Out of Time

Out of time.

Chapter One

Scanning the rest of the empty cafe from his seat by the window Deigh, an overstayer from the more rule observant pre midnight clientele that visited this particular allnighter, prepared himself for the vagaries of a less inhibited tribe that would inevitably wash up as the night progressed. Behind the counter a change of shift had already taken place, the newcomer representing a build more able to withstand the alternative demands that this new demographic was likely to offer. Deigh swilled around the contents of his disposable coffee cup, unsure whether to order another, the flavour insignificant enough that it could go either way. Moving his bags to a less visible position on the seat next to him, he considered how few possessions he now owned. Apart from what he stood up in, the inventory, should it ever be necessary for someone, some authority maybe to write down, was held mostly between three bags. Two medium sized black leather backpacks and a laptop type satchel. The backpacks held a mixture of casual and smart clothing, nice pieces, or so he liked to think. The laptop satchel, unremarkably, a laptop, along with headphones, various chargers, his passport and birth certificate. Amongst these items was an envelope containing a couple of photos and three crayon drawings. The artwork by the hand of the child in the photographs, completed at various intervals in a young life. The first of the three had been drawn, Deigh surmised, at an age of about three years old when the inclusion of a body wasn't a deal breaker by its absence. Just an upturned mouth that challenged the outline of an oversized head over stick legs. The word, Daddy sloped off at an angle as it shrunk in size to a hurried finish at the edge of the page. Deigh knew for certain that he hadn't been the intended recipient at the time it was completed, but for him that did nothing to diminish the importance of this small, precious item when eventually he received it, along with the other two slightly more accomplished examples, that it was clear had been completed some years later. He was the biological father and that was enough to sustain him through this renewed search. With a new sense of vulnerability possibly forged by the connection with these threads from his past, he slid the five items back into the envelope, along with a little piece of his conscience. His Tag Heuer Carrera watch, a relic from another lifetime, reflected back a slither of light from those above, he pulled down the cuff of his flight jacket not wanting to advertise here the item that he had recently thought long and hard about pawning in order to fund this new life. If he were honest with himself he knew for the last ten days or so he'd just been treading water, getting acclimatised before the emotional onslaught of what he hoped to encounter had time to test just how prepared he really was. In the process of getting started on this road, between the errands that he had to commit to, this particular cafe had been a place he returned to on many occasions. In some way an immersion into a different reality to the one he was used to, a way, or so he believed, to test the water. Though often losing himself to snippets of other people's lives along the way. Managing to stifle a laugh, he remembered the first morning he'd sat in this same seat,  when on that occasion he had been on the receiving end of a buffeting that had sent his coffee lapping into its glass saucer. While turning in his chair and being marginally annoyed to this intrusion into his latest retrospective, he’d pulled aside his hand painted seat to provide a little more room for the newcomers. The volume around him suddenly all enveloping. A young

woman had nodded an apology in his direction, as she steered her pushchair and two young, squawking children into the space behind.  An old lady, a morphed likeness of the younger one but with fifty years more milage on the clock, had taken the seat opposite her. Deigh trying to mind his own business had turned his attention back to what was left of his coffee, while the volume of their conversation had left him with no choice but to listen. ‘Fucking how much,.......for cheese on bleeding toast..........fucking liberty’. ‘Nan.......please don't keep swearing around the boy, ees started reception school now, eel start repeating it there’. ‘Well tell im ee fucking cant’. ‘Nan .......... Shut The Fuck Up!’.

