Never Saw You Coming

by Hayley Doyle

  Derek Higgins.

  His dry, swollen finger signals me to get out of the booth.

  ‘Follow me.’

  The office door swings on its hinge, creaking, a fault in the frame preventing the satisfaction of it shutting.

  ‘How’s your missus?’ I ask.

  ‘On a diet,’ Derek tells me. ‘But we need to talk about you, Jim.’

  There isn’t a clue in sight to prove that Derek has occupied this office for years. The walls remain white, the desk uncluttered; a desktop computer and a single biro. A shift rota hangs beside a plain calendar. No family photograph, no football logo, no tea-stained personal mug. To those who don’t know, it could be Derek Higgins’ first day.

  ‘You’re going nowhere,’ Derek barks, choosing to perch on the desk, his navy trousers bulging at the crotch, his navy socks not quite hiding his pasty calves. Offering me the only chair in the office with his hand, he removes his glasses, squinting. ‘Nowhere,’ he reiterates. ‘And in a way, it’s quite endearing. The fact that you’re going nowhere.’

  Now, I’m a tall fella. My growth spurt was quick and early – I was towering over my teachers by the time I started secondary school. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of my height, although my ma still nags me about my natural hunch. And yet here, in Derek Higgins’ office, I feel small; worthless.

  ‘You know what I’m gonna say, don’t you, Jim?’

  I nod.

  ‘It hasn’t been an easy decision for me. Lots of pros, lots of cons.’ Derek holds out his palms like a pair of weighing scales. ‘You’re a pretty predictable character, Jim. Which is good on one hand, but …’ He trails off. ‘You’re going nowhere.’

  ‘So you keep saying, Derek.’

  ‘Don’t be offended. It’s no criticism. It’s the way you are. Most lads your age have either tried to get somewhere and failed, or actually gone somewhere, like down south, or –’ he lowers his voice, ‘– London.’

  I sit back into the office chair, letting my long legs spread.

  ‘You’re a good-looking lad, Jim. You are. I mean, you’re not my type, if you catch my drift? But, you’d have to be blind not to notice you’ve got the looks. You’re what my wife’d call a “dish”; a “bad boy”. They all love a bad boy, don’t they?’

  Oh, Christ. I best brace myself.

  ‘You could’ve been in sales, Jim. Retail. But you didn’t go anywhere. You weren’t one of those lads who did something soft, like … form a band.’

  ‘I was in a band,’ I mutter.

  ‘What did you play?’ Derek leans back and plays air guitar.

  ‘Vocals. Lead vocals actually.’

  ‘Exactly my point.’ Derek clicks his fingers, such a strong, perfected click that its echo bounces off the walls. ‘You never pursued it.’

  ‘I was fifteen. Everyone’s in a band when they’re fifteen.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  There were four of us in the band. Snowy, Griffo, Mikey, and yours truly.

  Brian ‘Snowy’ Walsh – who got his nickname from his resemblance to Snow White; skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony – played lead guitar. The drummer, Mikey Farley, was the youngest of six kids, so learning to play the drums was his only way of being heard. I was the front man and Phil Griffin was on bass. Griffo’s dad was always away on business which meant that Griffo’s mum went out with the girls a lot, so it was in their triple garage where we formed, rehearsed. The Griffins had a cook and a cleaner and electric gates. In fact, still do. None of us knew what Griffo’s dad did, but we all knew he was raking it in. We drank a lot of his expensive spirits, wrote songs. We only ever performed covers. Led Zeppelin, the Stones, Chili Peppers.

  ‘We used to do a boss cover of “Video Killed the Radio Star”,’ I tell Derek.

  Derek sings a line, falsetto.

  ‘Did you ever play The Cavern, though?’ he asks.

  ‘Once. Student night.’ And it’s true. The sweat does drip off the walls.

  ‘Predictable,’ Derek says.

