by Hayley Doyle
‘Did you hear me, love?’
I continue to struggle with the mop. Why can’t I position it right?
‘Yes, I heard you,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry for ignoring you.’
‘I just don’t want the bizzies to catch you, that’s all.’
‘What’s the “bizzies”?’ I ask, trying to be friendly, dropping the mop again. The guy is drinking tea out of a polystyrene cup and dressed like he has just wandered off a building site.
‘The police,’ he says.
‘The police?’ I ask, trying a different angle. I knock my holdall with my knee and its zip splits open as it falls across the wet gutter, its contents spilling into the murky rain puddles. The guy watches as I scramble to retrieve the hairdryer, a couple of my sketches, a pair of novelty spectacles. ‘Why are they called the “bizzies”?’
‘Dunno. Just something we say.’
‘Must be a Liverpool thing,’ I say, managing a smile. ‘Like the way you all say “boss” if something is good.’
‘You American?’
How did this damn mop ever fit inside this car? How? I don’t understand. I flip it around, try again. The guy sips his tea and continues to watch me struggle.
‘Not quite,’ I answer. ‘Sort of. I mean, I have an American passport.’
‘Boss.’
‘Is it?’
The guy blinks. Twice.
‘Look, love,’ he says. ‘You need to get off them double yellows.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ I yell. I didn’t mean to yell.
The guy holds out his polystyrene cup. ‘Hold this.’
Giving me a gentle but definite shove out of the way, he bends inside my car, opens the sunroof and positions the mop to poke out of the top. Then, he takes his tea back and walks away, not forgetting to wish me all the best.
Finally, I can get on my way.
I climb inside and turn the key. The satnav comes to life and I tap in Heathrow Airport. I’ve booked myself a flight back to Dubai because I can’t figure out a better solution – I just know I have to get the hell out of Liverpool. Any other people I know in this country are just acquaintances, Facebook friends. So, it’s a toss-up between going back to my papa’s villa, or making the effort to go stateside to stay with my mom, and the latter is too much of a big deal. I’m in no great hurry, though. My flight doesn’t leave until tonight, so I give the radio a try. Good, it works. I pull away from the hostel and start driving through the busy streets of Liverpool’s city centre.
Nick never replied to my WhatsApp. He still hasn’t read the message or been online, and I last checked five minutes ago. The harsh pain in my chest can only be released through tears, so fuck it, I let them come.
The radio crackles, this old banger of a car not equipped with much of a sound system. Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ has just started, and oh, I love this song. The intense string section sets me off even more. I want to listen to it happy, exactly how I imagined I’d be today. I’ve spent the last six months living for today, never expecting to wake up in a backpacker’s hostel all alone. I know I’m torturing myself with these thoughts, but I can’t help it.
I’m not even paying attention to the satnav. I need to focus.
What was that?
Should I have turned?
Ah, great. Yeah, I should’ve turned off that complicated excuse for a roundabout. Except, hold on. Why can’t I u-turn? Why? I’ll have to take the next turning and come back around. The satnav is ‘recalculating’. But, whoa, what’s going on? There is no turning. All that lies before me is a one-way trip into a huge tunnel.
‘What the actual …?!’ I cry.
There’s no going back. The tunnel swallows me whole and all I can do is put my foot down to keep up with the other drivers going forty miles per hour, which feels pretty fast in this crappy car. Elbow is replaced with awful fuzz.
‘How long does this thing go on for?’ I shout, banging the wheel.
It’s not as if I can stop, get out, ask anyone.
Opening my mouth, I take a huge breath and hold it. Disappear.
I was six years old, sitting in the back seat of a yellow taxi. Sandwiched between my parents yelling at one another, passing blame like a game of ping pong. I made an excellent net.
We were edging into Manhattan, moving slowly, immersed in a long tunnel.
‘Why can’t I go back to work?’ my mom cried. ‘How is this fair?’
‘You’ve no idea how good you’ve got it,’ my papa told her.
‘Your opinion, Samir. Not mine.’
‘My opinion matters most.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s practical.’