To distract himself from the domestic taking place behind him Deigh had picked up a yellowing copy of the previous days newspaper from an adjoining table, the fading headlines remind him that things hadn't changed all that much in the ten years that he’d been living abroad. The bruised and blackened image of an old pensioner stared out from a cup ringed page. Pain and confusion lay etched into his broken face. A final beating perhaps, never to be explained. The rest of the page also contained stories that may have been recycled from the previous decade,......... impending strike by NHS workers, MP lobbying scandal, MOD cutbacks. His attention suddenly drawn to an unsympathetic mugshot, a picture of someone that Deigh thought he'd recognised. Ten years of good food and wine though had pumped him up, now almost a spitting image type caricature of his former self. The MP for Brighton Kemptown, Timothy Palling now appeared less eligible bachelor or the man about town as Deigh had remembered him. Now more career politician. In fact he'd made it all the way to Secretary of State for Business, Innovation and

Skills, as described in the article beneath his unflattering photo. The article went on to describe,‘ how he would be delighted to welcome, this coming month, his Russian counterpart, Alexei Kadyrov, as part of a new trade deal between our two great nations. In recent times we have often been at odds with each other, but it is clear that a common ground has been identified an we are now entering a period of realignment. As a result of the less than sympathetic murmurings from the new administration in America, who it appears have lost interest in the special relationship our two countries used to enjoy, new links with established and emerging economies must be forged’.  The headlines seemed to echo Deigh’s own transient existence, he’d left the UK. without a plan and returned a decade later in the same state. His job prospects and living arrangements were presently enjoying the same level of uncertainty. On a more positive note he was happy to admit, his relationship status continued to be more notional.

