Everything about Lucy was wrong. She had no redeeming features at all. Her head was oddly shaped - similar in almost every respect to a malformed turnip. Under her thick black Jeri curls, her face lacked symmetry, elegance or grace. Her eyes were spaced slightly too far apart, the left one just a little off-level, giving her the appearance of a bewildered shark in the most excruciating throes of the worst possible abdominal discomfort. Lucy was the only one I had ever seen who was capable of focusing on two people at the same time. Her eyes roved independently, each one in an unrelenting personal quest for an indeterminate and wholly unnecessary errand.
I saw her on the train, on my way to London Bridge, after a particularly heavy session with a couple of drinking mates. I quickly averted my gaze. I had seen many ugly faces in my time, but Lucy’s took pole spot in my mental gallery of horror masks. I looked again just to confirm that I had seen right, this time more slowly and cautiously. Yes, I hadn’t mis-seen. There she was, a head the size of a military tank, ears like a couple of over-done enormous Samosas, and a nose which would cause a pelican to frown with envy or heave with disgust, depending on its mood at the time. Yes, I know that pelicans don’t frown, but I was sure that they would have made an exception on account of Lucy’s humongous hooter. Failing that, they might at least consider it as worthy perch.
Those eyes! They were like a pair of roving search beams operated by a couple of deranged technicians. I could not look away because one of them was aimed directly at me on full beam. The other one was casually inspecting the ‘No Smoking’ sign above the ventilation hatches.
She must have noticed that I was startled, because her thick lips peeled off in what could only be a malicious sneer. A row of jagged, discoloured teeth were unveiled. They were big, ferocious and potentially lethal - bigger than any ones I had ever seen on any head; and, I had seen an awful many heads. I spent a great deal of time looking at heads. I liked going on the trains during rush hour when British Rail was vying for top spot in the Guinness Book for the maximum possible number of heads that could be crammed into a single carriage, most of them not really much to look at, nor did they emit the most pleasant breath. But, thankfully, they tended not to stare back at you. Too preoccupied with the rigour of their drab, meaningless lives, they often gazed sightlessly ahead, giving you the exclusive opportunity to inspect them in closer detail, and take note of their peculiar characteristics.
Well, anyway, I tried to hide my consternation with a sweet little smile but I don’t think I totally pulled it off. From the tightness of my face muscles, I knew that it couldn’t have been much of a smile, but a doleful grimace - the sort you would expect to find on the face of one who was in the process of drowning in a vast sea of synthetic goose fat.
I was so sure she say would say ‘... and what are you gawking at, you twerp?’ To which I would have replied...well, no. I wouldn’t have replied, actually, because I wouldn’t have known what to say. But then she didn’t say anything, so it was okay.
The second eye finally joined the other, and both of them were now focused on me. It felt like being observed by two different quacks with opposing theories about my state of mental health; or an intensive interrogation by two cops - the bad cop and the nasty cop. We were locked in a staring match in which I was clearly outnumbered and certainly didn’t stand a single chance. Slowly, a terrifying realization dawned on me the way impending disaster casts a growing shadow of doom on an unsuspecting victim. There was a chance - just a chance - that the expression on her face was a smile. It just could be that a real smile was outside the range of expressions that could be represented on that unearthly face, and what I had there before me, was the best that she could do. So, determined to return the politeness, I endeavoured to rearrange my face muscles into the semblance of a smile, and tried to say ‘Hello’. But the only thing that came out was a nervous giggle. I just couldn’t stop it. It was like trying to keep a recalcitrant fart from coming out, after holding on to it for too long. You know the sort of flatulence which no amount of bottom clenching could prevent from escaping; the type that my dad calls the ‘Houdini fart’. It comes out even louder than it should have done if you had simply let it go without a struggle. The only difference this time was that it was like farting from the mouth. I just couldn’t help myself. My throat hurt and my eyes watered when I strained to suppress the rest of the giggle.
