by Hayley Doyle
‘Jimbo,’ Mikey says, taking a deep breath, a twinkle in his eyes behind his glasses. ‘You can go to Dubai.’
‘Oh? Can I?’ I say with a chirpy sarcasm.
‘You can thank me for it later.’
‘Again, can I?’
‘Do you not wanna know how?’
‘I can hardly wait.’
Mikey throws back his shoulders and splays his hands. For a moment, I think he might burst into some sort of Andrew Lloyd Webber song, but he simply says the name, ‘Leon.’
‘Right …’
‘Leon!’
‘Means nothing to me, mate.’
‘Wrong. It means everything to you, Jimbo.’
‘Y’what?’
‘Leon Taylor.’
‘Your old uni mate?’
‘Spot on.’
‘The fella you slagged off for the best part of an hour at the Pacific Arms the other night?’
‘Didn’t.’
‘Okay, lad. You didn’t.’
‘Leon’s sound,’ Mikey says, his voice ringing into all corners of my little flat.
‘Sure he is,’ I say, calming my mate down by gently pressing my hands onto his shoulders and edging him back into the settee. ‘For a fella who can’t header a ball and falls asleep at the table after four pints. According to you, that is.’
‘Well, he did used to fall asleep after four pints. Doesn’t mean he isn’t sound.’
‘Never said he wasn’t.’
Mikey grabs my arm and pulls me down to sit beside him. The heavy bustle from the flyover outside causes the windows of the flat to rattle, a noise I like to drown out with the velvet tones of vinyl. Mikey’s still holding onto me with a tight grip.
‘Jimbo. Leon knows Zara.’
‘You mentioned.’
‘He’s gonna set you up.’
‘Y’what?’
‘He said you can stay with him.’
‘Oh, can I?’
‘Yeah. He’s got a spare room. Says people stay all the time.’
‘I bet.’
‘He loves having people over, showing them around Dubai.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘He was a bit like that at uni.’
‘I can see how Huddersfield and Dubai’d be similar. From a tourist’s point of view, like.’
‘You’re a massive twat, Jimbo.’
‘Oh, so you were coming over to insult me?’ I laugh, breaking my arm free.
I fall right back into my settee, fold my arms.
‘You heard me, Jim,’ Mikey says, pointing his finger at me as if I’m one of his unruly pupils. ‘Leon Taylor said you can stay at his place in Dubai. In fucking Dubai, mate. For free. I mean, buy him some duty-free ale or something to say thanks. You know the score.’ And Mikey cups his hand around his ear, sticking out his head. ‘I’m listening …’
‘Listening? For what?’ I ask.
‘I can’t hear you,’ Mikey sings. Patronising bastard.
‘Mikey, why are you really here?’
‘Fuck’s sake, Jimbo. I’m not saying it again. Thank me another time. You piece of shit.’
Straightening his tie and his glasses, Mikey heads to the door and opens it, the Wongs’ antisocial kids peering from the stairs. I try to follow him but the kids block my way, eager to go inside and watch Netflix. I call out to Mikey just before he reaches the back entrance by Wong’s kitchen.
‘Mikey, don’t take the piss. You don’t seriously expect me to go, do you?’
But Mikey’s getting into his car.
‘What’s your excuse?’ he asks.
‘Y’what?’
Mikey slams his door and turns the key. The window slides down.
‘There’s always an excuse with you, Jimbo. What is it this time?’
This silences me. What does Mikey mean by that? There’s always an excuse?
‘We all have it hard, mate,’ Mikey says, revving. ‘But, when you want something, you go for it. Well, some of us do, anyway.’
The revs add to the deafening noise from the flyover. One of the Wongs’ antisocial kids darts past and dumps a load of potato skins into the wheelie bin, its stench filtering outwards. A few loose skins blow into the wind, dance around my trainers.
‘You honestly think I can just pack me bags and go to the other side of the world to stay with some fella I’ve never met?’ I yell. ‘Get set up with some girl I hardly know?’
Mikey revs harder. ‘Yeah.’
‘Do you realise how fucking crazy that sounds?’
‘No.’
