A Letter to a Lucky Man

by Thomas Jobling

  On the occasion of the club’s annual regatta – a glorious, near cloudless, but blustery Saturday, he was awarded the ‘wooden spoon’ for, as the club’s Commodore said at the prize giving, ‘A gallant effort and fine display of his swimming skill as much as his sailing prowess.’

  In tandem with the prize giving a series of events however were conspiring to divert Curtis onto a different course, one without the use of water. He received much applause and whooping as he returned from the stage, trophy in hand, and a smile a mile wide. Caught up in his own celebrations, he didn’t realise that another smiling face from within the crowd had been scrutinising proceedings.

  Still chuckling to himself he remained unaware of an extended arm which attempted to divert his journey away from within the mass of bodies. Unaware, until the familiar sound of a homely accent stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Hi, Curtis? Don’t you remember me?’

  Chapter 15 : A Face in a Crowd

  A Punch in the Night

  A wave of embarrassment washed over Curtis. In quick time he had instantly recognised the accent, but no matter how much he racked his brain he could neither put a name to the face, or indeed, the face to a name. Any name!

  ‘The face’ having allowed Curtis enough squirming time, introduced herself, as Jac Raven. ‘You know, wee Jacqueline from the Rose Bud, back home?’ She laughed.

  Curtis, who remained routed to the spot hid behind a mortified grin.

  ‘Come on you big eejit,’ she said smiling at him. ‘Let’s get a celebratory pint into your hand and catch up. Oh, unless? Oh, I’m sorry Curt, unless that is... you’re already err…with someone?’

  ‘No Jacqueline, I have absolutely no one with me. Oh, my goodness, it’s so good...It’s so good to see you, to hear tha...Oh wow! What a day this is turning out to be.’

  ‘So, what is an old boy like you, doing in a place like this?’

  ‘Oh, Jacqueline, you have no idea. But I could ask you the same question, if for nothing else but to allow me to catch my breath. I’m stunned and you’re, well, stunning.’

  Suddenly it was Jacqueline’s turn to hesitate. Blushing, she said, ‘Me? Well…actually, I er, graduated a wee while ago. Last year in fact, and not too far from here either. We…that is…me and the gals. Well, we seem to have been on a celebration tour ever since. There they are, just to the left of the bar. See?’ she pointed. ‘Those two beauties there.’ As Curtis nodded she beckoned them to join her. They waved back; one of them with a ‘thumbs up’.

  ‘They’re sailing types too. Well, maybe more naughty than nautical. No, that’s unfair,’ She was getting herself tied in knots. After a pause, and just as Curtis was about to speak, she continued, ‘No, they were formerly on the university sailing team, competent sailors, at least that’s what they tell me. So, and dare I say, without too much coaching, they dragged me down here; first time and imagine my amazement to see you here! It seems to be a nice place, yes? Not my scene though; boats? No way.’ She paused again, glancing towards the lake before continuing, ‘Curtis, do you seriously go out there in those wee... what are they, for goodness sake? I mean, look at the size of you, and them.’

  He took the opportunity to explain but quickly realised that his use of sailing terms was floating over her head. He changed tack instead and with an enquiry disguised as general gossip he asked her, ‘Graduated, here, you, in this place? I don’t believe it. All this time and there’s me employed just up the road, at the big factory. We’re not a stone’s throw from the university, or each other too. In fact, I’ve, well my department, we’ve recently taken on a couple of the graduates. Wow, small world or what? All this time eh? Covert neighbours, yes? Spooky!’ He paused and then asked her directly. ‘What did you graduate in Jacqueline? You work locally?’

  As she started to reply her two friends joined them. One of them cut across Jacqueline, saying in a strong Glaswegian accent ‘Don’t listen to her, ‘Jimmy’ and her boring old degree stuff.’

  Jacqueline glared and attempted to formally introduce Curtis, but both girls chuckled. One of them, en route to the marquee bar asked if either needed a top-up. Jacqueline, quick as a flash replied, ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ Then instantly realised that she was in full blushing mode. Her other friend smiled, while tapping her nose. Curtis hadn’t picked up on Jacqueline’s ‘deportment’ slip...

