by P R Johnson
Chapter 8
Matthew climbed aboard the train he hoped would carry him away from his concerns. Finding a seat towards the back of the carriage, he sat beside the window and placed his holdall on the adjacent seat, hoping to deter anyone from sitting there. In front of him was a table, on the far side of which two vacant seats faced him. Peering along the carriage, he noticed that it was almost empty.
He reached into his bag and retrieved his compact disc player, inserting the earphones into his ears. As the train nudged gently forward, the compact disc began to spin and the opening chords of a grunge anthem boomed like thunder.
By the time the song intro was finishing, the train had cleared the station and, from his window, he watched as the town drifted by. The thumping chorus struck as they skirted the derelict warehouses, with Matthew nodding in time with the ferocious beat. With the song reaching a crescendo, the dour, grey-bricked housing estate on the edge of town was flashing by too quickly to catch all but rudimentary details. And the last chords of the song were fading as they passed under the bridge that was the recognised boundary of the town. He was not entirely sure, but he thought he read the word ‘bollocks’ written in graffiti on the side of the bridge.
Halfway through the second song, all that could be seen from the window was empty, ploughed fields. An occasional farmhouse sprang up, seeming like a ship afloat on a sea of dirt. Although the journey was scarcely five minutes old, Matthew suddenly felt a long way from home. He wondered whether he was doing the right thing, fleeing this way, but quickly realised that the train was not about to turn round. Putting doubts aside, he eased into the seat, closed his eyes and lost himself in music.
His eyes remained shut for a couple of songs and he only opened them when he sensed somebody moving in front of him. Looking up, he found a man standing with his back to him and brushing the seat opposite with a folded newspaper. Matthew noticed the knee-length raincoat at once and nervousness stirred in his stomach. When the man turned and sat, Matthew saw that it was Marcus Gabriel, the man he had encountered the day before.
Although he wore the same overcoat as before, Matthew was relieved that he now had on a full set of clothes underneath. Clearly visible beneath the open coat were a pair of grey trousers and a white shirt half tucked into them. Seemingly at ease in his surroundings, the man stared into space, wafting the newspaper to create some ventilation.
As another song began on his personal stereo, Matthew pulled the earphones from his ears and looked along the carriage, hoping to find help in the way of a ticket-inspector or some other employee of the rail company. Finding neither, he eyed the old man again, who was peering up at the train ceiling. He wanted to say something, but felt unsure what.
‘Hello,’ he finally ventured, his voice creaking with uncertainty.
The old man slowly lowered his gaze until he was looking at Matthew and then raised his eyes without contesting.
‘I saw you yesterday,’ Matthew said. ‘Do you remember? Up on Orchid Hill.’
Once again the old man looked at him. He squinted and grimaced, still refusing to contest with words.
‘It’s nice to see you have more clothes on today,’ Matthew said, his tone becoming more assured.
‘Yesterday?’ the man answered at last. ‘What are you talking about? I don’t remember you.’
‘Well, you probably had other things on your mind. So, where are you heading today, Marcus?’
For a moment the man appeared even more perplexed. ‘Marcus? That’s my name. I’m Marcus.’
‘I know. And do you understand where you’re going today? You realise you’re on a train, don’t you?’
‘Of course I’m on a train. Where else am I going to be?’
Matthew shrugged. ‘Are you going anywhere in particular?’
‘I’m going to see my daughter, although I don’t see what concern it is of yours.’
It was very warm in the carriage and Matthew could feel sweat dripping from his armpits. A small window was open; yet with the sun blazing in, there was little escape from the heat.
‘You must be hot inside that coat.’
‘It’s a hot day,’ the old man replied, his confrontational tone relaxing. ‘Yes, a very hot day.’
‘Then, why are you wearing a raincoat?’
‘Oh, it may be warm now, but it’s going to rain later.’
Matthew peered out of the window at the blue sky above, where there was not a cloud in sight. ‘I thought the forecasters said it would be sunny all week.’
The man also looked out. ‘You see the cows over there.’ He pointed with his newspaper. ‘They know it’s going to rain.’
As Matthew followed the pointed newspaper, he watched as they passed luscious pastureland. In the distance, he could see several cows lazing on the ground, mostly trying to hide in the shade of bushes and trees.
