Wake Up Happy Every Day

by Stephen May

  ‘He wouldn’t have known a thing,’ one of them said.

  It didn’t really comfort his wife. Didn’t really stop the tears of his girls.

  The deeper sadness was that it didn’t work. There were the four crying daughters, the one crying wife, but there was still the misery for millions. Still all the dead Gandhis and all the dead Mandelas. But not every plan comes off and you couldn’t know how much worse things would have been without this action. You have to take risks in this life. The biggest mistake is to be scared to make a mistake.

  Yes Grettislaug, Iceland. A top day.

  But that was then, this is now. That was all in the old days, before they got the new stuff. At least it’s all much simpler now, or should be. No pissing about with cables. And they have better intelligence these days. But here, in the now, the place where Catherine acknowledges to herself that she is not quite so happy, it has already been over a week and still this Knox is doing his thing. Getting on with living. Fucking things up for her with his tiresome propensity to keep breathing.

  Catherine is back from her run and warming down. She does some slow press-ups, and then some stretches while her bath is running. She does her meditation and then flicks through the web, still no news of any sudden deaths of multi-billionaires in Russian Hill.

  And then there is a soft knock at the door.

  In Catherine’s business this is never good news. You never have anyone come to your room. You never order anything from room service, like you never pick someone up in a hotel bar. Like you always sleep on a mat next to the bed, rather than in it. This is all basic stuff.

  The knock comes again. Soft but insistent. A professional knock.

  Catherine unfolds herself from the floor, stands up and keeps her eyes on the handle. The most likely thing is that it is the hotel staff here to do something with the air con or the shower. The second most likely thing is that it is the hotel staff come to rob the room.

  Yep, the door is opening inwards quietly. Catherine moves in one silent stride until she is standing behind it. She’s not afraid, she’s confident she can deal with whoever it is. She is curious and excited. This is action of a kind even if it just ends with her yelling, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ and a terrified bellboy mumbling some excuse as he backs away.

  The door pauses a few inches in. And then swings wide, meaning that Catherine is hidden in a triangular hiding space watching as a thin man steps into the room. Narrow shoulders, a slight stoop, an old man in a cheap suit. Balding head. Not maintenance and no bellboy. Senior staff then. Management. All of this taken on board in less than a split second.

  ‘What the hell?’ she begins, as she pushes the door closed. She stops.

  The old man turns. ‘Catherine?’

  ‘Tough?’ It is Tough – only old and shrunken, his face scored by a network of lines as close together as those on an ordnance survey map, his neck sagging like the slack rigging of an old sailboat. He looks like a reptile. Like a tortoise. They look at each other for a long moment.

  ‘You wouldn’t have any booze in the place would you, old girl?’

  ‘There’s the minibar.’

  ‘Of course, which means we can each have a snack pack of Pringles too. Oh joy. I get these salt cravings. Now, aren’t you going to hug me?’ And he smiles and it is the old Tough again for a moment. The Tough she knows from Iraq. From Grettislaug.

  She finds she can’t smile, but she moves forward obediently into his arms. He seems frail and he smells funny. Expensive scent of course but there is something sour beneath that.

  ‘That my dear is rot.’

  ‘What?’ She pulls back to look at him properly, putting her hands either side of his head. He twinkles, the old Tough is living in the eyes and in the smile even if he is horribly absent from everywhere else.

  ‘That whiff. I can’t smell it myself but I see it in the slight but emphatic recoiling of others. Rot. Corruption. Death. Nothing to be done about that ugly little trio is there? They come for us all. Will come to you too, Catherine my love. Though not for a good long while yet we hope.’

  He goes to the small fridge and fixes the drinks. Two vodkas and tonic. He hands one to her with tremulous hands. His sniping days are long gone. She snatches it. She can’t bear to see that shake in her old mate. Tough must notice her reaction, but he doesn’t comment. Instead he says, ‘You get a taste for voddy living out in what I still think of as the USSR.’ They clink glasses. He sits down on the bed, Catherine sits next to him. ‘It’s not AIDS or anything like that by the way. Though that’s probably what I deserve, the way I carried on in the glory years. No, this is just a nasty group of ordinary plebby cancers giving me grief. I’m dying, Catherine. Got a few weeks left, few months if I’m lucky. But hey-ho, I do intend to be lucky.’ He swallows half the vodka. She opens her mouth. He holds up the thin quivering bones of his hand. ‘Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be said. It’s shit but there it is. And in my own way I am raging at the dying of the light.’