By now there was no doubt that other people in the train were looking at me. A middle-aged, professional-looking man in a mottled grey suit and a hilarious, bright, floral silk tie was staring at me. He had the expression of an inquisitive ostrich. I could not tell whether he was angry or sorry for me. A thin, young, red-headed woman wore a brown, pleated jumper; she had long arms and short legs which, at the time, I’d wondered if they were hers or she’d stolen them from a teenage chimp. She looked vaguely in my direction and then looked away. Everybody else was either staring at the ceiling of at their feet.
And then I had a fantastic idea. I could always count on my wits to quickly come to my rescue when I found myself in such a tight spot. I remember one day when I had referred to Mandy Longbottom, my course manager in Cambridge, as ‘comprising entirely of breasts ‘, only to find that she was standing right behind me, whereupon I had quickly added ‘...and not just any old breast, of course.’ I thought I pulled it off, but she never spoke to me afterwards. .. And then there was the time when I joked about Terry’s gout and then quickly converted it into a witty compliment when I noticed the shock and displeasure on his and everybody else’s face. That was the sort of idea that I had: I broke out into a convulsive sneeze, which was designed to disguise the offensive giggles. In one fell swoop, I’d deftly converted my moment of embarrassment into a moment of helpless sympathy. I’d sent out a clear and unequivocal message that my windpipe had gone into independent anaphylactic convulsion, and I was about to die. It was an overwhelming success. I was so pleased with the result that I made a mental note to patent this ingenious new crisis management strategy. I would call it the ‘Aristocratic Sneegle’, AS, for short.
Her expression had not changed - or maybe there wasn’t any way of knowing. She still stared at me with what could be a smile or a look of open contempt.
I spluttered on, glad to be doing something to minimize the ridiculous tension that had been brought on by my odd behaviour. I began to wonder whether I was just making a bigger ass of myself than I needed to, but at that point it really did not matter that much.
And then she spoke. Her voice was like a falling of wet gravel on toughened glass. It grated on the ears like the misfiring of an irredeemably inept amateur trombonist.
‘Are you alright, dear?’
Compounding the strangeness of her voice was her thick East-ender accent which came out like the unsuccessful efforts of a poor Margaret Thatcher impressionist talking with a nose full of premium quality Ambrosia custard. Her entire appearance and demeanour was, however, at variance with what she had just said. I thought she would have been more likely to say: ‘Would you like me to pull out your tongue and wrap it round your head five times and then tie it in a double constrictor knot?’ to which I would quite naturally have said No, of course. Or she could have said ‘now, what if I rip out your left eye and nail it to a yellow lamp post?’ and I wouldn’t have said Yes to that either.
‘Are you okay?’
I raised one hand to my face and then waving the other hand helplessly I brought my ‘sneegle’ performance to a grand finale with a flourish - a final splutter which gracefully diminished into a series of smaller coughs.
She got up from her seat. As she loomed close, I burst into a fresh fit of ‘sneegles’. I couldn’t help it because she looked even more ridiculous in full height and at close quarters. I simply did not know where to look or what to say. I’d certainly never seen anybody like her before. To describe her as ‘fat’ would be to insult all other fat people. You couldn’t even say that she was enormous, that would only belittle her obesity. No word had yet been invented for her; and even if one had been invented it would still require additional decoration.
By some astounding act of miracle, she to stuffed herself into a green blouse and a pair of tarpaulin jeans. The blouse strained at the seams until it creaked. The front buttons held on for dear life, the two top ones having popped off (I imagined that they would have been catapulted for miles at the time of the incidence, hitting a baby elephant between the eye, somewhere in central Africa, and knocking it stone dead). Lucy’s cleavage was like a war zone between a couple of baby hippos snuggling together for warmth, or just being plain mischievous. Everything - even bits that were not supposed to move - wobbled.
Finally, she dumped herself onto the two seats opposite mine. She leaned across and placed one fat hand on my shoulder. I might as well be carrying an oversized clump of tropical bananas.
‘All right, luv?’ She grated once again.
I had no choice now. I had to put my sneezing and giggling on hold. I had to get a grip on myself and stop giggling. With such a heavy weight on my shoulder, I had absolutely no choice.
‘I’m sorry’, I spluttered ‘‘I’ve got an awfully tickly throat’.
