Seven Daze (6 page)

The phone buzzed.
I don’t really drink midweek
.
Work and that, you know.

That settled that.

Stubbing out the second half-smoked fag, he downed the rest of the pint and pocketed the phone. The barman was still trying to pull. Jim was impressed with the effort but wondered if he did it every night. Maybe he was just practising his moves. Perhaps he’d read it wrong and they were just mates.

The stairs weighed heavy on his legs. Just how many miles had he walked? In the bedroom, he was glad his neighbours still weren’t back as he lay on the bed. Struggling with the remote, he chose a comedy program then opened his mobile again.
Me neither, I just felt like a drink,
was his message back to her.

The comedy program wasn’t funny and as he got beneath the covers, he wondered if she’d reply to the last message. After half an hour, she did.
We’ve just been on the late
news.
Off to bed now.

Turning off the television, he sent a reply.
Goodnight
, then switched off the light.

The night was the longest he could remember. He’d dropped off quick enough, but something woke him after a few hours. His head thumping, he wished he’d bought some tablets. He should have seen a headache coming. Sleep didn’t return and the hours ticked by until sometime after six. Every minute the LED alarm clock ticked off brought another calculation of how little sleep he’d get. He’d set the alarm for eight. Breakfast, included in the price, finished at nine and checkout was half ten. The calculation haunted him as he thought through his options.

By two a.m. he’d narrowed the options down to either run, rob a bookies or post office, or just give in. How else could he possibly make ten grand in a week? Of course he could phone Ralph and admit defeat, maybe ask to work off his debt. An entrepreneur such as Ralph’s boss would surely appreciate extra help. Problem was, if he said no a couple of broken kneecaps or concrete wellies were guaranteed. If he said yes, he’d be the gangster’s bitch forever, the debt would never be paid.

What he definitely was not considering, what absolutely was not going to happen, was ripping Charlotte off. Sure she had money, that was clear. She was also a divorcee, maybe lonely and the conversation so far had convinced him that despite him being more Mario than Lothario, he could fleece her if he wanted. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want his kneecaps rearranged either. There had to be another way.

Back to a post office or bookies. The problem was, Jim had told himself at four a.m., CCTV cameras. They’re everywhere. It’s not like the old days. He’d met enough armed robbers inside to know that. Sophisticated security alarms, silent connections to police and hidden cameras so powerful they could tell whether you’ve shaved or not weren’t to be messed with. The honest thief’s job was so hard these days. As Harry would say, “If they put us out of business think of all the unemployment. Think of the children. Why doesn’t anyone think of the children?”

By five he knew he’d be staying at the hotel a few more nights. His only real plan was to do what he failed at last time in town: rob tourists. Though something he’d never tried before, he knew how easy it was. Inside, they practised wallet snaffling during the quiet times. Some of the country’s best pickpockets had shown him their techniques. Stealing had never been his thing though. Not his career path he supposed they’d call it these days. Someone would bring him a vanload of gear to get rid of - no questions asked - that was his job. That was what he knew. Still, at the very least, a couple of wallets of cash could pay the hotel bill while he came up with a ten-grand job. Maybe more. Anything above ten was his. The difference in robbing ten and twenty grand wasn’t huge. Similar security, similar sentence if caught. An extra ten would keep him a long time. The rest of his life he hoped.

By six, the biggest weight in the gym was being lifted. A haze of clarity told him he didn’t need to solve the problem tonight. He had six days. Planning them was the key. He’d wasted the last six, hung-over hours tossing and turning in bed. There was no point. Everything would become clear in the morning. If it didn’t, rob a few tourists for pocket money and see if the idea came the next day. Relieved, he closed his eyes, sleep certainly seemed nearer. His mind, like his legs were exhausted. His mind wandered to Charlotte. Had she fallen asleep straight away? Slowly, as his eyes closed and concentration drifted, Jim fell asleep. His last thought was he was definitely not going to fleece her.

It wasn’t going to happen.