  ‘Or maybe I’m not so predictable,’ I say, standing. ‘I can’t be arsed with this.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  A horn honking outside startles us, ripping away my sudden confidence to storm out. I sit back down. Derek begins to pace the office and I realise, yeah, he’s only being honest. I am predictable. Nothing I’ve ever done during eight years of working in the toll booths could’ve given Derek any other impression. My timekeeping’s impeccable. My hair’s always a mess. I only drink instant coffee from the machine. I chat to my colleagues, ask after their kids and buy them Mars bars when they’re sick. You see, Derek didn’t know me prior to my toll-booth days. He doesn’t know about my old impulsive nature.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I’m going nowhere. But maybe that’s about to change.’

  Derek pulls himself away from the rota and puts his glasses back on, glaring at me.

  ‘Derek, I won a car.’

  ‘A car?’

  ‘Yeah, a car.’

  ‘A real one?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘On the radio. On the breakfast show.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, lad. What sort of car?’

  ‘BMW.’

  ‘A BMW?!’

  Derek loosens his tie a little further, wipes his brow. ‘Congratulations, lad.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  The passing cars fill the dead air hanging between us, until Derek starts to laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Oh, lad. I’m just imagining you driving around your neck of the woods in a BMW. I mean, it’s not gonna last five minutes round there.’

  The laughing produces tears and Derek removes his glasses again to mop them up with his thumb. He’s got a bloody nerve.

  ‘That’s out of order, Derek. Out of order.’

  But, is it? Maybe Derek has a point. The joy of winning is still boiling hot. I haven’t had a second to think this through, let the cold water splash me in the face. I think about the flat I rent above Wong’s chippy. The living room overlooks a dual carriageway flyover. Below my bathroom is a tiny back yard, just enough space for a wheelie bin. Where the hell am I going to park a BMW out there?

  The bubble bursts.

  ‘Look, Jim. You’re better off selling the bloody thing and going on a spending spree.’

  ‘What do you reckon it’s worth?’ I ask. I watch cars speed past day in, day out, but I don’t know much about them. As a kid, I preferred my bike and my books. I passed my driving test years ago, like. I’m not soft. But I lost all interest in getting a car because I couldn’t afford one.

  Derek blows his lips. ‘Twenty grand. More. I’m not a BMW man myself. More a Merc.’

  ‘Twenty grand?!’ Shit.

  An hour ago, I was trying to read Gene Wilder’s autobiography cocooned in a toll booth. Now, I could be sitting on a small fortune. Derek Higgins’ white office walls are suddenly leaping with rainbows and fucking unicorns.

  ‘Sell it, Jim,’ Derek tells me. ‘I mean, where would you drive it anyway? You haven’t exactly got anywhere you need to be, have you?’

  Twenty thousand pounds. That’s way more than I earn in a whole year. There’s no need to worry about getting sacked. I’ll be okay.

  Actually, I won’t just be okay.

  I’ll be grand. Twenty fucking grand!

  ‘Anyway, Jim. Back to my original point.’

  My shoulders relax. I take my hands out of my pockets. An intense warmth encases me for the first time in, God, probably over a decade. Since I graduated from uni. Christ, back then I had options, I had hope. But a new car is more solid than an English degree, isn’t it? Holding my hand out, I smile, feeling a tingle of the old Jim Glover returning. I’ll save Derek the pleasure of firing me and call the shots myself. I’ll quit.

  Derek doesn’t spot my outreached hand. He opens a drawer beneath his desk.

  ‘Surprise!’ Derek says, handing over a letter. ‘You’
re the Chosen One, Jim!’

  ‘Y’what?’

  I crouch over, resting my elbows on my knees, and skim the words to get the gist.

  ‘You’re sending me on a training day?’ I ask. ‘For card payments?’

  ‘Yes, I am, Jim. Yes. I. Am. We have to move with the times. Not everyone wants to buy a Fast Tag for the tunnel and drivers are becoming more and more tired of using coins. You’ll be our representative, learning how to use the card machine. You’re the brainy one out of all the numpties here.’

  ‘Love how you just described yourself as a numpty, Derek.’

  ‘Watch it.’

  ‘Do I get paid extra for going?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  This is officially my lucky day. I should go and buy a scratch card. I’ve never been promoted, never done the whole ‘rounds are on me’ down at the Pacific Arms with my mates. Would my dad be proud, I wonder?

  ‘How much extra?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll be paid in … respect.’

  ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Language, lad. I chose you ’cause you’re smart.’

  ‘I’m touched, Derek.’

