chapter fifty-four, Wednesday:3nddecember – the end?
My phone vibrates, a text, what now?
Strange, I think, as I swipe my phone screen, haven't I already chatted to everyone today, people are so needy.
VP: “Tharie, lets meet, I’m Daniels sister.” strange, Daniel giving her my number, he should know I don’t like it when people do that, don’t I have enough distraction and demands on my time?
TC: “OK, what’s this about Vanessa?” Do I really want to know?
VP: “Your tattoo” what! Only one person alive has seen my ink, and only one other knows about it, what’s going on?
TC: “What about it?” Defences are up now, I need more tea, clearly, and I can't seem to recall the correct way to ride a shoulder-in. The waitress appears to have disappeared for now. It's all spiralling out of my control.
VP: “I need to know what it looks like Tharie, I just got one too” bloody hell.
TC: “Let’s meet” but do I really want to?
I reach the meeting point on time, my Landrover is parked diagonally outside in the cracked concrete forecourt. I can see it deliberately from the seat I have chosen, well, you can't be too sure around here can you? I slide into a freshly wiped plastic covered bench seat in a booth, and order tea. Now I’m here though, it's got quite an odd ambiance, and I’d like a more substantial beverage, but they don't sell any alcohol.
My tea arrives, not nearly as dark as I’d requested, and that makes me cross, how hard can it be? Clearly she wasn't listening to my detailed instructions regarding water temp, the number of bags and the time to stew. Bloody hell.
It's delivered with a indifferent shove, part spilled into the saucer, that semi translucent white stuff you get in these places where the seams on the handles are uncomfortable to hold. The surface of the table is pastel pink and white gingham laminated, the dried marks of the cleaning cloth smeared across it. I hate waiting. I'm a slurp away from drumming my fingers on the table.
It’s a faux diner-type place, red, piped with cream plastic upholstery, mini juke boxes at every table, squeezy ketchup and brown sauce pots, refilled and wiped repeatedly alongside a plastic covered menu propped up the far end. Waitresses in candy-striped dresses and frilly aprons, American tan hosiery and comfy pumps shuffle uninspiringly across the mopped tile taking orders with little or no enthusiasm. The rolling stones play in the background, this fake 50’s Americana with a British band playing intrigues me, and tea is the very last thing on the menu which I naturally disprove of. The smell of pancakes and maple syrup reminds me carbs are key. And I check the boys on my phone, yep grazing in the sunshine, and the December sunshine is low and silvery.
Staring at my phone, I wonder what Vanessa will look like, and now I’m wondering why she selected this place to meet, seems an odd venue sitting as it does right on the A40. And now I’m here I’m wondering whether I should have told Daniel about this. Too much thinking, I’ll never learn.
Job one get here, tick. Next one will be trickier.
TC: “Hi Mum, I have a tattoo” I opt for the long, drawn-out approach, she'll appreciate that.
EC: “Me too” really? That's slightly distasteful.
TC: “Really?” Please say no.
EC: “Yes, your Dad and I both got them done on our honeymoon” I can’t believe I never knew that!
TC: “No!?” Please no!
EC: “For a designer Catharine, you're terribly old fashioned” that told me didn't it?
The waitress comes back over, her shadow passes over my phone as I end the text stream.
Her plastic name badge tells me she's a 'Betty', and invites me to: 'ask me about the specials'. A woman who looks less like a Betty I can't begin to imagine however, and my brain begins to hum. Perhaps they just have a selection of name badges in a little box at the back, old names from staff long gone, and you choose who you want to be for the day? Or they're a deliberate selection of 50's names and it's supposed to be fun, I’m not laughing, so likely not. An interesting idea though.