Through the open door, muffled cries of squabbling seagulls and impatient traffic queuing in both directions along the coast road, played a familiar sound track. One that had accompanied much of Deigh’s life growing up on the south coast. Now that he was attempting repatriation, although a little further west, the coast remained a fascination for him, it's randum metamorphic nature had captured his imagination at an early age. Almost mediterranean on a rare but perfect summer's day, shades of blue, the pallet against which he’d witnessed the colourful people at play.  On a winter's day, discoloured with Icelandic greys, often a portent to an unsympathetic terror lying just out of sight. Before the obligatory melancholy of a Sunday evening caught up with him once again Deigh decided to divide his time between some long walks around the area and to prepare for work. A job he'd fortuitously lucked into, as opposed to one obtained through the usual job search method. During the previous week he had found himself sitting in a town centre bar, having suffered a morning of trailing from one council building to the next. Registering once more as a UK. citizen, even though born and bred there, was more difficult than he had anticipated. Living outside of the country for just over a decade in sunnier climes, had made the process of repatriation complicated. He was being treated with caution by each department he encountered. He began to feel more and more as if he were some kind of returning extremist rather than just a confused expat. In the midst of this ordeal, and he would be the first to admit that this was often his default setting to a stressful situation, he stumbled off to a bar. A slightly more upmarket venue than one he would normally have chosen. Once inside he quickly ordered, finding a seat amongst other thirsty visitors, all of whom seem fashionably well healed. He sat, although ill at ease he retained the capacity to admire his well coordinated neighbours, pretending at the same time not to eavesdrop on their conversations. Unsolicited, one story in particular demanded his unqualified appraisal. Sitting rather closer within the boundaries of his personal space than he would have usually been happy with, was the comfortable looking figure of a Cromby clad middle aged Jewish looking businessman, his companion a Russian giant, wearing the obligatory tight fitting leather jacket. The essence of the conversation between them, was that they had somehow lost a driver and would quickly have to replace him, or next week was going to be a problem. At this point Deigh decides on a clumsy intervention, quickly offering his services as a driver, explaining that, he was new to the area and was looking for a job. A look of menace from the Russian quickly cuts him off mid flow. The Jewish looking gentleman undeterred considers Deigh for a moment, showing off his Rolex with a exuberant shake of the wrist, the high value timepiece catching both light and attention. In his warm east London accent he makes it clear, ‘that listening in to other people's conversations could be potentially bad for your health’. His gold toothed smile appearing both friendly and threatening, with little pretence at either. As Deigh prepares to make his excuses and leave the Russian grips his knee, an immovable force insisting that he stay put. ‘You looking for a job then, ..... any experience, driving?’. Quickly Deigh nods and then again, indicating a yes to both questions. ‘Do you have any other commitments, family or anything that may be a problem to you working away from home?’. Deigh provides an economical shake of the head, offering a rather weak sounding, ‘no’, the circulation in his leg beginning to be a problem.  Having exchanged a look with his associate and an almost imperceptible nod, the cromby clad member of the duo instructs Deigh to report to their depot on Monday at 8am. and be ready to drive. Delivered with the same mix of warmth and menace that over the years Deigh had begun to recognise as a trait of powerful, but all too often damaged men. Despite this internal warning he accepted the invitation, a mistake even he would recognise, but a predisposition of his lack of risk aversion. Buoyed by this upturn in a potential financial opportunity it somehow didn't seem prudent to bother them with any further details of the employment contract.The meeting over, Deigh steps in the direction that the Russian had helpfully indicated, his big head and practiced intimidatory stare encouraging a way out of the bar and back into a diluted Autumn sunshine. This was his first meeting with Mr. Adam Levi (real name), an individual that in another life may have become a friend and  Mr. Vasily Aleyev (one of many real names), in any life would always be a menacing bastard. Back on the pavement Deigh had taken a couple of deep breaths to reset his heart rate after this sudden upturn in his financial outlook, the cooler more northerly air reminded him that Barcelona now seemed a lifetime away, even though his skin was yet to return to its original blue/white hue. The days of running test cars between Germany and southern Spain were over. The finality of this silent contemplation no longer in doubt as Deigh continued to consider what else had been cut from his life. Ten years of smiling through a German windscreen, with just the right hair, the right sun shades, the right amount of swagger, all gone. Along with the rest of his ‘companeros’ he’d convinced himself that, not only did he look the part, but he deserved the life that accompanied it. The German supercars that they flashed past each other in, were theirs for a while. When in fact, a nice fully loaded golf was closer to their particular pay grade. A flat in Barcelona, just off Carrer de Valencia, a base from which they tested the patience of the most accommodating bar owners of the city.  Along La Rambla, Passeig de Gracia, Plaza Catalunya, Port Vell, just a few of the locations from which the party was asked politely, on more than one occasion, to leave after over celebrating another British sporting victory, a birthday, anniversary or whatever the bloody excuse had been. Being away from home, the troops felt obliged to put more effort into the celebrations, perhaps to retain some identity. On reflection, beneath the facade, he began to accept the fact that in reality they all missed home, more than they had been ready to admit. But the party couldn't end, or that was what they had kept telling each other, ‘Dare to Dream’, the mantra repeated with every raised glass, new club, new girl. But the party did end and quickly, when the white stuff replaced the brown stuff, and hit the fan. On this occasion the fan inside of a shiny new Porsche Carrera S. as it flew backwards off the road and into a long lived Spanish fir.  Although nothing to do with Deigh or the car he was driving at the time, he had been present in the convoy. The Spanish police were only slightly more accepting of their contrived version of events that led to the incident, than they knew the owners of the substance would be. The troops scattered. Dream  over. 

Chapter Two

Today was the first time that Deigh had began to feel that the flat could become a home, he had perhaps judged it too harshly on arrival. But now with the autumn sunshine, although slightly watery, was filtering through the grime streaked velux windows, a more positive mood had silently began to insinuate itself amongst his conspicuously sparse possessions. Having already started to accept the loss of his old life, Deigh recognised that not to fully embrace this new one would be a mistake. The shock that had initially held him in default mode for a couple of weeks had at some point started to dilute, its strength watered down with new responsibilities and opportunities. The former arrived almost immediately on his return to the sceptered isle, the later, like today's weak sunlight, was just starting to part the clouds. The sobering realization that he would never be able to revisit any part of his former life though, still rankle. Like the death of a close friend, cheating the loss, the finality, was never going to be an option. If a lift in his spirit were to be  propelled forward, a conscious effort on his part was the only option out there at the moment, his wing men were who knew where. Perhaps Deigh considered, like him licking their wounds in some scabby low rent apartment, or worse if they hadn't had the sense to put some miles between themselves and the Med. Picking at the scab of these raw memories he recognised must be deterred, self doubt could not be encouraged today. Especially on the eve of some gainful employment that, he hoped, may anchor his life for the foreseeable future.

