Roadrage

by M J Johnson

  "Can I speak to her?"

  Klaus paused, "She's sleeping at the moment. Poor love didn't get much rest last night. I'm sure she'll want to speak to you soon. I think she needs time to think everything through. Believe me, it's got nothing to do with anything you've done or said. She asked me to stress that. Can you bear with her, Gil?"

  "Yes, of course," he replied; he felt he was being dumped by proxy.

  Once more Klaus appeared to read his mind, "She asked me to tell you this is not an indirect way of giving you the brush-off."

  "That's good to know," said Gil, unable to mask a hint of sarcasm.

  "Try to understand it from her point of view, Gil. Michael is not the sort to give up. It's been over eighteen months, for Christ's sake!"

  "Maybe we should call in a hit man?" Gil joked sardonically.

  "Believe me, I thought of it first. The trouble with murder is being caught, and although Michael is eminently worthy, I don't really relish serving life for him. But seriously, let her come through this in her own time. David will help with all the legal stuff."

  "Okay, Klaus. Thanks. I'll wait to hear from Sally."

  For the remainder of the conversation they spoke generally; after it ended, Gil brooded a while.

  He came to the conclusion it would do him no good to sit around waiting. He drove Spike the mile to Knole Park to pace out one of the walks in their repertoire. This passed an hour. The morning was dull and the familiar parkland was smothered beneath dense, grey cloud, but not actually as gloomy as it seemed to Gil.

  Once back at his house again, he immediately checked the answerphone. He was disappointed, and decided the best thing would be to absent himself from home for as long as possible. And anyway, Sally could reach him at any time on his mobile. He walked up Dartford Road to the High Street, bought a sandwich, then browsed for an hour in the Sevenoaks Bookshop. He finally emerged with two novels and a children's book stunningly illustrated by someone he'd never heard of. From the local Waitrose he bought two ready meals, a DVD, some ground coffee and perhaps most tellingly, a box of cream cakes.

  Just after he'd embarked on the homeward trek, he heard someone call out his name.

  "Hey, Gil!"

  He turned and recognised at once the gangling figure of Nigel Paddick. Nigel was married to Sue, who had been Jules' best friend since prep school.

  "Christ!" muttered Gil. He was in a rather misanthropic mood by now. Nigel was a likeable chap, who displayed an enthusiasm for just about everything. However, to be in his company for too long could prove exhausting. Without even trying, Nigel Paddick generated enough energy, albeit of the nervous kind, to keep a small town powered through a Russian winter.

  Nigel was waving and smiling inanely at Gil as he carelessly cut his way through the bottle-necked traffic along the High Street. Despite the lack of speed, Nigel's inattentiveness caused a driver to step on his brake and yell, "Idiot!" and for several other cars in a line behind to buck. Nigel was padded out in a postbox-red ski jacket. Gil thought, uncharitably, that perhaps it was a safety measure to make him visible to the naked eye. On Nigel's frame, a skin-tight suit in lycra might look oversized.

  "I thought it was you," said Nigel as he reached the safety of the pavement.

  "Nigel!"

  "Fancy a coffee, old mate?"

  Constantly being referred to as old mate was another irritating thing about Nigel.

  Gil accepted and they went to a nearby café. Nigel ordered a latte for himself and a double espresso for Gil. Gil asked after Sue and the girls. Sue was pretty and petite, but somehow between them they had produced three wild-eyed ungainly daughters. Gil, who had demolished his espresso before Nigel had time to explore the froth on his latte, asked, "Another one?"

  "Not for me, old mate. If I had another, I'd go into planetary orbit."

  Gil returned with his coffee and asked, "How was Brittany?"

  The Paddicks owned a cottage near St Malo. Nigel loved all things Gallic with a passion, be it bread, wine, film, poetry, chansons or smelly cheese. Despite this love of all things French, he actually taught English at a local prep school with a true sense of vocation, appreciation and deep knowledge of his subject. However, as soon as the holidays came, Nigel, Sue and the Valkyrie (Gil's secret name for their girls) headed at break-neck speed for the Channel.

  Nigel shook his head despondently, "Didn't make it. Sue's mum. Unwell."

