by J C Williams
.
By J C Williams
.
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.
First Kindle edition September 2017
Second Kindle edition January 2020
Cover artwork by Paul Nugent
Interior formatting and design by Dave Scott and Cupboardy Wordsmithing
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
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Other Books by J C Williams
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Chapter One
M edia City in Salford was an imposing expanse of concrete and glass. It was still before 5 a.m. but the concourse was a hive of people scurrying to escape the bitter cold of a dismal January morning. It was pitch black, but the buildings emitted sufficient light pollution to irradiate the skies above with a gentle orange tinge.
Jack Tate stood patiently in line as his breath steamed against the crisp morning air. He didn’t want a coffee, but was fascinated by the 1960’s VW camper van that had been converted to provide the caffeine fix for the weary hordes. He’d seen numerous coffee vans, but this was the finest by a considerable way and would be perfect for what he needed. He lost track of time as he admired the polished chrome features and more importantly the frequency in which the ‘old world’ till — that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Wild West tavern — was being utilised. He was mesmerized as a conveyor belt of people pushed notes into the grasp of the jolly barista who greeted most on a first-name basis. He knew that such a magnificent vehicle would be a worthy addition to his expanding coffee empire.
His entrepreneurial dalliance was disturbed by a strong vibration in his back pocket. His legs had lost most of their feeling due to the bitter cold and he initially thought the sensation was being caused by a portly gentleman with no hair and a cheery pink face, standing uncomfortably close, behind him. Jack reached into his back pocket but the man didn’t move and appeared grateful for the unexpected attention. Jack stared at him with suspicion while struggling to press the answer button on his phone with his numb fingers.
“Hello,” he said, loud enough to disturb those in his immediate vicinity. “Yes, this is Jack.”
He listened intently before frantically looking at his watch. “Shit… I’m sorry, I’m in a coffee queue outside, but I can be there in two minutes.”
He was two from the front, but reluctantly moved to relinquish his place. As he did, his new friend moved forwards a pace to continue the intimate contact a moment longer. Jack moved away, giving an apprehensive glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed. His eyes darted around the endless glass windows and doors, desperately looking for a clue of his destination. He quickened his pace and took another look at his watch. He’d deliberately arrived early to make the experience more relaxed, but now he was starting to panic. Directions were not forthcoming as most of those rushing by ignored his look of hopelessness. He was about to ring the number back when he noticed the welcome sign he’d been looking for: ‘BBC Breakfast Studios’.
He composed himself with a deep breath and jogged towards the glass entrance door. The warm air in the lavish reception area nipped his rosy cheeks. He was now overdressed and took off his fur Cossack hat that would provide ample protection against a Siberian winter. The hat — a gift from Emma — would protect his close-cropped head from the elements. At the age of 42, Jack had reached the decision that a large proportion of middle-aged men faced: to shave or not to shave. His hair would be best described as sporadic. His scalp was like the surface of a well-trodden lawn — luscious in parts but, on the whole, barren and sparse. Drops of sweat ran down his back as he struggled with the buttons on his insulating black coat. His anxiety was not eased when he saw the number of people queuing at the reception desk.
“Shit,” he said, looking at his watch again.
He stood with his coat under one arm and his hat — which looked like a dead animal — under the other. His salvation came in the form of an attractive blonde girl, wearing a neat black pencil skirt with a close-fitting navy-blue top.
“Are you by any chance Jack?” she asked, pointing a pen in his direction.
He was taken by surprise as he’d never been to Manchester, let alone this building. “I am,” he said in a self-assured tone. “Did you recognise me from the newspaper?”
She screwed her eyes up for a moment. “No, I just saw your t-shirt, and, you know, put two and two together.”
Jack wore a pair of green corduroy trousers that at best could be described as a statement piece and, at worst, a bit ‘old man.’ His blue t-shirt had the image of an old couple holding hands and the logo of The Lonely Heart Attack Club emblazoned across the top.
“Ah, well deduced,” said Jack.
“I’m Charlotte,” she said. “I spoke to you on the phone earlier. Is it raining?” she asked, in reference to the erratic black patches on his t-shirt.
Jack looked down and groaned at the sweat patches on his only t-shirt.
“Jack, we need to get a bit of a push on, if you don’t mind? You’re on air in about twenty minutes or so and the interview will last for about six or seven minutes. It can be a bit nerve-wracking, but just be yourself and you’ll be just fine. Do you have any questions for me?”
He thought for a moment. “Who’s doing the interview?”
“Scarlett Redfern,” she said, looking at her clipboard. “And judging by your smile, I’m guessing you’re pleased with that?”
Jack grinned like a small boy. He was pleased. Scarlett was the darling of breakfast TV, both stunning and classy-looking, with a wave of auburn hair and a figure to die for. He felt a tide of guilt rise up as he looked at his hat and thought of Emma.