‘The cows understand,’ the old man remarked. ‘They’ve got more sense than men.’
In all the fields they passed in the moments that followed, Matthew saw not a single standing cow. He became so absorbed by the idyllic vision that he scarcely noticed when the door at the front of the carriage slid open and a lady came up the aisle.
‘There you are, dad,’ her stark female voice sounded as she approached. ‘You shouldn’t wander off like that. You damn near gave me a heart attack.’
Matthew observed the woman rest a hand on the old man’s shoulder. He smiled, relieved that he did not have to deal with the situation alone, but also because he recognised the lady’s face.
‘You’re Mrs Gabriel, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right. And you are?’
‘I’m Deborah James’s son. I think you do exercise classes together.’
The woman’s tense posture relaxed and she smiled. ‘Debbie’s son? Not little Matthew? My, you’ve certainly grown since the last time I saw you.’ Her face straightened and she patted the old man on the shoulder. ‘I hope dad wasn’t bothering you. I only went to the lavatory for a minute and I told him to stay put, but when I returned he had gone. It gave me a fright, I don’t mind admitting.’
‘It’s OK. We were just chatting about the weather. Actually, I met your dad yesterday at the top of Orchid Hill. He was attracting a bit of interest.’
The woman bowed her head. ‘Yes, well, I don’t know how he got up there on his own. I try to keep my eye on him, but it’s impossible to watch him twenty-four hours a day. You know about his ‘difficulties’, I presume.’
Matthew nodded. ‘The Police got him home safely, though, didn’t they?’
‘Yes. But they weren’t very happy. They seem to think I should keep him locked up. What sort of way is that to treat a human being? I mean, he’s not dangerous. He’s a former barrister, for Christ’s sake, a decent, honourable man. He never causes anyone harm. He just gets a little confused, isn’t that right, dad?’
Matthew looked at the man, who had resumed his cooling technique with the improvised newspaper fan, and then back to his daughter. ‘Are you going all the way to the capital?’
‘Yes. Dad’s going to be staying with my sister for a couple of weeks. It’ll give me a chance to rest. Heaven knows I need it! He’s not an easy man to look after, as you can imagine. If I’m lucky, I may even have a few days away myself. I can’t remember the last time I had a holiday free of responsibility.’ With a weary sigh, she took a grip of the old man’s arm and tried to raise him. ‘Well, come on, dad. I suppose we ought to be getting back to our own seats. It was nice seeing you again, Matthew. Remember me to your mother.’
‘I will.’
The old man stood gingerly and pointed through the window again. ‘Mark my words. The cows in the fields, they know the weather better than anyone.’
‘Yes, very pretty,’ the woman muttered with disinterest, before leading him down the aisle towards the connecting doorway.
For the rest of the two-hour train-ride, Matthew saw neither Marcus Gabriel nor his daughter again. The scenery
changed frequently, from ploughed fields and pastureland, to woodland and urban townscapes; yet the view from his window proved little distraction for his ever-meandering thoughts. Only when a lady boarded, four stations before the final stop, were his thoughts temporarily distracted.
Taking the seat where Marcus Gabriel had briefly sat, the attractive lady was dressed in a smart skirt and white blouse, through which Matthew could make out the lines of a brassiere. Her auburn hair was tied back neatly and the smooth aroma of perfume or hairspray occasionally reached Matthew’s nostrils. By her side rested a dainty satchel and from it she took a black diary.
Although he tried not to blatantly stare, Matthew could not take his eyes off her, while she, in turn, could not take her eyes from the diary. For twenty minutes he desperately longed for her to stop what she was doing and notice him, to acknowledge that he existed if nothing else. But not once did she oblige; not even as they were drawing into the penultimate station and she returned her personal organiser to her bag and adjusted her skirt.
The train came to a halt and the lady stood and disembarked with numerous other passengers.
With the train pulling away, just as Matthew’s carriage drew level with her while she walked along the platform, he was convinced he saw her glance at him and offer a smile, seconds before she exited his life.