His throbbing head struggled to comprehend the grating noise that had woken him. Looking at the source, the alarm clock buzzed merrily, announcing to the world eight o’clock had arrived. Jim sighed. What time had he got to sleep? Slamming his hand on the snooze button, he slid a paper-thin pillow on his face and screwed up his eyes.

His head hurt. He’d barely drunk for three years and the two-stage drinking session had created a monster, two-stage hangover. Through the depths of his mind, two names were appearing, pushing themselves to the top. The names became clear: Geoffrey and Charlotte.

Throwing the pillow off, he moved towards the edge of the bed, his head pounding hard. Picking up his trousers and retrieving the phone, he looked at the display. A yellow envelope showed a new message.

Can’t
sleep, how about you?
the message said.

“Shit.”

How had he missed it? He was awake ninety per cent of the night. Perhaps it hadn’t buzzed or the trousers had muffled it. The time stamp read just before one. Just before he woke up. Maybe her message woke him. Shrugging his shoulders, which increased the headache, he took his time replying.

Sorry I missed your
message. I slept off and on.
Hope you got off eventually
.

Sending it, he went to the bathroom and filled a plastic glass with water. The stale and stagnant water greased his furred tongue as he drank. Hitting his stomach, it gurgled. He imagined his dehydrated body instantly using the water, carting it off to the most drought-ridden areas. A glance in the mirror revealed a badly hung-over thirty-year-old with bin-liner sized bags under each eye. Beard stubble was showing and tufts of his hair were at right angles to his head. The headache was still pounding, but he was getting used to it. He breathed out heavily, his rank breath clouding the mirror. Filling the basin with tepid water, he washed his hands and face.

Less than five minutes after his message, the phone beeped a reply. Unable to help the smile crossing his face, he ran to the phone.

Eventually got off at
three. I’ve rung hospital.
Geoffrey doing well. Off to work.
Catch up later :)

The smile grew as he returned to the bathroom. “So.” He cocked his head and pursed his lips to a pout. “Catch up later, eh?” Winking at his hazy reflection in the mirror, he finished washing then got dressed.

Walking to the empty reception, he rang the imitation bronze call bell. The dull ping didn’t help his headache. Each step down the stairs had felt like a crisp packet bursting behind him. Last night’s waitress and bar proper-upper walked from a rear office in a fairly clean uniform.

“Yeah?” She looked confused already before Jim had even said anything.

“Have you got any headache tablets?”

She shook her head immediately though appeared to take longer to digest the sentence. “No. There’s a shop down the road.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Was that it?” She scrunched her nose up. Whatever she’d been doing before was obviously more important than this.

“Yeah. Thanks for your help.”

Opening the outside door, a rush of polluted morning air and noise knocked him back. His head pounding, he walked to the shop and bought some painkillers. Nearly five pounds lighter, he returned to the hotel and headed for the restaurant.

Most of the people from last night were there and in various states of dress and hair loss. Though none were in pyjamas or dressing gowns, some had obviously slept in parts of the clothing they were wearing. Feeling a bit overdressed in jeans and t-shirt, he picked the single man, sad bastard table and sat down. His mouth still Sahara dry, he coughed as he tried to dry swallow a tablet. Eventually getting it down, he chewed the other instead. The powdery sharp taste filled his mouth and removed what little saliva he still owned.

Waiting, he picked up the menu and read it again, the sixth time so far. Looking round, his neighbours still weren’t about. Perhaps they’d left yesterday afternoon. He’d only met them a few mornings when his head was still buzzing and his plans were clear and simple. They’d talked to him for ages, most of which he didn’t listen too, but he was sure they’d booked in for a week.

Eventually, the waitress cum receptionist appeared and took orders. Jim ordered the full English - you got to get your money’s worth - and a cup of tea. After two minutes of looking round the room, politely smiling and checking his watch, he was bored. Everything was so slow in the hotel. It had to be intentional. Take your money then leave you high and dry waiting all day. Compared to London’s fast pace, the hotel felt like it never moved.

The problem for Jim was most of the other guests had someone to talk to. A few of the other single guests were also breakfasting; possibly late starts to their working day in the city. Most of the suited and booted brigade he’d seen in the bar or at meal times had probably eaten earlier. Their toast would have still just been warm, unlike the cold and soggy toast Jim knew he was going to get.

