by Charlie Wade
He reconsidered. If your name’s Charlotte then a text is fine. Pausing midway across Lambeth Bridge, his drunken, chubby fingers took ages to type the small phrase, Thanks. I’ll put telly on.
The rapid car journey, his newly acquired ten-grand debt and Charlotte’s earbashing had made five pints feel like two. As a preferred method of sobering up, he’d take strong coffee any day. Despite being a memorable day, it had to be his worst ever. Perhaps more alcohol was needed. Evening was drawing in and he’d walked miles, yet he felt more awake than ever.
Thinking again of Charlotte, sat opposite him in the coffee shop, talking to him, apparently enjoying his company, he shook his head. What was going on?
After walking the final mile to the hotel, he went to his room for a wash before dinner. He was hungry. Two cheese sandwiches and miles of walking left you empty, but he’d gone through and out the other side of hunger. Still, evening dinner was included in the price so at the very least he’d waste it to get his money’s worth.
Before leaving his room, he paused. The couple next door didn’t sound like they were in. He really hoped they weren’t in the dining room. He could picture it now. “Oh, come and join us, you must join us.” He didn’t need a couple of randy middle-aged probable swingers talking to him while he ate his pie and chips. He decided if they were in the restaurant he would about turn and walk out, and find a burger joint or fish and chip shop, if such things existed in London.
They weren’t in the dining room. Relieved, he sat at the lonely one-chaired table that had loser written all over it. Surrounded by travelling salesmen, conference attendees and even the odd holidaymaker who’d booked on the cheap, they were a pitiful combination. Jim had no previous experience of budget hotels, but he’d bet his granny they were all like this. Soulless, yet functional beds for the travelling fraternity with a tasteless meal added. Looking again at his co-dinees, a forty-something balding man, a thirty-something receding man and a couple of jolly looking holidaymakers, the male not having the fullest head of hair, he wondered if the hotel offered a discount for the follicly challenged.
He sipped the tap water provided. No doubt they’d let the water stand all night so people would instead buy their vinegarish house red. Gazing at the other diners who had hair, he wondered if any of them owed ten thou to an East End wannabe Kray brother. No, they were all spoon salesmen, insurance execs and yokels from the sticks visiting head office and sampling the finest Soho had to offer while their wives thought they were in late meetings.
Soho.
He should have been there now, blowing a fortune on coke, hookers and champagne. A night of celebration after a hard day. The first contract would have led to another then another. Pretty soon he’d have made enough to quit. He could have bought a farmhouse somewhere in Devon and made goat’s cheese or grown organic vegetables or some shite. There was supposed to be no more buying and selling. That had ended. No ripping off old ladies, either. Or young ones. No ripping off city workers. No ripping off youngish city divorcees who talk a lot.
No ripping off Charlotte.
Shaking his head, he sighed and looked at the kitchen. The saloon-style swing doors revealed a waitress attempting to carry four plates at once. Whether she was trying to look professional or was just lazy wasn’t clear. Offloading her plates of brownish stew at two tables, she returned to the kitchen for more. Beef stew in summer? Jim wondered what delights their winter menu would contain. The waitress returned with a plate for him and a short grunt. He thanked her and asked for a drink.
“The bar’s open.” She walked away.
He worried the stew with his fork, but ate less than he thought he would. Ten grand wasn’t very appetising and though he’d tried to push it aside, it was always there niggling away in his brain’s trying-to-forget compartment. Every five minutes or so it would return and remind him he was in the shit.
Leaving the restaurant, he headed for the bar and ordered a pint of flat beer. Quietly supping it at a table, the only other noticeable drinker was a sharp-dressed city worker talking loudly on his mobile about profit projections. He was so obviously booked into the wrong hotel it was embarrassing. Hidden in the shadows was another balding forty-something civil servant or executive. Jim considered going over and introducing himself, but that would mean talking pretend shop and he knew he wasn’t good company. The guy didn’t look too interesting either. He looked happy alone and in the shadows.
He finished the pint in three long mouthfuls; the city worker was really that embarrassing to listen too. Leaving the glass on the bar, he went upstairs.
Next door were still out which was a small blessing. A lack of anything to do, and the dull headache he recognised to be an evening hangover made him switch the telly on.
Geoffrey was indeed mentioned on the London news. Jim again put it down to London’s lack of humanity that it could be newsworthy. Like a talking dog or a town mayor who’s walking backwards for charity, the item made the light-hearted part at the end of the program, just after the daily count of murders and muggings. In a short, ten-second piece, showing file film of a hospital, the reporter did indeed refer to them as mystery heroes and good Samaritans. Apparently, Geoffrey was recovering well and Jim thought no doubt looking forward to his next line of coke.
Sighing again, he channel-hopped. Avoiding soaps and documentaries, he found the film channel. An old action film was on with the swearing and killings dubbed out to convert it into a PG. This proved a distraction as he lay on his bed, willing sleep to come.
Chapter 6
The text message startled him. He’d been drifting off, his mind in some film-inspired daydream. Accessing the message, Just had my tea; burnt the pasta lol, he wondered again what the fuck was going on. Maybe she was lonely. She must be to send complete strangers details of her culinary disasters. Jim wondered just what she’d be doing now. She’d probably be in her luxury flat sat on some hugely comfortable fluffy sofa with her legs tucked under her. An explosion of cushions would surround her; maybe her cat was asleep on one of them. Fresh from the shower she’d be in a dressing gown applying polish to her nails, or maybe plucking at her thin eyebrow strands in front of a mirror. There’d be a documentary on the television, but she wouldn’t really be watching it. Her mind would be thinking of tomorrow’s meetings or who to send a text to.
