11:59

by David Williams

  “No, she’d already gone. I think you had somebody from the morning shift temping.”

  “Debbie, that’s right.”

  “She called Sam the queen of the switchboard.”

  I smile, thinking about the description, and smile again, thinking about Sam. “I guess she was, yeah. She kept us all in order.”

  “So why did she pack it in?”

  Killer question. She either knows and is looking for my reaction, or she hasn’t a clue about us. I’m not going to fill her in on the details. Don’t want her supposing I’m supposing she’ll fill the void left by Sam in more ways than one. Even if I am. Not really. Well, not exactly. Nothing like. “Dunno, maybe she wanted a fresh challenge. Left to explore new career opportunities, isn’t that the line?”

  “What’s she doing now?”

  I really don’t want to pursue this. “No idea. We’ve kind of lost touch. Anyway, to answer your question, you’re not a bit like Sam.”

  “You mean I’m hopeless, don’t you?” She turns on her side as if we’re talking in bed. I can feel her eyes on me as she waits for what I’ve got to say.

  “That’s not what I meant at all. You’re learning the job really quickly. No, I mean you’re different in all sorts of ways. Physically, for example. If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re a very attractive woman…”

  I glance across as I say it to make eye contact and check out her body language. Marni’s left hand caresses her own face and her long fingers push back her hair. She’s ready to hear more.

  “I’m not just talking about superficial pretty-prettiness. Lots of young girls, women, have that… it’s more, I don’t know, there’s a depth about your beauty that I noticed the very first time I set eyes on you…” And that’s me away, freewheeling down bullshit boulevard while Marni snuggles into her seat beside me, lapping it up. She’s so engrossed that she nearly forgets to tell me which slip road to take and I have to swerve hard left at the last second, back tyres screeching and the ESP kicking in. One advantage of driving at two-thirty in the morning is you can usually get away with daft moves like that and we manage to get to Marni’s place in one piece, bonded by the thrill of our dangerous moment. She blows her cheeks out as I pull up to the kerb as if we’d just finished a roller-coaster ride, and we lean into each other slightly, engaged. I all but put my arm around her right then, but I decide to bide my time. We contemplate the street lights in silence.

  “Well, Marc,” she says at last. “Thanks for the lift. You shouldn’t have, honestly, but it was really sweet of you.” She unclips her seat belt and slows the movement down, letting the belt play gently through her hands as it’s reeling in.

  I glance up at the building we’re parked beside. “Are you upstairs or down?”

  “Second floor, actually. Left at the top of the stairs. It’s OK, quite spacious. That’s our window up there, see?”

  “Our window?”

  “Claire’s and mine. She’s the girl I room with.”

  “Who’s in Edinburgh at the moment.”

  “Mmm. I’m all on my ownsome.”

  I recognise my cue. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, then? Cup of coffee?”

  She smiles to herself, still looking up at the window, and I can feel my arousal. Furtive adjustment required, I’m thinking. I’ll do it while we’re getting out of the car.

  Except I don’t get out of the car. Marni flops back on the headrest and turns to face me slowly, still smiling. “Oh Marc, I’m sorry, but I’m really tired, you know? Just not used to these late nights yet. I’m going to have to roll straight into bed, if you don’t mind.”

  For a second I’m taking this as another come-on and it’s on the tip of my tongue to suggest I roll straight in there with her, when Marni suddenly goes into prim mode, closing her knees and reaching to bring her bag up from the floor-well to her lap. She already has her hand on the door catch when she turns to me again. “See you tomorrow, Marc. Today, I should say. Thanks again for the lift.” In one smooth movement she is out of the car, passenger door efficiently shut without slamming, bag over the shoulder, heels clicking up the path to her three front steps.

  I sit sulking in my car, tracking Marni’s journey as single lights go on and off again - in the downstairs lobby, the stair-head, her room on the second floor – and I wait another quarter of an hour for her bedroom light to go out before I ram the gear-stick petulantly into first and finally drive off.

