The Lonely Heart Attack Club - Project VIP

by J. C. Williams

  “What is it now?” enquired Vince.

  “I’m just wondering, collectively, how many missing body parts we’ve possibly got within this group? There’s Lionel’s eye, that I know of. And now your leg,” Jack mused aloud. “How many others, I wonder?”

  “Maurice is missing a testicle,” Vince was more than happy to inform Jack.

  “Vince, that’s more information than I really need to know!” protested Jack.

  “Well you did ask, now didn’t you?” Vince rightly pointed out, taking a dainty sip of his tea, pinkie finger extended.

  True enough to his word, Brad offered up the chequered flag for Jack and Vince to welcome the gang home across the final finish line, with Vince handling the flag with the spirit of a true pirate seafarer. For a man with one leg, he sure could shift, as was required and evidenced when one of the karts headed directly towards him rather than the return lane to the pit area, with the offending driver quickly identified to be Grandad playing silly buggers.

  Before overalls were removed and helmets returned, Brad suggested a team photo with the vacated go-karts forming the ideal backdrop. The Lonely Heart gang jumped quickly into formation and stood at the ready like a football team having their team photo, and with Jack in the middle of them all like their mascot for the day. Jack offered up a broad grin even before he’d been prompted to by Brad, who readied himself with his camera phone to capture the moment. Jack placed his arms around Ray and Grandad, who stood either side of him, and soaked up the giddy revelry of the gang who were high as kites on the adrenalin rush and like children who’d eaten too much sugar. He loved this, did Jack. The comradery, the friendship, and making a difference to people’s lives. He caught a glimpse of Florence sharing a joke with one of the other women and she had tears running down her face. This time they were tears of laughter rather than sorrow, and if you were to ask Jack why they all put so much time and effort into the charity… well, that could be summed up by seeing the smile on all of those wrinkly, weathered faces around him.

  “Say cheers!” shouted Brad, with a helpful wave to indicate where he was stood and assuming some of those facing him may have been short-sighted on account of their age.

  “Long John Silver!” replied Vince with a laugh.

  “Long John Silver!” came the collective response as Brad, none the wiser as to the precise reason for this odd breach of picture-taking etiquette, snapped the moment for posterity.

  “Right, you lot,” said Jack, looking at his watch once the snapping of images was sorted. “Brad said they’ve got another group due in, so we’ll get packed up and we can head back to the coffee shop for a bite to eat as I’m sure we’ve all worked up quite an appetite. Aaannd… yes, I reckon you’ve all been well-behaved enough to warrant that slice of apple pie,” he told them, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his own piece of pie soon to pass over his lips. “So, five minutes or so to get your overalls off and onto the bus if you’d be as kind, yes please? And Lionel, please make sure your eye is tucked into its socket where it belongs, if it isn’t already? We don’t want to leave the next group coming in with any unpleasant surprises, am I right?”

  Jack turned to Vince, standing at the ready next to the group’s wheeled chariot. “You’re going to be all right driving this?” he asked.

  “Right as rain,” Vince assured Jack confidently. “No problems here. Just need to make sure I don’t go around any corners too quickly is all, as that’s when the leg can fall straight off.”

  Vince stared Jack out with a completely deadpan expression, fully expecting some sort of response. “I’m joking, Jack. Jack, I’m only joking,” he added, when receiving nothing in return.

  “Ah,” said Jack. “Ah,” he said again, but it wasn’t in response to Vince. Jack was patting himself down. “That’s my phone buzzing,” he said, trying to work out just which pocket of his he’d put it in. “Vince, if them lot come out of the dressing rooms, can you get them on board the bus?” he asked. “Do you mind?”

  “Dunno, Jack. Trying to get them anywhere is like attempting to herd cats, but I’ll give it a go,” replied Vince with a nod, happy to accommodate but uncertain as to the possible results.

  “Tell them there’s a cake on the backseat or something,” suggested Jack, knowing how the oldies loved their cake, and then placing the phone to his ear…

  “Hey, honey, we’re just heading off and should be back in an hour or so depending on how long this lot take to…” he said to Emma on the other end, but didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence, as Emma was now speaking.