But she did not ask how it was that my awful throat did not begin to tickle until I’d seen her. Instead, she said that she had just recovered from a cold, herself. She thought there might be a bug going round. ‘By the way,’ she said, taking the bananas off my shoulders. ‘My name is Lucy. I’m going to be a model.’
A model? Now, that really got me. I broke out in pure undisguised giggles. My stomach was knotted into a quivering and excruciating ball of uncontrollable delirium. A model of what?
She placed the bananas back on my shoulders, and I immediately calmed down.
‘I’m Henry,’ I heard myself saying. A fleeting, sinking, apprehension struck me immediately, and I almost panicked. What if she offered a hand shake? How would I know which banana to grab? But, true to the Law of Erasmus, i.e. that our worst fears tend never occur, she did not offer a hand shake. Instead, she uttered a brief, unearthly sound that I only hoped was meant to be a friendly chuckle.
After that, she launched into an extensive monologue, lasting over three quarters of an hour. She was a part-time student at the City University, in her 3rd year of a Diploma in Media Studies. She lived in Birmingham with her parents until she decided to go out into the world and set herself on the path for a massive career. She was going to be BIG! (Any bigger, dear, I thought, and the whole place will be filled with the mess of your explosion). She worked part time as a waitress, and she was into modelling. She had done a couple of photo shoots, and she might soon bag an exclusive contract offer: Watch this space. (I sighed. Like she hadn’t already taken all the space.) She lived in a small flat in Deptford and had a cat named ‘Lobster’.
She did not seem to want to know anything about me. It appeared that all she wanted of me was to listen. Intimidated by the bananas, I genuinely had no choice.
As we approached London Bridge, which was the last stop on the train, she said. ‘It’s been very nice meeting you’ she smiled (yes, by this time I knew that expression was a smile). She pushed her address book in front of me and said ‘we should keep in touch’. I wrote ‘Henry’ and then my Mobile number. She wrote something on a piece of paper and then leant over and put it in my top pocket and then ambled slowly out of the train. As I got out of the train after her, she turned round and waved a clump of bananas at me and then I watched her as she wobbled away.
The only thing I remembered about the rest of the night was a vague surprise that I’d been so inebriated over only half a dozen of Jack Daniels I had with Brian and Terry. I couldn’t even tell how I’d made it to the flat.
I did not mention my encounter with Lucy to Tim, my flatmate and best friend, until after a week or so. I’d simply wanted to forget the whole incident. But he found the piece of paper in my pocket as he was sorting out our laundry. I watched as a scowl crawled across his rat-like face. He carefully unfolded the paper and peered at it in the way that he alone was able to, apart from the Myotis alcathoe, of course; that rare species of vermin that squinted in the dark.
‘Maggot!’, For that was the nickname by which he called me. Our friendship followed the maxim that much contempt resulted from excessive familiarity. It, therefore, transpired that the true measure of our friendship was the quality of contempt that we lavished on each other.
‘Did the rodent, just call out with his dustbin mouth?’ I replied promptly.
‘What is this?’ he accused, ‘You aren’t going to the Bluewater Cinema to watch ‘‘Avatar’’ all by your own maggot self, are you?’
The trouble with Tim was that he was in the habit of constantly leaping headlong into the wrong conclusions the way an indolent swine leapt into a pool of liquid nitrogen. I realized that it was the paper that Lucy had put in my pocket. I’d forgotten about it completely.
‘It’s not mine, Rodent. Someone put it in my pocket. A girl I met.’
‘The maggot met a girl, ha ha ha..’ his haughty snigger bounced around the walls of the dingy flat like a cat-tease light. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No. I met her in the train’.
‘So, after all these years, you finally pulled, eh?’
I smiled. Wait until you see what I’ve pulled, I thought. But suddenly realising that Tim had become rather envious, I desisted from telling him about my first impressions of Lucy.