Jim sighed as he typed, Bet it was better than mine. We had beef stew.
Now fully awake and with the time nine o’clock, the rest of the night lay in front. While inside, he’d been waiting for this evening. Three years of pent-up frustration that should be being released had been cancelled. The moment had gone.
He thought again of Charlotte. Alone in her flat, surrounded by the trappings of luxury. What would ten grand be to her? A month, two months wages? It couldn’t be far from that. After tax, rent and everything else he supposed it would be nearer six. It could be even more. He’d heard of these Londoners supposedly on huge wages, but after removing the cost of living in London they were poorer than a Glaswegian bouncer.
He couldn’t do it anyway. That caring woman who’d overturned all sense of London tradition by helping someone; she didn’t deserve what he was thinking. Their chance meeting shouldn’t lead to her having a broken heart or wallet.
Beef stew. Omg. What sort of hotel is it? her text said.
He smiled but knew she’d come to her senses. Today had been a huge shock; her mind hadn’t rationally dissected what she was doing. The messages would end tomorrow. He knew that. And then he’d really be alone.
It’s not the Ritz that’s for sure, he replied.
Lol, her quick reply.
They’d end tomorrow. Definitely. She was good-looking though. He remembered once more looking at her face in the coffee shop while she sipped that coffee and milk mutation. Clear complexion, confident. He also remembered the horror on her face as she saw Geoffrey, the tears when she thought he was dead.
She’d got in his brain. Nothing was going t
o happen between them, it couldn’t. She’d come to her senses tomorrow. Even if she didn’t, how long could he keep up the pretence? How long before he slipped up? All she had to do was ask him a question about statistics and he was a goner. No, this ended tomorrow.
In the meantime, he needed sleep. Though his head was in full hangover mode, his mind was whirring. Sleep was far away.
Alcohol was the answer. Lots of it. Picking up a jumper, he headed downstairs. The bar was similar to before: quiet, brightly lit and impossible to relax in. The city boy had scarpered, probably to more livelier surroundings and the balding civil servant had also gone to wherever those creatures go at night. The only drinker was a suited and well-rounded middle-aged man reading the evening paper. The restaurant waitress was also sitting at the bar sipping from a bright red bottle of alcopop, while the barman wiped glasses with his towel occasionally making conversation with her.
Armed with a pint and a scotch, he took the far table. His neighbours still hadn’t appeared. Jim didn’t like to think what or who they were up to. Downing the scotch in one, he shuddered as its fiery goodness burned. Sipping the pint, he looked again at the barman and waitress.
She was totally absorbed in her phone, fiddling with buttons while he occasionally whistled or strutted like a peacock round the short bar area. His obvious attempts to impress her lost while she sent or received messages. “Are you going out over the weekend?” he asked her. She shook her head as a reply, her eyes not leaving the phone.
Jim pulled his own phone from his pocket. His eyes cloudy, from both the long day and drink, he scanned through the phone menus. He wondered again what made these little things such coveted gadgets. Soon enough his brain on autopilot commanded his chubby fingers to open a new text.
Having a drink in bar. His thumb hovered over the send button. It’s over tomorrow, he told himself. Maybe, just maybe, the mention of a drink might force something before she realises what’s going on. He pressed send. If she replied saying she could do with a drink, he’d ask her out.
Placing the phone down, he looked back round the bar. The barman was trying a different track to his chatting up, while the girl typed some unfeasibly long message.
Taking another glug from his pint, his fingers started itching. Pubs did that to him. A drink needed to be accompanied by a smoke, and they’d banned smoking in pubs just before he’d last gone down. He’d been amazed when he came out by the amount of beer gardens and alleyways converted to smoking dens. Even the smallest pub where once there was just a car parking space now had a lean-to or open-sided shed crammed full of smoking drinkers while the pub itself was empty. Draining his pint he headed to the bar for a top-up. The barman was still fighting a losing battle and after Jim paid for the drink, he headed for the open fire exit which contained the helpful sign, “Beer garden this way”.
The tiny tarmacadamed courtyard was surrounded by a high brick wall. Rubbish bins and a skip stood in one corner, with a weather-beaten plastic white table opposite. Placing his glass on the table, it wobbled, one of the legs being badly bent. Sighing, he moved the glass to the opposite side and sat on a plastic chair under the hole-ridden umbrella.
His phone next to the pint glass, he willed it to buzz or even ring. The first scotch and pint were turning the hangover into a thick head. He sighed and rolled his head round his shoulders as he pulled out a cigarette. The ciggy lit, he exhaled loudly and leant back. The chair creaked a protest.
Six more heavy draws from the cigarette and his head felt lighter. The kick that only a part-time smoker can feel combined with his headache to create an almost euphoric state. It reminded him of the pills he’d sometimes taken inside. Of course, he kept them hidden from Harry. Harry was very anti-drugs. Anti-taking them mind, not anti-the profit from the sale and distribution of. “That shit rots your body and mind, son,” he’d say, “give me a bottle of whisky any day.”
Wondering what Harry would be up to took him back to the cell. Would Harry have a new cellmate? Would they get on as well? His mind jarred as he wondered if Harry knew he’d messed up. “That little sap’s fucked up bad,” he imagined him saying. “Let me down he has. The lad’s let me down.”
He flicked the near burnt-out fag at the rubbish skip and lit another. He hadn’t just let Harry down; what about Pete? All that training gone to shit. He’d probably sullied his good name too. Maybe he’d be next in a blacked-out Range Rover wanting ten grand.
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.
Chapter 7
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 h
is. 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.