  She can’t get her head round any of it – Tough in her room in San Francisco. Tough sick. ‘But I’m due to see you. I’m going to finish up here and then come to Abkhazia.’

  ‘’Fraid I couldn’t wait. Shall we go out? This room is very claustrophobic.’

  Tough watches crap TV while she bathes and changes. She can hear him chuckling as she soaps and rinses.

  ‘All right?’ she says when she’s done. She’s wearing jeans and blue pumps and a pink Superdry sweatshirt. Tough smiles. She decides to keep him smiling, if she can. It is the only time he looks like himself.

  ‘Perfect. You look both feminine and sensible. You’ll look like a dutiful, unmarried daughter taking out her doddery old dad for pizza.’

  There is some small talk about the weather in the corridors and in the lift. Catherine wonders if anyone has ever said anything worth hearing in a hotel lift. Have there ever been marriage proposals or break-ups in a lift? Has anyone ever had the temerity to have a heart attack in a lift?

  And when they are settled in the nearest pizza joint Tough says, ‘How’s the firm?’

  And Catherine shrugs and says, ‘We’re having to refresh our priorities. We’re having to chunk up.’

  And Tough smiles. Result, thinks Catherine. She tries to make it happen again. ‘And we’re all going to go through a competitive migration process. Because there’s going to be less jobs.’

  It works. He smiles again. ‘Where do they get these phrases?’ he says. He snorts. ‘Chunk up indeed. Oh, but it’s fewer jobs by the way. Not less. No reason for us to forget our grammar just because the barbarians are at the gates.’ And then they choose pizzas and drinks and help themselves to salads.

  When they are sitting back down Catherine asks, ‘Do you remember Grettislaug?’

  ‘The day we had to be Irish? Of course. What a bloody brilliant day that was.’

  And Catherine feels like kissing him. Kissing him and crying, and they relive the whole day – and then some other highlights from the years they’ve known each other and, just as Catherine is wondering if she will ever find out why he is in California, Tough tells Catherine two things. He tells her that he has decided to believe in God. And he tells her that everything that she knows about her life is a lie.

  Thirty-six

  POLLY

  The minute they decide to call the ambulance Daniel wakes and says he feels fine, that he obviously just needed the kip. Nevertheless, he’s not right – Polly can tell. For one thing he keeps getting her name wrong. He keeps calling her Susan. Or Sarah. Or Jean. Or Nicholas even, all of which is understandable if annoying. But she begins to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose.

  ‘A cup of tea would be lovely, Irina,’ he says at one point.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she says, and then regrets it because he looks so hurt. ‘Sorry, Daniel, call me any name you like except that one.’

  ‘What did I call you?’

  ‘Irina.’

  ‘No
way!’ He sounds like a teenager. Polly smiles. It’s hard to stay mad at Daniel for long.

  ‘Yes way. Now I’ll get you a cup of tea if you get dressed. We’re going for a walk.’

  ‘Not with the naked hiker?’

  ‘No, he’s gone, Daniel.’

  And the picture of Mervyn’s sturdy cock forms in her mind. She’s shakes her head to clear it as if it was an Etch-A-Sketch drawing. It doesn’t work. She has definitely seen horses with smaller dongs.

  She wants Daniel up and moving because she’s worried that he won’t sleep tonight and then they’ll be in a disastrous pattern where he becomes nocturnal and she’s not having that. Tired and grumpy during the day and agitated at night, she’s seen that happen with the cabbages at Sunny Bank and she’s not having that in her own home. She needs to wear him out.