She hands me a folded piece of paper with an awkward smile on her thin lips, her lipstick is too dark for her complexion, oh Betty, I’m tempted to donate my Vogue to her right there and then. Her hands are older than her face and her nails chewed and painted dark red. I can always buy another one, her needs are greater than mine. I wait until she's gone back to refill the coffee pot before I glance at the paper in my hand. Opening it, the eagle and ship watermark clear in the fibres of the paper, written on it are just a few words. It's been conceived by someone who appreciates the retro feel, it's been typed on an old ribbon typewriter, and now Buddy Holly is playing, I begin to wonder whether it's all part of the delivery, the place, the message, Betty, the song?
It reads:
‘black horse/bay?
Whitehouse road
1968/sept.
J Ainsworth’
A code? Where is Vanessa?
TC: “Vanessa, I’m here at 'The Cherry Pie'” don't recommend the cherry pie not surprisingly, it looks oddly deflated sitting under a scratched clear dome on the counter top.
Black horse, that's a pub in Hainault.
Mum and Dad took us there when we were kids, it had a little play area looking out onto the forest with a huge friendly bay grazing beyond the barbed wire. With tiny pieces of his hair caught in the barbs. I remember bringing carrots along especially to feed the horse and getting very excited about it, until a little note appeared politely asking: Please don't feed Bob, he's watching his waistline, thank you. Naturally as a little girl I was upset, I loved to feed Bob, he was so big, and so shiny.
Mum would sip white wine and Dad was always chatting with that man. Henry and I didn't like him, he glared at us for playing and laughing, and Mum didn't speak a word to him either. Which was odd, she'll talk to anyone now.
I look around me it's far too quiet for nearly lunchtime, there's nothing happening but the peculator squirting pressurised steam onto the ground beans, and the sound of the commercial 50's in the air. I sit alone on the plastic bench seat, only one other person 'dining.' He has his broad slumped back to me the opposite side of the room, and an enormous half eaten all day breakfast in front of him. He wears a faded brushed checked lumberjack shirt and has thick fingers, funny how you notice things. He's quite still, perhaps his plate of heart attack has given him indigestion? The waitress has disappeared and I get the familiar feeling trouble is brewing again, and that of course reminds me, I’d like more tea.
And the answer?
VP: “Automated message: this number does not exist any longer, please contact the service provider for further information” that's odd too, bloody hell.
Whitehouse Road, Mum and Dad's first home was in Whitehouse Road, Seven Kings.
I should just go back home, but my tattoo does need explaining.
Here we go again.
TC: “Pete, you busy?” Please say no.
PF: “That depends on what you want me for” how did she get so smart?
TC: “Need to show you something” you’re not going to believe it.
PF: “Sounds interesting” you have no idea.
TC: “Can you meet tonight? Pleas say yes.
PF: “Sounds important? Yes, fine, usual place?” Thank you.
TC: “See you at 8 then” deep breaths everyone.
Who am I talking to when I do that?
Note to self, stop leaving notes to yourself.
Now, I can guess what you’re thinking dear reader, you’re right of course, let’s get that kettle on.
One more text though:
TC: “What year were you born Mum?” Virgo's are naturally inquisitive, we have that in common.
EC: “68 Catharine, a very good year” yes, I’d have to agree with that. A good year indeed....and my head begins to thump, ouch!
Note to self, try to stay out of trouble this time.
TC: “Daniel, you busy?” Please say no baby.
DP: “For you, I won't be” ahh, that's nice.
TC: “Tell me about your Sister Daniel, over lunch” I look around me, but not here.
DP: “Remember the place we first had lunch baby?” Do I? My face heats up just recalling my first day at RANDom.
TC: “See you there at 1.30” if the sprayed antiseptic they use to clean everything here hasn't sterilised my taste buds, I’ll be starving by then.
No, where can I get a descent cup of tea around here?
Book1theend.
DISSCLAIMER: For all those reading this text who think they recognise themselves or others amongst the colourful characters therein, you're wrong, and any similarity assumed is pure coincidence, they are all made-up. Plus, how vain are you? True bloody story. Now, just have a cuppa and stop wondering.
PEARCED TOO
Part four:
The bit before chapter one, Thursday: 13thfebruary2014 a sneak preview.
Vaguely aware of being cold I open my eyelids, squinting in the harsh lighting.