I decided to hold my breath. My theory was that if I didn’t breathe, then I wouldn’t be alive, which meant I wouldn’t be there. I’d be invisible. And my parents could say what the hell they liked to each other and I’d never know, never be a part of it. I wouldn’t be in their way, the root of all their problems.
‘You’re a fucking snail, Samir.’
‘Don’t use that sort of language. Not in front of your daughter.’
‘She’s your daughter, too.’
‘And why am I a – what do you call it – snail? A snail? What ridiculous metaphor are you going to hit me with now? Seriously, April.’
‘Ridiculous?’
‘That imagination of yours is dangerous. It stops you from getting on with your duty.’
‘My duty? As what? A wife? A mother?’
‘Yes, April. My God, yes. Exactly that. This conversation is futile.’
My face was starting to pulsate. Would they notice if I went pop?
‘You’re a snail, and I’m the trail. Think about it, Samir. It’s not ridiculous. It’s accurate.’
My papa laughed and the tunnel came to a bright, sharp end. He nudged me, playfully, and it forced me to release, take a fresh breath, come back to life. Although I didn’t like how I felt. I was hot, sweaty and I wanted to cry, but my papa was laughing and I didn’t want him to stop. Laughter was so much nicer than shouting. My mom bent forwards and reached out her hand, touching the taxi driver’s shoulder gently.
‘Sorry you had to hear that,’ she said to him.
‘No problem,’ the taxi driver said.
‘A snail!’ my papa gasped. ‘Whatever next?’
And although my mom wasn’t laughing with him, I do remember letting myself smile. I imagined my papa as this big grumpy snail, my mom a glittering trail dancing behind it. Maybe I was hiding inside the shell. I didn’t know what ‘ridiculous metaphors’ were, but whatever they were, they were my favourite thing about my mom.
God, that awful fuzz. It shakes me back into the tunnel, forces me to breathe out.
I try turning the radio off. I can do without the unpleasant noise. But, the damn thing won’t turn off. Is the button broken? Or am I pressing the wrong one, turning it up instead of down? A horn honks, startling the crap out of me.
‘SHIT!’
The other car swerves close beside me, the passenger yelling a series of insults from behind the closed window. It doesn’t take a genius to lip read, ‘YOU CRAZY FUCKING BITCH!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I yell back, but the other car speeds off.
The radio will just have to remain on. I sob again, possibly with guilt at almost causing a crash, or simply picking up where I left off a few moments earlier. Heartbroken. And this is so unlike me, which makes me even more annoyed. The eternal optimist, that’s who I am. I love an uplifting quote, even if they are a bit five years ago now. Yesterday I posted, ‘Be the reason someone smiles today’. It still got about thirty likes. Katie wasn’t one of them.
‘Oh, thank God,’ I sigh, smiling and wiping my dripping nose with my sleeve.
There is light. Actual light at the end of the tunnel. And to top it off, Elbow has returned, still singing, the violins now in full force. It’s either a particularly long song or the tunnel was much shorter than it seemed. But, n
either matters. I’m out.
I drive into a queue of cars, all waiting to get through some sort of toll booths.
‘Throw those curtains wide …’ I sing.
My heart still feels so heavy, but it makes a difference to sing, even if I do sound terrible. I tap the steering wheel, resisting the urge to break down all over again. There will be a sign towards the highway – well, motorway – soon, a way of getting back on track. I pay the tunnel fee and put my foot down. I approach a roundabout, continue straight.
‘… ONE DAY LIKE THIS A YEAR’D SEE ME RIGHT …’
Yes, I’m starting to feel a little better, just a little. So, I sing louder, and for the shortest moment close my eyes, take a deep breath …
And FUCK.
I fly straight into the back of the car in front of me. Even the damn radio cuts out.
10
Jim
The plus side to waking up in a posh hotel with a head as heavy as a bowling ball is, without a doubt, the pillows. And the duvet. Just the crisp, white sheets in general. They all feel like delicate fairies kissing my abused body.