The train continued onwards and within minutes entered the outskirts of the capital. Its speed reduced as if to allow the passengers to admire the dull, suburban sprawl. While at first the houses looked ordinary and mundane, when they emerged from a tunnel, Matthew began seeing the high-rise flats and run-down slums that he expected of an inner city.
Soon the train was passing a line of stationary cargo trains, each of which had graffiti daubed on their sides. Indeed, from then on, the entire wall that ran parallel to the track was covered with urban art. Even though Matthew had seen plenty of graffiti in Orchid Hill, the graffiti he was now witnessing seemed brighter and bolder, almost as if it had been done by professional vandals and not the amateurs back home.
The final few minutes of the journey were completed at a snail’s pace and the high walls trackside obscured the city behind. Matthew looked along the carriage aisle and noticed that there were many more passengers than before; yet he could not recall having seen so many people board the train.
When the train finally crawled into the last station on the line, he grabbed his holdall and stepped onto the platform. He noticed the high station roof with its metal girders and watched as several birds swooped down from the rafters. Looking along the platform, he hoped to spot Marcus Gabriel and his daughter. But with so many people walking towards the exit, he was unable to pick them out.
According to the clock at the end of the platform, it was four o’clock in the afternoon, and he was amazed by the quantity of people about. People were heading in all directions and walking with such drive that there was hardly enough time to register their features before they had passed. One face blurred into another as he walked among the throng. Weaving among the travellers, he headed to the main exit and into the late-afternoon sunshine. While his bag was not overly heavy, carrying it caused sweat to trickle again from his armpits and moisten his T-shirt.
The street outside was full of loud and bustling traffic, although none of the vehicles seemed to be progressing far or fast. Every twenty seconds or so, a horn would sound or an engine would roar with dissatisfaction. Matthew walked towards a taxi-rank where several other people were waiting in line. As one taxi drew away, another cab pulled in almost immediately and the first person in line climbed in the back.
Matthew joined the queue as another taxi entered the rank and collected the next person waiting. Within a couple of minutes, he was first in the queue and other people had joined behind. A new taxi arrived off the busy street and he picked up his holdall in anticipation. Just as he was about to open the cab door, however, he was distracted by a well-dressed man who came dashing from the station exit.
‘I say, excuse me,’ the man called in a flustered but eloquent voice. ‘I wonder if you could allow me this taxi. I know it’s extremely rude and I wouldn’t normally ask, but it is vitally important.’
With his hand already on the door handle, Matthew looked on with perplexity. ‘Why can’t you join the queue, like everyone else?’
‘I’m afraid that time really is of the essence. You could say it’s a matter of life and death. I really do need this cab.’
From inside the taxi, the driver called out that one of them, he did not care who, should get in the back, and Matthew suddenly felt the pressure of numerous eyes boring into him.
‘I suppose you’d better take it,’ he said bitterly to the man. ‘If it’s so important.’
‘That’s very kind,’ the man said as he climbed into the back. ‘You’ll get your reward in Heaven, son. Drive on, cabbie. The King’s Own theatre. Drive on.’
The second the door was closed the taxi advanced into the melee of traffic.
After Matthew had dropped his holdall to the floor, the man beside him tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Don’t you realise who that was?’
‘No. Should I?’ Matthew shrugged.
‘I think you probably should. It was the actor Tony Wisely.’
‘And is he supposed to be famous, or something?’
‘You could say that. A bit before your time, perhaps, but he won a couple of major Awards when he was younger. Nowadays he’s more famous for who he sleeps with than for his films. I don’t know how the old boy gets it up, to tell you the truth.’
Looking along the street, Matthew tried to spot the taxi he had just conceded, but it was already lost amid traffic. When a new taxi pulled into the rank, this time there was nobody to contest it with and he climbed in the back unchallenged. He told the driver the name of his hotel and they too joined the fray.
‘Nice hotel you’re staying in, the Guinevere,’ the driver said above the diesel splutter. ‘It’s just been bought by some oil baron and he certainly knows about money. You in town long?’
‘Don’t know,’ Matthew answered. ‘A few days. Maybe more. Depends how things pan out.’ Looking out the rear window, the railway station receded in the background. ‘So, where’s a good place to go out round here?’
‘Depends what you’re after.’
