Other Plans

OTHER PLANS

IKEM NYLANDER

Published by Ikem Nylander

Copyright © Ikem Nylander, 2015

e-book formatting by Guido Henkel

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, shared in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

For Celia

Many very deserved thanks to my father, for his unstinting support; my mother for her unstinting chatter; and to the rest of the Nylanders for all their tales.

And to the cats, obviously.

1

Sat in my living-room, dressed and primed to venture out of doors, I was waiting.

Again.

She? Well, she was leaving.

Finally.

I suppose I could stop at this point and offer belated learned insight into what follows, some measure of the weight and import of tidings to come, hints of intrigue and suspense. Unfortunately I can’t. This is not because I don’t want to ruin things, but because I don’t have any. I was waiting, and I still am.

Also this is not, I hasten to add, a slice-of-life tale either because those, I’m reliably informed, have a point. I have been over these events again and again in typically obsessive fashion and for the life of me I can assure you there isn’t one. This is merely what happened.

And quite a lot of stuff did happen, most of it bad or mildly bad. In fact, that’s a reasonable summary of every 6 months of life. So apart from wondering what special gene I have to keep so damn cheerful, I have failed to find extraordinary significance in these events.

That’s not to say others haven’t.

Indeed, Jane, Caius, Newpy, even my brother Arthur have all cast their mind’s eye, from a perch deep within their own worlds, on the trove of evidence and declared that ‘Yes,’ things changed and things changed me.

Can’t quite see it, myself.

So I shall let you be the ‘jury of my peers’ to settle the matter. The only real things to note at this point are that 1) Disregard entirely the woman who is vacating my premises and my life at the start of this tale. She holds no sway over anything that follows and in fact I never heard from her again. I wish her well in the same way I wish well everyone of generally good nature whom I’ve never met. And 2) I was still waiting…

Though she was leaving, it was however quite typical that she wasn’t doing it nearly fast enough for requirements. The match, the Cup Final, had already started and my status as a vindictive neutral made it imperative I get to The Bear & Staff tout suite to enjoy it from the bottom of several pint glasses.

Bad enough I was making her leave though; I at least had to be here while she did it. Which I admit hadn’t been my first instinct; that had been to avoid this totally; leave instructions then leave for the day. In the end I’d been just a little too scared to do that. Scared that lonely tears (on her part) might turn to destructive rage. Scared that she’d still be here on my return, thinking that there must be some misunderstanding that could be resolved. Scared that I’d recant, call up and beg her to stay. Not much chance of that last one but best to cover all bases, yes?

So I’d concluded that the best way to get past these fears was to overwhelm them with something else, and I’d turned to my dad’s old favourite emotion; anger. Because these days, nothing made me angrier than being in the same room as her.

I squirmed with impatience on the La-Z-Boy™.

On the screen, forced into dimness by the blazing sunlight from the windows behind it, Villa had started livelier, trying to stun their way towards an early goal. Admirable, but I was sure it would just rouse the deadliness in Liverpool. She made noises with suitcases. I looked up to find her, astonishingly, finished and ready to go.

Honestly I’ve become accustomed to my cousin Gladys’s attempts at packing: long, drawn-out bewildering affairs birthed in a chaos universe. As such, the strength it took not to smile with delight at her efficiency was Herculean. Such an act would trigger the madness though, and doubtless lead to further delays. I flicked off the TV and dropped the remote instead. She handed me a folder.

You were hiding this in my suitcase, she said. I looked down at the black PVC binder. Miz.

Thank you, I said.

I didn’t read it, she said. I didn’t care. Her opinion of my writing would never be important, but I frowned so she’d be confused by how I felt about that. I hadn’t actually looked at the thing in months, which was annoying, so the frown became genuine.

No matter. Now was not the time. I mentally flipped onto automatic and the same old platitudes of how ‘we’ll keep in touch’ and ‘still remain friends’, but ‘if either of us ever needed anything…’ all came trotting out, shiny and brazenly unashamed to be on parade again.

