4. Away with Words (ii)

I sniffed. Then I dropped it in the bag with the others and knotted the top. It was all too much for my little shredder, and I wasn't going risk any of it being found. Up the far end of the beach, in the roughs under the cliffs, I knew there was an old oil drum that anglers sometimes used as a brazier.

There'd be signal fires on the foreshore later.

Maybe a clean slate was what I needed to get things working again.

*

With those chores done, I had a bath and a shave, and put on some fresh clothes. I'd just fired up the coffee pot when there was a knock at the door. Through the spy-hole, I saw a young Robert Smith's face on a black Cure t-shirt, stretched over a barrel of midriff. There was only one other dedicated Cure fan I knew. And someone of that size.

Yoyo.

"Alright, geez," he said, as I let him in.

We high-fived. The slap almost popped my ear drums. My hand felt like it had been hit by a bus. In human terms, it had.

"Just wanted to bring your book back, Harry," he said.

He held up my copy of Knut Hamsun's Hunger. It was C-shaped now.

"What did you think?"

He shook his head.

"Bit fucking bleak, mate. Some bloke starving himself to death. Ain't you got anything funny?"

Somehow, I had a feeling it wouldn't have the intended impact.

"I'll have a look," I said. "I'm making some coffee. Got time for one?"

He looked down at me with a consternated expression. And I'm six-foot-four, so there aren't many people who look down at me. Yoyo does, though. My eyes just about meet the bottom edge of his beard. And whereas I'm a feathery thirteen-stoner, he comes in at an implacable eighteen. He can bench press thirty. He does karate for self-defence - as if sheer physical presence isn't enough. No porridge-faced chav is ever going to mug him, or take the piss out of his purple Mohawk. Like all giants, though, there's a soft spot. He worships his pet rats, Slash and Lemmy. He loves a good weepie. His favourite Christmas song is Mistletoe and Wine. Like Sherlock said... surfaces.

"Have you got anything stronger, mate?" he said.

"I've got a beer in the fridge."

He smiled, showing a gappy double row of teeth. He was a good man to be on the right side of.

"Have a seat, Yo," I said.

He parked himself in the middle of my sofa. The cushions sprung up on either side like wings and the whole thing creaked alarmingly. It was like watching a five-ton punk-goth Buddha being lowered onto a bouncy castle. I gave him his can.

"Cheers, mate," he said.

He pulled the tab and chugged half of it off, then belched with gratification. He wiped his hand through his beard.

"You not joining me?"

"No, mate," I said, pouring my coffee. "I had enough last night. Which reminds me... didn't see you there."

"Nah. Thought I'd have a night in. A bit skint at the moment."

"No luck with a job yet?"

He shook his head. "Just the cash-in hand-stuff. Helping Eric in the High Street on furniture runs, that sort of thing. I'm with him this afternoon, actually. Few quid. At least people always need muscle."

He took another chug.

"I did have an interview at Asda's."

"Oh? What for?"

"A greeter."

I tried to imagine it and keep a straight face.

"How'd it go?"

He looked at his nails.

"Bloke didn't like my attitude. He asked me what I'd do if a customer kicked off."

"And?"

"Well, I said... I'd get 'em in an armlock and chuck 'em the fuck out."

I couldn't hold back the laugh this time. "Is that what you actually said to him?"

"Well, not in so many words, of course. But he got the gist. People do." He turned his head towards the window and stared out. "He said they wanted greeters, not bouncers. Cheeky cunt."

"Right. You would make a good bouncer, though. Security."

"Yeah," he said, sighing. "I've done it before, though. Too much standing around. Too much agg."

"I thought you liked the agg."

He shook his head again.

"I can't be arsed with it any more. I want something decent. Respectable."

"What... like suit and tie respectable?"

He skewered me with his eyes.

"I was only kidding," I said.

He stared out of the window again. Something was on his mind.

"I ain't getting any younger, Harry."

"Join the club."

"I just want something more..." he turned his face back to me. "Settled, you know? I'm sick of ducking and diving. A bit here, a bit there. Be good to have something permanent."

Interesting. I'd not heard him talk like this before. I wondered if there was something else behind it.

"I'm thinking the same myself," I said. "Money's running low. I need to get another job soon."

He was quiet a moment, gazing aimlessly around the room. When he spoke again, his voice seemed to have dropped a register. Softened, as much as it could.

"You been in that new Polish food mart by the bus garage yet?"

Weird segue.