Charlotte escorted him through a seemingly endless maze of corridors until the iconic red sofa was visible in the distance. Jack was awestruck. He’d watched BBC Breakfast for years and now here he was. It was smaller than he thought it would be, but still impressive to see.
“You can wait in here, Jack,” she said, ushering him into a room with two other men looking equally as nervous, like they were waiting for their results at the STD clinic. “One of my colleagues will come and bring you through in a few minutes.”
“Is there a toilet?” asked Jack. “I wanted to try and dry out a little bit, you know, from the rain.”
She looked impatiently at her watch. “Yes, but you need to be quick, they can’t wait for you. It’s through that corridor and on your left.”
Jack left his belongings on the chair and scurried towards the toilet. The corridor was adorned with pictures of the people who’d graced the s
ofa that he was about to sit on. His nerves were replaced with feelings of excitement.
The toilets were sumptuous — like a five-star hotel — with elegant stone tiles and glistening gold taps. A colossal mirror stretched above the marble sink worktops as an array of tiny lights illuminated the surface below.
He looked fine, apart from a couple of damp patches on his front and a thin line of sweat that ran down the arch of his back. He removed his shirt and placed it in front of the hand dryer which hung on the wall at shoulder height. Fortunately, he was alone and the motor blew warm air at a rate a Boeing 747 pilot would be proud of. His shirt was soon dry and the heat had actually removed a couple of the creases. He had a nervous feeling in his stomach and, although he didn’t need the toilet, he wanted to see if he could force out a quick wee. A small trickle was forthcoming, which unfortunately did not relieve the butterflies in his stomach.
He knew he was in a fine institution by the quality of the bathroom. You could always tell the calibre of an establishment by the quality of their toilet, a trait he now insisted on in all of his coffee shops. He admired the soap dispenser which was glass — not plastic — and contained a sumptuous-looking, liquid soap. He thought for a moment about taking it home as a souvenir, but had nothing to carry it in. He pressed the black nozzle twice in quick succession as he continued to admire the plush surroundings. There was no soap in his hand so he lifted the bottle to make sure it wasn’t empty. It was over half full, so he replaced it and pressed down, once again, this time paying attention. There must have been a small blockage on the nozzle, as the liquid deviated from its intended destination and flew like a discharged bullet before coming to an abrupt halt with an audible splurge. He closed his eyes with a feeling of trepidation. He composed himself and cautiously opened one eye, peering over the rim of his black-framed glasses. His fear was confirmed as the reflection in the mirror highlighted three — almost perfectly circular — dollops of pearlescent soap sat about the width of a hand from his groin. The colour of the soap gave the impression that Jack was enjoying his debut at BBC headquarters perhaps a little more than he should be.
“Shit… no. Bastard…” he said, hopping from side-to-side like he was stamping out an imaginary fire. “Okay… Stay calm,” he said aloud, taking several deep breaths. He reached for a paper towel but there were none, with several piles of neatly-folded white towels next to the sink instead. He took one and gently soaked the corner portion. He held the towel and arched his neck forwards to survey the extent of the predicament. The liquid was moving slowly, leaving a citrus-smelling snail trail in its path. He took his spare hand and placed it inside his trousers — adjacent to the soap stains — and moved the towel gingerly towards his crotch with his other hand.
The sturdy oak door opened as one of his companions from the waiting room must have had an equally nervous stomach. He looked Jack in the eye, down to his crotch, and then back up to his face. Jack looked like he was leaving the matinee performance of a peep show.
“This isn’t what you think,” said Jack. “I mean… it looks like I’ve just… but I didn’t! I wouldn’t. Well, at least not here. We all do it!”
The sickened man shook his head. “They’re looking for you. I said I’d come and get you.”
Jack continued to protest his innocence but the man held out the palms of his hands, saying, “Whatever floats your boat, mate!” and left him to it.
Jack took the towel and rubbed the stain like he was trying to start a fire. He had no time for precision. To his relief, the towel absorbed some of the liquid, but the glee was temporary. To his complete horror, the damp towel reacted with the soap — which began to lather on his trousers. He put more water on the towel in an attempt to dilute the soap but it only served to increase the intensity. Three small blobs of soap now resembled the spewing contents of a faulty washing machine.
“Shit!” he shouted at the top of his voice.
He pulled down his trousers and, for someone who didn’t ordinarily do underpants, he was eternally grateful that today he did. The soapy folds of fabric caught on his new brown brogues — which were on their first outing. He struggled to navigate the hem of his trousers over the shoes, but they wouldn’t budge. His hands were covered in soap and purchase on the tightly-knotted laces was all but impossible. He rested his back on the wall where the hand dryer was housed and raised his left knee towards his chest. He wobbled uneasily as he put one final effort into removing the trousers. In a glorious instant, the left leg of his trousers moved over his shoe, but the momentum of the force exerted caused him to lose his balance. He fell unceremoniously, like a drunken sailor, and lay on the toilet floor with one leg exposed.
