Best Served Cold

by Limey Lady

  Geoff winced at that. It hadn’t been nearly so long for him, but he’d been a regular drinker. Make that very regular. Like every day, on the way home. If pressed (usually by Penny) he would swear he was a two-pint man . . . conveniently forgetting the bottle of wine waiting for him in the kitchen of an evening.

  And the occasional excesses at weekends.

  Occasional excesses? Okay: regular.

  ‘Do you miss it?’ he wondered. ‘For the social side, I mean.’

  ‘Me?’ Cyril chuckled again. ‘I suppose I do. When I get released I reckon I’ll start going out again. No point sitting indoors, saving my brass, is there?’

  ‘Come on, Cyril. There’s years in you yet. You’ve had your close shave. If the guy up there wanted to see you, you wouldn’t be stuck in here with me, would you?’

  ‘That’s how I’m looking at it. I’m not done for yet. So there’s nowt to stop me spending my brass on a rich widow, is there? Speculate to accumulate, eh?’

  Geoff laughed. He’d been thinking more of the beer than the fairer sex. Although “social” really did come into it as well. Suddenly, more than anything else in the world, he wanted to be able to walk into the Busfeild’s lounge, join his dad at the usual spot at the bar and yarn and yarn and yarn.

  Add that to the list for wanting out, and not only for the company. Dad had been ailing ever since Mum passed over; he hadn’t been able to visit yet. According to Jamie, he was feeling particularly frail and was waiting for a “good day”. Perhaps he’d surprise the old so-and-so. Turn the tables and visit him instead; in the middle bar, usual spot . . . while he was still around to be visited.

  *****

  ‘Pat, don't look now,' said DeeDee, 'but she's here again.'

  ‘Who,' he replied, automatically craning his neck. The Shama was as busy as usual tonight, but he spotted "she" immediately. 'Oh, you mean her.'

  ‘Does she have a name, by the way? You never did let on.'

  ‘Didn't I tell you?' he said, frowning. Heather was at the same table as last time, under the same propeller fan, but something was different. For a moment he couldn't work out what it was. It certainly didn't have anything to do with tidiness, because she was surrounded by the same old clutter.

  ‘Earth to Pat,’ Dee grinned, ‘are you receiving me?'

  Heather glanced up just as Pat spotted the difference. She was multitasking the opposite way around, using her right hand to key into her laptop instead of her left.

  ‘She's ambidextrous,' he said.

  ‘What a strange name. Are you sure?'

  ‘Sure I'm sure, unless she's doing it with mirrors.'

  DeeDee had a pitying expression on her face. 'You've spent too much time with Sean. Your brain's gone.'

  ‘Oh Christ, she's coming over.'

  ‘And you are flapping, Patrick McGuire. We'll discuss your guilty conscience later.'

  ‘I don’t have a guilty conscience . . . where did you get that from?’

  ‘Let’s discuss it later, Patrick.’

  Heather had obviously come straight from the office. She was wearing an open-collared white shirt, a very short black skirt and even more intriguing black stockings. Pat would have put every penny he had on black knickers and suspenders, but he couldn't see them . . . unfortunately.

  ‘Hi.' she said, extending her hand, completely ignoring him. 'You must be Dee.'

  ‘I'm Debra,' said DeeDee, taking the proffered hand, 'or more usually, DeeDee. Only Pat ever calls me "Dee".'

  ‘Sorry,' said Heather. 'I didn't mean to presume.'

  ‘No problem. I don't mind what anyone calls me. All I'm saying is "Dee" will get you funny looks from anyone apart from him.'

  ‘I see. It's from that little world he inhabits on his own, isn’t it?'

  ‘Exactly,' DeeDee laughed, 'and you are . . .'

  ‘He didn't tell you? Why aren’t I surprised? I'm Heather Hunter.'

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Heather. Is that a WYB pass card I spy?'

  ‘Yes. I need it to get back in.’

  ‘Back in at this time of night? You must be keen.’

  ‘Got to show willing,’ said Heather. ‘I've just made my junior directorship.'

  ‘Told you she was a bank manager,' Pat put in helpfully.

  DeeDee smiled at Heather. 'I suspect Pat rather undersells you in his innocence. Have you been with WYB long?’

  ‘Three and a half years.'

  ‘That's pretty good going then. It took me ten years to get my first directorship.'

  ‘Where's that?'

  DeeDee named her national company, adding that she was now FD.

  ‘Very impressive,' said Heather. 'There's hope for us Bingley lasses yet.'

  ‘Anything to further girl power,’ DeeDee replied, still smiling. ‘Now, forgive me for asking, but how do you know Pat? Isn't he a bit old for you? Not to mention a bit paunchy?'

  Pat was outraged. 'I am not paunchy!'

  ‘He needs to start playing rugby again,' Heather agreed. 'But that's only my passing opinion. I don't have a vested interest in his paunchiness. We haven't been going out or anything.'

  ‘I'm glad to hear it. He really is too old. In fact I'll probably soon be looking for a new model myself.'

