The Lonely Heart Attack Club - One of the funniest, feel-good books you'll read this year! You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll love it!

by J C Williams

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  J C Williams

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  Copyright © 2017 J C Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact the author.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Fourth Kindle edition January 2021

  Cover artwork by Paul Nugent

  Formatting & interior design provided by Dave Scott

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Also by Author J C Williams

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  Chapter One

  J ack thumbed through the discarded pile of letters strewn in the entrance hall. Rubbish, rubbish, junk… He recognised one which he opened in frustration.

  “Grandad, you have to open your post! There’s one from the hospital. Great… your blood appointment was yesterday. Grandad…”

  Jack took a dated-looking floral air spray which sat on the hall table and applied it liberally as he moved through the bungalow. The scent was overpowering and thick. He grimaced as it filled the air, sticking to his clothes. A thin film of rust at the base of the tin indicated it was past its best, but it served the purpose of removing the musty odour that hung in the air. Where did that old-person smell come from?

  A rasping voice erupted from the living room, “Put that bloody tin away, Jack. It smells like a tart’s bedroom!”

  Jack ignored it, giving one final burst as he walked towards the threadbare fabric armchair positioned inches from the television.

  “How did you know it was me?” he said, placing a kiss on the top of his grandad’s head. “And how would you know what a tart’s bedroom smells like?”

  Jack reached across his chair and turned the volume down. “Why do you sit in this bloody chair? You’ve got a perfectly good sofa there. This thing is falling apart.”

  His grandad, Geoffrey, dismissed him with the flick of his hand.

  “Here, Jack!” he said, as he forced himself out of his chair with vigour.

  He was smart, exceptionally so. Jack was slightly taken aback as his grandad tucked his blue-checked shirt into his dark grey trousers. He pointed proudly at his immaculately polished leather shoes. He’d even had a haircut. The usual erratic white hair was neatly parted at the side, and for his age, he had a fine head of hair. He looked ten years younger.

  “What do you think, Jack?”

  “Have you got aftershave on?” asked Jack, moving his nose closer to his neck. “You have as well, you saucy old bugger! You’re the one that smells like a tart’s bedroom!”

  Geoffrey shuffled nervously, like a child desperate to tell their parents they’ve been selected for the swimming gala.

  “I’ve got a date!” he said, with a broad smile on his face.

  Jack suppressed his first reaction as he could sense this was important. Grandad was eighty, and as far as the family knew, had shown no interest in women since his wife died.

  Jack tilted his head slightly. “Oh… okay. Unexpected, but, okay… With who?”

  “Sandra!” he said.

  Jack stared blankly.

  “Sandra Hardy… lives down by the shop. You know her! She’s had a washing machine in her garden for years.”

  Jack didn’t have a clue. Two thoughts ran through his head: figment of his imagination, or dating scam.

  “That’s nice… I’m pleased for you!” replied Jack, in an unintendedly condescending tone.

  Geoffrey stomped towards the glass table and grabbed his wallet. He flicked through a small pile of notes and receipts, before thrusting a photograph an inch from Jack’s face. It was too close to focus, so he took a step back. Jack took the picture from his hand.

  He looked bewildered. “It’s a topless photo, Grandad? I’m guessing that’s… Sandra?”

  The smile on his face confirmed the identity and as Jack’s gaze ventured north of her considerable assets, he stared at her face. Jack knew exactly who it was.

  “That’s Sandy, Grandad! Not Sandra.”

  “That’s what I said, Jack!”

  “Grandad, that’s… Sandy!”

  Geoffrey scowled. “I know who it bloody is, Jack!”

  Jack could see he was getting animated, and in view of his current blood pressure problems, thought better of pressing the point.

  “You look smart, Grandad. Very smart! Just… just take care, okay? Mum said she would look in on you in the morning, and if you need me, just ring.” Jack stood on an errant wire, and knew immediately what it was connected to — or not connected to, in this case. “Have you unplugged the soddin’ phone again?”

  Jack knelt and plugged the phone back into its socket. “You need to keep this in. What if we need to phone you?”

  “No bugger of interest phones me, Jack.”

  “No, they won’t, Grandad, and that’s because you never plug the thing in! I need to get home. If you need me, just call, I can be here in five minutes. I’ll drop by after work tomorrow. You can tell me all about your date. Oh, and phone the hospital to make another appointment. I’ve left you steak pie in the kitchen and some soup.”

  It was a balmy summer’s evening and Jack took a moment to admire the perfectly manicured garden. A white gravel path ran from the front door to the knee-high white picket fence which adorned the neat bungalow. Vibrant flowers emerged from symmetrical wooden planters located under the windows. The garden was always the finest on the cul-de-sac. Until the death of his beloved, Val, he had the same sense of pride in his personal appearance, but this had waned. Jack was delighted to see him immaculately dressed, and he had a wry smile as he thought of the topless picture. How do I tell Mum, that he’s got a date with… Sandy?