  Jack padded around in a tight circle like a captured fox as he listened on. Several of the boisterous club members returned in timely fashion, precisely as instructed, and with the others trickling in as well, and so Jack moved away from the bus, placing his spare finger in one ear as he continued to press his other ear against the phone.

  As Jack listened, the colour drained from his face. He looked over his shoulder, back towards the bus, and then out in front of him again, to the hills off in the distance. But his gaze was unfocused, as he was presently concentrating on his conversation over the phone rather than the scenery.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Jack said, now pressing his free hand up against his forehead. “Look, I’ll get there as soon as I can, Emma,” he told Emma. “Don’t worry, this has got to be some sort of stupid mistake that they’ll fix the moment we go and see them.” He went quiet for a moment further, listening intently. “Emma,” he said, in as reassuringly confident a tone as he could muster, “Don’t cry, Emma. As I say, it’s probably some sort of stupid error, and they’ll send us a bunch of flowers by way of an apology in the end. I love you, babe, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Jack slowly lowered the phone, muttering to himself.

  “Come on, Jack! Don’t make us leave without you!” shouted Grandad. But when Jack just stood there, motionless, save for the muttering, Grandad bounded over, sprightly as you like for an old geezer. “We’re going, Jack, and you should know that one of them has opened up a hip flask!” Grandad reported like the school snitch, certain this would get a rise out of Bus Monitor Jack.

  “Right, right, okay,” said Jack, not really listening and clearly distracted by something or other.

  “Oi! Cheer up! You’ve got a face like a slapped ass, Jack,” said an ever-helpful Grandad. “What’s up with your mush, anyway?” he added, offering Jack a playful poke in the ribs.

  “Nothing,” said Jack. But it wasn’t convincing in the least, judging by the expression on Grandad’s face in response, who was obviously not fooled for one minute. “That was Emma on the phone I’ve been talking to just now,” explained Jack, relenting. “And it sounds like there’s been some sort of mix-up with the bank.”

  “Oh? What’s this? What sort of mix-up?” asked Grandad, tilting his head with concern.

  Jack placed the palm of his hand back on his forehead to steady himself. “It must be some kind of mistake,” he repeated, attempting to reassure both his grandad and himself, though Grandad didn’t yet know why he should need reassuring.

  “What the hell is it, Jack?” pressed Grandad. “What’s going on, exactly? You look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost.”

  “It’s probably nothing, Grandad. At least I certainly hope it turns out to be nothing, and that it’s just some kind of odd mistake on their part. But the bank has been on to Emma about an irregularity regarding the charity’s account… an irregularity, in that they’re saying there’s nothing left.”

  “Nothing? But that’s rubbish,” insisted Grandad. “I’m on the finance committee with you, Jack. I’ve seen how much money is in that bank account.”

  “I know, Grandad. They’re saying it’s all gone,” Jack answered. “Somehow, it’s all gone. They’ve even just had to bounce the cheque that I used to pay for the new bus. There’s nothing left. My god, I hope to high heaven this is all some sort of terrible mistake! Otherwise, the charity is
well and truly up shit creek without a paddle!”

  .

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Crooked accountant charged with sixteen counts of fraud’

  T he headline that would be forever burned into the retinas of Jack’s eyeballs was on the front of all the local newspapers, and even picked up by a couple of the national newspapers due to the scale of the fraud. Barry Cox, accountant, was rather living up to his surname on account that he was one. And a big ginormous one at that. Old Barry wasn’t quite the estimable member and reliable bulwark of the business community that he’d portrayed himself and that most people had believed him to be, as it should happen. For Jack, they say that misery loves company, but the fact that fifteen other unhappy suckers had also fallen afoul of Barry’s deceit, as it was revealed, was of little comfort to him. According to the press reports, old Barry was quite the thieving bastard, and with his thievery primarily motivated by a desire to subsidise his penchant for online gambling, Columbian nose candy, and busty Eastern European prostitutes. This sort of lifestyle was of course unsustainable, and it was only a matter of time before he was caught out. Barry had been living in a house of cards which unfortunately had now well and truly collapsed and come crashing down around him — unfortunately where his victims were concerned, that is, as they were the real casualties in this. Barry Cox, on the other hand, could rightly go fuck himself with a pineapple.

