Short Story from April 2006 Assignment

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by Mark Beach      by Phil Golden      by Di Lawton

by Anita Loughrey   by Geoff Rush    by Di Lawton

by Mark Beach        by Mark Beach

The train rumbled away, somewhere in the distance. But I couldn’t hear it. Thanks to a lifetime of loud clubs and live gigs, my hearing was shot. Mind you, my eyesight is second to none, and I could see the train down the line long before I could hear it.

The train rumbled away, somewhere in the distance. But I couldn’t hear it. Thanks to a lifetime of loud clubs and live gigs, my hearing was shot. Mind you, my eyesight is second to none, and I could see the train down the line long before I could hear it.

The flashing red warning lights and claxon started with a vicious certainty. I woke from my daydream, tranquillity replaced in an instant by cars with their chugging exhausts doing nothing for the environment, halted in their attempts to attain their destination. Still, it’ll only be for a few minutes.

I could hear the train now. It loomed, as trains tend to, and juddered noisily to a standstill alongside the mossy and cracked slabs that are ‘platform one’. With a muted hiss, the doors sighed open, and people fought to get on or off simultaneously.

Having gained entry, I stood and stared. Up the carriage, down the carriage. I remained motionless, save for being rocked and knocked by fellow passengers pushing past to search out what I knew they wouldn’t find. An empty seat.

I resigned myself to standing, for my journey, for my discomfort, for my sins.

Not so my travelling companions, for companions they currently were. Resembling ants on the rampage, they busied themselves for miles, in an attempt to attain at least somewhere to sit. And failed!

My name is Clement. My friends call me Clem. And I’m heading off on a blind date. She’s apparently five foot five, with short cropped, dark hair, calls herself Miranda, and yes, she’ll be carrying a copy of ‘The Independent’ and wearing a purple carnation in her lapel.

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Thank God that day is not here yet! 

The train rattled on as I stood leaning against the bulkhead opposite the toilet.  Between me and the exit is a small child clutching its mother who clung onto a pushchair that only just fitted in the space beside the door. 

The first stop was interesting, involving pushchair scrambling, both by people getting off and new people getting on, and much walking up and down by the new passengers.  By the time we reached the third stop I was used to what I’d have to do, and deftly negotiated the obstacles and I leapt out onto the platform.

The first signs of it getting dark were just appearing, streetlights and car headlights coming on, and I have not been here before.  “Go into the town and up Regent Street,” the instructions said, “and then find the ‘Rose and Crown’ just as the road bends.”  After what must have been a good half a mile my feet ached. I wished then I’d worn my old trainers and not these flash shoes.  And I’m still not in Regent Street.  Why had she chosen this particular pub when she lived here? “Could she not have met me at the station?” I thought, only slightly unkindly.  I started to panic a little, partly from nerves and partly because I was going to be late. 

I started walking more quickly and it seemed my lucky day, for I soon was among shops in the deserted street.  As I walked along the town became less deserted and the atmosphere changed to one more welcoming.  I was still walking quickly when suddenly, there it was, the Rose and Crown looking very peaceful as if it had been there for centuries. 

I peered in the windows though could not see through the frosted glass.  Somewhere inside is a girl called Julia, waiting for me!   My heartbeat rose as I gingerly pushed open the door and entered the bright room inside.

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‘Pint of bitter please.’ I asked in a tone, which I hoped conveyed just the right amount of authority.

‘We have a number of excellent bitters Sir. Is there one particular variety that you would prefer above the rest?’

‘You’re taking the Mick,’ I thought, but decided not to rise to the bait.

‘I’ll have a pint of that please.’ I said pointing to one of the pumps.

‘Do you mean a pint of The Other?’ He answered.

‘No.’ I repeated. A pint of that.

‘It’s just that this particular beer is called The Other. The beer that is called That is on the other end to the pump that you were pointing to. Next to the beer known as This.’ He said smugly.

‘I’ll have one of them then.’

‘No Sir, we have no beer called Them, only This, That and The Other.’

‘Just give me a Lager. I don’t care which one.’

I took a sip of the drink and walked around the pub. Sitting in the corner by the fire, which was unlit, was a woman reading The Guardian. A copy of The Independent was lying on the table in front of her. Her jacket was on hung on the seat and a flower poked gaily out of the buttonhole. She looked up.

‘You! She shouted across the bar. You with the sheepskin coat and the purple tie. Are you Clem?’

‘Yes’ I replied. ‘Are you Julia?’

‘I told you in my e-mails I never want to be called by that name. It reminds me of Gym lessons in Navy underwear. Now I have become Miranda!’

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I put on my brave face. “Sorry. Miranda. Right. Can I … er … get you a refill?”

She stopped surveying me and turned her attention to the empty glass at her elbow. Same expression though. Distaste.

“I’ll try a pint of The Other. That This tastes like gnat’s pee.”

I sought temporary refuge back at the bar. I needed time to think. Maybe it was the way she’d looked at me, or something in the voice. I go on instinct – I have to in my line of work – and the needle on my instinctometer was in the red zone.

“And get me a Hamlet while you’re at it, will you?”

I glanced over my shoulder, smiling, but my mind’s eye was working overtime. Take off a few pounds, make the hair longer. I ordered the beer. Was that pity I detected etched on the barman’s face?

Lowering his head, he whispered conspiratorially. “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, the purple tie was a mistake.”

I ignored him, because at that precise moment I was busy picturing ‘blonde’.

Returning to the table, I deposited the pint and cigar, slipped off my coat and sat down. “Cheers.” I raised the lager to my lips, took a quick slurp.