Southampton's West Quay shopping centre held all of the retail therapies that he knew he may need to continue this recovery. Some additions to a wardrobe modeled around a very different climate, were well overdue. Statistics insisted that this pleasant autumnal weather would not last much longer. With this in mind he reasoned a stylish van drivers apparel would be the way to go, an excuse if one were needed to buy something that would celebrate a more layered approach to style.  As the bus journey nears the shopping centre his attention is continually drawn to the hoards of people hurrying along the pavements, each intent on the trials of their individual lives. Jealous of this purpose fuelled determination in which they appear so well rehearsed, he begins to feel at this moment as if they are all part of some great performance in which his lines are still yet to be written. Or maybe he’s just been written out, his story line, like that of some fading soap star, going nowhere. His stop arrives just in time, the jault of the slowing bus providing him with a much needed motivational shake. Stepping off the platform at West Quay, about to take part in the shopping frenzy inside, for some reason fills him with an irrational dread. The experience akin to revisiting an old board game, one that he was never too keen on, but others seemed, for some unfathomable reason to treasure. The objective in this case, to collect as many garment filled bags as is possible to carry in one go. The winner being the person with the most stuff at the end. Looking down at his hands he notices a visible tremble as he stuffs them back into his pockets and joins the crowds milling towards the entrance. With one last lungful of fresh air he enters the mall, to be instantly exposed to a cocktail of store scented candles, fast food and sweaty shoppers on the other side. At the halfway point of his shopping spree Deigh decides to allow himself a drink, one containing alcohol. He dares to mime the words, possibly to see if verbalising them alone will scare him out of the idea. Instead, predictably he can already feel the warm glow that alcohol will provide before he has even raised a glass. That, in truth has always been the problem. His predisposition to all the benefits that alcohol tricks you into believing in. The extra powers that you think you possess whilst under its influence, whilst sober he will admit are often as fantastic as they are stupid. In good company, his favourite being the ability to deviate from actual facts when relaying a past event, even a sporting story that all parties in the conversation can accurately recall, will often be modified to suit the giddy, alcohol flavoured mood. Whilst paying for his first drink, at point of delivery, an old custom to be relearned, the thin wad of euros that traveled back with him, peep out from between the folds of the larger Sterling. In their presence once more, he imagines the warmth of the Mediterranean, its enduring heat escaping through the pores of these last dust crumpled notes, providing one last exotic, ‘dame de noche’ filled breeze, as it dissipates through the soulless theme bar in which he now sits. One drink becomes two and so on, he blames another memory for this current lapse, one that the only evidence of existence lays between the dusty layer of his old leather wallet. A photograph perhaps, but now for the moment at least, its existence has slipped behind a vaporous curtain of alcohol. By the time Deigh is ready to leave the bar, having completely lost the sinuouse thread of what it was that has undone him on this occasion, his main focus now on not colliding with other members of the public. Passing the entrance to a multi screen, the decision to sober up in the dark thrill laden atmosphere of one of its theatres, promises Deigh to be an acceptable solution to his mobility issue. His battle with this choice of venue and the decision to sober up, in his continued state of intoxication lasts for less than the time it takes for him to walk to the nearest supermarket, where he purchases a bottle of brandy and another of coke. Mixing the contents together in the slightly unhygienic surroundings of a gentleman's convenience, like some grubby crack whore salivating over his next fix, his hands continue to tremble as they go about their business. Hidden now amongst his new apparel the bottle accompanies him to a seat. He feel it's comforting weight loll against the side of his leg as the bags settle with a crumpled sigh. With the film in play he removes the bottle from its hiding place, taking a crafty slug, while the on screen action demands the audience's full attention. His amplified imagination only out performed by his total ineptitude at not realising his exposure. Whilst under his booze constructed invisibility cloak,  a middle aged couple sitting behind report him to a member of the cinema staff, having taken exception to the fumes given off by the treacherous brandy content. In such a confined space the vapours had wafted to the noses of this consistently outraged couple. It comes as no surprise to Deigh when he is asked politely to vacate his seat by a slightly embarrassed, slightly rounded young man, who Deigh assumes is responsible for cinema security, it's not his first time after all. The security man struggles to squeeze along the aisle in either direction. To the annoyance of those suffering his warm odorous presence, his progress in executing his responsibilities are less than hurried. Deigh had always considered himself a happy drunk and agreed to leave the cinema without causing a further scene. Following in the shambling wake of this unlikely bouncer, Deigh’s overstuffed bags create an equal annoyance to security mans overstuffed frame. Bumbling their way out and back to the atmospherically lit foyer, where ironically, plastered on one wall is a poster depicting the exact part in the film currently being played out on the screen. As his eyes struggle to focus, and not just because of the brighter light,  a new taller, leaner member of the cinema staff instructs Deigh to , ‘ leave the premises sir and do not return unless you are able to conduct yourself in a more orderly manner’. Deigh’s mind now fully detached from the here and now as a result of his alcoholic meal substitute, has an unbidden recollection of his Grandfather, reciting the exact same words to someone he was throwing out of his offlicence, while his twelve year old self looked on, shuddering with the non negotiable tone of the instruction. The journey home continues in a jellied blur while he finishes the now warm bottle of brandy and coke on the bus. Two ladies in the opposite seat scoul across at him, Deigh surmises a mother and daughter pairing. Each making a conspicuous effort, he imagines for the benefit of the other, to effect an air of total disgust, as the journey continues homeward bound. He contrives to match their affectation, with his version of an overly exaggerated delivery of indifference. 