Picking up a free paper from the windowsill next to a dying plant, he attempted to read the two-week old local news. The breakfast arrived twenty minutes later. The chef was a genius, managing to both burn and undercook sausages simultaneously. The nearest he’d come to Michelin was a calendar. Jim presumed it was a he, but chances were it was the waitress-receptionist all-rounder.

Crunching through the burnt shell covering the pink sausage meat middle, Jim dunked his cold toast in his runny egg and shovelled it in his mouth. Despite everything else, the eggs were perfect. The headache tablets now working, his appetite had improved. He had a long day ahead and breakfast was the most important meal of the day. Just what his long day involved, he wasn’t sure. But if he ended the day with less than two grand in his pocket, the next five days would be harder. Much harder.

The breakfast finished, he wandered to the deserted reception and rang the bell. This time the ping just made him wince. The tablets were doing a grand job, they weren’t worth a fiver, but they were working. The waitress appearing, now dressed as a receptionist, wasn’t a shock.

“You again?” Her scowl was set at full mast.

 “Can I stay a few more nights, please?”

She sighed, heavily. “What room?” She shook her head in case there was any doubt of the extra work he was causing.

“Room twelve.” Jim looked at the London Eye leaflet on the stand next to the desk. He would admit that despite his slight fear of heights, he fancied a go in it. Sure it was just seeing London from up high, no chance of making ten grand, but it just seemed like a good experience.

Retrieving a piece of paper from a file, the waitress looked for a pen. “I don’t know where they disappear to. Ah, there’s one. Right.” She sighed again. “How many extra nights?”

“Two, maybe three.”

She sighed again. It lasted a few seconds. “Shall I write down two or three?”

“Two.”

“Oh, hang on. You paid cash, didn’t you? We’ll need payment in advance.” The first smile Jim had seen cracked its way across her face. She was hoping that would scupper him. She was expecting a fight. Expecting him not to have any cash on him. Her smile grew in anticipation.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Watching her face drop gave Jim his own smile.

She looked wounded and briefly struggled for words before finding them. “That’s a hundred and twenty-eight pounds then.”

Handing over nearly half his remaining money, Jim tried to keep his smile. He’d bought himself two days bed and board. Two days in this city to make or break himself. Technically, the making would be for someone else’s benefit. The breaking would be all his though. All his.

Back in his room, he was surprised Charlotte had rung twice and sent a text since he’d gone for breakfast. He still hadn’t got the hang of carrying the damn thing everywhere. It was like some traceable identity bracelet. Everyone needed to carry one. To have the means of being tracked and contacted twenty-four hours a day. He reckoned his Granddad had fought a war to stop that sort of thing, but it’d been ushered in through the back door.

The message:
My lunch meeting got cancelled. Are you near the city at one today? The table’s already booked.

Smiling, he typed,
Yes. Where can I meet you?

After a brief celebration he took his crumpled suit back out of the suitcase. Turning his nose up at the state of it, he opened the trouser press operating manual.

Taking the tube to the city, his last hundred and fifty quid in his pocket, Jim felt a twinge of optimism. Being skint was nothing new; he’d spent his life without money. It felt like an old friend returning. In some ways, he was glad the way things had gone yesterday. Glad he was back to skint old Jim.

Glad he wasn’t a murderer. Shaking his head, he stared at the tube map. Three stops to go. Why did she want to meet him? They barely knew each other. He’d convinced himself last night that sleep would bring her to her senses. Obviously it hadn’t. He wanted to see her, but wondered where this could possibly go. What possible common ground did they have?

For a summer’s Friday lunchtime, it had turned surprisingly warm. The tube caught the full stickiness of the subterranean metropolis. The passengers in his carriage, mainly tourists, had smiles on their faces. Capital smiles, he called them. Their hearts captivated by the bright lights and tall buildings, they wandered from spot to spot taking photos and enjoying themselves, but deep down secretly glad they were only visiting and didn’t have to live here.