She accepted them, gave a couple back, though it was clear tears were queuing for departure right then and there. I seethed a little inside. It was all so unnecessary. Perhaps next time she’d wait to be asked to move in, rather than just colonise critical space in someone else’s flat. We’d probably be fairly content right now if she hadn’t been so emotionally aggressive.

Women, eh? If there wasn’t progress, there wasn’t anything apparently.

I left her at the doorstep, going the long way round to The Bear and Staff just so I didn’t have to walk some of the way with her.

And that’s how it ended. Painless. By virtue of it all having been shed in the preceding months. Now it was merely cathartic. Or it would’ve been if I hadn’t been busy quaffing beer the rest of the afternoon.

Caius and Newpy, first to hear of the departure over the first ale, were stoically predictable;

Good riddance, and "Thought you were gonna havta fucking shoot your way out of that one!" intoned respectively. Cat, when he came home was much more enthusiastic. He found me watching highlights of the game I’d seen live that afternoon.

I spied his studied approach into the lounge, then the pause as whiskers twitched to an unexpected depletion of a particular scent, and the ensuing race as he circled the place to verify his suspicions. He still wasn’t buying it, and decided to come and ask me straight. Two paws on the arm of the La-Z-Boy™, questioning eyes and a bobbing head. I smiled at him; Yes, she’s really gone. He brought the other legs up without apparent effort and began settling down in my lap with a sort of ‘That’s alright then’ in his manner. He didn’t like sitting with me when I was drunk but clearly felt the need to congratulate me on my disposal efforts.

I realised I was going to have to iron a shirt at some point. There had been some benefits to her invasion after all. Cat was nudging at the folder in my lap with a taupe nose. On the screen, all the pundits agreed Liverpool had probably edged the game and deserved the trophy in the end. The apparently adult feline sitting on me was now batting at the corner of the black PVC folder with one paw just as a kitten would. The Miz folder, I realised. I’d been sitting on it at one point. Cat was probably right; I was betraying myself by not working on the damn thing. Betraying the dream.

Shame it was so hard. Even now I struggled to recall the story. So I ruined Cat’s game and opened it…

Would it be rude to interrupt just to mention that in my opinion, the best part of these 6 months was in fact the books? Sounds like something a Diocesan monk would say, but it’s true. As such there is a lot about them in here and I make no apology for it. Perhaps there’s no special gene keeping me cheerful after all, just a good reading list and a fiery imagination.

…ah yes. I’d had wildly high ambitions at one time. The point where I’d left off still had the feel of an impassable ravine. I looked at the Cat. He was wondering when I’d leave the damn chair to him and sod off. Charming.

Not then, naturally, but in the days to come I did begin to make an effort with the writing again. I suppose it was a vain hope that doing so would stir something in me.

But it didn’t. And I was still waiting.

DOS

That day, the day of the Cup Final, was as far as I knew the first weekend that my oldest friend, Milan Rijevic had been back in England. It took all of 4 weeks from that point for him to rope me into one of his ridiculous plans.

He was now rich, you see, and somehow this required him to spend lots of time abroad. I didn’t really understand it, but apparently once being an up and coming superstar chef and then turning round and becoming a restaurant critic literally lined one’s path with gold.

Which was why we ended up waiting by the side of a B-road on the southern outskirts of London on a duskish Friday evening.

My jacket flapped now and then in the swirling breeze. I half-expected to clutch at an eyeball in pain at any moment.

What are we doing here? I belatedly asked. Milan looked almost confused at the question. The place was deserted, everyone else obviously remaining close to beer-pumps or getting ready to do so.

This is where we’re going to meet her, he said obviously. "Or rather, you’re going to meet her. We will go down for the weekend, and I shall get called back up tomorrow morning. You can use the rest of it to work your charms."

Definitely the sort of plan ‘other people’ came up with, that one; one involving little or no input from them besides the initiation.

