The Lonely Heart Attack Club - Project VIP

by J. C. Williams

  “Sure has,” Ray answered in his gravelly voice. “Bloody miracle it is, let me tell you. You can watch videos on how to prepare food, you can learn to play the banjo, you can do all sorts of things,” Ray told the mayor. “It’s not just about tits!” he added, “Although of course there’s that as well,” he said with a wink.

  “Ray, where is Grandad, by the way?” asked Jack, abruptly changing the subject, punctuating this with a little cough, and bringing Ray’s unexpected tangent to a hasty close before it got too far out of the starting gate. But he only received a shoulder shrug from Ray in response.

  Mayor Brian looked cautiously over his shoulder, and then leaned forward in his chair with a mischievous grin. From the way he did this, and from the expression on his face, it appeared as if he was about to dish out some juicy gossip in true Pete the Postman fashion. “I shouldn’t say this…” said the mayor, with a final glance over his shoulder.

  “Is it regarding Grandad?” asked Jack, a little confused.

  “No, no,” said the mayor. “Jack. Emma,” he went on, looking straight at them now, “I’m completely bowled over by what you’ve done. I’m sure I can secure some funding for the charity. If it’d help…?”

  “If it’d help?” replied Emma, repeating the mayor’s words back to him. She bounced up and down in her chair in excitement, bringing an affectionate smile to Jack’s face at her bounding enthusiasm. “That’d be amazing if you could!” Emma told the mayor, in case her ebullient springing motion wasn’t enough of an indication as to her answer. “The more funding we have, then the more we’re able to help people!” Emma had to put both hands down onto the table and brace herself, as she’d almost bounced herself right off her chair. “Anyway, that’s very kind,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  “Right. Leave it with me,” said Brian, draining the contents of his cup. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any literature I could take away to show the rest of the council members, do you?”

  “We do, as luck would have it,” replied Emma. “We had a box of brochures delivered today to advertise both the work we do and the upcoming world record attempt, as a matter of fact,” she said. “We’ll get you some,” she told the mayor, turning to Jack as she said this.

  This was met with a blank stare from Jack.

  “We’ll go get you some,” Emma reiterated, still looking directly at Jack as she said this, indicating that by ‘we’ she meant Jack, and that by ‘go get you some’ she meant right now.

  This was met with a continued blank stare from Jack.

  “They’re still on the bus,” said Emma with casual certainty, in answer to Jack’s unspoken question, and correctly recognising Jack’s gormless expression, which read as, where the hell did we leave them?

  Jack often marvelled at Emma’s ability to know exactly where any and all things were at all times. Indeed, things were never lost in their household, not entirely, not truly lost, until Emma couldn’t find the thing that they were looking for. Then, and only then, could an item be declared officially lost.

  Jack skipped away, as instructed, and headed outside to the bus. “Oh! Heya! Come in for a coffee!” he said, noticing Kelvin along the way.

  “Ah! My work here is not yet done, it would appear!” replied a cheerful yet embattled Kelvin, who was still being pestered by his adoring public. They were nowhere near through with him yet, by the looks of it.

  Jack looked to Pete, still on guard near to Kelvin warding against undue shenanigans. Jack shrugged, feeling Kelvin was at least safe for the moment, if sadly coffee-less. “Well, when you get a chance, then! The door’s always open for you!” Jack offered amiably.

  Jack climbed aboard the bus, grinning broadly. He’d been somewhat nervous about the day. After all, public speaking didn’t come naturally to him. Additionally, the purchase of the bus and the announcement of the upcoming world record attempt could have both fallen flat on their collective arses. Fortunately, however, though the presentation had taken a bit of time to build momentum and pick up steam, the reaction from those in attendance and including the press ended up being wildly positive. With this in mind, then, along with the approval and support of the mayor to boot, Jack could easily be forgiven for feeling particularly positive about things right about then. Feeling quite satisfied with himself, he planted his bum cheeks on the driver’s seat of the minibus, settling them comfortably in. There was just one thing missing…

  “If only I had a hat,” he said, reaching up to his, regrettably, hat-bereft head. He laughed, thinking back to Grandad and Ray. “Those old boys had it right,” he said with a chuckle.