‘A disco, nightclub, that sort of thing.’
‘That’s not really my scene. But there’s one just down the road from your hotel that is popular. The Golden Bottle.’
‘I’ve heard of it. Isn’t it where the famous people go?’
‘It has a reputation, that’s for sure. I’ll point it out to you. We’ll be passing it before long.’
True to his word, the driver alerted Matthew when they drove by the building that housed the nightclub: an old-fashioned cinema building that had the words The Golden Bottle illuminated in yellow above the doorway.
Five minutes further along the wide thoroughfare they arrived outside the impressive building of The Guinevere hotel. A doorman dressed in top hat and tails greeted them as they pulled up. Matthew paid the taxi-driver, while the doorman signalled for a porter to attend. A young man duly approached and offered to carry Matthew’s bag.
‘It’s all right. I think I can manage by myself.’
With the doorman distracted by a limousine that was pulling into the driveway, the porter led Matthew to the rotating door of the hotel entrance.
Waiting to enter, Matthew caught the dank odour that drifted on the air.
‘Excuse me, but what’s that smell?’ he addressed the porter.
‘It’s probably the river, sir,’ the boy answered. ‘It always smells the same when the weather’s hot. You get used to it after a while.’
On the other side of the revolving door, a large foyer opened out, with a reception-desk to the left and an immense carpeted stairway straight ahead. The cool smell of leather and floor-polish helped banish the malodorous smell of the st
reet.
As he walked across the marble floor, Matthew’s trainers squeaked with every step, drawing the gaze of a well-dressed couple sitting on a leather sofa. Despite feeling scrutinised, he followed the porter to the reception-desk with the assurance that he was as much a paying guest as anybody.
The lady behind the desk briefly looked him up and down, as if she too were questioning whether he belonged in such an opulent place. Nevertheless, she was polite and efficient and helped him to complete the arrival document. Once the formalities were over, she handed the porter a white, plastic card, which was the key to Matthew’s room.
Beyond the reception-desk were two lifts, one of which Matthew and the porter took to the second floor. The porter then led him down the long corridor to room 206. Matthew watched attentively as the porter demonstrated how the key worked, by swiping it through the electronic door-lock, and they both entered the room.
Once inside, Matthew fumbled in his pocket for the money he knew he was obliged to give the boyish-looking porter.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ the porter said, accepting the money with a nod. ‘And remember, if there’s anything you need, you can contact me through reception. My name is Daryl.’
‘Do you mind if I ask you a question, Daryl?’
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘I was just wondering: is this hotel a bit snooty, a bit up its own arse?’
‘Well, it’s a very exclusive place, sir. But we get all sorts staying here. As long as you’ve got money and don’t throw wild parties in your room every night, I don’t think they’re too bothered who stays.’
‘What about the receptionist? She gave me a very strange look.’
‘What, Caroline? She was probably checking to see if she recognised you, sir. Maybe she thought you were famous.’
‘You get lots of famous people staying here, do you?’
‘All the time, sir.’
‘And is there anybody here right now?’
‘Summer is usually a quiet time, sir. I’m not sure we have any big stars with us at the moment. Then again, they often book in under a false name.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘Right, sir, if that is all, I’ll leave you to it. Remember to ask for me if you need anything at all.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Once the porter had left, Matthew began to inspect the room, although his initial reaction was one of anticlimax. There was a large double bed, a nice television inside a wooden cabinet, a couple of deep, upholstered chairs and a desk with a bowl of fruit on top. Nevertheless, he had expected a bigger room and was shocked when he spotted some wallpaper above the bed that was starting to peel away. The en suite bathroom was clean and tidy with a toilet, a bidet and a bath with shower attachments; but, again, he was disappointed that there was not the sunken Jacuzzi he had imagined of a five-star hotel. His mood brightened when he found the mini-bar and discovered the miniature bottles of liquor and chocolate bars inside.
Despite his initial disappointment, when he looked out of the window, he was pleased to note that the room overlooked the river. To his left, not too far away, the river was spanned by a bridge, while to his right it swept into a deep curve and disappeared behind buildings on the opposing bank.