  Jack climbed onto his ageing Vespa and looked in annoyance as the sun’s rays amplified the rust on the once magnificent chrome mirrors. It was only a short ride to his flat on the outskirts of Onchan, about two miles from the Isle of Man’s capital, Douglas. It wasn’t the most convenient location, but it was cheap and close to his grandad.

  A semi-inflated balloon moved precariously in the first-floor window of his flat. It was a miserable-looking building with a newsagent and opticians on the ground floor. The cladding on the building screamed 1970s. The thought that it was only a temporary arrangement made the situation a little more bearable. He opened his front door, and the resulting draft drew the barely inflated balloon towards him. The huge lettering, ‘BIG 40,’ barely visible on the crumpled foil, was an immediate reminder that he was now middle-aged. How am I forty?

  Horace nuzzled into Jack’s leg intently, giving Jack a clear indication that food was needed. Jack used his foot to gently usher the cat to one side, but it was useless and Horace stuck to him like a limpet.

  “Okay, furball, I take the hint. At least you love me, don’t you?” said Jack, as he struck the pathetic-looking balloon.

  Jack didn�
��t like cats, generally. As a boy, he’d always had a dog and didn’t really see the point in cats. They didn’t do much other than sleep or eat, it seemed, other than, at their whim, occasionally scratch the holy hell out of any possession you might have held dear. Horace, then, a timid four-year-old tabby, was an unexpected present addition in his life. Unexpected, as he hadn’t expected Helen to leave Horace behind when she’d buggered off. Jack had tried to pluck up the courage to tell the poor creature that the heartless bitch had left, but he didn’t have it in him. She’d left them both, after all. And in an irrational way, Jack took comfort that Horace was in the same boat as he was. Misery, as they say, loves company, he supposed.

  Helen had left Jack with three things:

  1) The lease on a decrepit flat that fortunately only had a couple of months to run

  2) The lease on a failing coffee shop, and one that had “always been her dream”

  3) Horace

  He did consider a broken heart being the fourth, but sufficient time had now passed for Jack to realise what a bitch she actually was. He was at the stage now where he wanted to get drunk and have casual sex with great-looking women. The problem with that, though, was that he couldn’t be bothered going out. So, mostly, he just got drunk at home. Alone, apart from Horace, that is.

  The smell of the horrific air freshener was not relenting, so he stripped off in the living room. As he walked towards the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of his chest in the large oak mirror which sat above the faded wooden fireplace. He stopped and had to do a double-take. Slowly, he climbed on the sofa which gave him full visibility of his body. He looked at himself in his underwear and shook his head in disgust. He didn’t have a mirror in his room and was struggling to believe what he was looking at.

  “I’ve got a bloody pair of tits!” he shouted.

  Horace was unmoved by this revelation, and let out a meow as another reminder that he was quite ready for his tea, thank you.

  Jack climbed down from the sofa and moved closer to the mirror. He stood on his toes, and as he struggled to gain his balance, he took his two hands and cupped his cleavage like an expectant teenage girl.

  “Horace… What the ever-loving heck are they? I’ve got boobs. I’ve got man boobs!”

  He stared intently, but the realisation of what he could see wouldn’t go away. His jet-black hair was now a haphazard mix of grey, white, and black, with black now being in the minority. His receding hairline was starting to move towards the egg-shaped bald patch at the back of his head like a reunion of old friends. Laughter lines on his face had moved en masse to form a coalition with the furrows on his forehead. To add to his revulsion, he would now have to go and buy himself a training bra. The flaccid balloon had become a visual representation of his youth, which appeared to be fading before his eyes. His hair was retreating almost as fast as his BMI was escalating. He sat on his tired-looking white leather sofa and reflected. He removed his glasses in a fruitless attempt to make the obvious less visible. The seating position amplified the rolls of fat. He grabbed a handful between his thumb and index finger and started to jiggle it. As his stomach wobbled rhythmically, he gave a look of contempt at the pizza box sat on his glass coffee table. It was empty, apart from a perfectly symmetrical, transparent layer of grease. He extended his foot in a feeble attempt to launch the pizza box but caught his toe on the corner of the table. He yelped in pain and the resulting feminine scream made Horace bolt towards the kitchen. Jack knew it wasn’t the pizza’s fault and he immediately felt remorse for lashing out at a trusted companion. He pressed his hands into his forehead and released a frustrated groan. “Aww… I’ve let myself go!”