Tim talked quite a lot about girls. Despite all appearances and his legendary lack success with getting a date, he was a ladies’ man at heart. He’d avidly devoured the entire Two leather-bound volumes of ‘The ancient art of medieval wench dating’ By Edgar J Edgar, which had been out of print since 1917. He was constantly debating with himself about the merits of the ‘shock and awe’ technique over ‘catchy monkey’ approach, neither of which I suspected would legal in modern practice. Tim was always boasting about his knowledge the ancient Egyptian secret of ‘Armunapon’, which was guaranteed to make you utterly irresistable in the eyes of any female - be it human or beast. Often times he had set out to put it into practice only for his courage to desert him at the very last minute. I was sure that there was something about his entire personality that always caused girls to change direction when they spotted him from the distance. It was as if all female species had been equipped with a sure-fire early warning system specifically against any form of encounter with Tim Dalumo.
Well, it’s not often that a girl slipped a cinema ticket in your pocket while you are in the train, drunken senseless. I was enjoying the envy that dripped from poor Tim’s voice.
‘So, why haven’t you called her, then, this metro babe of yours?’
‘Well, she’s not my type.’
‘Uh, Maggot, since when did you start developing such high tastes in women?’
‘Anyway, I don't have her phone number.’
‘But that what she’s written at the back of this ticket, you moron.’
So it was. But what if she didn’t know that she’d written her number on a valuable bit of paper. She might be missing the ticket. I realized that I would have to call her, especially as Tim was staring at me with his ratty eyes, obviously expecting me to do something.
It took some guts to make that call. It wasn’t before I’d climbed the seven hills of Ahuja - a set of ridiculous ritual drills which I’d invented and often used to psyche myself up for the most extreme undertakings. These included a Mazumba war dance and deep throated uninspiring Maori chant. I tapped the keyboard of my phone as if it was made of eggshell and braced myself as it began to ring.
The voice that replied at the other end of the line was far from what I’d heard on the train, but I knew at once that it was her. And then I suddenly realized that I hadn’t thought out what to say.
‘You left your cinema ticket...’ I stuttered.
‘Of course I know. I bought two. I’ve still got the other ticket. Where should we meet before the film?’
‘I didn’t _,’
‘Greenhite Station at 7:30pm. We’ll take the bus to Bluewater.’
An image of Lucy, as I’d seen her on the train, flashed through my mind and I flinched. I performed a desperate mental Google for a suitable excuse, but I drew a blank. So, slightly embarrassed by the gulf of silence that was widening between us, knowing that, at the other end, it could be filled with burgeoning scorn, I said ‘OK.’
‘It’s a date’ she said, and the line went dead.
‘A date!’ Tim echoed with excitement. He’d heard every single word. He beamed at me, totally oblivious of my obvious dismay.
I soon found myself pacing up and down the tiny lounge area, much to Tim’s growing irritation. A sobering visions of being trapped between spiked crushing walls slowly closing in, I was about to be squashed into a human jelly.
‘Tim, why don’t you go in my place? This girl, she’s more of your type. You always said you like a big backside. You wait until you see her; she’s got backsides coming out of her ears’.
A glint I flashed in Tim’s ratty eyes.
‘Don’t you think she’d be mighty pissed off if someone else turned up instead of you?’
‘No, Tim. She will fall for you as soon as she sets her eyes on you. Trust me, I know.’
Tim was quite pleased with the whole idea. He would have leap at any opportunity for a date, even if it was with Mother Theresa come back straight from her sacred grave. But this one was a ready made opportunity, he only had to turn up at the station, apologise on his friend’s behalf and let his irresistible charm do the rest.
Before I met Tim, I’d never had any real mates. It was while I was a student at Cambridge – my alma mater from which I’d dropped out after my first year. We met at a conference arranged by UNESCO, for socially challenged and low-achieving African students. I attended the conference only out of curiosity, although it had initially been brought to my notice by my course director who was convinced it was an opportunity to improve on my already excellent social skills. Excellent - in spite of certain, minor, seemingly unsociable traits that normally caused most decent people to look away. Her reasoning was that I would be ‘in my element’ among similarly ilked misfits.
I remember wandering around in the Hall during the buffet lunch, trying to deploy my aforementioned networking skills, but not finding anybody suitably vulnerable to inflict it upon. There must have been eighty people or so, standing in groups of twos and threes, making vaguely intellectual noises of the kind to be heard in conference halls. Feeling like an Indian Rhinoceros in a Chinese restaurant, I was starting to wonder what the hell I was doing there, when Tim appeared.