Moving away from the window, he kicked off his trainers and climbed onto the bed. He took the television remote and began skimming channels. In all, he discovered over two hundred and finally opted for one of the many music channels.
Fatigued by his journey, he drifted into a light sleep with music playing in the background. He woke just after seven o’clock feeling dry-mouthed and lethargic and so took a can of coke from the mini-bar. On the desk, he found a menu for the Michelin-starred restaurant that was housed in the hotel. Although the high prices did not scare him unduly, he did not feel inclined to eat in such formal surroundings. Returning the menu to the desk, he put on his trainers and slipped the card-key into his wallet.
He stepped outside and caught the lift to the ground floor.
He walked across the foyer as quickly as possible, conscious of the squeaking sound his trainers continued to make on the polished floor, and left through the rotating doors. He smiled as he passed the doorman, who tipped his hat in response, and walked in the direction the taxi had brought him. Within ten minutes he arrived at a fast-food restaurant, whose greasy food he could smell some twenty yards away.
Sitting close to the door, on a flattened cardboard box, was a beggar with a bundle of clothes and a sleeping-bag rolled by his side. The man was wearing filthy jeans that were torn in several places and a tatty brown cowboy hat whose brim was frayed and lopsided. Matthew could not divine his age because of the thick stubble that was covering his chin, but supposed he was in his twenties. In front of him was a small box that held a couple of loose coins, and as Matthew walked by, the man called out in a harsh northern accent:
‘Could you spare some change, mate? I haven’t eaten all day.’
Matthew continued on and shrugged apologetically.
‘Or you could get me a burger if you like,’ the beggar said. ‘I ain’t fussy. I’ll eat anything.’
Ignoring the pleas with another shrug, Matthew walked inside and advanced to the food counter. He was a little surprised to discover that, although part of a national chain, they sold exactly the same products as back in Orchid Hill. He ordered a cheeseburger and fries and ate it at a vacant table.
Once he had finished, he sat for several minutes pondering whether to go back for more. Deciding against it, he wiped his mouth and hands with a serviette and deposited his rubbish in one of the allocated bins.
When he stepped onto the street and passed the beggar, the man pleaded again for some change. Matthew was going to ignore him, but had a sudden change of heart. Stopping before him, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, dropping them into the box.
‘Thanks, mate,’ the beggar said from beneath the cowboy hat. ‘You’re a good guy. A good, good guy, you know that?’
Matthew nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Have you really not eaten all day,’ he asked, ‘or were you just saying that to make me feel guilty?’
‘Come on, mate, I’m not a liar. I swear I’ve not eaten; not a fucking bean.’
‘Well, you should be able to get something now.’
‘I will. I’ll get myself a big fat juicy burger.’ The man sought Matthew’s eyes. ‘Haven’t seen you around before. You new in town?’
‘Maybe.’
The man smiled a toothy grin. ‘Thought so. When you’ve been on these streets as long as me it’s easy to recognise outsiders. So, what you down here for?’
Matthew looked away, unnerved by the sudden questioning. ‘Nothing in particular. Just sightseeing.’
‘Well, remember, mate: Anything you want in this town, I’m the man to see. Drugs, women, parties, I know where it’s all going down. You come and see me and I’ll sort you out. I know this town, know it better than any fucker, I do.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
Walking away from the beggar, instead of heading directly back to the hotel, Matthew took the first street he came to, which was a pedestrian walkway with shops lining either side. All the shops were closed except for one with a flashing red sign in the window that read ‘Private Shop’. Even though the shop windows were blacked, when he passed the open doorway he was able to glimpse a rack of porn videos inside.
He continued on until he came to the riverside. To his left, in the distance, he could see the building of his hotel, and to his right the river arched round the bend and out of sight. He descended some steps to a promenade running along the water’s edge. There were lots of people about. As he gazed into the murky river, he was surprised that he could not smell the malodorous stench that had caught him unawares earlier. The sun was beginning to set and in the middle of the river a boat was chugging with a group of people amassed on the rear deck. A party was taking place onboard, it seemed, and he caught the faint sou
nd of music and the flickering of disco lights.