  When he’s up and dressed, they walk into the village. It’s slow going – Daniel is definitely finding it a struggle, but he doesn’t moan. Just keeps on going, one foot in front of the other. They do all the sights of the village. That is, they go down to the shop, they go past the pub, they do a circuit of the village green with its tired see-saw and creaking roundabout on which three teenage girls sit smoking and passing a bottle back and forth between them.

  ‘Ah, what it is to be young and carefree,’ sighs Daniel, and Polly feels a pang because she never did this. Never sat in the park drinking cider and smoking and she feels like she probably missed out.

  As the sun begins to set, the sky turning an astonishing euphoric pink, they wander the graveyard and Daniel is delighted at some of the graves they find. And this makes Polly a bit sad too, not because of all the dead people and their lives that have gone, but because it’s another thing she’s never done before.

  Daniel finds a grave that reads ‘Foolish enough to have been a poet’ and one that says ‘To my royal male’.’

  ‘Clearly a much-loved postman,’ says Daniel.

  Set apart from all the other graves in a corner of the churchyard is the gravestone of a Deborah Ann Burgess that reads ‘In hope of Forgiveness’ and they stand in front of it, speculating on what she might need forgiveness for.

  ‘Could be anything round here,’ says Polly. ‘Being too gobby. Having opinions. Wanting to be listened to. Standing up to blokes.’

  ‘Or it could be robbery, murder . . .’ says Daniel.

  ‘Nothing that exciting has happened round here.’

  ‘I think you might be surprised,’ says Daniel. ‘My money’s on infanticide.’

  ‘That’s the same as murder, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really,’ says Daniel, and then they move on to what they’d have on their own graves and Polly says, ‘When I die, I just want them to dig a hole and sling me in.’

  And Daniel says, ‘Well, that’s OK then because that is more or less exactly what happens anyway. Unless they burn you and tip your ashes into a jar.’ And then he says he admires those Victorians who built massive monuments to themselves and their families. And he points to a few mossy examples dotted around the churchyard.

  And on their way out they pass a grave that says ‘An honest man is worth numbers’. And Daniel reads it out approvingly. ‘It’s a quote from Oliver Cromwell.’

  ‘I’m not sure what it even means.’

  ‘It just means that one honest man is worth loads of ordinary men. That they are rare and valuable.’

  ‘Well, that’s true enough.’

  And Daniel laughs and says, ‘You’re being very Women’s Lib today, Susan.’

  And Polly doesn’t bother correcting him and reads the next grave.

  ‘Look at this. This bloke ‘Fell Asleep on July ninth in the year of our Lord 1856’. Fell asleep and they buried him. You should think about that next time you sleep the clock around.’

  And Daniel laughs and says, ‘I wonder what the pub’s like.’

  ‘Crap. And full of idiots. But it does have bar billiards.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  And in the pub he tells her that he’s made a will. He’s downloaded a form off the internet and filled it out and sent it away to his solicitors and it’s all legal and everything. He says he’s never bothered making a will before, which is crazy he knows. ‘Guess I thought I was going to live for ever.’

  He tells her he’s left everything to her and holds up his hand when she tries to argue. ‘Who else am I going to leave it to? And it isn’t as though there’s millions anyway. And the bastards will steal a lot of it in inheritance tax.’ He takes a deep pull of his beer, chucks down a handful of peanuts. ‘And you’ll need money if you ever do have a baby. They ain’t cheap, you know. Clothes and shoes and school dinners and Game Boys or what have you. All adds up. Anyway, if you do have a baby maybe just think about calling the little one Daniel. All I ask – just that you think about it.’

  ‘Right. Yes. Daniel. It’s a good name.’ Though actually she’s been thinking of Steig, or Lars maybe. She’s finally decided on Norwegian sperm after all and has been thinking that the babe should maybe have a name that reflects his heritage. But Daniel Simmonds works all right, and is the least she can do in the circumstances.

  He smiles. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Or Danielle.’

  He looks confused.

  ‘It might be a girl, you know.’

  He smiles again. ‘Oh gosh, yes, right. Of course. Danielle.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Thank you, Daniel.’

  ‘No worries. And in any case, I’ve got plenty of miles left on the old clock yet. Plenty of gas in the tank.’