  I’m dropping off the coast road to skirt round the city, still cursing all cock-teasers I have known and not loved, when the illuminated Tesco sign catches my eye in the distance and, without particularly thinking about it, I direct the TT to the mostly-deserted car park of Long Valley’s Retail World.

  Tesco is open 24 hours but as far as I can see I’m their sole customer and the only reason I’m here is my hitting on Marni has made me restless and prickly. Everyone else seems to be stacking shelves. What was the name of the girl who called the show tonight, in love with a shelf-stacker? Emily? Emma? Emma, I’m pretty sure. Can’t remember the guy’s name. Like a bored detective on a slow day I go mooching around the aisles in vague pursuit of likely suspects.

  One that might fit the male profile is a tallish, twentyish lad with streaked hair and not many spots, stamping sell-by dates on milk cartons with a certain deliberation. I sidle up, pretending to consider my options on long-life cream while I sneak a look at his name badge. Andy. She might have said Andy. I watch him working for a few moments then ask casually out the side of my mouth, “Is Emma on tonight?”

  “Sorry?” He looks across and I’m waiting for some flicker of recognition but what I see is a faint look of disgust. It suddenly occurs to me that he thinks I’m on the pull.

  “No, I’m… I just know this girl Emma that works here. I just wondered if she’s on tonight, that’s all.” I must sound adequately disarming in a lame Hugh Grant sort of way, wiping some of the suspicion off Andy’s face. Now he looks quietly baffled. “Dunno, this is my first week. I don’t really know anybody yet.” He peeks anxiously past me as if Emma might pop round the corner of his aisle to announce herself, then, when she doesn’t, “You should maybe try Customer Services,” he says seriously enough, so I give him a thumbs-up and head off in a show of doing that. Where I really end up is at wines and spirits, picking out a screw-top bottle of red that I pay for without looking at the girl on the till in case Andy’s put the word out.

  I’m too pissed off to suffer the tedium of the drive home before I apply myself to the booze, so as soon as I’m back in the car the cap is off the wine and I spend the next twenty minutes alternately tilting the bottle and staring listlessly through the windscreen across the car park. In fairness to myself I have to point out I’m sipping not swigging, taking careful stock of the fuddle factor. Don’t want anybody supposing I’m some kind of reckless drunk.

  At the far side of the square is a row of huge lorries and transporters parked up for the night. My mind is idling - playing with the notion that these truckers might be fans of mine, our station on pre-set for easy tuning as they rumble through the region around midnight – when the offside door of a DAF container swings open and a pair of decidedly untrucker legs come into view. An arse-hugging skirt rucks up further as it scrapes past the footplate. I sit up and take notice as the figure slips below the door of the cab and lands short stilettos precariously on the tarmac. She has to duck slightly, stumbling away from the rig as the door swings shut over her head. A fair-skinned woman, a girl really, as she looks barely eighteen, appearing even more frail against the backdrop of the giant trucks.

  She wobbles slightly as if there’s a wind sweeping across the car park and she looks about, unsure of her bearings. Then, unexpectedly, she takes off in the direction of the petrol station, running as fast as those unsuitable heels will let her. After a few yards she pauses to tear off her shoes, then takes flight again, carrying them in one hand like a baton.

  It’s clear she’s in some s
ort of panic. I’m hurriedly screwing the top back on my wine bottle intending to drive across and offer her help, but someone else is quicker off the mark. There’s a screech of wheels and a silver BMW loops round from behind the line of trucks. It accelerates past the girl then cuts in front of her, braking hard to block her escape route. As she switches direction a big bullet-headed black guy springs out from the front passenger seat and grabs at her. The girl, wailing, tries to beat him off with her shoes, but she’s no match at all for this guy who simply swamps her with his great arms, tugs open the back door of the car and bundles her inside, following her and hardly getting the door closed before the driver starts up again.