The down side is being woken up by the bedside phone ringing. And ringing. And ringing. Until I muster up the energy in my arm to reach over and answer.
‘Mr Glover? Checkout was fifteen minutes ago. Please vacate the room or you will be charged another night’s stay.’
Fuck. That means I’ve missed breakfast, too.
Grabbing a complimentary water, I swill my mouth to stop it from feeling like a dried-out raisin. I’m still dressed, which softens the blow of not having time to enjoy the walk-in shower. The thought of taking my clothes off to wash and then getting back into dirty clothes is exhausting.
How much did I drink? I can’t remember getting into this room.
Reaching into my jeans pocket, I take out my phone. Dead. At least I’m off work today, but shit, this means I’ll be spending my day off in absolute hangover hell. And, fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m meeting Griffo’s dad at noon. What time is it now?
I scour the room. The sun shines brightly through the warehouse windows and creates a mirror across the bedside table clock. Squinting, I try to read the time, my eyesight blurring. I close one eye and focus with the other. No use. I swap eyes. Oh, bloody hell, I just want to know what time it is. Everything today is already very, very difficult and I’ve only been awake for five minutes. Snatching the remote, I manage to get the telly on.
Thank God for Sky News. It’s twenty past eleven.
I’ll just have to rock up at Griffo’s dad’s house like this. I could get a Big Mac on the way. Maybe stop off at the Asda and pick up a deodorant and some chewies. It’s not as if Griffo’s dad’ll be shocked – or give a flying fuck – what state I arrive in. Our deal is all about the car.
The carpet beneath my feet is spongey. I enjoy the sensation, appreciating my last moments in this plush room.
Then, the room phone starts ringing again.
I pick up my socks and shoes, my fleece, my wallet, and dart out in my bare feet.
Even waiting for the lift is tiring. My forehead is attracted to the ground; my sinuses are not appreciating my movements. The lift doors open and I shuffle inside, the lights and mirrors over-friendly. I’m pleased to be alone.
Ding!
A couple waiting on the fourth floor join me.
‘Jim,’ the lady says. ‘Morning.’
‘Morning,’ I say, wondering how the bloody hell she knows my name.
‘Heavy head this morning?’ the man asks.
I recognise his voice, his accent. Scottish. Alan. Alec?
Yeah, that’s it. I was speaking to Alan/Alec and his wife last night in the rum bar. They’re here in Liverpool for their silver wedding anniversary, doing the whole Beatles thing. I bought them a bottle of champagne and helped them drink it. They’re both broad and loud, squeezing my personal space, causing my chest to ache. Rosy cheeks and tips of noses confirm they have hangovers too, but their cheeriness agitates me. I just want to get out.
‘How did it go with the girls?’ Alan/Alec asks, rubbing his hands together.
‘Ooh, spill the beans, Jimmy,’ his wife chuckles. She’d been calling me Jimmy; that part is coming back to me, too. Nobody’s ever called me Jimmy before last night. ‘Do tell.’
Tell. If only I could recall.
‘Look at Jimmy’s toes, Al,’ she says, noticing my bare feet. ‘He thinks he’s Paul McCartney.’
Ding!
Ground floor.
And as the doors open, there they are.
Loose curls, bronze tans and all shades of denim, there’s no mistaking the girls from Belfast here for a long hen weekend. I seem to recall there being more than only three of them, but maybe their charisma felt greater than three, or my vision duplicated them. Lounging by the reception desk, they spot me. And my bare feet. I can’t work out if they’re giggling or hissing. What did I do, besides buy them drinks? Hungover or not, I won’t be the bastard to ignore them. I sit down on a strangely low designer chair, my thighs feeling tight, my back needing to crack, and put on my socks.
‘Morning,’ I smile. God, I’m fumbling. Doing two things at once is verging on impossible. ‘Hope you had a good night?’
The three girls reply saying, ‘Grand,’ as if their voice boxes are made of ice.