‘Mikey, lad. I’ve got no money. None.’
‘We thought you might say that.’
‘Well, I haven’t!’
‘So sell something.’
The car window squeaks on its way upwards, Mikey’s face becoming a blur behind the rain-speckled glass. I run my hands through the hair hanging over my eyes and then through my stubble, the beginnings of a beard. Does Mikey really think things are as easy as that? Just sell something – something?! – and piss off? To Dubai? And what the hell would I tell Zara, if she did actually happen to know this fella, this Leon Taylor, and agree to meet up? ‘Oh, hiya Zara. Remember me? The fella you thought was a rich entrepreneur? Well, I’m skint. Pure skint. And that’s just the beginning, wait ’til you find out where I live … oh, and by the way, love, can you buy us a bevvie?’ I batter on Mikey’s window, willing him to understand.
‘I haven’t got anything to sell,’ I cry.
But Mikey’s indicated and slowly starts pulling out, away from Wong’s, away from the potato skins, away from me. And my string of tiring excuses.
She’s in the day room watching The Chase when I arrive at the hospital. I greet her but get shushed because she’s playing along, trying to answer the questions Bradley Walsh is asking against the clock. I wait with patience, offer ‘Tom Hanks’ as the answer to one question and get an almighty evil look from her in return.
The Chaser wins.
My ma calls it ‘scandalous’ and tells me to switch the bloody thing off. Then I take a seat in the plastic armchair beside her. We’re all alone, the ward quieter than usual, a lull during staff changeover.
‘They’re letting me out tomorrow,’ she says, as if it’s top secret.
‘Well, you look superb,’ I say, and mean it.
‘I feel it, love.’
Her new housecoat, peaches and cream and lined with satin, matches her new cosy slippers, a gift from my sisters. The colour has brought out a natural blush in her cheeks, somehow turning her greying hair to silver. I wish I had a bag of Minstrels for her, or some Revels. She’s such a chocolate fiend and I want to give her whatever makes her smile, even if it is just a packet of sweets.
‘That fall might be the best thing I ever did,’ she chuckles.
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? It’s only brought us all together again, hasn’t it?’
I don’t say anything. The day room’s vacuous silence isn’t pleasant and although I’d been looking forward to being with my ma away from the commotion my sisters like to create, the quiet moments now feel long, and rather bleak.
‘It’s almost as if they never left,’ she says, relieving the sterile air.
‘I feel like a kid again.’
‘Wanting to hide from them every chance you get?’
‘Not half.’
‘Is it bad that I forgot how shrill our Lisa’s voice can be? Me own daughter!’
‘It’s not bad that you forgot at all. It’s miraculous.’
We both share a laugh, a sneaky one, as if the nurses are being paid to spy on us.
‘Eh, Emma’s husband knows how to be heard, doesn’t he?’ She grins.
‘My ears are still ringing from when he first opened his gob.’
‘Do you think he’s one of them Trump supporters?’
‘I’m marching our Emma to the divorce courts if he is.’
‘And the other one, Paul, is it just me or are his eyes a bit too cl
ose together?’
‘You think he’s a bit inbred?’
‘I imagine his mother married her cousin.’
‘You’re terrible!’ I cry, my stomach aching from trying not to laugh out loud. And my ma, God, she’s sniggering so much, I actually just saw her slobber. She shushes me, although really she’s shushing herself.
‘I think the most hilarious thing,’ I say, catching my breath, ‘is that they all thought you’d go across the pond to live with them. I mean, can you imagine? Putting up with all that twenty-four seven? They must think you’re crackers.’
It’s my ma’s turn to catch her breath, too. And she sighs, a sing-song of a release.
‘I am.’ she smiles. ‘Crackers.’
‘Well, yeah. That part’s true,’ I tease, winking at her.
She grabs my hand. Well, my wrist. Something firmer than another blip of affection.
‘No, son. I don’t think you understand.’
‘Y’what?’
‘I’m gonna go.’
‘Where?’
‘Where do you think, soft lad? I’m gonna go. With them. To America.’
‘Are you messing?’