  "Sorry to hear that. Nothing serious?"

  "On the mend," said Nigel, lowering his voice, "Delicate matter. Women's stuff … you know, er, plumbing trouble!"

  "Oh, yes," replied Gil, nodding sagely, fully appreciating that anything medical below the female waistline was utterly Verboten. "I'm glad she's better."

  Nigel took a sip of latte to relieve a sudden dryness of throat. Then he changed the subject, "Sue rang you at the New Year to see what you were up to."

  "I wasn't there."

  "She gathered that, old mate. I suggested you'd stayed down west with 'the outlaws'. Sue reckoned not."

  "Sue was right."

  Nigel nodded, "She generally is … even when completely wrong as a general rule."

  "I stayed at a hotel for a few days."

  "On your tod?"

  Gil hesitated, "Er ... no."

  Nigel's eyebrows suddenly perched themselves like spectacularly arched felines above the rims of his spectacles.

  "I met someone. We've been seeing quite a bit of each other."

  Nigel discharged the captive eyebrows and began to grin, ear to ear, "She said you had … found a woman that is."

  "Sue? How did she know?

  "Dunno. Been reading the entrails again I expect."

  "I met her at Tonbridge, in the library."

  Nigel didn't bat an eyelid at the concept of seeding a romance this way.

  "'Bout time you found a new woman." Nigel immediately displayed great embarrassment following this spontaneous remark, "Sorry," he mumbled into the remnants of his latte, "Didn't mean ..."

  "Don't worry, Nige. I know exactly what you meant. It's been a long time. Even George and Marjorie have been telling me I should move on."

  "So what does she do?" Nigel asked, perking up again.

  "She designs costumes, for opera mostly."

  "I love opera."

  "I know absolutely nothing. You'll have to give me a bullshitter's guide sometime. In my teens I saw an avant-garde piece by Stockhausen at the Royal Opera House … Donnerstag aus Licht, I think."

  Nigel blinked, "Perhaps a little hardcore. Bit off-putting perhaps?"

  "You're right there. I thought never again."

  Nigel took Gil's casual remark about a bullshitter's guide seriously, "I'll put together some light books as an introduction and lend you some recordings. You can learn opera the Paddick way!"

  "Sounds good," smiled Gil, who liked Nigel a lot, despite finding him annoying at the same time.

  "All fixed for the thirty-first?"

  "Huh?"

  "My birthday?"

  Gil had completely forgotten that the last Saturday in January was a standing fixture to celebrate Nigel's birthday.

  "You can bring your new lady-friend. What's her name?"

  "Sally. I'm not sure," Gil replied, uncertain whether he'd have a lady-friend, new or otherwise, in three weeks' time. "She's very busy … just started on a job … but I'll ask."

  "Sue will be over the moon. Drives me mad … compiles lists of available females each time you come over. The list has got smaller, mind, because you rejected most of them."

  "Not rejected!" protested Gil.

  "You'd be a terrible subject for organ transplant, old mate."

  Gil smiled.

  "Let Tarzan find his own Jane, I say," pronounced Nigel. "Women! Can't help themselves! Social engineers all of 'em." He thought, before adding stoically, "Got four to contend with … wouldn't change them for the world, mind … women, hey? Drive you nuts!"

  Were it not for the females in his lif
e, Nigel might easily be imagined in some shabby bachelor's flat, surrounded by piles of books, mouldering coffee cups and dust.

  "I'll mark it in my diary," promised Gil.

  "Great," said Nigel, who catching sight of his wristwatch speedily explained that he was overdue for an appointment with his daughters and a swimming pool. And within thirty seconds he was gone.

  Gil, feeling decidedly less cranky after seeing Nigel, bought another coffee, non-espresso this time, then found a paper to help him pass the next half-hour.

  It was almost dark by the time he reached home. Sally's car, parked in the driveway, was almost invisible in the murky twilight. She had been waiting forty minutes for him and was beginning to lose hope. She knew she could have reached him on his mobile but felt it was appropriate to speak face to face.

  Gil's feet came to an abrupt stop on the crunching shingle when he saw her car.

