by Charlie Wade
“TV’s, DVD’s, stereos? Maybe bit of furniture?”
Terence did his wily head shake again. “To be sure, but you no going to get rich.”
Jim nodded again. “Know where I can get a small lock-up? Just a garage would do.”
Terence eyed the tenners still in Jim’s hand and stroked his chin. “Oh, I don’t really know.”
“There’s a drink in it.”
“Try “Filthy Alan”. He’s got a tat shop on the High Street.”
Jim walked back to the bar, now almost empty, and ordered another pint of mild. More than half the youngsters had disappeared. One of the remaining ones was playing pool with Mick. Dropping the mild off to the smiling Terence, Jim joined Tim and Mick. The lad, Danny Boy was a good player, giving Mick a run for his money, though he kept himself to himself throughout the game. However, his foul on the black after clearing the table was almost certainly deliberate, leaving Mick an easy win.
After some feigned disappointment, Danny Boy rejoined his mates before leaving. Now Jim’s turn on the table, he racked up the balls letting Mick break. Halfway through the game, Jim asked the pair whether they’d be up for helping with a little job on Sunday. Though Tim wasn’t overly keen at the idea, he soon came round.
After his third pint, Jim’s head felt light. Though he’d been drinking all day, it’d only just hit. Feeling a slight swagger in his walk, and a blurriness when lining up a shot, it reminded him of good times, and of Friday nights long ago.
It was only the phone buzzing in his pocket that brought him back to London and a ten grand debt. And Charlotte, of course. Downing his pint, he pointed to the phone, made excuses then left.
Hi. Are you sure the art gallery is okay? :) the message read. Walking down the High Street, the gang of youths had taken up position outside a kebab shop. Now three times more intimidating, Jim pocketed his phone as he walked by. They looked at him differently than before. He’d no doubt some of them were tooled up, but they’d seen him with Tim and Mick and that appeared to give him some kind of status.
A few shops down, he pulled the phone back from his pocket and replied, Course it is. I like a bit of culture. Knowing the only culture he approved of was fermented yeast, he smiled and carried on walking.
A grubby second-hand shop called “Alan’s Emporium” was undoubtedly Filthy Alan’s tat shop. Filthy Alan had long since locked up and disappeared for the night. He’d have to come back tomorrow during the day which, given his date with Charlotte and the clothing changes it required, would make tomorrow tight.
The tube station was busy. As it wound through the soil towards central London its clientele changed from working classes, who’d just finished or were starting shifts, to a wealthier class going out for the evening. In the space of three miles, Jim observed the change.
As he emerged above ground, his phone bleeped. Sure? I don’t mind if you want to do something else x.
He couldn’t say no. How could he refuse an x? It wasn’t possible. Jim’s chubby and slightly the worse for wear fingers typed, Course. Looking forward to it x.
The x had been returned over the net. Though it felt too early for x’s, Jim felt it the right ball to serve. He wasn’t bothered with scoring points. He just wanted her to know he didn’t mind where they went. All he wanted was her company.
Her reply, xxx. Jim knew he’d read many things into that over the next twelve hours.
He’d missed the hotel’s all-inclusive evening meal. Though he’d eaten well earlier, his belly slopping with alcohol needed more. He settled on a burger and chips from an imitation McDonalds round the corner from the hotel. Glad of some processed meat, Jim chuckled while sat in the corner. He wasn’t sure exactly how to end the vegetarian flood now the gates had been opened. Then again, where exactly was it going? There’s only so long a man can pretend to work for the ONS before getting caught out. Then there was the money. Even if he found ten big ones, how long could he live in London. What could he do, carry on robbing? Nah, he’d get caught. At some point the truth would out.
Finishing his salty burger, he tried to move the sudden sense of hopelessness. His brain, fried by the afternoon’s alcohol, was telling him he needed more. More alcohol. Only then could this make sense. Stopping at a corner shop, he bought a half bottle of whisky that’d never been near Scotland and retired to the hotel room.
