Four truckers were tucking into greasy breakfasts, whilst yapping with full mouths. A couple in the far corner shared jokes and whispers of ‘I love you’s’ as they ate their shared cake.
Outside, the rain hissed as it hit cars, bikes and trucks, which were parked in Hob’s car park. The big glass windows were lightly patted. Just missed it, she thought to herself as she looked up at the clock mounted on the wall behind the counter, 00.03. She was three minutes late. The song that was easing out distracted her slightly, as she tried to think of what he would say to her this time about her lateness.
When you are stranger
people come out of the rain
when you are stranger
no one considers your name
when you are stranger
She found him sitting at one of the booths, a mug of coffee, thick like tar, stood in front of him. He was playing Mister Cool: he wore dated shades, and smoked a fag that was almost burnt down to the hilt, hung loosely from his sagging lower lip which soon stiffened when he caught sight of her.
“You going to sit down, or am I going to have to make you?” He eyed her from over the top of his glasses that had slipped down his nose. He raised an eyebrow at his question. She could see a briefcase between his feet under the table. “Well?” he pushed, his voice hushed.
She brushed her tousled hair out of her eyes, then grabbed her short skirt as she sat down. She could feel his eyes all over her legs. Creepy bastard, she thought.
“You’re late. What’s the excuse this time? Your dog die on ya? Oh, no wait, I forgot, that was last time. So what’s it this time, bitch? Hmm? Speak.”
Those awful glasses hid his scornful, squinted eyes. She’d seen them bare many times in the past. A cold, steel colour.
“No, nothing like that. And my dog really did die the last time. The car…”
“So it’s the car’s fault this time, is it?” Spittle formed at the sides of his mouth. He looked about him. Nobody was paying attention, yet. This seemed to give him the go ahead. “If you’re as much as a second late the next time, I’ll kill you, bitch.” He tried to keep his voice as low as he could, but he had too much love for the word ‘bitch’. This brought a look from two of the truckers.
“You okay there, beaut? Is he giving you hassle?” called one of them.
He didn’t take his shaded eyes off her, as though his gaze was boring into her brain, making her say what came next.
“No, everything is fine, thanks.”
Happy with her answer, he then turned to them and gave them the same stare for a few seconds, and then smiled before turning back to the woman.
“Maybe next time we should consider a more,” he looked at the ceiling and rubbed his chin as he mused, “convenient place for our little business meetings. Too many prying eyes here for my liking. Not that I have a say in the matter. It comes from a higher order.”
How much longer, she thought to herself as she watched a woman walk in through the door. How much longer am I going to have to work here? It was only meant to be a stepping stone whilst I worked my way through uni. Then wham, it’s six years later, and I’m still stuck in this hole, serving the same rancid food that Hob dishes out, whilst taking the same shit off Hob’s harebrained wife. The woman’s crazier than a shithouse rat, she thought. Huh, I’m living and working in the armpit of the world.
She pulled the coffee pot from its holder and a clean mug from the washer, and took them over to the woman who had just come in. She was sitting with some weird looking guy. Who the hell wears sunglasses indoors at night? What a loser.
“Coffee?” she said, trying to make her smile sincere.
“Yes,” he answered for her. “And freshen mine whilst you’re at it.” He spat. Whilst never taking his eyes off the woman, he drew five pounds out of his pocket and slammed it down onto the table, sliding it toward the waitress. “Keep the change.”
As she left, she overheard them talking.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“No, the operation is a simple one. You’ll be in and out in no time…”
Hmm, I wonder what they are talking about, she thinks, as she goes back behind the counter, puts the coffee pot down, and picks up her writing pad, and writes in it. Story Idea: man and woman meet at a roadside café in the middle of nowhere. But why? She tapped the pencil against her chin whilst pondering the idea. Why? Why are they meeting at this ca…
The door goes and brings her out of her thoughts. A tall, blonde-haired woman walks in. Her face heavily made up. She was wearing a sort of black cocktail dress, which exposed her sexy long legs. The deep V-cut in the dress showed off her heaving bust. Outside the door to the café/bar is a van, the engine still running. Written across the side of its bodywork, in coloured ark lettering is – Crystal and Harry’s Amazing Ventriloquist Show.