  Currently, at the local Douglas health club…

  “How’s he bearing up?” asked Pete, struggling to catch his breath. He wiped the free-flowing stream of sweat pooling around his eyes, but it was pointless as the area refilled the moment he removed his hand. “I can’t carry on with this, Emma. My thighs are on fire!”

  “You can,” gasped Emma, through her own laboured breaths and having her own sweat-related struggle. “Just close your eyes and grit your teeth. It’ll all be over soon,” she told Pete. As for the subject of Jack, she couldn’t speak on that presently, as her current priority was getting oxygen into her lungs. “This is worse than giving birth!” she cried, with her heart in danger of bursting through her ribcage, and several veins in her head and neck threatening to rupture.

  “And… relax,” announced the Lycra-clad lady at the front of the class, with barely a hint of excess moisture about her person, or any sign of a laboured breath at all, for that matter.

  “Thank Christ,” offered Pete, now resting his head on the handlebars of his spin bike. “You do this for fun?” he asked, looking to Emma on the adjacent bike, and replenishing the oxygen in his lungs in hungry gulps of air.

  Emma jumped off her steed, sprightly-as-you-like, despite her strenuous protestations only moments earlier. “Sure!” she said brightly, wiping her head with her pink towel. “Just keep at it and you’ll enjoy it. But, being your first time, your legs will be sore for a couple of days,” she advised. “Right. I’m going to jump in the shower, and then we can have a catch-up, yeah? Meet you at the coffee bar?”

  In not too long a time, showered, refreshed, and in need of caffeine, Emma sat in the coffee shop area at her health club nursing a cup of java. Her eyes were glued to the glass display cabinet holding a veritable feast of cakes on display, on offer there to tempt those who’d burnt enough calories to warrant a sugary treat. It was a cruel, sick joke to go and bait people like that, she thought to herself. But, she had just been through forty minutes or so of rigorous exercise and wasn’t about to reverse her gains. Determined to resist the siren-song allure of cake, at least for the moment, she glanced at the clock on the wall, and then to the watch on her wrist to confirm the time. Where is he? she said to herself.

  As if in answer, a pained groan echoed down the stairs from the changing rooms on the upper floor level, which caused those sat at the other tables near Emma to turn in their seats in order to investigate the source of these peculiar vocalisations. Then, they turned back around to discuss their findings.

  “Hmm, an odd sort of mewling,” said one person, and then taking a sip of coffee.

  “Mewling?” said another, their own coffee poised at their lips. “I rather thought it was more of a bleating.”

  “A keening, I thought,” said another, entering in.

  “No, no, a wailing,” opined yet another.

  “Pete!” cried Emma, as Pete slowly hobbled into view. He’d managed a few steps but then stopped, and it appeared he could go no further. “Oh my goodness, Pete!” said Emma, placing her cup on the table and dashing over to render assistance.

  “My legs won’t work!” he wailed, clutching onto the handrail to remain upright like the town drunk. “I’m telling my legs what to do…” he said. “But they’re not bloody doing it!”

  “See? Definitely a wailing,” said one of the spectators back at the coffee shop area tables, continuing the running commentary.

  “Well, certainly, a wailing now, but earlier, it was more of a bleating, I should say…” remarked the bleating proponent, and on and on the conversation went.

  Fortunately, Emma was out of earshot by now, as was Pete. With one arm draped around Emma, and the other around the receptionist who’d also responded to his groans of distress, Pete eventually navigated the stairs and made his way down to the coffee shop, giving all in attendance the chance to gawp at his broken, ravaged form, and to continue on in whispers their previous debate as to precisely what sort of noises, exactly, Pete had been making just prior.