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The act of ungluing his face from the pillow sends a searing pain through a skull prickly with each new movement, a reminder if one were needed of an over indulgent evening. Now upright,

his stomach contents challenged him to a race, the toilet bowl finishing line for first prize, the hall carpet for second. Vomit and unrelated thoughts swirl around in close proximity, as he clings like a sweaty limpet to the bile repellent porcelain. Returning to a single life where you please yourself and suffer the consequences, sit at the forefront of his silent, disjointed reflections. The only comfort is the absence of a reproachful stare from a silently fuming partner, waiting to be pacified when the time is right. No make up supper required here, or peace offering, hurriedly purchased in a rainy dinner hour. The sales assistant breathing in your contrition, detecting that this is no ordinary gift, but one to be wrapped in shame and guilt. Carefully delivered with breath held, in case normal service is not resumed. No makeup sex, rough and insistent, trying desperately to forge that intimate contact once more, to reestablish a joint consciousness, one that only soulmates can experience. The only presence standing in judgement today being that of his own disheveled reflection, waiting patiently for another chance to snigger with silent contempt, should he dare to glance forgetfully at the bathroom mirror once more. No, today will unfold fitfully, a disseminated blur. Having established that he had caused nothing worse than a slightly embarrassing situation at the cinema, Deigh continues to drift in and out of an alcohol induced stupor. Vowing at intervals, never to repeat an act of such self inflicted, life ebbing sabotage again, he tries to focus on tomorrow's new endeavor. Realising that the basis of his new employment is, to say the least, rather ethereal.  Running over the conversation again between Messrs. Levi and Aleyev, in a bid to convince himself that this wasn't some trick that the mind had played while starved, for some time, of close adult company. Then with relief, remembering the address given to him in the form of a shiny business card, by the russian looking russian. Double russian if that's possible and it appears in his case it was. The card's presence confirming that the meeting actually took place with the two individuals at the bar in town. One, a national physical stereotype overlaid with a version of, a russian gangster stereotype, a look that he'd groomed to perfection. The other one, possibly the boss, as many men of his descendancy, had kind of morphed into his current appearance. Well healed well tailored, a cigar and a Pringle sweater always at hand. Slightly overweight, hair slicked back above a wrinkled forehead and broad nose, with permanent holiday tan, he could be from any country that bordered the mediterranean. Day replaces the card at the back of his wallet, at the same time noticing how little folding money he had left, which conveniently helps to erase any doubt he still harboured about turning up tomorrow. The rain had washed the dust from the skylights with streams of dark threatening water. Now that the light is fading, he allows an irrational perception of being underwater to gain a foothold in his addled musings. Although two stories up, this new reality becomes more insistent. Had the outline of some aquatic nightmare flashed past the window, he wouldn't have been overly surprised, such is the weight of water now testing the resilience of the glass above his head.