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse.’

  The words I quit are tickling the edge of my tongue. I want to say it – scream it – but for some reason, they don’t escape.

  ‘Now, get back in the booth,’ Derek says. ‘Break’s over.’

  Predictably, I obey.

  3

  Zara

  I’ve just landed in Heathrow Airport.

  My teeth are brushed, my hair is behaving, likely due to the expensive product I’d felt obliged to buy after treating myself to a chestnut and blonde balayage. It was worth it. My Lebanese genes are to be thanked for my hair, which has a mind of its own, like my papa’s. I ate a small cheese sandwich offered to me before we started our descent and now it’s sitting in my stomach like a brick. For such a frequent flyer, I can never seem to sleep on planes, not unless I drink a huge amount of red wine. Last night, I didn’t touch a drop because I wanted to be as fresh as possible for this long drive to Liverpool. I tried to rest, I did, except I managed to get through three whole movies. The sky here is low and thick and white. It will be lunchtime in Dubai now, an endless blue rooftop stretching high above the locals and expats, the sun shining its warmest rays across the desert.

  But I’m not here for the sky or the sun. I’m here for more than the whole damn sky.

  I’m here for the universe.

  I’m here.

  I buy a UK SIM card for my phone from one of those machines in the terminal and call the guy selling me his car. We arrange to meet outside of Boots and he shows up like a taxi driver, holding a piece of crumpled paper with Zara Khoury written in bold marker pen. He reminds me to get insured, then mentions something about me having to go online to tax the car and hands me some paperwork. I’ll go through all this in detail with Nick later. I handover my cash and the guy tosses me the keys – which, of course, I drop – and he tells me where the car is parked. A no-frills deal for a no-frills car.

  Pushing a luggage trolley with two large suitcases, a holdall, a canvas tote bag and a mop – yes, a mop – I wander around Level Two of the airport parking lot, looking for my new car, shivering. God, I’d forgotten how damn cold this country is.

  Nobody gave me a huge send off in Dubai, not even Katie. I’m not embarrassed or anything, I just don’t think they got it. What I’m doing. Maybe if I was on the outside looking in, I wouldn’t get it either. Or, maybe I just didn’t know my friends as well as I thought I did. That happens when you move a lot; multiple settling-in periods. But I always listen to my gut. It will lead me to put down roots one day. I know it.

  Anyway, if I’m honest, I haven’t socialised much during the past six months. Work has dried up since the scar lodged into my cheek. Companies aren’t keen on employing promo girls with something that isn’t a beauty spot or a beaded jewel. At first, I hit an all-time low, but once Nick helped me to find some confidence again, I knew I had to hold onto my small pot of savings. I wouldn’t be here today otherwise, looking for my new (well, used) car.

  Where is it? I hope I haven’t been fooled.

  I can hear Katie in my ear, tutting. She’s my oldest friend because she’s lived in Dubai her whole life, consistently too, unlike me. She’s Irish and belongs to the tight-knit, well-connected Kelly family who own a chain of Irish pubs planted inside big-brand hotels. One pub even has a cartoon drawing of a fish dressed up as a leprechaun framed behind the bar, something I drew back at uni before I dropped out. So, whenever I returned to the Sandpit, whether as a kid, a teenager or an adult, Katie was always there to jump back into the scene with.

  It’s a transient place, Dubai, people coming, people going. You’re at the mercy of your sponsor or your work visa and when people feel like they’ve done a good stint, they’re ready to move on. Or go home. It’s a really easy place to make friends. Not so easy to keep hold of them. The most recent crowd I fell in with were better described as drinking buddies. A whole international mix, but predominantly South African or British, they were stellar at organising dhow cruises around the Omani Peninsula or thinking up group costumes for the Rugby Sevens: busy bees with feather dusters; Smurfs. Last year, a bunch of the guys dressed as human-sized fast food items and lay stacked on each other, swapping the order of the burger layers each time one of them needed to use the bathroom. I mean, it was hilarious. Katie’s dating the lettuce now. I think it’s serious.

  Don’t get me wrong, she was great when the scar on my face was new. No, new doesn’t sound right. It makes it seem like I went out and bought something shiny. I think a better word is raw. But she got bored with me. I became a lot less up for it, a lot less fun. And Katie Kelly likes fun.