"Once or twice," I said. "Got some good stuff."

He nodded. "They have."

He paused again. Then

"You noticed the woman who works in there?"

"Long, dark hair with a pink streak at the front?"

"That's the one," he said. There was a light in his eyes suddenly.

"What about her?"

He winked.

"What... you seeing her?"

"Not yet," he said. "But I will be."

"Oh, right? How's that?"

He puffed up his chest. I heard a spring go somewhere.

"Love at first sight, mate," he said. "Mutual, too. I could tell by the way she looked at me."

I bit my lip.

He could tell by the way she looked at him.

She probably looked at him the way everyone does on first sight. You see the same look on a novice skydiver's face when they open the hatch at ten-thousand feet. But then, what did I know about it? Abject terror could well be the first sign of sexual attraction.

He smiled.

"Magic, it was," he said. "I just went in there on the off-chance to get something for dinner... and there she was."

He made it sound like two lonely souls on a windswept moor. Stranger things happen, though. I met one of mine when I dropped a rank one in an empty lift, then she got in on the next floor. A corner shop, a frozen golonka, the whiff of diesel in the air... Whatever twangs Eros's bow.

"You know what she said? When I paid, she gave me my change and said 'Bless you, your hands are cold.'" He smiled at the memory. "The way she said it."

"And you, of course, replied 'But my heart is warm!'"

His mouth dropped open.

"Why the fuck didn't I think of that?"

"We never do at the time, mate."

"But that would have been so perfect. See... you writers. You're the ones with the words."

I laughed again. "Er... you might have noticed I also live alone. So... what did you say to her?"

"I just said 'It's 'cos I've had 'em in the freezer cabinets, love.' But it doesn't matter. I still got her name and number."

"Oh, right. No harm done, then."

"Kat," he said, with a sigh.

"Where?"

"Her name. Kat." He took a breath, then whispered it out. "Kat-er-een-a."

For some reason, I thought of Humbert Humbert. Lo-lee-TA! Actually, there was another reason.

"She's quite young, though, isn't she? What is she... mid-twenties?"

He seemed nonplussed. "Something like. Why?"

"And you're what?"

His eyes were skewers again. "Fifty-one. So?"

"Twice her age, then. Possibly more."

His face froze. He tilted his head like he was sizing me up for something. I should have kept shtum.

"I still don't see the problem," he said.

"Well... there's an unwritten rule with the age gap thing, Yo. Divide your age by two, add seven to the answer... and you shouldn't be dating anyone younger than that."

I could see him trying to figure it out.

"Fifty-one divided by two is twenty-five-and-a-half, Yo... but we'll give you the advantage and round it down. Twenty-five add seven is thirty-two. Under that rule, that's your youngest limit, mate."

There was that sideways look again.

"Thirty-two? Harry... why would I wanna go out with someone that old? They'd probably have kids by then, anyway."

"Maybe," I said. "And some blokes your age have got grand-kids."

"But I'm young for me age," he said. "I listen to rock 'n' roll. I go to Glastonbury. I'm fit. And I ain't got a grey hair yet. Look at you."

Ouch! I asked for that.

"My hair's grey 'cos I don't dye it purple," I said. "And anyway... personally, I prefer older women."

He grinned. "Just as well. I hear there's a few widows down the Over-60s."

I did my best to ignore that, given I was only a few years short myself.

"So... this is why you want a bit of stability, eh?"

"Part of it," he said.

"Alright," I said. "I'll let you know if I hear of anything."

He finished the can and got up, crushing it in his palm.

"Thanks, Harry. And for the beer."

He gave me a back-slap that might have dislocated a rib.

"I'd better shift. Meeting Eric at two."

"Hang on a minute," I said.

I went to a bookcase and pulled out a volume.

"You wanted something funny to read," I said, handing it to him.

He looked at the cover.

"Portnoy's Complaint," he read.

"It's hilarious. Take it from me."

He flicked through the pages.

"What complaint's he got, then?"

"You'll see," I said. "Perhaps one that you won't have much longer, if you're lucky."

 

After he'd gone, I finished my coffee and sat in the armchair to read. Through the bedroom door, I could see the two black sacks sitting there, waiting. I got up again and shut the door. But I could still sense their presence. I'd leave it until later.

I read two pages. My eyes began to blink.

When I woke up, it was dark.

I went and got my jacket and boots.

Time.

(continued) https://www.abctales.com/story/harryc/4-away-words-iii