  A few of Curtis’s newfound club mates sauntered over too and the conversations expanded into randomness, and became somewhat slurred. However, it allowed Curtis and Jaqueline to talk more together. Well into it, Curtis recalled the gist of the last words he said to her. It was back in her waitressing days, in the family café. But he chose not to blurt it out.

  Later though, after several more rounds of drinks he asked guardedly if she had any recollection of, as he called it, his ‘Philippa’ moment. She answered yes and fired off a flippant warning shot, confirming with a smirk that yes, she had noticed him ‘inspecting’ her that day too. In an instant it was Curtis’s turn to suffer an uncontrolled blush. In an attempt to buy some time he asked about her father, to which she quickly replied, ‘Oh, he’s doing grand, Curtis, still grumpy, even more so now; hip joint playing up. But yeah he’s grand. He’s visiting next month, maybe you’ll drop by, he’d like that.’

  ‘Sounds good. Maybe I’ll do just that. Yeah, give me a bell whenever.’

  The night flew by and the call for ‘last orders’ rang out. The band announced their final set. Curtis and Jacqueline, together with their entire table, got up for the last dance.

  As they went their separate ways, Curtis and Jacqueline exchanged telephone numbers. He even received a peck on the cheek as she and her girlfriends piled into their taxi. He stayed on a while longer to help with the clearing up, by which time it had gone two!

  Finally, with a smile and an inflated chest he set off to retrace his steps. Against the advice of a couple of locals he set off along the lake-side walk. His route led him back through a cutting into the park. Thereafter it was straight across to the road and onwards towards his flat.

  As he strolled, his thoughts continued to circle around Jacqueline. The ceiling of stars reflecting off the glass-like black lake continued to provide a fairy tale ending to what had been an excellent day out. As he picked up his pace thoughts of how things work out flooded his head. All those years ago she had caught my eye. Now, all these years later, and I’m instantly smitten, and not in a ‘let’s be best friends’ way either. ‘Wow! It couldn’t, could it?’His inner self cut in again; dream on sunshine, she’s far too upmarket for the likes of you. Remember, what happened to that last ‘classy’ chick?

  As the path veered left away from the lake shore he emerged from a tree-lined darkness onto an expanse of mature parkland. Ahead he registered the distant glow of street lights. The full moon afforded some further illumination. It was enough to help him avoid yet another stumble as he navigated the frost-brittle grass. Puffs of condensed air confirmed that the temperature had plummeted.

  He kept up the pace. It kept him warm. Nevertheless he had to admit that a sweater or jacket would have been an asset. Wise motherly words once more flooded his mind. It had the extra effect of recalling that particular Rose Bud day and of course, that damned letter. He smiled. He shook his head while dropping back to walking pace. His journey was more than three quarters complete.

  With the iron railings and the park exit now clearly within his sights, he had stopped dead in his tracks. Curtis, even being far from sober had become aware that he was not alone. He turned, listening. He heard nothing. Only his own heavy panting sounded in his cold ears. His senses had nevertheless been put on high alert. He was aware that the park had a reputation for muggings, being a hangout for the local hookers and other sexually driven night-time activities. Then under a rush of incoming sobriety he set off again.

  Taking deep breaths he stepped up the pace, the yellow glow pouring from the street lamps beckoned him. Guardedly he glanced around once more. His
heart raced. He was within touching distance of safety. He stopped again. He took another breath, and another. With his breathing coming back under control and his heart rate slowed sufficiently, he thought of how foolish he had been; of course, it had been a fox or the like. A smile turned into a wide grin then a dismissive shake of his head as he remembered the final moments of his evening with Jacqueline. Lucky man, me?

  As he pulled at the ancient park gate which had seen better days, a hooded figure emerged from behind a stone pillar. Simultaneously a big man rushed Curtis from behind. He was grabbed in a bear hug; his arms trapped by his side. No words were spoken. Yet another figure came into view. The hooded figure stepped back. Vainly, Curtis continued to twist and wriggle but he was trapped. The grip was too strong. His mind raced…muggings, sex, homosexual... Please, please just let this be a robbery, not a rape. You dick Curtis, those guys back at the club warned you, but no, no you always know best.