“Can I use your phone, please, miss?” she says. The sound of her voice gives the impression she is somewhat dense in the head. But it seems fake. As though she is playing dumb just for the hell of it.
“Yeah, sure, the dog-and-bone is just over there.”
“Sorry?”
“Excuse me, I mean phone. I forget where I’m living these days.”
The blonde gave an awkward smile then tottered off toward the phones. What an odd one, the young waitress thought. She picked up her pad, and wrote. Story idea: what about a killer ventriloquist? Has this ever been done? Hmm, maybe the doll can take over its owner? Didn’t the Twilight Zone do that?
“Harry? It’s me, Crystal,” she hears the woman say on the phone. “What was that address again?”
Hmm, must be a story in there somewhere? Think damn it, think.
She took a look around the place. The creepy guy with glasses is still sat with the woman. The boys are still playing pool. But the truckers have gone. When did they leave?
She looked into the mirror behind the counter, and let her mind drift.
Hob’s Café/bar: a small time joint situated on the old road between Hirwaun and Neath, South Wales. A place that once thrived with life, but now lives off the scraps that pass it by in the small hours of night. Tonight, four people who are now eating in this place will have their lives change forever, as Hob’s sits on the outer limits of…
“Excuse me?”
She turned around and was met by a tall, robust looking man, his shoulders wide and impressive – a rugby player’s frame. His teeth were perfect and gleaming white. His boyish face made him look somewhat handsome. She blushed. He smiled.
“Couldn’t bother you for a cuppa, could I? I’ve been making my way home all night from Llandudno. I tried to make it all the way to Hirwaun without stopping…”
She cut him off.
“Why would you want to try and do something like that, chick? Don’t you read those signs out on the motorway? ‘Tiredness can kill?’” His dimpled smile makes her huff, then laugh softly. “Guess you’re too much of a tough guy for avoiding danger, is that it?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. Just want to get home to see my wife and child.”
She spied the wedding ring on his third finger. Hmm, he seems so young to be settled down. Shame, the good looking ones are always taken.
“How about that cuppa tea then, err…?” He looked at her name badge, “Jessica.”
“Sure, I’ll get you one now.”
The jukebox kicked back.
There's a man coming round taking names
he’ll decides who to gratis and who to fault
Nobody will be treated the same
There'll be a ladder stretching down
When the man comes by
“Johnny Cash, you got to love him, right?” she said.
“Bit before your time, isn’t he?”
“Yes, a little bit. But I had older brothers. I guess it was forced on me.”
When he opened his wallet, Jessica saw a photo of the man in front of her with his wife and child which was tucked in a pocket with a plastic window.
She then looked up at the clock, 00.55. Her shift was due to end.
“Did you say you were heading down to Hirwaun?”
“Yes. Why?”
“My shift ends in a few minutes, and I was just wondering if I could catch a lift with you?”
He eyed her for a few moments. “Yeah, that’s okay by me. Just let me finish my tea, and we can get out of here.”
“So what’s your name? I can’t be saying “hey” to you all the way to Hirwaun.”
“It’s S…” she cut him off.
“Cool tattoo, been meaning to get one myself. What does T.M.M stand for?”
He looked up at her and smiled: My name is Shelby, and if I told you what T.M.M stood for, I’d have to kill you.” She smiled. So did he. “Ready for that ride home, Jessica?”
* * * *
“What the hell kind of book is that, Harry? I’m scared, now.”
And, for the first time ever, even Harry looked rattled to Crystal. “I…I…I’m not sure…”
“Someone seems to know a hell of a lot about us! And that guy in that story - isn’t he the same guy from the first tale you read – T.M.M, was it?”