Next door were still conspicuous by their absence. He did wonder if they were dead; some sex game gone wrong. Slowly rotting next door, the smell would eventually give away their demise. Jim had no doubt he’d get the blame for that too.
He lay on his bed and turned on the television. He wondered, just for a second, if a quick look round next door would be in order. They may have left something behind, practically begging for a new home. He discounted this. Any sign of a break-in and the police would be called. They’d want to speak to him as their neighbour. No, he’d leave them alone.
Downing whisky from the bottle, he watched the television. The program was a gritty new crime show, and he was sure it was the one Charlotte would be watching. A weather-worn, world-weary detective was investigating a series of murders in Lincolnshire. Jim’s vision was slowing blurring and the actor’s voices lost midway to his brain. A few more gulps of whisky and the room took on a circular motion. He tried to reach for his phone, to send one last message to Charlotte, but heavy eyes beat him to it.
Sleep ended a long day.
Chapter 12
Morning broke with a fierce headache and a text message. Blurred eyes and a delayed brain read the message, Morning x. I’ll be ready about one. Noticing it was already ten and he’d missed breakfast, Jim walked to the bathroom, phone in hand, and turned on the shower.
See you at one. Where shall i meet u? he clumsily replied.
Leaving the phone next to the sink, he stumbled into the shower. The phone buzzed as he battled to wash the whisky and sleep from his skin. The piddly, quarter-sized complementary soap was soon gone, but Jim stayed under the shower for another five minutes until he was sure the worst of yesterday had been removed.
Drying with the half-sized towel, he retrieved her reply, Tube station? Or outside coffee shop?
Wet and slippery hands typed, Coffee shop sounds good. He pondered whether to stick an x after, but decided against. Receiving the message, Okay xxx, he shook his head and reached for his razor.
As his hour and a half of preparations, coffee drinking and television watching continued, he received two more messages which he replied to. Neither contained earth shattering news but were just a running commentary on whether she’d be slightly late or not. Looking at himself in the mirror, with painkillers finally killing the hangover, Jim thought he looked fairly presentable. Clean clothes were running out, he’d only a few anyway and nearly a week in a hotel had taken its toll. He’d have to visit a laundry soon; somehow squeeze that into his other plans of making ten grand. Problem was, he still didn’t have a plan. Street robbery and wallet stealing seemed easy enough, but it wasn’t getting him anywhere. Taking a hundred from his stash, he remembered he needed to pay for a few more nights in the hotel tomorrow. That would only leave three hundred.
Next door had reappeared at some point overnight. God knows where they’d been or what they’d been up to. Maybe he should have broken in while he had the chance. He shook his head. What was the point? He may have got a few hundred or some near worthless credit cards, but not ten grand. Plus, it was too close to home.
Leaving at ten to one, Jim walked the heavily-trodden path towards the cinema and coffee shop round the corner. Arriving a few minutes beforehand, he checked inside but she wasn’t there. Leaning against the wall, he checked his phone for missed messages: none. Of course, he knew she’d be late. She’d blame not being able to find her strapless shoes or her front door key or something.
He looked again inside the coffee shop. It had a lot to answer for. Selling its near infinite range of unpronounceable coffee-themed drinks, it alone had brou
ght their initial conversation. He wondered how different things might be if she hadn’t cried so much when the ambulance left, or if she’d refused the offer of a drink.
He sighed. He’d never know.
He had to admit, this whole idea of dating someone was both new and scary. Not the same variety of scary as walking into a prison dining room on your first day; eyes everywhere trying to catch yours so they can accuse you of staring at them. No, it was different. A more awkward, stomach turning fear of being hurt in a different way. On the inside instead of out.
She arrived ten minutes late. Watching the sun catch her hair and smile, with her flowery summer skirt clinging to each step, Jim felt her entrance couldn’t have been better if a Hollywood director had staged it. With ten paces to go, Jim rested his head on his shoulder. The wolf whistle he was desperate to let out held back. Smiling, they walked the last few steps to each other. Unsure again whether to offer a kiss or his hand, he just said, “Hello.”
“Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find my strapless shoes.”
Jim’s smile nearly turned to a laugh as he shrugged his shoulders. “You look fine.” He quickly added, “More than fine.”
She smiled again as they walked past the cinema and the piece of tarmac that Geoffrey had nearly croaked on. Side by side, Jim thought of taking her arm but didn’t.
“Wonder how he is,” said Jim.
“I’ll ring the hospital later and find out. They said yesterday he was doing well.”
Jim nodded.
The conversation stilted as they neared the station. Charlotte hadn’t launched into the tirade of chatter Jim thought she would. Jim himself struggled to think of an intelligent topic. Polite conversation about the weather, disappearing shoes and the last art exhibition Charlotte had been to was all he could muster.
Arriving at the tube station, Jim inserted some coins into the machine to buy a one day travel card.
“Haven’t you got an Oyster?” She flashed her blue card at him.
He’d seen them around. One of them was in the toff’s wallet he robbed yesterday, but he was paranoid enough without having his entire travel details stored on a database. Plus, he could hardly register one without an address or bank account. Charlotte’s slight frown told him she was wondering why he didn’t have one for work. She didn’t look as if she believed he queued up every morning for a ticket.
“Um.” His brain was still cloudy from last night’s whisky. “I get a weekly Travelcard and work refunds part of it. It’s easier just to buy the ticket.” He’d no idea if the ONS would actually pay for staff getting to work and back. If they did, he thought the government ought to do something about it.
“Oh.” She didn’t look convinced. The lump of hair fell from its position on her forehead, snaking past her eyes.
Through the gates and down to the tube, Charlotte told him about her Oyster card and how she couldn’t do without it. Jim was surprised when she said it automatically topped itself up when running low and it even worked out the cheapest route and fare for each day. All that data though, all that information on every journey. It had evidence written all over it.
“What happens if you lose it?” The stolen card was still back at his flat. He was considering it.
“You report it stolen and they put a stop on it.”
The thought went as quickly as it came. Maybe Terence would give him something for it. They must have some value.
The LED display said the tube was three minutes away, which meant it was actually six minutes away. Jim was getting used to London and its eccentricities. The other passengers waiting were silent, except for a gang of young lads, no doubt going to the city for the day. Conversation still wasn’t coming naturally between them. Racking his head for something to say, Charlotte beat him to it.
“Cool down here isn’t it?”
Jim knew it was going badly; they were talking about the weather again. She’d probably sussed he was in a different league. This was going to be a long afternoon.
“I always think of the blitz whenever I’m here.” He looked up at the CCTV camera pointing at his head. Maybe an Oyster card was the least of his worries. “I’ve always thought they must have been freezing in the middle of winter.”
Charlotte looked round. If she was looking for some evidence of the blitz, sixty years of renovations and graffiti had removed it. “It’s amazing everything they went through, isn’t it?” She looked back, her eyes locking on his. “To think, the things we moan about today. Hardly bears comparison does it?”
Jim wondered if it could get worse. He’d introduced death and destruction into the conversation. If this was going to work, he had to make one hell of an impression. “I’m sure one of the rights they fought for was for us to sue the council if we fell over a pothole. Wasn’t that what Churchill said after ‘fight them on the beaches’?”
It was nearly funny inside his head. After the words left his lips, he realised it was less than funny. She smiled, nothing more. A gust of air, forced through the platform, told them the train was arriving. The clock still read three minutes away as it had for the last five. Minding the gap, they took a side bench in a half full coach, sitting next to each other.
Sharing the tube with Saturday shoppers, tourists with cameras and the odd miserable worker, the tube trudged through the relative coolness of the underground. Sat in near silence, which Jim found uncomfortable, he occasionally caught her eyes in the reflection from the window opposite.