I’d told him ‘No’ several times, but he’d walked through them as though they were merely necessary fences I had to negotiate in order to finally comply. Considering where we were it was hard to argue with the logic. Of course, the fiscal incentive tied to all this helped make the sums work.

I sighed testily instead, pulled up the collar on my jacket. It wasn’t really necessary but looking cool swung it.

Mate, look. I mean, I’m supposed to be recuperating after last weekend. Or at least spending time with Nat. Who, by the way, may well be perfect for me, I said pointedly. A weak argument considering the freshness of that outlook but there we are. "Or at least working on Miz."

He was casually dismissive as he took out a cigarette.

There is plenty of time for love and poetry after this. One last little dalliance for you; I thought you’d appreciate it. He was struggling to light it in the stiff breeze. I stared at him.

What are you doing? I asked. The sudden carriage of his palms and lift of his eyebrows told me what he was about to say.

I don’t have any weed, he said in apology, and finished it with a questioning tone. I shook my head at him while reaching for my inside pocket.

Schoolboy error, I noted with distaste, and retrieved a joint. So what’s she like? I asked, lighting up.

Ahh. Very delectable. An older woman; someone who may be able to impart a final couple of sexual secrets to you. He smiled. I wasn’t amused. Not a good way to have your first puff.

What!? Listen mate, an older woman was great when we were 17…or even 21. Now an older woman is looking forward to grandkids, I spouted. "Knitting for them even." Milan shrugged away my concerns.

Trust me; she does not in any way resemble anything approaching a grandmother.

Pissing hope not, I intoned. Milan chuckled as he took the offered spliff.

His real name, like a lot of people, was actually Steven; but during his formative years, he, again like a lot of people, fell in love with what was then considered the greatest team in the world. Steve paid homage by changing his name. The Croat ancestry was genuine nonetheless.

He has a wide face, Milan, and one of those physiques that gives the impression of excess weight when this really isn’t the case. Not bad for someone whose job is to eat.

He was also the one person I knew who pretty much always wore a suit, irrespective of the occasion. Admittedly he could afford many, many of them, but still. My dad approved wholeheartedly of this custom as it was his too.

Back on the side of the road, I eyed him closely.

And have you made sure she’s not racially ignorant? I asked. That puzzled him and I got a ‘Huh?’ in response. I shrugged a sigh almost not believing that I had to explain this. "Look mate, we don’t care but women are different. And there are lots of women, most of them in fact, especially in that age range, that wouldn’t venture outside their ethnic group." A dim light flared in his pupils.

You’re worried she doesn’t like black men? he said. I gave another shrug.

It’s not about liking, it’s more about not having subconscious fearful hang-ups about us, I attempted to clarify. Milan was already waving such concerns away.

Trust me, she has no hang-ups about race. She used to be a city girl, he said.

Means little, but you’re the one that knows her.

Milan drew deeply on the joint and gazed somewhat hazily at the scenery around us.

Things were odd then. The wind blew quite strongly of a sudden, tearing at our eyes. It muted his words bizarrely.

You know there is a short story, he started. "…I can’t remember who it’s by, but it describes a meeting between an archangel and the Devil himself. Anyway, there’s a point in it where all the world quietens for a moment, and it says: Only the Seraph heard the Devil’s whisper…"

He drew on the joint again. Reminded me of this, he said. Us two, out here. I think I pictured it something like this. The emptiness of the moment. It’s very good, you should read it.

What happens after that? What did he whisper? I asked, eyeing the joint hawkishly. Milan squinted at me.

"He? he queried. You make assumptions, my friend." I snorted.

"Fine. What did it say?" I said. He puffed again, smiling.

Then, the Beast reveals how he believes he’s still a servant of the Almighty; still a pawn. Probably why he’s still so angry, Milan commented. I shrugged my shoulders.

If that reminded you of this, then which of us is whom? I asked. Milan stared at me. You know what I mean.

He guffawed.

I do actually. And I believe the betting is against you.

Really.

Of course.