Harry flipped back through the book, and found the story entitled T.M.M. “Yeah, Shelby. And he looks the same in both comic strips,” Harry said, showing the drawings to Crystal.
“Do you think he’s real? Do you think he lives around here?”
“Can’t be,” Harry said. “The artist has drawn you very well, too!” Harry said. “Tits could have been bigger.”
“Yeah,” she said, with a tremor of nerves. Not really looking at her own sketch. “You think it’s a coincidence that this guy or girl has written about you and me in their book? That they just know us as an act from around the Valleys, and decided to use us in their tales?”
“Well, that’s what it seems like,” Harry said, starting to relax. “Nobody knows we’ve done anything, so just chill, okay? We’re going to be fine.”
“Anything you say, Harry. But as soon as I’ve seen my sister – we’re getting the hell out of here, disappear for a while, go to Porthcawl like you said.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Maybe I should read the next story, see if anything else connects…”
“Good idea, but make it quick, it won’t be long before we get to Castell Hirwaun.”
THE WORKS
Geraint indicated left to pull into Hob’s car park, but he had to slow down and wait for a sleek, black Ford Shelby Mustang to leave first, as the entrance/exit to the place was narrow. Geraint could see the driver’s very chiselled features, and a pretty blonde sat in the passenger’s seat; there was a silhouette of a third in the back.
As the Mustang pulled away from Geraint, heading in the opposite direction, he saw a soft toy of an alligator on the parcel shelf. A tag of some sort dangling from its neck glistened in the car lights.
Geraint smiled, and drove into the car park, slotting his beat-up Corsa into a space close to the doors of Hob’s. He knocked the engine off, and sat there looking at the place. He checked his watch – 01.08. Eight minutes late. He was sure he hadn’t missed her. She was never on time when it came to clocking out.
I’ll give it another few minutes, and if there’s no sign, I’ll go in, he thought. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. So he sat, and waited.
Five minutes became ten, and ten became fifteen.
He looked at the place once more: it loomed over him, and his little car. The seedy red lights of Hob’s inner lighting, and neon signs penetrated the Corsa’s windshield, and punished Geraint’s sight.
“What a dive,” he said aloud. “If only your mother could see the kind of place you work at Jessica.”
He let out a melodramatic “tut”, got out of the car and entered Hob’s. He removed his glasses, rubbing the mist from them, he popped them back on in enough time to see four youths approach him.
“Fuckin’ right, man – sleep all day and party all night,” said the one leading his posse out the door, railroading Geraint out of the way in the process, backing him against the door which he was forced to hold open for them with his body.
“Yeah,” the one behind the leader of them said. “We’re the real Peter fucking Pans of this world.”
They all burst out laughing, ignoring Geraint as they hustled through the doorway and into the night. He watched them as they mounted motorbikes at the far end of the muddy car park, and tear off.
“Bloody yobos,” he muttered under his breath. “I’d like to see them try that stunt again. I’ll have their bloody guts for garters, so I will!” he huffed, and walked into the café. The jukebox croaked out a tune he didn’t know.
You don't want to yak
So babe shut up
And let me drink the juice from your fur cup
Sticky candy gluey sweet
Make my tattoos thaw with the heat
Well, I’m no veggie
Like my meat on the bone
Living and thrashing
Stupid song, he thought, as he walked up to the young girl working the main counter. She flashed him a smile. He gave her a sullen look, followed by a condescending beam.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.
“Erm, well, yes, I suppose so,” he said, thinking – bloody whippersnappers – they’re everywhere these days. She waited for his reply. “I’m looking for my daughter.”
The young girl looked confused: her eyebrows scrunched up, as she looked wistfully into the distance over his shoulder.
“Jessica, you know? She works here,” he said. Good God, he thought. Do I have to explain everything to her – what a drip.
