The barman was trying a different track to his chatting up, while the girl typed some unfeasibly long message.

Taking another glug from his pint, his fingers started itching. Pubs did that to him. A drink needed to be accompanied by a smoke, and they’d banned smoking in pubs just before he’d last gone down. He’d been amazed when he came out by the amount of beer gardens and alleyways converted to smoking dens. Even the smallest pub where once there was just a car parking space now had a lean-to or open-sided shed crammed full of smoking drinkers while the pub itself was empty. Draining his pint he headed to the bar for a top-up. The barman was still fighting a losing battle and after Jim paid for the drink, he headed for the open fire exit which contained the helpful sign, “Beer garden this way”.

The tiny tarmacadamed courtyard was surrounded by a high brick wall. Rubbish bins and a skip stood in one corner, with a weather-beaten plastic white table opposite. Placing his glass on the table, it wobbled, one of the legs being badly bent. Sighing, he moved the glass to the opposite side and sat on a plastic chair under the hole-ridden umbrella.

His phone next to the pint glass, he willed it to buzz or even ring. The first scotch and pint were turning the hangover into a thick head. He sighed and rolled his head round his shoulders as he pulled out a cigarette. The ciggy lit, he exhaled loudly and leant back. The chair creaked a protest.

Six more heavy draws from the cigarette and his head felt lighter. The kick that only a part-time smoker can feel combined with his headache to create an almost euphoric state. It reminded him of the pills he’d sometimes taken inside. Of course, he kept them hidden from Harry. Harry was very anti-drugs. Anti-taking them mind, not anti-the profit from the sale and distribution of. “That shit rots your body and mind, son,” he’d say, “give me a bottle of whisky any day.”

 Wondering what Harry would be up to took him back to the cell. Would Harry have a new cellmate? Would they get on as well? His mind jarred as he wondered if Harry knew he’d messed up. “That little sap’s fucked up bad,” he imagined him saying. “Let me down he has. The lad’s let me down.”

He flicked the near burnt-out fag at the rubbish skip and lit another. He hadn’t just let Harry down; what about Pete? All that training gone to shit. He’d probably sullied his good name too. Maybe he’d be next in a blacked-out Range Rover wanting ten grand.