Fantastic. Not just Jane who thought my soul was lost then. I took the joint off him for that.

So what am I supposed to be doing again? I asked.

It’s simple. Mrs. Vaulteritt has first option to take over her late husband’s stake in the restaurant. He gave a sneering sideways look just then. I already know what that invertebrate Calder wants to do and it doesn’t take much imagination to figure what any bailiff wants, despite them lying like priests. This woman though, I have no idea about. He looked at me seriously, and caught me fiddling with my phone. You have to find out what she intends to do. I nodded at the ground.

You want to buy her stake, right? I asked, sliding the offensive instrument away. Milan squinted.

Ideally, but I don’t mind what Henry left me so long as she’s going to do the right thing, he said.

So I don’t have to sleep with her? Milan smiled.

If you can find out without also learning about her undergarment preference then all well and good, but I doubt it.

Ridiculous, yes? Barely plausible as a plan of action. I, the fresh young meat, was meant to honey-trap the widow of a titled millionaire into revealing her business plans for a restaurant they’d both owned. Retelling brings the idiocy into rather sharp focus but I can honestly say that at the time I merely thought it was ‘a bit of a stretch’.

Milan gestured down the road suddenly. There, just within range of my unaided vision, a gold Mercedes was approaching.

Three

Dream 12

Halfway through the celebration, I’d forgotten who I was.

I knew that we had indeed achieved something great and that there was just cause for revelry.

I think I was a soldier. I was dressed after all, like many of those I saw, though my sword had disappeared and an empty scabbard hung at my hip. No matter, I thought. What I needed now was to find a warm bed and a warm body to share it with. A tavern full of possibilities presented itself on my right, and I shoved at the door. For a moment I was blinded by the wash of light and noise from within, and that brightness lead swiftly to darkness…

I awoke, already in chains…

All that bacchanalian intrigue in the countryside was still weeks away though. First, there were more annoying matters to deal with.

Case in point, immediately following Cup Final weekend was also the first time Sam Tready stepped foot into my team’s little area at work. This was a tragedy as I’d begun to believe my own fantasy that navigating a floor-plan and finding us was actually beyond him.

Technically he was my boss, but up till then I’d only met him in meetings where he’d proved that, assuming he knew the word, ‘succinct’ had very little to do with ‘success’ in his mind. One of the oddities about working in IT was that even though none of our projects required reporting back to him, the line from my name led up to his on the organisation chart. Essentially, he was in charge of my team’s cost centre.

That team, 8-strong including 3 girls, had its own little section, semi-partitioned from the open-plan cubicled landscape; a quirk in JCN’s continual colonisation of 12 Water Street.

Myself, Jacqui, and Ed shared a stretched c-shaped desk in the middle of the space, whilst everyone else had desks against the surrounding walls & windows. Set in the middle, I faced the doorway looking out on the rest of the floor and felt something like how I imagined Captain Kirk did.

Six months since he became my boss before he managed to find us in the building. And then to check up on a project we’d already finished. Classic behaviour, you’ll agree, but Tready wasn’t finished. Disregarding his lateness to the party, he still decided to offer various suggestions on how what we’d built could be simpler, easier and generally slicker. Yes, I’d been deliberately keeping him away from the rest of the team. No, I hadn’t told them what he was like.

As such, while Tready demonstrated his managerial credentials, I had to stare down the outraged looks to make sure no stationery took flight in his direction. After that I gave my own demonstration on how to deal with middle management.

There were three basic techniques. First, if possible, blind them with science. Tready looked lost within the first minute of my spiel but he held on gamely. Next, ask them to collate their critiques at their leisure and send them back for actioning. That equated to real work after all, and the man clearly would rather just dictate his unfounded impressions right now, so…

Finally, I pointed out that what he wanted, at this stage, would really be rather expensive.

That was the true magic. He quickly took the second option as a way to get out of any immediate commitment. In charge of cost centres, see?