  ‘Hey,' said Pat. 'I am still here, you know.'

  ‘Talking about age differences,' Heather continued, still ignoring him, 'I have a confession. It was only brief, but I did go out with your brother. Your obviously much older brother, I mean.'

  ‘Sean,' said DeeDee, 'my God! He's even worse than Pat.'

  ‘He does keep himself in trim though. At least he did when I was seeing him.'

  ‘It's over now, is it?'

  ‘It's been over for quite a while, but in a nice way. We didn’t fall out or anything. In fact I'm here to ask you to pass on my condolences. I did ask Pat, but he probably forgot.' Heather hesitated a second. 'And I wanted to offer you my condolences too, of course.'

  Thank you.' DeeDee's smile went sad. 'I always did think Mum's driving would be the death of her, but I never really expected it to end the way it did. I'll tell Sean you're thinking about him.'

  Pat watched Heather back to her table. ‘She's quite thoughtful,' he said. ‘I didn’t expect that.’

  DeeDee looked him in the eye. 'That girl is so far out of your league it's scary. And fuck knows why she ever bothered with Sean.'

  ‘He's God's gift, isn't he?'

  ‘There's more to life than a stiff dick, Patrick. Speaking of which, keep yours in your pants when she's around. She'd kill you.'

  ‘Yeah, but wouldn’t it be a way to go!'

  ‘I mean it, Pat. Keep away from her. It would only end in tears.'

  Their main courses arrived. Pat busied himself, tipping vindaloo from its silver dish onto his plate while Dee flirted with the waiter and ordered more drinks.

  ‘She didn't kill Sean,' he said when they were alone again.

  ‘She can't have tried hard enough.'

  ‘You don't like her, do you?'

  ‘Don't be silly. I don't even know her.'

  ‘You seem to know all about her capabilities.’

  ‘Patrick . . .’

  ‘Okay, I get the message. I'll change the subject. Am I really getting paunchy?'

  ‘Never mind that; she’s quite charming in some respects. Do I really look like a much younger sister?'

  Chapter Thirteen

  (Thursday 24th April 2008)

  Blinking away the odd maudlin tear, Geoff reached for his blasted Zimmer frame.

  ‘Just going to the loo,’ he said to Cyril, as casually as he could.

  The frame seriously offended him but he was stuck with it. His attempts to walk with sticks had been pathetic and he couldn’t even haul himself unaided into bed. With the frame he could just (and only just) heave himself upright and totter ever-so slowly to the toilets and back. That was more through sheer grit and determination than ability. He had managed the feat on his first morning after treatmen
t; had forced himself to repeat it a few times a day ever since.

  Convincing himself it was getting easier was a tough task. Still, he’d only recently completed the IVIG, which was supposed to be a tiring process in itself. And he had been overdoing the feeble exercises . . .

  The one-way trip from Geoff’s bedside chair to the gents’ couldn’t have been thirty yards. He hadn’t got halfway before he realized he wasn’t going to make it. That same hopeless vertigo that had gripped him in The Headrow gripped him again. Even the relatively sturdy support of the Zimmer seemed rocky. And the ward’s solid, sensibly surfaced floor abruptly lunged up at him.

  By pure chance he hadn’t completely reached the corridor, where he would surely have fallen flat on his face, adding physical damage to indignity. Here, not quite out of the bay of four beds, there was still a ray of hope. Not much, but the wash basin used by hospital staff was only a few feet away to his right.

  Recalling his futile attempt to grab at that waste bin, he jerked the frame closer, somehow managed to uproot his right foot . . . and miraculously caught hold of the basin.

  ‘Nurse,’ Cyril yelled out, his voice even thinner and weaker than his years, ‘we need help, nurse!!’

  Even the firmly fixed basin seemed insecure. Geoff clung to it frantically, pressing his lower body tight against the stand, desperately willing himself not to fall. At that moment in time every last thing about him felt fragile. He’d have sworn his whole skeleton was made of glass and that a simple tumble would shatter it beyond repair.

  ‘Nurse,’ Cyril went on. ‘Quick! Geoff’s in trouble!!!’

  Half a dozen of them arrived at once. It could only have been seconds since Cyril’s first cry but it felt like years. Then soft, kind hands were supporting him and someone had found a wheelchair to lower him into. Ten seconds after that he was back beside his bed, safe and secure behind his privacy curtain.

  That is to say he was left alone with his thoughts.

  Well, alone with four care workers, two nurses and his thoughts.

  ‘Who was supervising you?’ Lynn demanded.

  ‘I don’t need supervising.’

  ‘You could have fooled me. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing; I’ve just been overdoing the exercise.’

  ‘Never mind excuses, tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘I just came over dizzy.’

  ‘Has it happened before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Describe this dizziness.’

  ‘It was more like a loss of balance. I might have panicked.’

  ‘He hasn’t been eating his meals,’ Charlotte put in.

  ‘How long’s that been going on?’

  ‘Since dinnertime on Tuesday; he’s only picked at them. It’s in his notes.’