Once the boat had passed, relative silence descended, with buildings filtering the noise from the thoroughfare beyond. He walked along the promenade towards his hotel, looking up at the building and trying to discern which room might be his. Realising that there were only service-entrances on this side of the hotel, he was forced to walk to the front in order to gain access. He passed through the rotating doors, receiving another tip of the hat from the doorman, and walked past the reception area, where the girl behind the desk followed him with her gaze. To the right of the foyer an archway led to one of the hotel bars and he decided to take a look.
In a corner of the swish saloon, a couple of elderly gentlemen were sat in high-backed chairs, reading newspapers. Standing at the bar, meanwhile, three younger men in suits were laughing. Matthew approached the bar and waited to be tended.
‘What can I get you, sir?’
‘Could I have a whisky, please?’
‘Certainly, sir. Which would you like?’
‘What have you got?’
The barman nodded to a shelf filled with bottles and listed some of the names, none of which Matthew recognised.
‘Just give me a decent one,’ he said, downplaying his ignorance.
The barman smiled and reached for one of the bottles. He poured some into a tumbler and replaced the bottle where he had found it.
‘And could I have coke in that, as well, please?’ Matthew said as an afterthought, causing the barman to raise his eyebrows.
‘Sir, this is a twenty-five-year-old malt. It would be a crime to mix it with … coke.’
From over his shoulder Matthew heard a snigger from one of the business-types, but had no idea if it was aimed at him. He tried to conceal his growing unease by picking up the tumbler and raising it to his nose. He took a small sip, but the taste of undiluted whisky made him want to choke.
‘I’m sorry, I’m going to need some coke with that,’ he said, placing the tumbler down.
The barman nodded and reached for a bottle.
Once it had been poured, Matthew went to one of the deep, leather chairs. The suited men at the bar continued to laugh intermittently and Matthew still did not know whether they were laughing at his expense, although it made him feel uncomfortable just the same. Urged on by his disquiet, he drank his whisky hastily and decided to make for his room, where he knew he could drink whatever he wanted without ridicule.
He rode the lift to the second floor and used the card entry-system for the first time. Once inside, he sat on the bed, switched on the television and began the process of channel hopping. Finding nothing of interest to watch, he left the music channel playing and fetched several miniature bottles of whisky and a can of coke from the fridge.
For the following hour and a half he sat on the bed drinking a whisky and coke concoction that he mixed himself. Once he had drained the four small bottles of whisky, he tried rum and coke instead, finding it not at all distasteful. By midnight, although his head was whirling, he had succeeded in shaking off the anxieties of the day.
Bored with the constant stream of music videos, he began to channel surf and found a channel of pornography, which had been a blank screen until now. He sat for a moment watching as a pair of women ate food off each other’s bodies, before suddenly he felt self-conscious. Allaying his fears, he drew the curtains and reduced the volume on the television until the lustful moans were barely audible. He settled onto the bed and watched as the women on screen were joined by a man, who proceeded to smear chocolate on their breasts and lick them.
Continuing to sip his rum and coke, he was soon as aroused as he was light-headed. Impelled by the images on screen, he reached for his holdall and fumbled inside, finding the packet of condoms that he had bought the day before.
It was the first time that he had taken time to study the packet and, despite his spinning head, he was able to read the words ‘novelty condoms’ on the front. He opened the box and extricated the three slim packets inside. Each was of a different colour and had its own title. On the blue packet were the words ‘Olly the Octopus’, while the yellow packet was labelled ‘Gary Giraffe’. The black packet, meanwhile, was labelled ‘Wendel the Whale’.
As he handled the slim, individual packets, he was filled with the desire to open one of them and see how the rubber would feel against his skin.
With fingers trembling excitedly, he took the blue-coloured packet and tore it apart, exposing the deep blue latex condom inside. A little disconcerted by the stark colour, he began rolling the rubber over his middle- and forefinger. The more he unfurled the condom, the more of the rubber was exposed and already he could see a smiling face drawn on the tip. As the rubber extended further over his fingers, he could see a number of painted tentacles trailing down the length.
With the pornography continuing to play in the background, he stared at the blue rubber mould and its gormless face smiling back. Bemused and befuddled, he pulled the latex sheath from his fingers and dropped the small, limp octopus to the floor.
PART THREE: Resurrection