My phone vibrates, no it’s not my phone, tone and resonance is different, my wrist is irritated I look at the source, it’s my Dads gold watch. A super scientific looking thing with lots of buttons and functions, and a huge face. I try to get it closer so I can see, it’s never done this before I must have accidentally pressed something. My arm only travels so far before it’s stopped, a metal cuff around my wrist, I hear a chain rattle in the distance, as I pull to gain control, ouch!
Handcuffs!
I sit up, or try to, my wrists are bound in iron and I am held in place with a heavy chain, my ankles too, what the f*ck!?
Naked, I’m naked.
My watch stops vibrating, then pulses two more times and stops, odd. Why can’t I think straight?
I’m not in pain, I’m not hurt, I’m lying on black sheets and quite comfortable, what can I hear? Water, I hear water running somewhere in the distance, and a smell, a smell I recognise, Daniel!
“Daniel”! I yell, but no sound comes at all, I try again, and I get a mild throaty gasp and nothing more.
I remember, or do I?
My wrists, why don’t they hurt? The heavy iron cuff is lined with velvet, a deep orange, like the yolk of an egg. Free range of course. But that's not right either is it? Shouldn't it be red? Not sure.
I hear music? Yes, music, it’s something I recognise, but my brain is slow, must be the wine! Wine! Yes, that’s it, I had a lot to drink last night. Stone Sour, that's what I hear, far away, and someone humming, that smell, it stirs me. Daniel.
From the distance there’s a cloud of swirling steam emanating from behind a screen, I can’t quite see it properly, fuzzy and soft like a cloying cloud, and inside it is a figure, moving. Moving towards me, it’s a man, god no! Where am I, who’s fed the horses? Its Daniel He’s naked too, fresh from the shower. My head feels like cotton wool.
Bloody Rioja.
He approaches, pupils dilated lips curled, naked and hot, toned and tanned. My breath leaves my body because even that wants to touch him. Where did he get that tan from?
I am handcuffed to his bed, and he’s going to do something unspeakable to me, and I’m going to enjoy every moment of it, I close my eyes to enhance my other senses.
Daniel.
Daniel.
Daniel? Where are his soft strong hands, his clever fingers and his warm heavy toned body.
I open my eyes again, the smell has dissipated and disappeared. My bonds are biting into me and my wrist is sore from struggling. This isn’t how I imagined it. I’m cold, very cold, and naked, I’m lying on a bare mattress that sits on a flagstone floor, a single window high above in the wall letting light in. I can’t move. I can’t speak. Dirty, its dirty in here, I don’t like it.
My wrist vibrates a series of times, a code? I must have just pressed something and set off an alarm my Dad set when it was his watch, I miss him. So complicated this device, like a scientific calculator, its four layers of face twist and click into place depending on the task you want it to perform. But the only task it performs now is telling me the time. My Dad, he was a scientist, and his gold watch never left his wrist, when he died it was all I asked Mum for, it meant a lot to me she let me have it. Henry had the guitars, and records, I had the watch. It’s quite ugly and bloody huge, especially swinging on my tiny wrist, but it comforts me.
It shudders once more in a series of three beeps and is then quiet. The face lights up in an instant, the top two layers twist, the mechanisms sound like a safe cracker working on a combination. Then it stops. It’s never done this before, I’m quite intrigued.
Why am I so sleepy?
The watch face fades away and the dial and numbers are replaced with a message.
Where am I? Tom. C
What! Dad?! I frantically try to fiddle with it, but my shackles restrict my movements and I can’t reach one hand to another. For what seems like ages I struggle to free one hand and try to answer the text, I hear a loud hissing from a vent above me, and a vapour comes down toward me, and instantly I feel sick and sleepy, and in a few seconds I am consumed in a welcome soft blanket of darkness and soft sedation.
...who’s fed the hors…e…..s?
...TUNE-IN NEXT TIME FOR 'PEARCED TOO' the sequel.
…and get that kettle on too x