  "Sal!" He exclaimed as she emerged from the driver's door. He moved forward to embrace her but her body language spoke of tension. Gil let his arms drop.

  "I'm so sorry, Gil ... for what I did."

  "Michael's the one who should be sorry."

  "I overreacted, embarrassed you, at a place where you're known. I feel ashamed."

  Gil took her hand. He was close now, their breath visible in the chill air. He could smell the familiar perfume she wore. He was close enough to read her face, see the tears welling up in her eyes, feel the shivers as they ran through to her fingertips in response to the cold.

  "I don't care," he said, "Michael Chilvers is a pain in the arse, but he'll give up eventually."

  "You don't know what he's like ..."

  "When he realises that whatever it is he's trying to achieve isn't working, he'll let us be."

  Sally didn't seem convinced by these assurances, "I'd understand if you didn't want to see me again after last night. It was unforgivable, to run off and leave you there."

  "Sal. Read my lips. I don't care about last night. I was worried … angry too … but at Chilvers, not with you! I admit I was a little hurt because you went to Klaus to be consoled and didn't seem to need me ..."

  "It wasn't that ... I just needed some time to work things out. Since Christmas, you're about the only person I've really seen. I'd virtually moved into your house ... your life. Please, try to understand, Gil, I can't afford to lose my personality in a relationship again."

  Gil nodded, indicating that he understood the sentiments behind her statement.

  "Take all the time you need, Sally. But I hope you believe me when I tell you I like you just the way you are. You don't need to change in any way to accommodate me. I think of relationships as being two way, and I've greatly valued our time together." He paused. He was aware that he had reached a defining moment with no choice but to go further. He smiled at her softly, "I believe I've fallen in love with you."

  Sally's lip trembled as she tried to choke back her tears.

  "Oh, Gil!" she cried as he embraced her.

  24

  Monday 12 January

  6.02 am - Up early this morning. Something must be happening

  6.43 am - They emerge. Gil is wheeling a suitcase. I'm a bit concerned they're going away somewhere. My breaking and entering plan might be scuppered! Panic over - he puts the case into the Astra, then we get, 'sad you're leaving' body language. As usual the scene is painfully slushy. Where is she going? She's about to drive off, stops, lowers her window. Something important? Could national security depend on it? No, just a last kiss! Oh, please!

  7.39 am - Newspaper boy.

  9.02 am - Postman Prat delivers large bundle of mail.

  9.23 am - Older woman arrives by Midget power.

  I'm tense. I can almost feel the adrenaline bubbling in my veins. Must stay focused. It's understandable being excited, after all the preparation and watching I've done.

  25

  Gil was invariably busy at work by the time Megan arrived each morning and today was no exception. He heard the key turn in the lock, the front door opening and the sound of four small paws scampering on the wood flooring of the hall. He raised his head from his monitor and called out, "Hi!"

  "Morning!" Megan shouted back. Not even the greetings altered much from day to day.

  Spike at her heels, Megan picked up the mail from the doormat and headed for the kitchen to make coffee. While the kettle boiled she opened the mail, sorting it into four piles, personal, business, fan-mail and junk.

  "Good weekend?" she asked on entering Gil's studio, tray in hand, only to realise her words were entirely wasted.

  Spike immediately located his missing pack leader and scratched at the base of the French windows. Gil let the dog through. At the same time he popped his head into the room and asked, "Good weekend?"

  "William and Jessica brought the children over on Sunday and took me out to lunch."

  "Sounds nice."

  "Lovely not to cook. How was yours?"

  "Bit like the weather. Started badly but got sunnier," he replied. There was a resigned tone about his answer which Megan duly noted.

  "Well, I'm pleased things improved. It's a fantastic morning. Shall I bring the coffee out there?"

  It was indeed a fine morning. They often had their morning talk on the verandah, whenever the British weather showed its smiley face; however, it was January and Gil was beginning to shiver.

  "Too cold," he said. He looked for Spike who had purposefully bounded off down the steps into the garden. He thought of calling, but dismissed the idea with a backhanded wave then drew the door to behind him.