  Emma Reid was small — no taller than 5-foot-2 — but could carry her own body weight in milk. It was a little after 8 a.m. as she took the familiar walk from the Co-Op, laden with large plastic bottles and fruit. The street was desolate apart from the ensemble of pigeons which were a constant frustration for the local retailers. She supported several bottles on her knee as she fumbled for her keys, which, as usual, were located in the darkest recess of her handbag. A tall black wooden shutter protected the internal tiled corridor which they shared with the nail salon on the right-hand side. Before their introduction, the small area provided a convenient toilet facility to passing drunks and as she was always first into work, the cleansing operation would be left to her. The black paint on the internal wooden doors had started to flake, and whilst it was locked, a firm shoulder would open it. The coffee shop looked tired; it needed a makeover. The bright, vibrant decor of the nail salon was a stark contrast to the dark, lacklustre decor of their unit. Minor issues were starting to become a source of irritation. In isolation, they could be forgiven, but they were everywhere — flaking paint, light fittings that no longer worked, torn leather seats. The shop was ‘Java the Hut’ but the ‘J’ had long since disappeared. The shop name made no sense. She’d aired her frustrations to Jack, but it was getting worse. Despite the flaws, she loved the place. She knew the name of virtually every customer, what their order would be and what time they’d come in. She’d received a civic award from the Mayor of Douglas because she called on an elderly customer who didn’t come in for his morning coffee and paper. He’d fallen — breaking his ankle — and without her compassion, he could have been sat at the foot of his stairs for hours.

  The door cautiously opened as an elderly, silver-haired man — stooped over an oak stick — shuffled through. Emma didn’t look. She didn’t need to. It was 8:20 a.m. sharp, and she knew what that meant. “Morning, Derek. Take a seat, my lovely, I’ll bring your tea over!”

  Derek didn’t really speak much, but his face instantly lit up when he saw Emma. The shop wasn’t huge, two tables wide, and long — narrowing towards the counter and stairs at the rear. The two front windows were vast and flooded the shop with natural light. They were the perfect porthole into the world that passed by the shop. Derek took his usual seat on the right-hand side, with his back to the wall, giving him a clear view up the main street. They were just off the main shopping area but still on a main thoroughfare. The business district was on their doorstep, as were an ever-increasing number of upmarket apartments, eager to take advantage of the nearby marina. Despite assurance from Emma, he always came in early as he felt he was imposing by taking a full table just to have his mug of black tea with one sugar.

  She soon appeared with his usual mug and a radiant smile, smartly dressed in her black skirt and shirt — covered by a dark green apron with a picture of Jabba the Hutt drinking a large, steaming cup of coffee. On first appearance, she could pass for Mediterranean, with her olive skin and dark eyes. Her jet-black hair was tied back where her pencil was carefully placed, poised to take an order. “Here you go, Derek. Be careful, it’s hot,” she cautioned. “Also, I made this for you. Happy birthday, Derek!” she said, handing him a little something extra. “You can share it with those beautiful grandchildren of yours,” she added cheerfully.

  He opened the white cardboard box to reveal a lavish chocolate cake, decorated with generous layers of icing, and with a single white candle sat in the middle. He closed the box over and reached out, taking one of Emma’s hands, which he held tenderly. “Thank you, Emma. Thank you very much,” he said softly.

  A steady stream of customers moved through the shop, but there was no sign of Jack. Where is that lazy sod? she wondered. But her warm welcome to her customers was unwavering as she handled the machinery like a master, easily containing the morning rush, which, to be fair, was not as busy as it once was. As she cleared the tables nearest to the window, she became aware of a figure moving through the street, drawing near. She avoided eye contact, assuming it to be a drunk on the way to one of the two less salubrious local watering holes which opened early. The silhouette moved from her peripheral vision and hunched directly in front of her. She was startled and began to panic as there was no one else in the shop. The man on the other side of the glass placed both hands on the large windowpane, as
if supporting himself, and his chin was tucked into his chest so she could not see his face. He was dressed in tight, dishevelled denim shorts that sat just above his knee and a t-shirt that clung to him like it had shrunk in the wash. She moved slowly backward, towards the rear of the shop, as the man lumbered towards the entrance. For a fleeting moment the thought of locking the door seemed sensible, but she knew those doors would have no defence against a strong gust of wind let alone a determined drunk. He let out a pained whimper as he moved through the door and fell to his knees.

  “I know karate!” yelled Emma, in a firm, assured tone.

  She decided to go on the offensive and flailed her arms behind her back whilst maintaining eye contact. She was frantically trying to grab a possible projectile, and gratefully retrieved a curved object that she then launched in the direction of the man — who was still kneeling, but with his head now buried in the oak laminate flooring.

  “Get out!” she shouted, as she began to throw the items she’d fumbled for. In the blink of an eye, several large potatoes tore through the air with precision. One of them caught him perfectly on the side of the right temple. He sank to the floor like a fallen tree, barely managing to roll over onto his back. He instinctively reached for his throbbing head as Emma ran towards him to release another volley.

  “Aww, shit!” he said, trying to move into a seated position. Emma was directly above him and placed a foot firmly on his chest, preventing his progress.

  “Emma, stop! For the love of God, please stop… It’s me, Jack!”

  Emma didn’t remove her foot until Jack moved his hands and she could confirm who it was. It was Jack, and for a moment she increased the pressure on his chest.

  “Jack, you complete tool. Are you trying to kill me?”

  She removed her foot and extended her hand to help him to his feet. The potato had split on impact and a dribble of juice ran down his right cheek. Jack was now on his feet and covered in sweat. The brown figure-hugging t-shirt was emblazoned with the face of SpongeBob SquarePants and sported an impressive damp patch on the rear.