‘Hello there,’ he said, ‘you must be the other delegate from the Banania Student Association’
‘I’m not from Banania’, I said quickly, ‘Actually, I’m from Kenya, although I lived in South Africa most of my early childhood, and attended secondary school in Zimbabwe’
‘Sorry I got you all mixed up. I guess I was just too eager to find a fellow Bananian. Funny thing. Its the other way round with me: people often mistake me for a Kenyan’, he laughed.
I laughed too, and then stopped immediately, because I suddenly realised that he hadn’t actually said something funny.
He was tall and slim, and his suit hung loosely around him so that he looked like a human a coat hanger. He had a slightly raised upper lip that clearly indicated that he couldn’t possibly be clever. He also had an endearing demeanour of an uncertain quality that marked him out as an authentic specimen of the non-achiever archetype.
He invited me to join the rest of the students in his group. It was the only group with more than three people. They were in the middle of a full blown discussion about the situation in Africa. There were raised voices and threatening postures. It was like a free-for-all cockfight in the final, nasty, phase of irrevocable pandemonium. A tall charcoal black guy called James was loudest. He declared confidently that poverty was invented in America, packaged in the UK and sold, at a substantial premium, to Africans. And even though they were short-changed in the transaction, it had since become their undeniable heritage, which they wore like a cloak of honour.
‘No’, countered chubby Benson who had the stature and face of an implacable worthog, ‘I think you will find that is democracy’
‘Demo - what?’ Alice was an imposing figure. Everybody listened when she spoke. Her fuzzy hair was made up in a huge bun with a parting in the centre, which made it look as if she wore a big black arse. She also had enormous bosoms, so that, in silhouette, you would think that she was driving a convertible Volkswagen Beetle - or wearing it.
‘The Republic of Banania is the headquarters of corruption and the epicentre of fraud’ she declared, ‘Thanks to the Ex-president Vincent Adamu who placed the country on the map of infamy through his corrupt practices – on a scale that has only been surpassed by the American and British financial fraud which led to the Credit crunch’.
‘Adamu was a bloody pig!’ shouted someone or the other, triggering a raucous but undeniably unanimous clamour of approval from the rest.
But Tim had a different view. ‘Let’s not get bogged down with bitterness and negativity.’ In a flash he had suddenly acquired the air of a politician in waiting, something which most Africans have the innate knack for and are able to deliver with the most ridiculous pomposity.
‘We need to think about how to make things better. We need to put aside the failings of the past and present governments, and think of a way forward out of this mess.’
‘Bravo!’, shouted James, clapping his hands, ‘considering how your dad was treated by Adamu and his government for defending the peoples’ human rights... Every time the poor guy opened his mouth he was thrown into jail. And the prisons in Banania, they make London’s Belmarsh look like an executive luxury suite in the Hotel La Perouse in Paris.’
As for me, I did not have anything to contribute to the discussion. The ignorance of people like James and Alice was a minor irritation that I’d learnt to live with over the years. It was like having to endure an elevator lift up a 25-storey building after the lift it had been freshly fouled by a flatulent fool. What did they know about being in charge of millions of people, most of whom were lazy, good-for-nothing, illiterates? What did they know about politics? What would they have done with a worthless trouble maker like Dr Dalumo, whose mission in life was to make governing impossible by trying to enlighten the public about things they were better off not knowing about? Why didn’t he keep his mouth shut and accept the lucrative Government appointment that had been offered to him?
I was not ashamed of my father, but for my own self preservation – and the chance of ever making any friends - I had to lie about who I was. I resorted to my mother’s maiden name which was obscure and unpronounceable. It was my good luck that my father was the president of the republic of Banania for more than14 years, during which I enjoyed a corseted, pampered and thoroughly spoilt life of luxury, but – mind you – nothing out of the ordinary. However, it was not my fault that things did not go so well during my father’s time in office.