  I have no idea what I’m about, but I lob my bottle onto the seat beside me, fire the engine and roar after the Beemer as it hurtles towards the exit. The bad guys are easily ahead when they reach the main road but I keep my eye on the direction they’re taking and I’ll swear I’m gaining on them when smack - my wheels hit a vicious speed bump. There’s a bang as the car stalls and a crash as the bottle launches off the passenger seat and hurtles into the dashboard. “Shit!” as I look down on the red stain spreading across the floor-well. By the time I raise my head the BMW is out of sight.

  My first instinct is to reach for my cell phone to let the police know what I’ve witnessed, but even as I’m unlocking the keypad I’m watching the wine seep into the carpet and trying to calculate how much of it I’d actually poured down my throat before this thing kicked off. The car stinks of alcohol fumes. Besides, those guys are well away by now. I put the phone away, turn the engine over and drive carefully home.

  I suppose you’d call where I live now a bachelor flat, though I’m not strictly a bachelor and I’m still helping to pay off the mortgage on the three-bedroom semi I used to share with my wife Linda until she left me. Well, that last part is not strictly true either, since it was me who did the leaving, though it was more in the way of an eviction after Linda found out for definite about Sam. These days there’s no Sam either, of course, and my best friend in this place is the fridge.

  Once I get back I’m too wrecked to do more than pick out the larger bits of broken bottle from the mat of the TT and drop them noisier than I mean to in the bin outside. Then it’s through the door and collapse face-first on the bed-settee in the darkness without bothering to take my shoes off.

  Tired or not, sleep doesn’t come easily. I have long periods aware that the frame of the settee is rubbing against my scalp, there’s an ache in the small of my back and my feet are heavy and uncomfortable. But I’m as helpless as a cripple tipped out of his wheelchair. I have a troubled, fleeting dream of children scampering away as I lie in a dark alley. I have to catch up with them, but first I need to just stretch my hand to reach this broken glass and put it in the bin beside me. But I can’t get any closer to the glass. I’m trapped in the fug of the bin, wrapped in its stench. Then I’m awake again, still unable to move an inch to find relief. M.E. must be like this.

  Daylight is pushing in past the curtains and my bladder is straining like a prisoner beating at his cell door before I summon enough energy to roll away from the sofa and totter to the loo. By the time I’m shaking off, Pavlov’s dogs have barked and the rest is routine Marc morning except I don’t have to go through the bother of washing and dressing since I’m still in last night’s clothes.

  My habit is to fire up my laptop and open Windows while the curtains are still drawn. I resist the daily temptation to google my own name and instead download my personal emails as I sip at a breakfast drink – there’s no orange juice left in the fridge so I have to make do with San Miguel. I’m foolishly nurturing the hope that Sam might have responded to the hangdog apologetic Valentine message I emailed her yesterday, but of course there’s no reply from her. As far as I know she might have changed her email address.

  The usual lurkage of weirdoes and petty criminals from the dark corners of the globe have been spewing their slime into my cyberspace through the night - illiterate inducements and offerings of penis extensions, orgasm multipliers and other assorted lechery. Zapping them clears my in-tray completely, so I key into my work email, looking for contact that might be at least halfway human. Whether Ollie Dunn qualifies I’m not altogether sure, but I clock that his name appears three times on the sender list, one of his busier nights considering he’d shown up at the station in the middle of it. I double-click to open his first message.

  Marc,

  Tried to call FYEO but your new girl wdnt let me thro to you. Coud you please tell her? (FOR FUTUR REFRANCE). Coud be Emmergence call like now what am suppost to do? Reason been really woried that the Indian man I think he was is doing the same as James Watson. Maybe you need call him back help him you like did James. PLEASE PLEASE let me know youve recd this Marc. Even just to say it on the radio if havent the time to call back, I’m all chirnd up about it. They shoud leave you alone as far as that sort of thing is conscern’d. Go to the doctor if they are feeling like that or a banker if its money worrys. Its not your job is it or SHOUD’NT be. What do they expect?

  Yours truly, Oliver Dunn (Mr)

  FYEO? James Watson? Isn’t he the guy who discovered DNA? Mental double-take. James Watson was the bloke on the bridge, the suicide caller. What’s Ollie saying? The Indian man is doing the same as James Watson. What Indian man? What is he on about? I point the mouse at Ollie’s second message, and click.