After that fruitful episode, and to make up for Ed’s habitual Monday morning tardiness, I took an early lunch at the pub with the other idiots I’d formed close personal bonds with. It was usually better than eating at my desk, surfing for the minutiae of the football team I supported.

And that’s when I found out about Milan.

Newpy had got there first, sitting outside in the roped-off pavement section that The Gargoyle advertised as a ‘veranda’, halfway through a cigarette. The piercing grey eyes, auburn eyebrows and flaxen hair didn’t indicate anything amiss yet his pint was already half-drunk so it must have been a hard morning in endowment law. I settled opposite him.

Where’s Octavian’s love-child? I asked, referring to Caius. Truly, the Latin flavour of his name was a constant source of inspiration. Newpy flicked his lids at the establishment.

Inside, he mentioned. Ordering. I retrieved a menu from the tabletop.

Why? They do table-service here, I glanced at him. He nodded in agreement and smiled deeply.

I hailed a plump waitress, ordered a pint of France’s finest lager, a chicken, bacon and salad baguette with chips; and an extra portion of chips, because if you can, you do. Caius arrived and settled between us; threw a greeting my way before turning on Newpy.

Y-you could ‘ave told me, he accused. Newpy shrugged and put out his cigarette.

Could’ve, he agreed.

Caius stared at him for a moment; a younger version of the same person had thrown fists into shoulders under such provocation, yet he turned to me instead. His mid-length light-brown hair that was an identical shade to that of his eyes barely moved in the breeze. The sunlight had turned his reactive-lensed spectacles into chocolate-tinted panes out here.

M-milan’s in town, you know, he said as though just recalling it.

I took a sip of a drink the denizens of ancient Egypt would recognise.

Serious? How long for? I asked. He shook his head.

Dunno. Haven’t seen him yet. Th-this twat told me, he gestured at Newpy. I looked at the insulted and he glanced at me, thoroughly unconcerned by the vitriol from his right.

He called my parents, he stated.

Why? I asked.

Coz that’s the only number he ever fucking remembers. He drops a phone into a frying pan every 2 months! He was trying to get hold of us on Saturday to watch the game apparently. I told him you’d give him a bell.

And why can’t the lazy git call me? I queried.

Yeah, I gave him your number as well in case you were being stubborn, he replied.

I’m not being stubborn, I rationalised. I’m just not the one who’s been out of the country. Caius waved his pint.

W-well, it’s good news, he said smiling. H-haven’t h-had a world-class dinner i-in months.

I shook my grin at his exploitative reasoning.

Classy, I muttered, and he shrugged nonchalantly. He had a point though; if you knew millionaires then really, it would be almost rude not to take advantage of them.

Hey, how’s the renovation coming? I asked him. He put a hand through the bouffant-esque hair.

Th-the paintings all done, he said. He glanced at me and Newpy. A-and thanks f-for all your help with that, lads, he chimed, sarcasm dripping.

What? asked a perplexed-looking Newpy.

Think nothing of it, I said with glee. Is that the paint you got for free? I asked. He nodded.

Yeah. M-my only problem now is what to do with the bathroom, he replied.

What. The Fuck! Are you guy’s talking about? exclaimed Newpy. Fuck me, I can listen to boring-ass shit at work too but at least I get paid for it!

I had to smile. Cauis and I had gone through the pain of buying our flats so topics we’d once dismissed as insufferable had taken on an engaging edge. Newpy though, had yet to make such a committed plunge of any kind.

Besides! he said slapping a palm down on the table and leering across it at us. We’ve got far more important things to talk about!

Caius nodded.

L-like Brazil, he said. Newpy shot him a withering glance.

That shit can wait, mate. I’m talking about the fact that it’s half-time! he half-shouted.

Oh g-god… sighed Caius putting a hand to his head.

"What. The Fuck. Are you talking about?" I mirrored.

D-don’t listen to him, pleaded Caius. He’s a-a muppet.

Fuck off. Half-time, boys! said Newpy beaming and slapping the palm down again. May we have your 6-month tallies, please!