Most people disembarked for the main sights leaving the tube quieter as it headed towards the dead-at-weekend financial area. Taking advantage of their near privacy, Jim caught her eye again in the tunnel-blackened window and stuck out his tongue. Her eyes lit up, dimples appeared and the lump of hair dislodged itself from her brow. She screwed her nose up theatrically and returned the gesture. Near laughing, Jim stuck his thumbs in his ears and waggled his hands in a way he hadn’t since school. Giggling, she stuck her own hand in front of her nose and waved it. After saying, “Ner ner nener ner,” Jim laughed loudly then turned to her.
Removing her hand from her nose, her eyes met his. Her clear blue retinas seemed to peer into his soul, searching for something. He felt himself blushing but kept the gaze, slowly moving his head inch by inch towards her. She licked then pursed her lips. Her own face was moving towards his too. Now just inches apart, if the driver hadn’t have said, “Next stop is Bank. Bank is the next stop,” Jim thought they would have kissed.
Walking along the sunny embankment, the mouldy Thames beside them, Charlotte led Jim towards the art gallery. She’d already got them lost twice and, laughing and joking around, they’d reverted to giddy teenagers.
The art gallery now just in view, thanks to the help of some GPS mapping app on Charlotte’s iPhone, Jim’s heart beat harder as he struggled for things to say. The tube driver had a lot to answer for. He’d made a difficult position harder. He considered stopping, taking her hand and moving in for a kiss. This was London though. She’d likely smack or spray him with mace. Instead, he looked at the river. Warm but murky despite all the attempts to clean it up. He wondered how often it was dredged. How long would a body lay at the bottom before it was noticed? He hoped he wouldn’t find out.
“What you thinking about?”
He looked round, the midday sun catching the lump of hair that stood ready to fall down. Feeling himself smile, he said, “Nothing. Nothing that can’t wait.”
With the gallery now in sight, he thought of reaching for her hand. The near miss in the tube was in danger of becoming ancient history. As his hand sneaked its way towards hers, her pace seemed to increase. Unsure whether she’d seen the hand or was just keen to get to the gallery, he shrugged his shoulders, put his hand in his pocket and followed her.
At the entrance, a security guard, or curator as he later learnt he was called, greeted and handed a pamphlet to Charlotte. She thanked him before they walked a few paces towards the middle and tried to get some bearings. Loo
king round, the gallery was filled with pictures and sculptures made of both stone and what looked like domestic rubbish. White backgrounds and walls made every piece leap out from sharp angles. The pictures and pieces of art themselves were, Jim thought, nothing special. Blobs of paint and old cans stuck together didn’t really work in his book. It wasn’t art as he knew it. He was no connoisseur, and he could admire the effort and ability it took to paint a landscape, but five blobs of varying shades of red paint on a woman’s trainer? He didn’t see how that took any ability. He also didn’t see what the hell that had to do with repressed slave labour workers. Charlotte seemed to get it though. That was good enough for him.
The hour walking round went too quickly. There was only one piece he could describe as likeable. A landscape in the classical sense, except it portrayed a modern street scene. Muggers hiding in the shadows, ladies of the night advertising their wares while pimps looked on threateningly, and drunks flailing at each other over some pointless argument. He stood for five minutes taking in every detail.
“Good, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yeah. It’s like the opposite of an old painting, isn’t it?” He’d never make an art critic on a late night BBC2 programme, but he hoped he’d got over his point.
“Past meets present.” She pointed to the same street scene in the pamphlet by some artist from the 1800s. “Wonder what the original artist would make of it.”
Jim nodded. He walked with Charlotte for another ten minutes as she looked at all the works. Quiet, the gallery only had about ten visitors. Some were obviously upper class. Cravats and country clothing worn as emblems of wealth. Maybe they were looking at the exhibits as potential purchases hoping to buy something from the next big thing. Others meanwhile were ordinary but affluent Londoners, here for a day of culture. The artists themselves were few and far between. Charlotte congratulated one on his excellent piece of work, but the young man’s lip curl and snarl proved he put more effort into his attitude than he ever did into his attempt at art.