  Their informal business chats generally lasted about twenty minutes. They often meandered between professional and personal matters. Gil had already told Megan about Sally's ex-boyfriend problem. He updated her on what had transpired at the restaurant. Megan was appalled by the man's tenacity.

  "Sally's decided to stay with a friend. Anyway, she's getting so busy, there'd only be time enough to get home, eat and sleep before travelling back to work."

  Megan realised Gil was putting on a brave face, "Very sensible," she agreed.

  "The space might be good for both of us. We've seen a lot of each other since Christmas."

  "Sounds wise."

  "I'll see her at weekends. And, hopefully, in the meantime, he'll lose interest and give up troubling her."

  "Poor thing," she said sympathetically, "That man sounds like an utter scoundrel."

  Gil could think of several other words to describe Michael Chilvers.

  Their briefing completed, Gil asked, "Shall I make us another cafetière?"

  "Not for me," replied Megan, who rarely stretched beyond one cup.

  Gil went downstairs. He let Spike, who was waiting outside the conservatory door, in.

  "What have you been up to?" Gil asked suspiciously.

  Spike breezed past. It was clear from his blackened legs and tummy that he'd been digging; his favourite pastime.

  "Look at the state of your trousers!" remonstrated Gil.

  Spike appeared not to hear.

  26

  12.28 pm - Midget leaves.

  12.52 pm - You go with dog in car. As anticipated, you don't set the alarm.

  I experience a rush of excitement. I reckon I have an hour. I don't wish to be seen by any prying eyes. I climb over into the driver's seat, drive off and park in the next street.

  1.01 pm - I enter the drive. I put on latex gloves. There is a side gate, not locked, ornamental, apart from function of keeping dog in check. Attractive garden, v good shape and size.

  I check all the windows along the sides and rear of the house. All secure. I'd hoped to find at least one open, which by applying a little force, might be made to look like an opportunistic burglary. I try the conservatory door. Firmly locked. By now I have examined every window. I consider the situation.

  Approx 1.03 pm - I'll need to break a window. I look around for the likeliest candidate. There's a window to the left of the conservatory that appears to op
en into a small hallway. I decide to force my way in here. I open my rucksack that holds my toolkit. I'm about to do it, then I stop, consider what I'm about to do and decide I should try the fire escape before I irrevocably damage anything.

  It seems unlikely, a waste of precious time perhaps, but I abhor recklessness!

  The cast iron staircase rises to patio style doors located on a sort of balcony. There are places to sit. I feel exposed as I climb the steps. Even though the garden is secluded I might be visible to the neighbouring houses.

  I try the door.

  I can't believe my luck!

  "You fool!" I say (not too loud!).

  I am standing inside your office. I feel light-headed, unable to contain an outburst of laughter.

  I regain control of myself.

  "What an idiot!"

  You really aren't proving much of a challenge.

  27

  Because it was such a bright day, Gil took Spike for a walk at Oldbury Hill. It was one of their favourite walks and often, though not today, they met up with Megan and her two dogs who lived nearby. The sunshine had brought dog-walkers out in force. Spike greeted humans and their charges with equanimity; unfamiliar dogs he approached more carefully.

  Apart from the benefit to his physical health, Gil found this time creatively therapeutic too. During walks he'd dreamt up many of his best ideas. Besides his work with Felix, Gil had written and illustrated two award-winning picture books for younger children. The text for these was very simple, so he didn't feel it lent him any advantage at all with his current undertaking, Pete's Pirates, also conceived whilst walking the dog, about which he was beginning to feel more optimistic. Felix's nurture throughout the project's crucial earliest days and more recently reading passages to Sally and receiving her approving laughter had been encouraging. The basic premise was one often adopted by writers of children's literature, where a child hero encounters something from another place or time which breaks through into their world. In Gil's story, a band of cut-throat seventeenth-century pirates had fallen through time.

  As he strode along the muddy well-trodden path, exchanging the time of day and a few words with those walkers he recognised, and a nod and smile with those he didn't, his thoughts were mostly of Sally. Over the weekend they had expressed their mutual feelings and exchanged that peculiarly all-important little phrase of affection. Today, there was a certain inner contentment about him as he strode along.