Y-you know we’re not at Uni anymore, right? asked Caius.

Oh my fuck! Are you still doing that? I asked him, suddenly realising.

Yep. We all are! he waved a finger to include the table unashamedly.

Why? I said, genuinely interested.

Because it keeps us fucking sharp and on our game, Gus! He leant back. You first.

Also, it’s not half-time. Half-time is in June, I said. He shook his head.

December doesn’t fucking count. You spend half the month with the family. Ruins the trend.

You mean half a week.

We’re playing Uni rules.

"O-oh! So y-you do see my point?" said Caius.

Can we just get on with it, pussies! Please! he half-shouted. Myself and Caius just giggled at his frustration. Only Newpy could take a count of sexual conquests so seriously. Now can we have your numbers please, Gus? he asked quieter. A stupid question if ever there was one.

Hmmm…well, up until yesterday I’d had a girlfriend for 10 months, so…

Newpy leaned forward and stared into my eyes again.

"But did you really only shag one girl in all that time, Gus?" he asked.

Ohh, ffffor ffffuck’s sake! said Caius.

What? Of course I did, I answered.

M-mate, why w-would he lie about it? asked.Caius. Newpy leant back and twisted to throw an arm over the back of his chair.

I don’t know. But he used to lie about his numbers at Uni though, he remarked.

No, I didn’t. Yes, I did. I simply thought everyone did. Especially back then. I switched things around. Go on then, Pup. What’s your score?

He reached for his pint. 11, he said smugly.

Since New Year? Bollocks! I said.

True, he said.

That’s basically a new 1 every fortnight, I said calculating. He was back across the table in a flash.

And that’s the schedule to keep to! You give yourself two weekends to pull and/or seal the deal on a previous pull. Otherwise, move on!

Hahaha! Man’s an idiot.

Jeezus… sighed Caius. "S-stop counting a-and start feeling!"

Yeah, I concurred. You are mental, mate. Hilarious, but mental. I swigged beer and shook my head at him. And you didn’t want to spend more time with any of those girls?

Nope. I got all my want, my lust for them out of my system. Literally, Gus, he said with a gleam.

Hmmm… I swirled my pint. They must’ve been wildebeasts, I muttered.

Caius burst out laughing.

Fuck off! protested Newpy.

Mate, if you didn’t want to date any of them, they can’t have been princesses, I reasoned. Or even…

Sss-standing upright, finished Caius. I squealed with laughter.

Can you jealous twats both fuck off and die? asked Newpy.

"I-I th-think they didn’t want to date him!" said Caius.

Oh yeah, that sounds right, I agreed. "You’re the problem," I accussed Newpy.

No. I just wanna take advantage of my youth. Who knows how many fucking more years I can do this? I don’t wanna sit there at 80 thinking ‘Shit. I wish I’d shagged more women.’

There was silence for a moment before me and Caius looked at each other.

80? he asked, and we both started laughing again. I-I don’t think all those STDs w-will let you get there.

Fuck off. And what about you then, Caius, what’s your tally?

He shrugged, smiled deeply and sank into his chair.

17, he whispered.

I beg your fuckin- I said.

What!?! spun Newpy around. You’re lying! shrieked Newpy, clutching the man’s lapels. Tell me you’re lying!

Caius couldn’t speak for laughter. He just shook his head.

Jeez. You dirty bastard. I marvelled. "And you was just goin on about ‘stop counting’! Stop counting, my arse! Forget Noop, you’re not gonna see 40! I suggested. You’ll be murdered by a gang of them."

All the food arrived just then bringing an end to the festivities.

I looked round the place before tucking in. Surveying the other diners, the chalk menu-board, the newspaper rack, the refreshingly hideous gargoyle statuette, the hanging-baskets, the drawings on the toilet doors signifying which was the Gents (old-timer in a wheelchair, blanket over his knees, cloth cap, waving a football rattle) and which was the Ladies (old dear with bifocals, knitting a football scarf – red and white, good girl – in an arm chair with a cup of tea next to her), the grey-green t-shirted uniforms, the simple plastered cream interior of the place.