‘No, I’m not messing.’ She fiddles with the satin lining on her housecoat. ‘Our Lisa’s been going on about it for ages. Thought it’d finally shut her up.’
‘Ages?’
My ma looks at me, apologetic. If I could replace that thick silence from earlier with the eerie fuzz surrounding me now, I’d do it in a heartbeat. The words ‘go’ and ‘them’ and ‘America’ hang above my head, pressing down like a cloud awaiting the storm to begin. What confuses me the most, though, is the lightness in my ma’s voice, her positivity.
She’s leaving Liverpool.
And going to America.
‘You can’t be serious, Mam?’
‘Tell me why not, love?’
I can’t. There’s nothing I can say to stop her because there’s nothing stopping her. Only me. A million reasons for her to stay bounce through my mind, but none translate into actual words. And maybe it’s because those reasons are not actually reasons. They’re excuses. Mikey was right.
My ma’s eyes look bright and yet they’re shadowed with frailty. She has something to live for. Only not enough time to enjoy it.
‘I don’t like admitting when I might be wrong,’ she says.
‘Wrong?’
‘That car. It brought you some luck.’
The painkillers she’s on are clearly strong; she seems a bit delusional. I can’t recall if she knows about my car misfortune, or if I’d mentioned it and she’s forgotten. The last few visits run through my mind. Now’s not the time to break the news that the car brought me the very opposite of good luck.
‘You’ll have to send me a postcard,’ I joke, desperate not to get choked.
‘The kids said they’ll show me how to get an email address.’
‘I can show you how to do that.’
‘Don’t be daft. What do I want an email address for?’
‘Postcard it is, then.’
‘Postcard it is.’
Another quiet moment passes, but it’s not as heavy as the previous, as if a window has been opened. Even the faded curtains seem to sway, a sense of life in a somewhat lifeless room.
‘Shall we put Corrie on?’ my ma asks.
I seize the remote and switch the telly back on, the familiar theme tune blasting out.
‘I wonder, will I be able to watch Corrie in America?’
I don’t want to give her an excuse not to go.
‘You can watch pretty much anything from anywhere these days, Mam.’
‘Isn’t that marvellous?’
And we’re sitting here together, just like any other Wednesday evening.
‘Oh, hold on,’ my ma says, tapping her hands on the chair’s wooden arms with a sudden burst of excitement. ‘Go into the ward for me, love. In me bedside table, there’s a packet of Minstrels. Ethel Barton brought them in this afternoon.’
With a firm nod, I do as I’m told. Good old Ethel Barton. She’s come out alright in the end.
In all the years that I’ve worked in the toll booth, I’ve never been able to work out whether I prefer the sunny days, the blue sky and sharp edge to the fume-ridden air, or if a typical rainy day is better, the grey grumpiness being a more understanding ally, befriending the high-visibility jackets dotted around.
Today, most people would call it lovely. It’s a lovely day. Not a cloud in the sky, as the song goes. Ed Sheeran’s coming from the silver Nissan Micra and the chatty girl’s wearing her sunnies. On cue, she dips them.
‘Hey you,’ she says to me, a little subdued.
‘How was your night out in Oxton last week?’ I ask.
‘Oh, fine. You mightn’t see me much anymore.’
‘Why’s that, love?’
‘I’m selling this car. Gonna be getting the train instead.’
Now look, I don’t know anything about this girl other than she drives a Nissan Micra. There’s no time to find out why she’s selling, or even ask where she would be getting the train to, but one question does spring to mind.
‘How much do you reckon you’ll get for it?’
‘Few grand. Why, you interested?’
‘It’s quite old, right?’
The girl huffs. ‘It’s not an old banger. But, yeah, it’s old. I didn’t actually think I’d get that much for it, but my brother said the parts are all in good condition and parts can always be sold separately. To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention—’
‘There’s a queue, love.’
The girl puts the car into gear, gives a friendly honk partnered with a pouty sad face, and waves goodbye.