  ‘Did you say something about the state of his writing, too?’

  ‘Yes. I put down exactly what you told me to: Deteriorating daily.’

  ‘Hey,’ Geoff protested. ‘Don’t gang up on me.’

  ‘What do you think, Lynn? Shall I see who’s on duty?’

  ‘Hang on a minute. I don’t need a doctor. I’m just a bit tired . . .’

  ‘Don’t bother checking,’ said Lynn. ‘Dr Strohl’s doing his round in the morning. I’ll catch him before he begins. Bring him up to date on everything. Let’s just get Geoff into bed now. And Hannah . . . Please will you take that Zimmer away. We don’t need any more excitement, do we? There are enough forms to fill in as it is.’

  Geoff watched in horror as the dreaded frame was removed. Offensive or not, he couldn’t avoid the symbolism of losing it.

  ‘But I need it,’ he said pitifully. ‘I’m cured and I need it.’

  ‘Don’t you worry yourself,’ Charlotte said, as compassionate as a care worker could ever be. ‘We’ll book you a fresh road test tomorrow. Now, if everyone will give me and Liz elbow room, we’ll get you ready for bed.’

  Everyone trooped out, leaving Geoff with just two patiently smiling carers.

  ‘It’s still early,’ he said. ‘I don’t usually turn in until eleven.’

  ‘I know. But I think you’ve had a little accident.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s okay. We’ll soon have you cleaned up and no-one any the wiser.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ he said as he realized Charlotte was right. In all the confusion he’d missed his trip to the loo and soiled himself. That had never happened before and was shameful enough. But worse: he hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘I’m supposed to be getting better.’ he whined. ‘They need me back at work . . .’

  *****

  Waterman groaned as she saw the time on her mobile. It was nearly twelve o’clock and she was still not at all sleepy. She checked her messages, finding nothing of interest, then heaved her naked self out of bed. Not bothering with lights, she took the dressing gown off the hook on the door and padded her way through to the kitchen. The gown flapped as she went but that was hardly surprising; she had stolen (or perhaps liberated) it from Derek, her last regular boyfriend-but-one, and he’d been six foot four. Not to mention well-built and athletic.

  Could do with him now, she thought with half a smile. Just for a couple of hours, though; long enough to work up a little sleepiness.

  Then, as she clicked on the kettle: That’s it! I’ll invent a man transporter. I’ll make it available for single girls only. One press of a button beams you down two hours’ exercise and entertainment. Another beams him safely back up again.

  She snorted. Derek had been gone a year now. Not that he’d ever moved in. Moving in was one of her big no-no’s. She was determined she would never marry or cohabit. Sleepovers at her place were not unknown but were closely monitored, with anything beyond twice a week classed as encroachment.

  When Derek started leaving personal possessions his days had been numbered.

  And not very highly numbered . . . definitely not into double figures.

  The kettle was proving that unwritten law of physics: the more she watched it, the longer it took to boil. Bored with the wait, she crossed to the kitchen table and opened her laptop, tapping her fingers on the keyboard surround while she waited for it to fire up.

  ‘Okay,’ she said aloud. ‘So I’ve got a low boredom threshold. That’s why my men never last so long.’

  The kettle took that as a cue to click. Waterman made a cup of black coffee, added a tactical splash of cold water and then sat in front of her screen. She logged in and started a search by entering STAR TREK TELEPORT. A brief study was enough to convince her she’d never be an inventor. Boiling a couple of pints of water was testing enough.

  Back to Search. This time she entered SEX KILLERS. One hundred and twenty-eight million hits. On impulse, she switched to Images, astounded as always by the proliferation of explicit pictures.

  ‘Girls, girls,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t you know what you look like, pushing your pussies into the camera like that?’

  Naked girls didn’t do anything for her, be they in ones, twos or combinations of a dozen or more. She paged down until she found a blonde on top of a well-endowed man.

  ‘In the right hole too,’ she said, entering the linked site. ‘That makes a pleasant change.’

  Twenty minutes later, armed with a second cup of coffee, it was decision time. Caffeine and pure porn videos weren’t going to help her drop off. She was more awake now than ever. So the choice was out for a midnight run or a bit of moonlighting.

  That is unless I can find a used teleporter on eBay . . .

  She snorted again. If she really did have a teleporter she wouldn’t be beaming Derek into her bed. She wouldn’t be beaming down her latest fella, Ritchie, either. Oh no. Given complete freedom to beam down, she’d be summoning someone different altogether.

  And nuts to her rule about never sleeping with someone who was in the Job.

  Sadly, eBay didn’t seem big on teleporters and she could hear the rain beating down outside, so it had to be moonlighting after al
l. Staying on Images, she typed SERIAL KILLERS and entered, sparing a second to wonder why she’d gone for SEX in the first place: another of her many hang-ups, obviously.

  She hadn’t seen Ritchie for three days now. Maybe she was missing him. Well, part of him. They’d scarcely been dating six months and already his only real point of interest was his . . .