If the rest of the day was drifting by in an uneventful way it was yet to inform his stomach, its acid doused rollercoaster ride still some way short of hitting the buffers. To distract himself he turns on the tv to watch the evening news, in a vain hope that the world has been cancelled for tomorrow, rendering any preparations for work futile . The newsreader, overflowing with her new found confidence, having Deigh recognises, being newly promoted from the ranks of lowly sports reporter, confirms a reality he was beginning to fear. The misery that represents the status quo is still a fact and one in which the population will continue to exist, for the foreseeable future. With her enthusiasm washing over him like some news reading evangelist he becomes once more easily converted to the faith of misplaced trust. Even her efficiently veiled embarrassment at announcing with a slightly too jolly delivery that, ‘‘forty Afghans have been killed in an explosion in Kabul’’, has had little effect on his faith in her teachings.

Chapter Three

Stars fill the sky, at some point during the night the torrential rain had stopped, the clouds had cleared encouraging the temperature to plummet. Deigh careful to navigate a path between puddles of jet black water, slowly solidifying, succumbing to a crisp white seasonal makeover that even dog shit will benefit from. Frost crunches beneath his feet taking control of the colour scheme, like an inspired yet pedantic tv designer, intent on painting every surface a tasteful shade of white. Somewhere dawn is rising as he continues to walks west towards the docks, a sense that the black sky behind him is beginning to lose its battle once more, unable to suppress a wave of light as it floods in along with the tide. The cold air is filled with the muffled sounds of distant traffic cautiously probing its way into and out of the frozen city. The volume turned down a couple of notches, an all powerful being commanding that everyone and everything will be just a little bit quieter today. Even the rustling sound of his new jacket competes for attention in this low volume world. Grateful for the extra layers purchased at the weekend, even though he can't help but notice that every item of clothing chosen on the outing, appears to be in different shades of black. The result of an unconscious decision, one that must have reflected his underlying mood, provides a look that suggests, van driving ninja.

Checking the address again from the business card and mobile phone directions,  he realises that only one street separates him from his new employment, setting off a Mexican wave of nervous shivers through numb limbs. The feeling of turning up for school for the first time he decides, never leaves. A feeling of vulnerability washes over a once steady confidence, with an exhalation of cloud laden breath he acknowledges the importance of a paid income to secure some kind of future now that the past is fully out of reach, unpredictably stripping away something of who he once used to be. Taking the photo from his wallet as he tucks the business card home, he studies her expression once again. Desperate for some kind of connection his thumb brushes the surface of the photo, an action repeated countless times before. Again trying but failing to reassure himself, that at the time it was taken she was happy. A teens self conscious smile played around a full mouth, her dark eyes peeping beneath hair styled purposefully as a veil, no doubt to ward off unwanted attention. A 15 year old mini version of her mother, though improved in line with Darwinian theory. What would she look like now, 4 years have passed since the photo was taken, the last one Deigh had received. He had been unaware of her existence until she was ten years old, her mum getting back in touch somehow, even though he was no longer in the country by then. Always living an unstable life, she continued to party long after the music had stopped, never knowing the definition of too much. When they parted, Deigh had found out that Chloe was already in a new relationship. Never a match, their lives quickly separated, unraveled by distance and time. A decade later she reappears with a story and