Miranda glowered at me. “That purple tie was a mistake.”

I nodded in agreement. “Not the only thing that was a mistake.” Leaning in close, I fixed her with a flinty glare. “You don’t recognise me, do you, Jocasta?”

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It was as if I had slapped her in the face. Her whole body stiffened with eyes bulging out of their sockets. The sheer look of terror was actually quite comical and I had to choke back the laughter. Then she regained her composure and it was my turn to stiffen. 

“You ran out on me,” I said. It was a fact not a question. The silence between us was heavy and I could almost see her brain churn away as she pondered what approach would be best, would be safest.  

“Bill… I mean Clem, it wasn’t like that. They were after me too.”

She leant forward and tried to take my hand. Bad move. I wasn’t in a forgiving move.

“I don’t look like this for a reason you know. I never use to have to rely on the Internet for my dates.”

She removed the hand.

“Ok how much do you want.”

This was better. The money was definitely the sweeter but for all the heartache, for all that pain, I was after something more. I smiled at her. That reassured her and she took a long gulp of her drink, emptying the glass.

“Another?” I said pointing at the glass.

The barman avoided my eyes at the bar. That was a smart move on his part. Old scars had been opened and I was after blood. At this minute in time I wasn’t sure that I was cared whose it was. 

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Jocasta accepted my offer of a drink. The thin grey barman brought it to our table as soon as she glanced at him, so she must have been known at the Rose and Crown. Jocasta used to know many such places as this. That's what made her useful. She asked me again: "How much?"

"Your blood," I said. "It's red like rubies. Remember those rubies?"

She ignored what I'd said about blood and replied that of course she remembered, so I told her, in the appreciative lingo of our youth: "Hard. Really hard!"

"Are you?" she asked.

Same old Jocasta. Take your slicing wheel one inch back from her throat and she springs like a soldier into action. "Where are they?" I said, making my voice flat, un-threatening and un-promising. I crossed my legs under the table, kicking her shin for warning, and smiled like a vampire. The idea of blood kept coming back to me: rubies are red because inside they're blood.

"You shouldn't have used me to shift them," she said.

In that place was a muffled chatter that I couldn't follow because of my crap, crap ears. And the smell was of beer, fags and perfume. The sights were tulip lamp shades on the walls and men in string ties with luscious shirts, as if this were a western bar gone upstream but found wanting for taste. This cultural sub-paradise, this second home for Jocasata, set like stone in my heart as the obvious place for revenge.

"Give them back," I murmured. Then I kicked her again, this time truly hard.

Ouch,” I yelped.

The table wobbled, beer sploshed out of my pint, darkening the pages of The Independent. Jocasta didn’t move, not even a flinch. I nursed my foot and peered under the table. I’d been kicking the blooming table leg. A smug smile spread over Jocasta’s lips.

“Still the hot –tempered fool you always were,” she gloated.

“The rubies.” I glared into her green eyes.

She threw back her head and laughed. “I haven’t got them. It’s been three long years. I’ve offered you part of the money. Why do you think I invited you here?”

“You invited me?” I stuck my finger in my ear and removed a brown, gluey lump of wax. Was I hearing her right? I wiped the wax on my trousers and clenched my fist. “This was a blind date,” I growled.

“You can’t honestly believe I didn’t know who you were?”

“You were shocked when you saw me, like a scared rabbit about to run away… again. I saw the look on your face.”

“No, Bill – I mean Clem – I was surprised you’d only just realised it was me and after all the hints I gave you in our emails.”

Someone knocked the table, spilling more of my precious beer. I jumped up ready to pound the idiot.

“Sorry mate,” the barman said and wiped the table down with his cloth. “I’ll get you another Another. Are you alright Miranda?” He looked knowingly at my date.

She nodded and gulped back her beer. “I’ll have The Other, thanks Tommy.”

He winked.

I sat down. The newspaper dripped puddles of Another onto the wooden floorboards as Tommy made his way back to the bar with it and my half-empty glass. I was right. This was Jocasta’s idea of revenge. But, I had a plan.

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Four hours later, as the train lurched and clattered through the pitch black night, my mind went back to my journey earlier that night. The hope, excitement and anticipation were gone. Replaced by a drunken depression. A  nauseous acceptance of the inevitable, Jocasta was one jump ahead, as usual.

While I’d been dreaming of eloping by e-mail all the time I was sharing my dreams with a Chat-room Charlatan. For the last three weeks I was being ‘groomed’, without knowing it, and by the one woman I’d never thought I’d see again.

I reviewed the true cost of the evening. It had not just cost me the price of a gallon of This, That and The Other, nor did I worry about the price of the curry. The evening had cost me my hopes and dreams as well.

I looked across the swaying carriage at Jocasta, her travel bag on its trolley snagged the ankles of any passenger attempting to negotiate the lobby outside the stinking toilet compartment. So that was what I got in exchange for my hopes and dreams; a drunken conniving manipulative bitch. And quite an ugly one at that.

In exchange for somewhere to ‘lie-low’ for a few days,  she’d promised me a half share in the remaining 5 carat ruby. The last of five rubies I’d given her 3 years ago, along with very simple delivery instructions. They like her had never arrived and some very unsavoury people had been looking for them ever since.

As the train began to slow Jocasta’s eyes opened halfway, they seemed to sweep the carriage in different directions until finally they came together blearily regarding my own. Her once fresh carnation now drooped drunkenly in her lapel. And I wondered what else she expected to take from me tonight…

...as the train pulled into Thatcham Station.

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