“Oh, yeah, I know her – I was her relief,” the girl said, snapping her chewing gum and smiling, as though she was going to get a goldfish for providing the answer, or an answer of some sort. “I’ll just check to see if she is still her, but I think she may have gone.”
“Okay,” Geraint said. “And thanks.” Again with the condescending smile – his favourite when he showed annoyance and displeasure with someone. When her back was turned, and she was heading toward the bar section of Hob’s he murmured – “stupid child,” as the jukebox did its own whispering.
He's a psychopath.
As Geraint waited for the girl to come back, he took a good look around the place, and found it near empty. Some loner was using the dartboard over by the pool table; a real roguish-looking fella. He had a domineering size to him, and his clothes were tatty-looking; his boots scuffed. He whistled away to the tune on the jukebox as he threw his arrows, skilfully with one hand, while swigging from the beer glass in his other.
Geraint’s gaze left the heavy, and settled on a couple who were sat by one of the windows. She was a real fat women, and he skinny – gangly looking. He was giving her a ticking off about something, maybe about the cake she was ploughing down her gullet as if the stuff was going out of fashion.
Huh, Geraint thought. She could do with losing a few pounds!
“I’m afraid she has gone, sir. She found a lift home.”
Geraint faced the girl.
“Damn it. I thought I was early enough,” he said, more to himself than her.
“Sorry.”
They looked at each other, nothing said, until a slam of a hand onto the counter broke their stare.
“The Works, please, love,” the harsh voice said.
“Sit in or take out?” the girl said, smiling.
Geraint pulled away from the conversation, disappointed not to have caught his daughter at work to give her a lift home. Oh well, I’ll catch her at home, he thought, as he proceeded to leave.
The man winked at the girl – “sit in, please.” He pushed twenty-quid towards her, which was squashed under his palm.
“Thank you. Here’s your number. If you would like to take a seat, someone will come to collect you when your order is ready,” she said, grinning even wider now.
“No, thank you,” he said, winking again.
He found a quiet bo
oth at the back of Hob’s, and sat down. There was a newspaper on the table. He picked it up. The article on the page jumped down his throat – “Wacko Woodsman Jailed For Slayings”. He read on: Local woodsman, 34 year old Norm Jenkins, was imprisoned today for the murder of three women. Alarm bells were raised when Stephanie Davies, a nurse working at the Royal Glamorgan Hospital, disappeared six months ago. A witness was said to have last seen her in Mr. Jenkins’ company.
When the police searched Mr. Jenkins’ house, at Llwynypia, in the Rhondda, the scenes that they found there were described by the Chief-Constable Mark Pritchard, who was in charge of the case, as that of a “ghoulish nature”, he also went on to say that “Miss Davies’ remains were found in Mr. Jenkins’ fridge-freezer, along with other body parts…”
He put the paper down, his guts churning – “Enough to put you off your grub,” he said lightly, folding the paper back in half, and sliding it across the table from him.
“Number thirty-five?” a female voice called.
He turned, and saw a middle-aged woman standing over by a door that looked as if it led towards the kitchen. He got up, touched the gold band on his finger, and walked towards the woman who greeted him warmly. Hope I don’t get you, he thought.
Just then a man came out of the door behind her, tugging his belt buckle up over his gut, and grinning wildly.
“Best twenty-quid I ever spent.”
“The Works?” he asked the fat man.
“Yeah, chum – The Works, all right!” he said, and clasped him on the back. “You’ll be glad you did, too,” he added, noticing that the guy was fidgeting with his wedding ring with a look of doubt in his eye. Then he was gone.
“Follow me,” she said, taking his ticket off him, putting a little tick on it. She handed it back to him. “Put this ticket through the hole when asked to. We hope you enjoy.”
She led him down a long, narrow corridor that led downwards and far away from the building he had just come out of. It was lit very poorly, and moths danced around the naked bulbs.
White Walls and Straitjackets Page 8