A Case Of Double Amnesia

Robbie Horton pushed himself out of his seat in the bar of the
Oxhill Comrades Institute. He ran his thumbs along the front of his
waistband and wriggled his trousers as far up his protruding belly, as
they would go. Then, having trapped the tip of his gaudy patterned tie
behind his belt buckle, he sank his right hand deep into his pocket to
retrieve the price of his next drink.

Robbie was old enough to remember when beer was 1/3d a pint and it
tasted a whole lot better than it did now. However, no matter how much
he complained, as Ralph Gordon was always quick to point out to him, it
didn't stop him shifting at least a gallon at every session - Carling
lager that is.

But our Robbie was no slouch. No matter how much he'd taken on board
the night before, he could always get up to face a hard day's slog in
the morning. And he didn't waste all his money on beer. No - he was too
cute for that: Some of it went on fags and taxi fares. He was also keen
on a decent set of threads: Today, for instance, being a fan of
mix-and-match, he had elected to wear the grey striped jacket of his
Hugo Boss suit, which Sharon, his wife, had treated him to from that
well known fashion boutique, Oxfam. His navy surge trousers were also
top quality; presented to him by Jack Masters when he found he could no
longer squeeze into them. A pair of size twelve loafers - a donation
from Mick Jones who, after buying them in a sale, had decided they were
not his style, completed the ensemble.

This had not been a bad session. He had worked until one o'clock and
was getting paid 'til four. Having downed eleven pints, he would make
this one his last. While he was up he would call a taxi (that was if,
after his previous shenanigans, he could find a taxi firm that would
accept him as a fare. Well it wasn't his fault; it was the bastard
drivers - always trying to rob him. He knew it was only ?3.50, and he
was quite prepared to give a 50p tip, but not if the bastards were
going to charge him ?4.00). The last pint of Carling went down as
easily as the first. OK, so he felt a touch unsteady on his feet but
that couldn't be the drink.

He'd made the phone call, separated four pound coins from his change
and readied them in his left hand jacket pocket. Within a few minutes
the doorman advised Robbie that his transport had arrived.

Robbie exited the bar by first bumping off the door jam on one side and
then the other. But everything was fine. That was until he caught the
cold draft of fresh air that greeted him in the car park. It was just
that sudden gust that took him by surprise and numbed his senses. It
couldn't be the beer. For God's sake, he was a seasoned drinker - any
amateur should have been able to cope with the paltry amount he had
consumed.

Pulling at a windscreen wiper in the belief that it was the mechanism
to allow him access to the car was a mistake anyone could make,
especially someone who was unfamiliar with the layout of something as
technically advanced as a 1984 Nissan Bluebird.
"How much is it, chap?" he asked the driver, who had eventually piloted
him into the front passenger seat.

"Farm Street? Four pounds."

"Not today it ain't," Robbie insisted, "Yer getting' three-fifty, and
likin' it!"

"For three-pounds-fifty I can only take you as far as the Lamplighter."
The driver was just as insistent.

Being already restricted in the number of taxi firms that were prepared
to accept his custom, Robbie was gracious enough to give a little
ground, just in this one instance. "OK then. I suppose that'll have to
do," he finally conceded with his fingers crossed, hoping they would
still be serving in the Lamp. As Sharon would be round at her daughter,
Mandy's house, there'd be no one to stick his dinner in the microwave
for him, so he might as well have a drink while awaiting her
return.

During the short drive to the Lamplighter, the mistake of inhaling that
fresh air in the Oxy car park began to have a progressively detrimental
effect on Robbie's sensibilities, not to mention his humour; he became
increasingly irate over allowing himself to be ripped off by a man who,
in his opinion, was a weedy little sod, barely able to speak
English.
By the time they docked as near as the driver could to the public bar
of the Lamplighter, Robbie was seething. After all but wrenching the
car door handle off in his impatience to escape, Robbie tore the four
pound coins from his jacket pocket and, in a gesture of gratitude,
slung them at the driver, with the advice, "'Ere, yer robbin' bleeder,
stick that where the sun don't shine!"