Hey, said Caius, interrupting my reverie. W-we really do need to talk about Brazil, he declared, but that conversation could wait.

Why is this bullshit so good? I asked seriously.

Huh? they both turned to me.

Like we were just talking about, I explained. It’s immature, and total shite, if we’re honest. Yet I find it so fucking funny.

C-coz it is, said Caius, before making a huge forkful disappear.

That’s the point, I said. "I’m almost 30! And the shit I care most about is getting pissed, getting stoned, getting laid, and Arsenal winning the league. That’s alright in my twenties. Dammit, I expect that! But everyone else around us changed into people who have more important things on their list. We haven’t. I’m waiting. I’ve been waiting to change for about the last 2 fucking years! Not even a breeze from a different direction so far. And I don’t know why."

The sounds of quiet, determined chewing and polite cutlery usage met my finish.

Then Newpy pointed a fork with a half a sausage speared on it at me.

"Fuck me, man; you need to get laid." he said.

On Thursday, as was my semi-regular habit, after work I went to see my Uncle Jack.

What do you want? he asked before turning to walk away from the open door.

Oh yeah; nothing quite like the bosom of one’s family.

What? It’s on the way home! I said grinning idiotically.

You live south of the river and work in the centre. And this house is west of there. He stopped in the corridor to squint at me. So who are you lying to? I wheeled to shut the front door.

Just checking the mind was still holding off the Alzheimer’s, I said.

He looked at me pretending to be grouchy.

Ahh, a comedian, he said, which just made me laugh out loud.

Now we are told that Caius is better-looking than Newpy; yet Newpy, despite the surprising evidence of the last 6 months, generally does better with the ladies. He tries hard whilst Augustus’s wine-pourer does well due to the opposite; seeming not to care. It seems trifling now but trust me, trying to lose my virginity while growing up in that social circle had not been fun. Anyway, my Uncle Jack apparently used to have the same not-caring-but-very-successful thing going on, which my mum was happy to confirm though she was always at a loss to explain it. Either way, the widows living either side of this small semi-detached mock Victorian pad were happy to take turns cooking for him most days. Like me he loathed washing-up so there had to be some other recompense for such loyalty.

Uncle Jack said it was because his company was worth that of at least two other people, and my brothers and I found it hard to disagree. Favourite Uncle, no doubt. Also, despite visiting fairly regularly, I was still ordered round once every couple of months to give him a haircut.

Have you been home yet? he asked looking me up and down. I wanted to say ‘clearly not’, but some over-riding commandment of respectfulness got that deleted.

No. Straight from work, I said, peeling off the tie completely. He turned away and strode to the kitchen at the end of the hallway.

Good. Despite pleading, Mrs. A doesn’t know the limitations of my stomach, he said. I giggled to myself. It’d taken a while to know whether he only referred to them as A and B for our benefit, but coincidentally I think ‘A’ stood for ‘Atherton’ anyway.

Always happy to help a stomach in need, I said.

She’d made a surprisingly tasty casserole, and there really was loads of it, such that both of us could not polish it off in one sitting at the little round white table he kept in that kitchen. Uncle Jack wasn’t as impressed though, citing her efforts from the previous month to be superior, and he apologized on her behalf. I reminded him that I found quantity to be the more critical factor when it came to food. He laughed, called me a heathen, promised to deny our relationship in public from then on.

Afterwards, I insisted on washing-up. He snarled about spending good money on a dishwasher.

They use too much water. This way’s more conserving, I said.

Goodness. I thought 70% of this planet was water, he said, an eyebrow hiked up. I shook my head.

It’s not that straight-forward.

Explain later, he said, suddenly flinging an arm up in dismissal and heading to the lounge. Right now it’s time for my curse, he said. I joined him there after a few minutes. He was watching television. He looked comfortable enough.