A haze of events drill through my skull, rattling like a steam train. I play them over and over in my mind, like watching a bad-quality movie on VHS. There was singing, and L-plates, and the barman asking the girls to keep the noise down. It was cold, we were outside, smoking … I was smoking? Oh fuck. That explains my heavy chest, the fur on my teeth, and on her tongue … whose tongue? The L-plates … the bride-to-be … she was dragged away, laughing. Or crying. I bought her a drink, then another. She cried on my shoulder, literally. Did I chat football with the barman? Football? Me? I forgot my room number. I must’ve tried to guess it. Oh God. There were corridors, and walls, and at one point I was on my hands and knees crawling. Did I knock on someone’s door? Oh, Holy fuck.
Those girls are definitely hissing.
At least they got free drinks out of me.
Through blurred vision, I check the hotel bill handed to me in a fancy card. The total to pay makes tequila-tasting vomit shoot up and hit the back of my throat. Swallowing, I have no choice but to hand over my trembling credit card. After what seems like hours of holding onto the edge of the reception desk in silence, five words ring in my ears.
‘Your card has been declined.’
It takes a difficult surge of brain power to work out how to rectify this, but I manage. I ask if I can split the bill by paying with debit card and credit card, to which the answer is, ‘Of course, sir.’ Before relief can register, the words come back to haunt me with an extra tagged on at the end for free.
‘Your card has been declined again.’
Various attempts are made at trying various amounts, until both cards work. Ninety-four quid is paid by debit, the heftier balance maxing out my credit card. One massive conclusion comes crashing down upon my heavy, heavy head; I am officially broke. What had I been thinking? Blowing such an obscene amount of money in just one night? Yeah, I’m sitting on the edge of fifty grand, but it’s not in my hand – or my bank – yet.
I must be way over the limit. Yet driving feels acceptable because some amount of sleep has occurred between the bender and now. However, if the police pull me over …
It’s almost noon. I’m going to have to swerve my Big Mac, which makes me want to weep. Griffo’s dad lives on the Wirral next to a golf course, meaning that to get there, I have to pass through work; the Mersey Tunnel. God, I really need some sunnies. Even the darkest cloud in the sky is too bright for me today: my bed is calling my name; my curtains eager to be closed. How fantastic it’ll be to wake up tomorrow, rested, sober and fifty grand in credit.
Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ is playing on the radio. The urge comes over me to take a deep breath and si
ng. It distracts me from the stale alcohol fizzling along my veins, saves me from throwing up. My voice is huskier than usual, more effort required to get the notes and words out, but it feels good.
The entrance to the tunnel is fast approaching.
How strange to be doing this, driving my own car towards it, into it.
Immersed within the tunnel, the radio crackles, signal lost beneath the River Mersey. I stop singing and decide to concentrate. The darkness of the tunnel and its artificial lights are adding to the intensity of my hangover and I have to prepare myself for the daylight that’ll hit me any moment.
Boom.
I glide towards the toll booth, the very one where I answered the unknown number yesterday morning. Gayle Freeman is on the booth. It’s not until I throw my change into the bucket that she recognises me, her eyes and mouth resembling bright marbles in my rear-view mirror.
The Wirral seems sunnier than Liverpool. Patches of grass in the centre of the oncoming roundabout greener, tarmac smoother. Traffic is sparse, tranquility on the other side of the water. The radio signal is clear again, Elbow’s serenade returning, their epic ending going on and on, sounding divine through the nine speakers.
‘THROW THOSE CURTAINS WI-IDE …’
I approach the roundabout and cruise around it, another coming up ahead.
A silver people carrier whizzes past, coming so fast out of nowhere that I’m relieved to brake in time at the junction. Pangs of dehydration shoot through my skull. I want water – no, a Coke – so, so bad.
Then, just as I manoeuvre into first gear, I feel an outrageous force.
The shock jolts me forward and I stall. What the fuck?
My knees empty, a hollow sensation. Attempting to gather myself, I feel my palms become sweaty, yet my hands are cold, shaking. Adrenaline is shooting through my whole body, the panic pounding in my already aching head. It’s cushioned by the sudden appearance of the inflatable airbag. I raise my eyes to glance in my rear-view mirror.