The yellow sticky sponge peeping through the seat of my chair is coming loose on my navy trousers. They really ought to invest in some new furniture. It’s the only essential the staff require. I give the back of my irritated neck a quick itch, shuffle to get comfy. Then I open up my book, but my focus isn’t on the words on the page. It’s on something Griffo said to me in the Pacific Arms.
A new ‘regular’ pulls up.
Once again, smugness shines and unless I’m imagining it, he pities me. It’s the fella in the white BMW M3, of course, an almost-replica of the one that had once belonged to me.
Counting out the coins before handing them over, I hesitate.
‘What’s the holdup?’ the fella asks.
I lean out of the window, peer down upon the car, eye its length, take in the tyres. It’s not an almost-replica of the car that once belonged to me. It’s an almost-replica of the car that still belongs to me. Enough is enough.
‘You having some sort of problem up there?’ the fella asks, his tolerance level fading.
I am, yep. One hell of a problem, in fact. The high-vis jacket is digging into the back of my neck like a flea biting for the title. I can’t stand wearing the bloody thing for a minute longer. So I’m taking it off. Now.
I leave it hanging on the sad excuse for a chair and walk away from the toll booth, across the tarmac, not looking over my shoulder once.
Because I, James Anthony Glover, am never going back.
I quit.
There’s method to what many – Derek, Gayle, amongst others – believe to be my madness. You see, while I’ve been sitting in that toll booth, there’s a car out there sitting in a pound belonging to nobody else but me. Yes, the car, with its sorry, crumpled arse, isn’t a pretty sight, and if I want to drive it anywhere, I’ll have to endure embarrassment, questions.
But I don’t want to drive it anywhere.
In fact, it’s the last thing I want to do right now. Because I want to travel in something much more adventurous than a car, or a train or even a boat. I want to stop making excuses for the sad little life I’ve created for myself and get on a plane. I’ve got an idea, and it could be totally bonkers, a reason for my mates to laugh at me or even frown upon me, but it’s an idea. It could work. And if it does,
then, I’m going to go to Dubai. I’m going to see Zara.
I ring Griffo. Ask for help. Four minutes later, Griffo calls me back.
‘Meet me at Haddon Park Way tonight at midnight,’ he informs me.
‘You think it’ll work?’ I ask.
‘Wear something dark.’
‘Of course.’
That’s the easy part.
31
Zara
The Dubai Mall. The perfect way to kill time for anybody who loves to shop.
I’m on the top floor of one of the planet’s largest indoor shopping arenas watching animals in the wild leap across the latest LED plasma screens.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
I blink, snapping myself back into the bright lights of the electronics store.
‘I’m just browsing, thank you.’
I love to shop, but one thing I’m not is a window shopper. There’s very little I can shop for without a job securing my purchases. I take out my phone, hoping Katie is on the move. She’s meeting me outside the mall to watch the dancing fountains, a pastime that never tires in Dubai, only she’s stuck in traffic. In the car with her are two mutual friends of ours that I’ve done a variety of promo work with. Despite the scar sunken into my cheek, I’m wearing a bright yellow off-shoulder dress and tan wedges, hoping that a mint lemonade and a catch-up might persuade them to put in a good word for me.
My phone flashes with a notification, but it’s none of the girls. It’s just another marketing email from Liverpool University. I’m losing my patience with all this. Why did I ever bother entering my details into their system? I’ve been getting bombarded with emails ever since. The last email was the top ten tips for how to be vegan on a tight budget. Super.
I make my way through hordes of shoppers, following the pristine walkway through the mall, down the escalators, past an array of food courts and outside to the waterside viewing deck where the dancing fountains are currently on a break. A plethora of eateries surrounds me, from international chains to independent restaurants, all spilling with a multicultural blend of locals, expats and tourists. It’s as if the whole world has gathered right here, right now. To my right, my eyes scan from the ground up, up, upwards, taking in every inch of the Burj Khalifa, a shimmering rocket kissing the Arabian night sky. Families pose for photographs, whoever is taking the picture crouching as low as possible, trying to get the whole tower in the background. Many more are taking selfies. The warm atmosphere has an edge, that feeling that something exciting is about to happen, like when a crowd awaits a rock star’s appearance onstage.