What curse? I asked. He looked up at me, a hand covering half his face, and I realized he was ashamed.

Soaps, he said quietly. I stared for a moment, then glanced at the television. Had to shake my head in disbelief.

Soaps? I asked. You? He nodded.

I’ve started watching them, he said, as if admitting perversion of the darkest kind. I crouched into the seat beside him.

But you… I started laughing. You hate them! Always have. He nodded.

It’s terrible, he conceded. The widows have turned me to the dark side.

A thought suddenly hit me.

Does my mum know? I asked, recalling years of hilarious ridicule from him.

Goodness, no! he said, genuinely alarmed. She’s not going to either unless there’s rats in this family, he said eyeing me suspiciously. Are there?

I had to shrug thoughtfully.

Well, I wouldn’t trust Arthur with the location of a piggy bank bu-

Gustavus!

No. No. Of course not, I deflated. Shrugged again. Except Arthur. My uncle sighed at my petulant sibling rivalry. I knew what he meant; after all, I was waiting for that to change too.

I think I don’t have enough to fill my days, he reasoned eventually. Spent too many years working too hard to cultivate any hobbies.

But you still work, I mentioned. He looked at me with an unbeliever’s expression.

Two days a week? he asked. Looking over other people’s plans? Doesn’t count. I considered this, sat back in the chair and nodded. I glanced at the TV. I could not stand the things either, and this was probably down to him, yet I also watched them from time to time. Occasional comedy and occasionally attractive actresses were the lure. The drama quotient was too feeble to be considered as far as I was concerned, though, being in an overwhelming minority, I doubted the script-writers would be losing any sleep.

Don’t worry, I said. I lapse into them myself. He turned his head to me, then after a moment reached out and grasped my right hand.

I’m thrilled to have your forgiveness, he said. Now shut up, and turned back to the TV.

Friday, I went to pick the car up from the garage.

I did not have accidents. This was fact, and I occasionally gave nodded obeisance to the god-force Fate, both for my past providence and for continued good road-health. However, it seemed there was a percentage of the motoring public that was not even this diligent in their worship. I’d merely happened to be in the vicinity of one of their little mishaps. Rear lights smashed, and the bumper had been chewed up quite a bit. I was paying for all this though rather than ruin an unblemished 9-year no-claims record.

The youth who had caused all this fuss was a lucky man. His vehicle had actually been a lot worse off but that just wasn’t the point. I’d stepped out with clenched fists and cold fire in my belly to be confronted by a child. His moustache was wispy. The cardigan was slept in and every time he glanced at the damage, he saw some other expense awaiting him, beyond the financial, which scared him more.

As I walked to the garage through the awakening estate; one of those business parks that looked like an industrial one, memory showed the list of things more frightening to a student than monetary outlay to be very short indeed. And they all involved parents.

Some inner demon of empathy had doused my righteous flames of anger, and I’d let him off. Without even knowing what it would cost to fix everything. Needless to say, my other demons, under orders, had since been hunting around my subconscious for the villain responsible, though it had yet to be ensnared.

I should probably explain now that that’s how I imagine my mind works. Basically, a spaceship bridge scenario filled with demons/imps wearing identical off-white shifts with long-faded single words on them that had once said things like ‘Paranoia 1’, ‘Guilt 3’, ‘Envy 76’ etc. Nowadays, they all mucked in to get the job done. There was The Controller, of course, who generally made final decisions, steered the ship such as it was, and was only ever seen from the neck down. I swear I watched no more TV than most as a child. Honest.

After showing me what work had been done, Dennis, of Den’s Motors, took me back to reception to settle up. He handed me an invoice. I snarled at it, and re-doubled efforts to find that mischievous empathy demon. I fingered the bill, took out my wallet and cursed remembering several cash machines pass blithely by on the way here, and peered at him.

D’you take cards? I queried. He nodded firmly and brought up a portable credit card machine.

We take hostages if necessary.

After that I went home and got out the black PVC binder. One of