  In the limited light Curtis could see that the man facing him, although shorter, was muscular. He wore a camouflage-type jacket. His head was covered by a beanie, pulled down over his ears, and together with a dark scarf across his nose, his anonymity was secure. Without a word of warning he delivered a punch deep into Curtis’s solar plexus.

  Curtis hung limp. The big man quickly hauled him back upright. Curtis tried to scream, but nothing came out. He gasped for breath, trying not to vomit, trying to hold onto his consciousness. His assailant stepped out of the way and the first man he’d seen, the hooded man, moved close and leant in to Curtis’s face. His face was buried under a fur-edged hood of a dark coloured anorak, probably black, maybe khaki. In a low heavily accented Birmingham accent, he said, ‘That’s a taster Paddy. It’s to warn you.’ He paused, sucked excess phlegm up though his nose. At that moment Curtis thought that he was going be ‘gobbed’ on. Instinctively he closed both his mouth and eyes. But no, the hooded man continued with his warning, ‘Keep your fuckin’ nose out of our shop floor and, out of my business. Do you hear? Fuckin’ smart-arse Paddy. You’d best be getting back to where you crawled out of…you understand?’ Stabbing Curtis’s breast bone with a gloved index finger, he asserted, ‘DO YOU?’

  ‘Wha... who are you? What is it? Money, is tha... ?’

  Any attempt to mediate was going nowhere. Curtis knew what was likely coming next. He continued in his wriggling, ineffective attempts to free himself. Then, as the big man who held him tightened his grip, Curtis threw his head back. It caught his captor off guard. While it drilled a sharp pain through Curtis’s scalp, he knew that the impact must have inflicted equal pain. He hoped he’d dislodged several teeth. As a consequence the ‘hug’ had loosened, if only for a second.

  Then it properly kicked off. The hooded figure moved back in. He launched another string of profanities. Curtis realised who this hooded figure was; the voice, the nasal tone, the limp. At that same moment he became conscious that a fist was readying itself for another assault!

  He had a split second to react and as he did so he gave thanks for his mother enrolling him into both his local boxing club and those hateful judo classes. He had known the classes had been an attempt to inject some discipline into him, just at the time he’d been going through his ‘angry phase’ of drinking, brawling and generally causing mayhem. Whatever the reason, he was grateful now.

  Speed was the key. He reached down and behind, grabbing hold of the big man’s testicles. He squeezed as hard as he could. A pained cry rang out and his captor’s grip loosened again. Curtis broke free and for his reward, received a thunderous clout to his jaw. Teeth tore through cheek flesh. He stamped his left foot down and with his right kicked out, scoring a direct hit to the hooded figure’s groin. The man crumpled, hands flailing between his legs. Curtis figured he was trying to extract his balls from his bladder.

  The odds had shortened to two to one. Maybe better as beanie guy was aiding the hooded man. Curtis, dazed from the aftershock of the punch, could barely stand. He reached towards the old gate for support just as the big man re-joined the affray. A direct hit from an elbow exploded Curtis’s nose.

  More punches to his upper body followed. He went down. Laying there, curled into a protective ball he faintly heard one of them saying, ‘Right Joe that’s enough, come on. Come on, we need to get Freddy back on his feet, and be outa here.’ Curtis drifted in and of consciousness, but he was aware the kicking had stopped and the three silhouetted figures had finally departed the scene, one of them doubled over. That was the last thing he did see as the blackness closed in around him.

  * * *

  It was an early morning shift worker cycling to the factory who discovered him. Even though the man had attended several of Curtis’s presentations he remained oblivious as to the identity of the bloody pulped face. Not until the attending police officer recovered an ID from Curtis’s wallet, a wallet emptied of its notes, was his identity established.

  Curtis Cardinali was not in good shape. He came round in the ambulance but had no idea what had happened to him, or where he was. He told the ambulance man, as best he could with swollen lips and closing eyes, that the last thing he recalled was the peck on his cheek from Jacqueline.