  At least I had Nick.

  ‘You have him on a screen,’ Katie liked to remind me. ‘You don’t have him here.’

  ‘That’ll change one day,’ I told her.

  And that day has arrived. Today.

  Bingo! I find my new car. A small Peugeot 106. Haggard, and much more used than simply a ‘used car’, it’s the most hideous colour on the planet: not red; not brown; somewhere in between, like old dried blood. The pictures that guy posted online had told a different story. But, if this car gets me from A to B today, then so what? I love it. Plus, it’ll give me independence, which is key when moving to a new place. I don’t want to be too dependent on Nick, despite what Katie thinks.

  I open the trunk and get a rush of excitement at the reality of what’s happening.

  ‘I need to see you,’ Nick had told me yesterday via Skype. ‘Now.’

  ‘If only that were possible,’ I teased.

  Little did he know my bags were packed and waiting downstairs by the front door of my papa’s villa. I told Nick I was going camping in the desert with friends, not to be offended if I didn’t reply to his messages that evening, as it would be unlikely I’d have signal. He pretended to sulk, sticking out his bottom lip, then edged closer to the screen and realised something was missing from beside my bed.

  ‘Where’s the mop, sweetheart?’ he asked.

  It was downstairs, of course, with my luggage.

  ‘Lulu found it in my room and used it to clean the floor,’ I said, thinking on my feet.

  ‘No way!’

  ‘I know, right. Can you believe it? So it’s drying out in the utility room.’

  And now, I’m fitting that mop into the Peugeot, sliding it through the trunk and letting the handle poke through to the passenger seat. Its accessories – wigs, hats, novelty spectacles – are stuffed into the holdall. I was prepared for some drama getting the actual mop through check-in, expecting the odd glance from other passengers, but it’s all been smooth sailing. My plan is actually going according to plan.

  I settle into the driver’s seat and make a phone call to get myself insured.

  Then, I turn the key, start the Peugeot’s engine.

  I’ve dri
ven a manual before, but not for years. I stall twice and hear my papa’s voice saying, ‘Why drive when you can catch a cab?’

  By some sort of magic, I get the car going on the third try. Chugging out of the parking lot, the planes groaning overhead, I pull over into a temporary stopping bay to set up the portable satnav. I found it in a kitchen drawer at my papa’s villa. It was there amongst old phone chargers and a toaster with a European plug socket, so I figured he wouldn’t miss it any time soon. I enter the address for my final destination, one that’s imprinted on my mind, my heart.

  I set off and once I’m comfortably in fourth gear, I squeal in delight.

  Nick Gregory is going to get the surprise of his life.

  4

  Jim

  At three o’clock, when my shift at the tunnel finishes, I catch the bus to my ma’s.

  My family moved into this red brick terrace when I was five. Two up and two down, with a back yard and no front garden, we Glovers embraced the move, elated that we finally had our own staircase. The house hasn’t changed much in thirty years, except for the addition of them slogan cushions with things like, ‘Home Is Where the Heart Is’ littering the settee. One whole wall is covered with family photos, mainly of our Lisa and Emma, my sisters. I’m not offended. They’re a right pair of posers, all dolled up in high heels and massive feathers, dancing on cruise ships. Imagine me doing that? No ta. I find the opposite wall more appealing anyway, carpet to ceiling with bookshelves. We all love a good paperback. Well, me and my ma still do.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I cry, letting myself in. ‘Do you really need to whack the central heating up this high?’

  ‘Sorry, love, it’s been on all day,’ my ma says, swallowed up into my dad’s old armchair, the telly blurring.

  ‘All day?’ I bend down to pick up the mail.

  ‘Oh, calm down, will you? Go and put the kettle on.’

  During the week, I clean my ma’s house, make her tea, watch The Chase with her. I make sure the mobile hairdresser comes to set her hair. Thursday’s usually corned beef hash, but I just swung by the Asda to get a couple of microwave cottage pies. I’m picking up my brand-new BMW in an hour. I’ll have to give The Chase a miss and hope the excitement of my win isn’t too much for her. She’s got a chronic irregular heartbeat.