  ‘Of course you have.’ Something occurs to her.

  ‘Daniel, you did put the right name on the will didn’t you? You know, Polly, not Sarah or Susan, or anyone else?’

  He frowns. ‘Botheration,’ he says. ‘I might not have done.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘I’m sure it’s easy enough to fix.’ Though she’s not really sure.

  There’s another short pause before Daniel says, ‘One more for the road?’ and, without waiting for an answer he picks up both their glasses and shuffles off towards the bar. He’s looking very, very tired now. Polly thinks that she doesn’t have to worry about him sleeping. That won’t be a problem.

  Thirty-seven

  LORNA

  ‘Look, she never stays away overnight and she never would without telling me where and why. It is absolutely inconceivable.’

  ‘Lady, I appreciate your concern and I’ve logged the details and we’ll sure keep an eye out, but right now that’s all we can do. If she’s still missing tomorrow then we’ll step things up a gear, OK?’

  It isn’t OK, but she has already been on the phone twenty-five minutes, being passed from pillar to post and this has the sound of an absolute final offer. There is some steel in this police voice. ‘Right. But could you repeat the details back to me, just so I know you’ve got them down properly.’

  The officer tries hard to keep from sighing as he repeats her description of Megan and all her personal info, but he doesn’t quite manage it. She can practically hear him rolling his eyes at the other end of the line. Finally, with exaggerated patience, he says, ‘Your friend is nearly thirty. She sounds like a sensible, capable woman. I’m sure she’s fine.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope so.’

  ‘Oh, one more thing, Miss Dawson.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering the whole time we’ve been talking. Where is it you’re from?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Your accent. I can’t place it.’

  She hangs up. Cheeky fuck. And as she does so she hears keys in the lock downstairs. She hears the semi-trot of Megan’s footsteps down the hall. The soft patter her sneakers make. Sometimes it’s hard to tell whether it’s her coming home or Armitage Shanks. She always steps light along the hall, before attacking the stairs at a sprint, as if running up the stairs was some kind of Olympic event.

  There is the click and creak of the door to the apart
ment itself being opened. Lorna takes a breath. Things have to be said.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

  Megan laughs, but nervously. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘As hell. Of course I am. I’m livid. You couldn’t call? You couldn’t let me know where you were?’

  ‘OK, Grandma. Keep your hair on.’

  ‘It’s not actually funny, Megan.’

  ‘Lorna. I’m twenty-nine.’

  ‘Inconsiderate is inconsiderate at any age.’ She stops. She sounds like her mother. And it is also annoying that the lazy-fuck cop turns out to be right on the button.

  ‘I was worried sick.’

  ‘We pulled a late one at work is all. Way too late to get back home so we kipped at the Days Inn across the road.’

  ‘There was a marketing emergency?’

  Megan smiles briefly. ‘It does happen.’

  ‘You could still have called.’

  ‘I know. I was just – I was beat is all. I was done, you know? And I will call next time. I promise. And right now I’ll make some coffee.’

  Lorna follows Megan into the kitchen. She’s not going to let it lie. Not yet. ‘So there’s going to be a next time is there?’

  Megan turns round, slow and deliberate. She looks Lorna right in the eyes. Lorna is shocked by how tired she looks. There are shadows beneath her eyes, and her peachy skin looks smeary somehow. Like a glass that has been breathed on. She looks ill.

  ‘I don’t know Lorna. I just don’t know. But back off ’kay?’ She spins back round and starts rinsing cups. Her shoulders tense. Her whole posture a kind of force field. Lorna leaves her to it. One thing is certain: it was no work crisis that kept her out. Lorna feels hollow. Megan and her, they don’t tell each other fibs.

  She goes back into the living room, calls the direct number the cop had given her.

  ‘She’s back.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  For fuck’s sake, it had only been a minute ago. ‘Lorna Dawson. I called a few moments ago? About my missing flatmate?’ She’s aware that she’s speaking way more loudly than usual, and that Megan is smart enough to know that she is doing this just so that she’ll hear her, but she’s still bloody angry. Relieved obviously, but angry too.