He was in such a temper; he got into a tangle with the swing doors,
which found him entering the lounge backwards. Now, the Lamplighter
wasn't the most salubrious of establishments but the landlady only had
to take a glance at Robbie before reaching a decision. "You ain't
getting' served in 'ere!"

"Ah, come on, Michelle," Robbie smiled grotesquely, in a vain attempt
to woo the hard faced old battleaxe, "You serve thieves, blackmailers,
drug pushers, extortionists and all sorts of villains in here,
including murderers so&;#8230;"

"So - not you!" The Landlady was adamant as she directed a grimy purple
painted fingernail at the door. "Now stick yer arse in gear an' keep
truckin'!"

Police Officer O'Brian being familiar with the back streets, had
convinced a sceptical P.C. Wilson that this was the quickest route to
the reported R.T.A. "Blue light it and take a left," O'Brian instructed
the younger driver as they approached the red traffic light at the
junction of Farm Street. Wilson did as he was told and switched on the
beacon.

"Shit!" he snorted, "What the bloody hell is he up to?" He waved a free
hand at the windscreen.

"It's OK," O'Brian told him, "No! Slow up, he's back off the pavement
again."

Wilson wrestled with the steering as his right foot alternated between
applying pressure to the brake and the accelerator. This police officer
with a degree from Leicester University, was on the Accelerated
Promotion Scheme with West Mids. Police Force but, however clever he
was, he found it impossible to predict what the staggering figure
looming large in his forward vision, was going to do next. Would he
stay on the pavement, or stagger into the road again? It was anyone's
guess. Eventually, the inevitable happed. 'Clunk!'

"Stupid bastard!" growled O'Brian.

"I couldn't help it," Wilson tried to explain apologetically, "he just
came into the side of me."

O'Brian gave a frustrated shake of his head, "Not you. That prat! Well,
he's landed us both in the shit now. Come on, we'd better see what the
damage is."

Both officers wrenched open their doors and made their way, hesitantly,
to where the crumpled frame of Robbie Horton lay prostrate in the
middle of the road. O'Brian bent over and, very gingerly, rolled Robbie
into a face-up position. "Are you OK?"

The victim emitted a faint moaning sound in response to the officer's
enquiry. "Err&;#8230; What happened?"

O'Brian was experienced and quick to take advantage of the victim's
amnesia. "You tell me. We just rounded the corner and found you lying
in the road. D'you think you can get up?" He offered Robbie a helping
hand and slowly drew him to his feet. "Now, if you're sure you're all
right, we'll see you home. Where do you live?"

Robbie blinked, then rubbed his eyes to take in his surroundings.
"Uhmm&;#8230; just over there&;#8230;" He aimed a quivering
finger at his own front door and then hesitated. "&;#8230;I
think."

"Alan," O'Brian called his colleague, "help me get this gentleman over
to his house, will you?"

The white-faced Wilson lent a hand and the strong arms of the law
wrangled Robbie onto his doorstep.

"Keys?" O'Brian held out his hand.

"Uh?" Robbie replied, "Oh, yeah."

He fumbled in the right hand pocket of his jacket and produced a set of
house keys.

O'Brian took them from him and operated the lock mechanisms while
Wilson held Robbie upright. Almost as soon as Robbie was manoeuvred
into the small hallway, his rescuers' ears were subjected to the loud
piercing wail of burglar alarm. Wilson fixed his eyes on the control
panel.

"What's the number?" O'Brian asked impatiently.

"Number? What number?" Robbie slobbered.

The screaming alarm finally caused O'Brian to momentarily forget his
professionalism. "The fuckin' number to punch in and stop that bloody
row, you stupid bastard!"

The effort of concentration creased Robbie's forehead into a series of
deep painful furrows as he shook his head slowly from side to side.
"Err&;#8230;No, I'm sorry. It's no good&;#8230;I don't think I
can remember it."

? Copyright Paul Holmes 2001