That conference was more than five years ago. I dropped out University, but Timothy completed in the slightly less prestigious University of Portsmouth with a 2.2. We’d been best of friends and had gatecrashed many dodgy parties together. He continued to believe that I was a farmer’s son from Kenya, who had bungled his scholarship to The University of Surrey, and was too ashamed to return to his country, and never wanted to discuss it ever.
I’d thought that Tim to be back from his date with Lucy by 11:20pm. I’d watched everything there was to be watched on our little TV which could only be switched on or off with the aid of a pair of pliers. Tim had cooked some pasta and Bolognese which I only needed to heat up in the microwave when the need arose. The need had arisen more than trice, and all the pasta was gone. At 12 midnight, I could no longer contain my anxiety, so I called Tim’s mobile. It went straight to voice mail. I didn’t think it either wise or proper to call Lucy. Not after I’d blanked her out and sent my imbecile friend to stand in for me.
Perhaps no news was good news, after all. I briefly flirted with the thought that Tim might have gotten lucky. But just as my mind was about to boggle, I quickly abandoned the preposterous imagination. I reluctantly went to bed with the resolution that, despite all appearances, Tim was a grown up and could, therefore, look after himself.
Tim did not return until 10am in the morning, something that had never happened since I’d known him. I hadn’t had breakfast by then, mainly because Tim usually made breakfast. I could not help noticing that he looked bedraggled. His oversized suit jacket had curled up around the lapels, and there were grime stains on his shirt sleeves, the seat of his trousers were also smeared. To all appearances it one could have said that he’s slummed the night out in the on the street, one did not consider it wise to say so due to the extreme grumpiness of his face.
‘The rodent returns!’ I saluted cautiously. It seemed the most appropriate insult at the time because at no other time had I known him to look more like a mouse. But to my growing unease, no insult was returned. Not a word was uttered. He was, clearly, deeply upset about something. However, he would not respond to anything I said afterwards. When I asked what had gone wrong with the date, he only turned away and stomped off to the bedroom. I could only conclude that the date not been a massive hit. I’d long stoped insulting him and, presently, resorted to begging him. But it did not change his mood one iota. Within 20 minutes, he’d packed his meagre possessions into his battered suit case. He left his key to the flat on the centre table and slammed the door behind him as he left. I quickly realized that I was in serious trouble. I’d come to depend on Tim very much that I wasn’t going to last 5 minutes without him.
I called Lucy’s mobile expecting to be pelted with a hail of abuse - that was if she even bothered picked up the phone. After all, I hadn’t been a gentleman at all. I had a picture of myself lashed to a whipping post, my arse exposed for target practice by a troop of eager dart throwers and champion league javelinists. I squeezed my eyes shut in anticipation of the impending deluge of scorn. But I was surprised by the calm, even pleasant voice at the other end.
‘Hey Henry, is that you? You missed a terrific film... Would’ve have enjoyed it better if I'd had pleasure of your company’. Then she laughed, which was nothing like the alien racket I’d heard on the train. ‘Are you Ok, tho?’ she asked.
‘Sorry about not being able to come. I sent my friend Tim did you meet him?’
‘Hey, why don’t we meet up, what are you up to?’
We arranged to meet at the Burger King in Woolwich for 2pm. I was there 10 minutes early, and after waiting for about 20 minutes I began to wonder whether she was about to have her own back by not turning up. I’d just finished my second cup of lemonade by the time she breezed in. I was immediately struck by how differently she looked from the spectacle I had met on the train. She was wearing wooly green top and a pair of blue jeans. She wasn’t slender, by any account, but certainly not as gross as the aberration that had been brought on by the excess of my indulgent drinking hat night. Her eyes were bright and cheerful.
She did not sit down until I’d stood up, pecked on her offered left cheek and pulled back her chair for her to sit on. As I began to recite the apology that I’d earlier prepared and practiced to absolute perfection, she waved it aside with a dismissive but accommodating gesture.
‘It’s OK, don’t worry about it ‘
‘Want lemonade or a coke?’
‘Nothing for me,’ she said. ‘I’m on a diet.’
And then she proceeded to fill me in on the film in a long and excruciating monologue that ran like an express train that couldn’t possibly be interrupted. Although she kept saying ‘No, no, I don’t want to give it away’, that was precisely what she did.