  “My legs feel like a pair of wet noodles,” Pete groaned miserably, before collapsing in his chair.

  “Are you going to be okay?” asked a concerned Emma.

  “I’m thinking I perhaps should not have met you here, as I’m not confident I can now drive home on my own,” replied a grimacing Pete. “Here. What’s this? No cake?” he asked with a sigh, noticing the distinct, glaring absence of cake, or anything even remotely cake-like in nature, waiting for him on the table.

  “I thought that we should…” Emma began.

  “Please get cake,” pleaded Pete, and not at all interested in her reasoning behind inexplicably up until this point not getting any cake.

  “Carrot?” Emma asked.

  “No! I need cake!” Pete moaned.

  “No. I meant carrot cake,” Emma explained, as patiently as she could in deference to Pete’s current troubled state.

  “Oh. Yes, please. Thank you,” answered an appreciative Pete.

  “Back in a mo’, then,” replied Emma.

  Pete placed his head on the table like a child at naptime as he waited for Emma to return, whimpering in pain periodically, and wondering if his commitment of signing up for six sessions might not have been somewhat premature. Still, it was nice for him to spend some time with Emma. They were all good friends, Jack, Emma, himself, and of course Kelvin, but with their own busy schedules it was difficult to find the opportunity to spend quality time together. They’d nearly cancelled their first joint spin class on account of Jack, who was reluctant to leave the house, even to go to work. But by Emma insisting she was going out with Pete, this also forced Jack to face the outside world again, something he hadn’t been particularly eager to do.

  “Thanks for this,” said Pete, lifting his head to greet the carrot cake presented to him. “Now, on the subject of Jack… Is he that bad? I mean, is he as bad as you were telling me earlier?”

  Pete’s eyes were thoughtful and sincere, with any consideration of the pain he was experiencing himself from his recent exercise session now gone, and Emma’s ordinarily cheery disposition vanished in an instant, her eyes welling up.

  “Oh, my love,” said Pete, reaching over to take her hands.

  Emma bowed her head, puffing out her cheeks in a deep exhale. “Pete, I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Jack’s completely devastated by all of this. He’s not been out of the house for two weeks, and he only did today as I dragged him out to cover for me at the shop while I came here. Pete, he’s been in tears every day this week.”

  “This isn’t his fault
, Emma. We’ve told him this,” Pete offered.

  “He knows that, but it doesn’t help him,” said Emma, dabbing at her eyes. “And the police have told him that as well. But they’ve also told us that the chances of recovering the money for the charity are pretty much zero, on account of it being snorted up that accountant’s nose or gambled away. Nearly two hundred thousand pounds, Pete. Just gone. Jack doesn’t want to leave the house because he’s so embarrassed and doesn’t want to face anybody from the club. He’s inconsolable. The ironic thing is that he only hired an accountant in the first place because he was so worried about doing something stupid, and then the very person he entrusted to look after it has done this,” she told Pete. “I’m just so…” she said, gripping her napkin as her anger got the better of her.

  “I know, I know,” said Pete, patting her hands.

  “I’m just so heartbroken for him, Pete,” Emma went on, loosening her grip on the napkin now, her shoulders sagging. “As you know, he used to be a bit slack, but the way he’s turned the corner just makes me so very proud.” Emma used the napkin to dab at her eyes once more, before continuing, “There’s not enough money to pay for the new bus now, Pete. The bank had to return the cheque. It’s only good fortune that the garage we bought it from, out of sympathy for our plight, hasn’t taken it back just yet in hopes that we can arrange a payment plan.”

  “At least the club doesn’t need too much money to operate. I mean, what with it being manned mostly by volunteers, right?” suggested Pete, by way of consolation. “So at least the club can continue. So there’s that, yeah?” he said, giving Emma’s hands another generous round of pats.

  Emma shrugged her shoulders. “I just don’t know,” she replied. “The rent is too much for us to pay. So I just don’t know…”

  “Rent?” asked Pete, clearly confused. “But the clubs all gather upstairs in the coffee shops, for the most part,” he said, failing to understand how this would present a problem.