There was a polite knock on the door which increased with intensity when there was no immediate response. “Jack, are you in there? You’re due on in three minutes,” said the now-familiar voice. Finally, in desperation, it said, “I’m coming in!”
Jack writhed in pain as he struggled with the other trouser leg.
Once inside, Charlotte jumped back and covered her mouth in astonishment. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m wonderful… thanks for asking,” said Jack. “While you’re here, would you mind helping with the other trouser leg?”
Charlotte reluctantly grabbed the fabric on his right leg as Jack leaned back. From her favourable angle, there was little resistance and both legs were soon displayed.
“I only came in to use the toilet, but…”
“Not interested!” said Charlotte, waving her hand towards him. “You need to be on live TV in about two minutes and you look like… that.”
“But I’ve got no trousers!” protested Jack, who was trying without success to remove his shoes.
“I’ll tell the camera crew to keep you in focus from the waist up. To be honest, if I need to spell that out to them, they probably shouldn’t be employed. Come on,” she insisted.
Jack eased himself into a standing position. He was now only wearing his blue t-shirt, undies, and formal brown shoes. The only minor mercy was that he’d worn matching blue socks with yellow trim.
He very nearly fell back to earth as the shiny soles on his shoes made contact with the soap on the tiled floor. His legs flailed like a new-born foal on ice, but he somehow managed to regain his composure. Charlotte escorted him — several steps in front — through the waiting room, where the numbers had swelled. Jack placed his trousers on top of his coat and hat, as the soap suds fell towards the floor. He left the room without exchanging eye contact.
Scarlett Redfern expressed her gratitude to a young couple and their cream-coloured dog before turning to face the camera: “Great to meet you all and amazing to hear about his lucky escape. It’s six-thirty and time for the news and weather, wherever you are.” She leaned towards the table and took a large mouthful of the coffee in her BBC Breakfast mug. Over the rim of her cup she caught a glimpse of Jack, who stood waiting patiently. She gagged on her drink and her immediate reaction was to call for security. Before she had a chance to alert anyone, Charlotte moved forwards and gave her a reassuring message in her ear. Jack was reluctantly invited to join her on the couch. He pulled down his t-shirt in an unsuccessful attempt to cover his underpants.
“We’ll keep this short!” said Scarlett in the direction of her producer. “Not there!” she said to Jack.
He looked bewildered.
“Move over there!” she insisted. “I don’t want you soiling my sofa with them things,” she said, pointing to his off-white underpants, “I’ve got Sir Michael Caine due to sit there in one hour.”
Ever the consummate professional, she turned her look of disgust to one of warm appreciation in the blink of an eye.
“I’m delighted to be joined by Jack Tate. As you can see from his wonderful t-shirt, he is the co-founder of the Lonely Heart Attack Club. Tell me a little about that?”
The cameraman aimed with precision and to the uninitiated viewer, all seemed to be normal. “That’s r
ight,” said Jack. “I own a coffee shop with my girlfriend, Emma.” He waved towards the camera before continuing. “About eighteen months ago we met some very special folks — elderly people. The long story short is that they were lonely and vulnerable. Some of them had been scammed and lost their life savings, whereas others just wanted someone to talk to. So, we set up the club,” he said, pointing to his t-shirt. “The Isle of Man’s first dating and social club for the elderly.”
Scarlett was surprisingly impressed despite her initial assumptions. “That sounds wonderful. And what do you do at the social club?”
“Well, we hold them in our coffee shop and it was things like speed dating, discos, and days out. More people came into the shop — which was great — and we eventually had to open another shop in another town on the Island, and then another. We ended up with four coffee shops which were, of course, a business, but in each, we made sure we had another social club. The key thing is that we’re helping the vulnerable in the community and stopping them falling victim to scams, through education.”
“Impressive!” she said, nodding her head. “I understand you set a world record as well.”
“We did,” said Jack proudly. As he puffed his chest out his undies nearly became visible, saved only by the quick reactions of the cameraman. “We set out to take the world record for the longest continuous wall of flowers. Your colleague Kelvin Reed came to help us. Sadly, we missed out on that. But… undeterred, we tried again the following year and succeeded. Unfortunately for us, a school in Harrogate took the record from us, last year.”
A picture appeared on the video screen behind her head, and she was genuinely in awe of the spectacle of the wall of flowers with the club members in front of it. “So, what’s next for you, Jack? Reclaim your world record?”
“Well, we want to spread the word — outside of the Isle of Man — and get Lonely Heart Attack Clubs set up all over the country. I think I’m done with flowers for the time being.”