  Jack gently tapped the steering wheel, before looking over his shoulder and up the interior of the bus. “You are a thing of beauty,” he said, with genuine pride. He stood, walking up the length of the bus, stroking the tops of the seats as he progressed. “We’re going to do good things with you,” he said, talking to the bus as if it could answer him. He paused for a moment, looking at the pristine, blemish-free fabric covering the seats. He had originally advanced the notion they should perhaps shield them with some sort of rubber protective covering on account of the tendency of old people to piss themselves, and often. But this suggestion had been outright dismissed by Emma, instantly upon hearing it, and looking now at how lovely the upholstery was, Jack felt it would truly be a shame to cover it up, and he knew that Emma had been right. She always was.

  Jack continued up the aisle, pressing on in his quest to retrieve the brochures. From his elevated position on the bus, he had a wonderful vantage point affording him a full view of the street and also into the coffee shop window which was adjacent to the bus. “She is beautiful,” he said to nobody, as he was the only one stood there, and looking at his beloved Emma now rather than the bus and with this observation in reference to her this time. He watched on as Emma flashed a smile, seemingly regaling the rest of the group inside with some anecdote or another.

  Shortly, however, Jack could see the mayor standing up to leave, so he quickly located the box of advertising brochures. His movement mirrored the mayor’s, with Jack making his way to the front of the bus at the same time as the mayor made his way to the entrance of the coffee shop. “Blimey, he really does look like me, doesn’t he?” remarked Jack, glancing over at his counterpart. He sighed contemplatively. “Ahh, Jack Tate on first-name terms with the mayor of Douglas,” he said to himself agreeably. “Jack Tate, mixing it with the bigwigs, and…”

  But then Jack went silent, poised on the steps of the bus, box of brochures in hand. He narrowed his eyes, straining his neck for a better view of what he was now seeing. “What the devil are you doing?” he wondered aloud, in reference to a rather furtive-looking Grandad stood in the doorway of the hairdressers a couple of shops down from Jack’s establishment. It very much looked like Grandad was on sentry duty by the way he was periodically poking his head out to look up the street towards the coffee shop.

  “Silly old bugger,” said Jack, shaking his head, quite unsure what Grandad was doing but knowing it must be some form of mischief. He didn’t give it much thought beyond that, but he did wonder why Ray was inside with the rest of them while Grandad was up to whatever it was he was up to outside. They were like a double act, Grandad and Ray, and ordinarily where one of them was, the other was not far behind. But, considering that the mayor was now stood outside the shop and preparing to leave, Jack’s current priority was to ensure his new friend didn’t leave emptyhanded. And so getting to the bottom of whatever the dickens Grandad was presently up to would have to wait. “Just coming, Mr Mayor! Em… Brian!” Jack shouted over.

  It was at that exact moment, however, that Jack bore witness to Grandad darting from his hidey-hole and moving at the sort of accelerated pace towards the coffee shop that belied his advanced age. Grandad was clearly on a mission, though what that mission was, exactly, Jack had not a clue. As Jack watched, however, he noticed Grandad held something in his hands, and as Grandad drew ever nearer to the cof
fee shop, a look of grim determination on his face, it suddenly became horrifyingly apparent to Jack the nature of Grandad’s intentions as well as his intended target. Sure enough, Grandad was in front of the coffee shop in an instant, and once within striking distance of the mayor, he jumped into direct action. “Nooooo!” screamed Jack, waving his arm in protest, but it was already too late. He watched the scene unfold as if happening in slow motion…

  In one fluid motion Grandad flicked open the egg box he was carrying in his right hand while raising it high above his head, and simultaneously he raised the open bag of flour that was in his left. The eggs came down first, landing on the mayor’s head like a dive-bombing from a very angry albatross. This was followed very shortly thereafter by the white flour being tipped out over the now-smashed half-dozen egg yolks running down the head of the startled and confused mayor.

  “That’ll teach you!” shrieked Grandad with tremendous glee. “That’ll teach you for soaking me!” he added, lest the reason for his successful revenge plot remain unclear. “Ray, I got him! I got him, Ray!” he called out to his chum still inside the shop.