  The entry into the hospital was swift. He passed through triage and various other departments, undergoing a series of x-rays. Later that day he learned that he had no broken bones, or permanently damaged ‘body parts’ other than a major redesign of what had been a rather beautiful nose.

  ‘... As for that Mr. Cardinali,’ the female consultant said, pointing in the general direction of his nostrils, ‘We’ll do what we can, but it’s going to be tricky. May well take a few visits. But, we’ll do our best for you.’ With that she was gone and Curtis was left to endure the delights of the hospital ward for a further two days.

  The police constable assigned to Curtis had been keen to get the detail of the assault down onto paper. While his recall was sketchy one thing that Curtis was sure of was the voice of the hooded phlegm sucking figure. He was ninety nine percent sure that he was none other than Red-Fred, his iniquitous shop steward. At the same time he asked of himself;... why such violence, if it was only a work thing? What have I done that had been so bad?

  Although Curtis had finally delivered what he considered to be an accurate account of events, the police continued to make zero progress. It appeared to Curtis that they were treating the incident as just another night-time drink and drug related mugging. His own alcohol level on the night hadn’t acted in his defence either. In fact, and as he came to see it, he was actually being blamed for choosing, against local advice, to take that route in the first place. Maybe even, he pondered, they thought that I had been the instigator, a drunk out looking for trouble. Oh shit, mother will kill me. Jacqueline will be well impressed–not.... Nightmare.

  He agreed to disagree with the law. What irked him even more, other than the lack of progress, was the fact that he had told the detective who he believed had led the assault. After several more visits to the station that week, and after numerous conversations with both the constable, and the detective a frustrated Curtis reacted badly when he was informed that the incident would be put on file. It had been given a crime number and it could be reopened if further information came to light. They had been quick to confirm to Curtis that Mr Redpath had an alibi for the evening in question. His response to that news was somewhat dismissive.

  With a significant shake of his head and, in as broad a homespun accent as he could muster he mumbled his departing comment. ‘Well, that’s that then. Funny old world, when even the dogs in the street know who did what, when, and why.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Cardinali, what was that?’

  ‘Agh, nothing. Nothing of any importance. Goodbye gentlemen, we’ll hardly meet again.’ Reconciling himself, as he walked away he thought, ‘Just another affray... who cares?’

  Phyllis, on hearing of her son’s assault, had jumped onto the first flight. Even though Curtis was back at his desk a few weeks after his di
scharge, her stay lasted for most of the following month. Together with Jacqueline they nursed their boy back to health. Phyllis and Jacqueline had instantly gelled. Both sensed that they would likely see much more of each other, going forward.

  Curtis, however, hadn’t a clue what was happening around him, or what would likely happen to him domestically... going forward. Unfortunately, and no matter how much they nursed him, nothing could be done to re-straighten his, once beautiful, nose.

  Chapter 16 : Red Mist – Blue Light

  Curtis Cardinali failed to slip quietly back into his office routine. Bruised, bandaged and still sporting traces of black-eyes, he was welcomed back – albeit under a deluge of wise-cracks. The news of his coming was quickly telegraphed onto the shop floor.

  With lay-offs very much at the top of the work-force agenda, it remained a hostile environment for those individuals considered as management; ‘the suits’. It was a hostility fuelled further by even more combatant union groupings. They were considered by the powers upstairs to be extreme left-wing, unpredictable and antagonistic towards any level of management; the incidence of downing of tools had become an even more regular occurrence.

  It was also an arena where details of Curtis’s assault had stirred mixed feelings. Especially the why, and by whom. His assault had neither been a sanctioned action nor had it been condoned. Red-Fred who had yet to return from his ‘sick leave’ had in his absence fallen from grace.

  Curtis needed answers and only one individual could provide them. The problem was, that person had gone to ground. Dressed, it could be argued, provocatively ‒ a new navy suit, white shirt and company tie ‒ Curtis nevertheless, was a man with a mission. The shop floor beckoned.

  Having done the rounds of his colleagues upstairs he was now heading down to that area his aggressors had warned him to stay away from! As he strutted along the long first floor corridor towards the stairwell he glanced edgily into row after row of glass-fronted offices. An occasional wave was responded to with a nod and a smile.