Although it was now clear that she hadn’t met Tim, I decided to ask her all the same.
‘No, I didn’t meet your friend. I called your number several times after I got to the station, but it just went straight thru to your voice mail.’
‘I’m sorry’
‘So, what is this about your friend...?’
Then I told her about Tim; about our long friendship and how he had packed his possesions and left without a word.
‘It’s not nice for friends to break up. Give me his mobile number and I will have a word with him.’
Although I was not sure what she was going to say to him, I was at least relived that she had listened with patience and sympathy. By 7pm when we finally left Burger King if felt as if I had known her for years.
I did not feel like going straight back to the empty flat, so after I’d seen Lucy off at the train station, I wandered through Woolwhich market which was still quite busy even as it was already dark. I bought a doner kebab at Sidiq’s shop and devoured before I returned to the flat.
I leapt out of my bed when my phone started ringing at around ten in the morning. I’d called Tim more than 20 times, and each time, his phone had rung twice, he’d picked and promptly disconnected. I was desperate to know what was biting him, especially now that I knew that it had nothing to do with the date with Lucy. I felt depressed at the thought that my only friend had walked out on me without giving any apparent reason, but I was sure that sooner or later I would hear from him.
I wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or elated when it turned out to be Lucy on the phone. I did my best to sound cheerful ‘Hi Lucy, what a pleasure to hear your angelic voice.’
She laughed, and then she proceeded to tell me about her voice coaching lesson. She planned to start a band in which she would be the lead singer. She was going on X-faxtor. And then, without any warning, she burst out in an unflattering rendition of Witney Houston’s I will always love you, which she continued just long enough for me to endure without losing the will to live. Then she said. ‘I spoke to Tim’.
And I came back to full attention. ‘What – what did he say?’
‘He’s terribly upset because you’ve fed him too many porkies’
‘Porkies?’
‘Yes, Henry. Lies, big fat lies.’
I immediately knew what it was.
‘He met this bloke called James on his way to the station. The guy spilled the beans, Henry. He splattered the entire pot of beans all over the floor. Tim knows who you are.’
‘I’m sorry’ I said, fully convinced that she and Tim would have nothing to do with me anymore.
‘I’m meeting up with Tim at the library later on. I guess I can talk some sense into him. Let’s face it, what your dad did was not your fault, was it?’
‘Thanks, it’s very kind of you...’
‘No worries’
‘Perhaps I should come along...’
‘No! He does not want to see you just yet. But I’m sure it will soon be sorted. I’ll call you back later; maybe we can meet up at Pizza Hut for a quick bite.’
‘Thanks Lucy, you’re a star’
I spent the rest of the day waiting for Lucy’s call. I guessed she had as much chance of persuading Tim to come back, than Tom would have of persuading a Jerry to be his number one fan. But at least I knew she would pass on my apologies for all it was worth.
A plaintive gurgle from the depths of my stomach reminded me that lunch was well overdue. How I missed Tim already. I discovered a cache of Mars bars in the top cupboard above the small fridge. I quickly tucked in, grateful for the reassuring fact that chocolate bars were immune to expiry.
It was 6pm, and I still hadn’t heard from Lucy. Obviously she hadn’t managed to convince Tim and wasn’t going to call just to say that. But I wanted to know what was happening, so I called her mobile. No reply. After a couple more attempts, I finally gave up.
The Crazy frog tune from my Mobile jolted me out of my slumber at 9pm. I was instantly fully conscious. Must be the divine Lucy, I thought, calling to give me the bad news. But the voice that sounded from the phone was not Lucy’s.
‘Maggot by name, maggot by nature, eh?’
‘Tim!’
He was on his way to the flat. In the meantime, I called Lucy once again to find out how she had done it, but all I got was her voice mail.
It was such a relief to have Tim back.
‘Son of a maggot!’ he hailed; his rat face even rattier than ever before, albeit a hint of suspicion and caution twinkled in his eyes. He parked his battered suitcase by the bedroom door.
‘Is that you, Rodent?’
‘It was a real shock to me to find out that I’d been living with the son of my father’s enemy all these years, the son of President Adamu who sent my father to jail so many times.’