  But it was at this precise moment that Grandad clapped eyes on Jack, however… a Jack who was now vehemently shaking his fist in Grandad’s direction, and a Jack who was most decidedly not coated in egg and flour.

  “You should get out of here!” advised Ray, shouting through the half-open door — with the mayor currently still standing on the threshold — and motioning up the street to the man in a dark suit sprinting towards their position. “Here comes the mayor’s driver barrelling this way on foot, and he looks none too pleased just now!”

  Grandad was uncertain as to how he’d managed to coat the wrong person, but such questions would have to wait as he was in very real danger of being wrestled to the ground momentarily, and so he opted to take off like a stabbed rat.

  Jack rushed over, making it there before the mayor’s driver, as Jack had been closer, and he used this opportunity to his advantage in order to help Grandad’s sorry arse make good his escape. “He’s gone!” Jack told the driver as he appeared shortly after Jack’s own arrival on scene. “The bastard must have slipped away in the crowd!”

  With Grandad having made his getaway, Jack and the driver both attended to the mayor. “I’m guessing he’s a disgruntled voter or something…?” offered Jack, using his hand to wipe some of the mess from the mayor’s head, and obviously not wishing to betray his grandad despite Grandad’s ill-conceived revenge manoeuvre. “Hmm, egg and flour,” observed Jack. “Some milk, a pinch of salt, and a bit of leavening, and we could almost have a cake mix here, yes? Eh-heh… heh… erm… heh?”

  Jack had been trying to provide a little levity in hopes of defusing the situation a bit. The stern look on Emma’s face, however, told him he was only making matters worse.

  “Anyway, it’s been a real pleasure, Mr Mayor,” said Jack, abruptly changing tack and bustling the mayor out the door. “Here’s the brochures we discussed, and you can be sure to count on our votes!” he added. “Be sure to call in for a coffee the next time you’re over this way!”

  With the slightly traumatised and considerably disoriented mayor escorted back to his car, Jack came back inside, easing over to Ray and shaking his fist like a craps player. “That soppy old bugger nearly killed the mayor, and you must have known he was plotting something, thick as thieves as you are! Why didn’t you say anything??” Jack complained.

  “Killed? I’m not sure about killed,” said Ray. “I mean, it was only eggs and flour.”

  “He might have… well, he might have had an allergy… or something!” Jack sputtered, not making an awful lot of sense in his enraged state. “You tell him that I’m going to tear him a new one when I catch up with him! Bloody hell!” he said, wiping his eggy hand on Ray’s sleeve. “Bloody hell!” he said again, as he was a bit flustered and didn’t know what else to say, the proper words to convey his consternation escaping him.

  “I’m sorry, Jack, I knew Geoffrey was cooking up something, but I didn’t know it was going to be that. Honestly, I didn’t,” said Ray. “I mean, I didn’t know it was cake he was going to be cooking up,” he added with a chuckle.

  “Well you just tell my grandad that… that…” Jack angrily began. “You know what, never mind,” he added, softening up now. Jack couldn’t help but smile as he spotted the trail of goo left by the mayor. A court of law may not have agreed once CCTV of the incident had been viewed, but he had to admit, in retrospect, that the whole thing was funny nonetheless.

  “Daft old bugger,” said Jack with a chuckle. “Bloody daft old bugger…”

  .

  Chapter Six

  A generously proportioned lump of popcorn, possibly of the salted variety, ricocheted off the chrome handrail before arriving abruptly to the floor and joining several of its companions. The reunion was, however, short-lived as the accelerated impact sent them sprawling in every direction.

  “Bloody stop it!” shouted Jack, twisting his neck and peering up the aisle of the bus from his seat near to the front. He was greeted by the sight of fourteen wrinkled faces, which were more wrinkled than usual on account of the fit of hysterics by which they were beset.

  “Oi! What’s this? Are you smoking again, Nancy?” Jack called out, in reference to the plume of smoke he spotted emanating from the backseat of the bus, as if the popcorn shenanigans weren’t enough of a nuisance. But before he could continue this tobacco-related line of enquiry any further, his attention was drawn to a bony finger etching the outline of a penis onto the interior surface of its adjacent steamed-up window. It was, to be fair, an inspiring effort, and the phallic symbol must have been at least a foot tall, resulting in an impressive, larger-than-life display. If Jack were marking it, then it was surely a 9/10 effort. The added use of the fingernail to offer a generous application of simulated pubic hair around the lower portion of the image shortly thereafter, as an additional artistic flourish, would likely warrant bumping the score up to a 10/10 for the attention to detail alone.