  Marc,

  Its Oliver (Dunn) writing again sorry but youve not replyd yet to mssge sent 12.36 or said on radio I dont think, havent even been to the toilet for listening. Does your new sam KNOW about she shoud be checking your emails during the prog or if you dont, seeing as youve not menshd anything coming in or eyther on text even. I mean not just from me anybody. Thing to remind to her, make a LIST is good for remembring. Thats one for top of the list specialy tonite when matter of life and death posibly. Its over 1 hr since he was on any way so maybe too late posibly, but its always worth a try. I’ve put URGENT on this one in big so she will know to open it when she checks hopefully or you to.

  Yours truly, Oliver Dunn (Mr)

  I scroll back to the top of his email to check the time he sent it. 1.03 am, during the news when it was safe to break off from listening for whatever message he was expecting me to give him on-air. So this Indian guy he’s talking about was on over an hour before that. Which would have been the Valentine dedications… oh, the Asian bloke, good radio voice. Somebody else mentioned him after. Marni. No, she said somebody had called asking if he was joking or insane or whatever. Ollie’s picked up the same vibe. What? He was just a normal bloke making up for not sending his girl a Valentine. What have I missed? She had a nice name, I remember, I’m sure I commented on it. He said her full name, very rich and romantic. Nothing wrong with him at all, he was spot on.

  Ollie’s final message is timed 2.52 am, subject box blank. I double click and read.

  Marc,

  I came round to see you but youd gone well your car was still there when I wark past befor. I nerly was going to wait next to it so we coud speak not for other ears but all of a sudden I thorght maybe theyd think I was trying to NICK it insted went to front door. Security man knew who I was any way. He said you was still in the bilding which I knew any way as had my earphones in. One in only when I was talking to the Security man plus I could see the clock. But we waited till 2.21 and then he said hed go and see were you were I waited by the door then he came and said you were’nt in the bilding. Then I saw your car had GONE. I dont know how I missed you but I did sorry about that. Then I thorght maybe you rushed round to this mans house to stop him from killing himself or the police station cos sometimes it might be say just a cry for help isnt it, so there might be more time or if he just took a few pills or HOWEVER he was going to do it. I know its not my bizness poking in nothing to do with me but PLEASE let me know what happend and everything alright or not. I dont mean all the goory details. Its not for that like some peple, its just about being w
oried is all about with it happening on your show and like the last time which turnd out alright thankfuly. So hope to hear from you SOON Marc. We wont forget THIS night in a hurry Forteenth Feb (and) 15th Feb. Both as he spoke to us before 12 only just. Last time was also Forteenth (pm) but of course September also a Friday Thank you Marc if you see.

  Yours truly, Oliver Dunn (Mr)

  I open each of Ollie’s messages again one by one, reading them more carefully, trying to mine the meaning out of them, then again, my anxiety growing each time. Ollie may not be able to string a sentence together but nobody listens to my programme more carefully than he does. And at least one other person must have picked up on whatever I’ve missed. My mind slips back to last night’s show. The run-up to midnight. I was skittish, showing off to Marni. Christ, somebody might have died, just through me not taking enough notice of them. I don’t think this is just Ollie bleating; the evidence is pointing at some sort of balls-up. And it’s pointing right at me.

  I shift the mouse to the reply button, ready to pump Ollie with questions, then, with a sudden shudder of guilt, sweep across to close down instead. Grabbing the keys for the TT, I hurl open the door and half stumble down the stairs in a panicky rush to make up for seven lost hours.

  II

  “Get the garlic out, Dracula’s woke up early.” Jim the technician breaks off from browsing through the sports pages to grin at me. “Tell you what, Marc, mornings don’t suit you, pal. You look like shit.”

  “Yeah, well you look like this all the time.” Trying to act casual. “Can you do me a quick favour, Jim?”

  “No, you can suck your own.”