‘Sorry, Tim’, was all I could say.
Tim was full of admiration for Lucy. What a lovely person. I’ve never met anyone quite like her.
‘Yes’, I said, ‘one in a million. But what did she say to make you change your mind?’
‘Nothing really, none of this was your fault...yada, yada, yada...you know. She talked about friendship, loyalty and forgiveness – all that stuff. Real sweet girl, she is.’
And then he said ‘I think I’ve finally found my soul mate.’ At which point my heart sank into my Wellies. She’s my soul mate, I thought, not yours. But I put a lid on my reservations and heartily welcomed my best friend back to the flat.
Neither of us heard from Lucy that night. I called again in the morning, but, once again, it went straight through to her voice mail. The whole day passed, and I still did not hear from her. Tim was showing similar signs of restlessness; he said that after he had seen her the previous day, she was going for her voice coaching first before heading back home. But neither of us knew exactly where she lived. It irritated me slightly, though, to observe the tenderness with which Tim spoke of her.
As another day passed without any word from Lucy, I became more concerned. I wanted to tell her that I was so to her grateful for restoring my friendship with Tim and maybe I wanted to tell her a lot more. Tim was also trying to make contact with Lucy, but, although he was more proactive than me - going back to the library where they had last met, and making enquiries - he did not appear to have come to much success. He even put a soppy ad in News Shopper, the Woolwich and Lewisham local newspaper.
On the fifth day, at the absolute limits of despair, I made another call to her mobile, not really expecting anything. I was surprised to get a reply.
‘Hello’ it was gruff and weary, clearly a man’s voice, unless Lucy’s voice coaching had gone spectacularly awry. But at least I was relieved to get a response from her phone.
‘Lucy..?’
The voice was flat, mirthless and somewhat bored. ‘Lucy is in hospital.’
A thousand thoughts flashed through my mind at once.
‘She’s been Hospital since Thursday. She was run over by a motorbike on her way back to the flat.’ The voice belonged to her Somalian immo flatmate who had come to be the custodian of her mobile phone. ‘She’s in St Mary’s Hospital.’
Tim had been out all day. I’d called his phone several times but didn’t seem to be getting through. I swore at him for always buying cheap mobiles on crappy Vodafone contracts. I’d hoped we could both go together to see Lucy at the Hospital.
I slapped on my favourite fake leather jacket, crammed my feet into my combat boots and vaulted out of the flat like a vampire out of purgatory, flagging down the first taxi that came into sight. I was outside St Mary’s in 30 minutes flat. I spotted a flower stall by the entrance and picked up a modest bouquet of pink carnations and green chrysanthemums. My heart thumped in my chest like no heart had ever thumped before. Jimi Hendrix and Rory Gallagher had teamed up in a once in a life time monster rave, and they were hammering out an infernal rock jam session in the four chambers of my heart. My stomach churned, my legs wobbled and my head hurt with intense apprehension and overwhelming anxiety.
As I stepped into the ward, the first thing I saw was a bouquet of flower that made mine look like a Babie doll tooth brush. Then I saw Lucy, propped up on a dozen pillows, not looking quite as frazzled as I had feared, which of course was a tremendous relief. But what really threw me was that there, in his ludicrous oversized suit and his best, second hand, Gatsby shirt, was my friend, Tim. He was sitting beside Lucy, both of them tenderly holding hands. The grin plastered across his ratty little face was wider than the Grand Canyon. Suddenly, without any warning at all, my throat began to itch, and I broke down in an uncontrollable fit of ‘unaristocratic Sneegles’.
……………………………………………………………………………………………..
Next Story:
Due date: 20 Feb 2011
Working Title: Once upon a time bomb
Rough synopsis:
For all of his 50 years, Charlie has lived an unassuming life but all that changes when he comes into contact with Helena.
Helena is a feisty party animal with absolutely no inhibitions and, more importantly, a deadly secret.
Tony is Charlie's friend who goes to all lengths to dissuade him from sleepwalking into the abyss.
As it soon happens, Tony has more to gain by protecting Charles than Charles could ever have imagined.