  “I can see that’s you, Grandad!” shouted Jack, but he couldn’t, and it was a guess, as several rows of people were in front of the offending hand obstructing Jack’s view. But it was a calculated gamble, as the person sat next to the owner of the hand and within Jack’s clear view was a sniggering Ray, and where one of them was, the other was usually right close by.

  “Honestly,” continued Jack, pushing himself out of his seat so he was half standing. “If I need to come down the back of the bus again then… then…” he went on, struggling to come up with an appropriate threat. “Then there’ll be none of the apple pie that Emma’s made for us!” he declared, settling on something he felt would be effective enough. “Yes, that’s right! No apple pie for you lot!”

  No apple pie was an eventuality worth serious consideration, and, with this in mind, the bus went quiet as this was mulled over and the prospect of Jack bringing his threat to fruition given due consideration. In the end, however, it would appear the passengers of the bus had decided they weren’t about to be bullied by one such as Jack and had resolved to call his bluff. And this was accomplished, in part, by a further volley of popcorn by a person or persons unknown towards the front end of the bus, along with chants of:

  “Down with tyrants and despots!”

  “Solidarity, brothers and sisters!”

  “Cast off the shackles of the oppressors!”

  “Apple pie for everyone!”

  And,

  “Freeedooommm!”

  And this was directly followed up with a further round of raucous laughter, indicating that no one took Jack’s empty threats seriously, and that the occupants of the bus were all united against injustice of any kind, most especially where that kind involved the withholding of delicious fruit-based pies.

  Jack plucked a piece of popcorn off his forehead that had stuck there as a result of this most recent maize-related assault. The fact that it had stuck solid made Jack conc
lude the popcorn must have been buttered. At least he hoped it was butter or similar, as opposed to, say, wetted with saliva. He sighed a heavy sigh, and then gathered himself together. “You’re worse than sodding schoolchildren!” he scolded them. “And I’m having the apple pie all to myself! You’ll see! Just you wait and see!”

  But this was met only with some lively mocking, a bit of colourful language, and then a general round of snorts and giggles. Jack sighed again, mumbling something to the effect of you’ve been warned and just you wait, etcetera. He sat back down, reclaiming his seat, and for the moment defeated. He turned to face front once again, ignoring the barbarians to the rear of him. “Are we nearly there, Vince?” he asked resignedly to Vince, their driver for the day.

  “Five minutes, Jack,” Vince replied, and then, “Jack, can I have some apple pie? I mean, the no-apple-pie thing… that doesn’t apply to me, does it…?”

  “If you’re well behaved, Vince, then yes you can,” replied Jack. “But that lot…” he said, raising his voice and throwing his thumb over his shoulder… “can’t!”

  The Seniorsville Trolley, as the bus had been unofficially named, had departed from its point of origin and was on her maiden voyage. She’d been booked up solid for the remainder of the week to transport folk to and from the club’s various ports of call. But, for today, she was being utilised to take some of the group on a nice little outing to the north of the Island. Yes, the Silver Sprinters — the more adventurous faction — were on a road trip, though this wasn’t physical activity they were looking for today. Rather, it was motorised action they were after. And the only venue that would quench their blue-rinse, adrenalin-fuelled junkie fix, as it should happen, was the Isle of Man’s go-karting centre at the Jurby Racetrack. Vince, God bless him, was one of the members of the club who’d signed up first for the day’s adventures, and here he was having to drive them all. He’d foolishly let it slip that his former career as a bus driver must surely lend itself to him becoming a champion-in-waiting on the go-kart track, professional driver that he was. Jack, of course, had been quick to tune in to and seize upon Vince’s declaration regarding his previous job. And so it was that the Seniorsville Trolley had its first capable, if reluctant, chauffeur. With the noise and excessive frivolity emanating from behind him, Vince may well have wished he’d kept his trap shut. Loose lips sink ships, as they say. Or, in this case, at least, loose lips end up piloting the ship.