How to Steal a Piano

by John Hughes

  He handed her a glass of wine, but no change, and walked over to a table in the corner. Hester followed. As she sat down, he took a large swig of Guinness. “You don’t look much like your photo,” he said bluntly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Neither do you.”

  “Mine was all taken recent.”

  “So was mine… were, I mean. You look different.”

  “So do you. And older.”

  “Thanks for the compliment!”

  There followed an awkward silence. She took a good look at him. He had a pleasant enough face but was bulky, bordering on overweight. Certainly not trim. And she didn’t like the look of the tattoo peeping out from underneath one of his sleeves. She couldn’t see what it was but it looked rather unsavoury.

  Snoggable? No.

  “Oh well,” said Hester eventually. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. How was your day?”

  “Alright.”

  How enlightening, she thought. Perhaps an open question might draw him out. “What did you do today?”

  “Got up, went to work, came home, ate, drove over here.”

  “You were much chattier when we spoke on the phone. Is everything alright?”

  “Fine.”

  “Am I a disappointment?”

  “You ain’t really what I was expecting.”

  “Oh dear, I’m sorry about that. I must say you’re not quite what I was anticipating either.”

  He had his back to the entrance but Hester was sitting facing it. As they sat in silence again, the door opened and in walked an attractive woman with auburn hair, heavily made up, wearing bright red lipstick and showing a surfeit of cleavage, despite the cold. In her mid-forties, Hester estimated. Her dear departed mum would have described her as blousy. Behind her was a smartly dressed man, holding the door open for her. When he came into view Hester recognised him instantly. She gazed across at him. There was no mistake – it was TrimJim.

  She looked at the man sitting opposite her drinking Guinness. No resemblance whatsoever to the man in the profile photos, nor in personality. How could she have been so stupid, she had met up with the wrong person! So had TrimJim it would seem. They must have all arranged to meet at eight outside The Grasshopper, and she and Guinness Man had been first to arrive.

  In the mix up, TrimJim had clearly fared better than Hester. They seemed to be getting on well, both smiling and chatting as they crossed over to the bar. He asked her what she would like and ordered two glasses of wine. When she pulled out her purse he held his hands up in mock horror at the thought of her paying. Then he was inviting her to choose where to sit. She crossed the room to a table in another corner of the room; he followed. As soon as they were seated there was non-stop eye contact and an easy flow of conversation.

  Hester sat back. Well of all things! What to do? Should she go over and explain what had happened – or would that be impolite?

  “You’re very quiet” said Guinness Man.

  “So are you.”

  “Who do you support?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Football. I’m Spurs, me.”

  “Oh I see. I prefer tennis.” This was painful. She really ought to put the situation right. But how? She looked across at TrimJim and the woman. She noticed the tips of their fingers touch across the table – accidentally on purpose. She couldn’t interfere now. What was done was done.

  “I’m chattier when you get to know me,” said Guinness Man.

  “I thought that’s what we were here to do.” He grunted. “Are you really a company director?”

  “No, what made you think that? I’m a plasterer.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dave.”

  “You said it was Jim on the phone.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Hester.”

  “You told me it was Sally.”

  The auburn-haired woman got up and made her way across the room to the Ladies. TrimJim sat back in his chair and sipped some wine, an air of contentment emanating from him. He casually looked around him, eyeing up his surroundings. As he did so, he pulled out his mobile phone and tapped in a pass code to check for messages, his attention flitting between the room and the screen. Hester watched his progress until eventually he looked in her direction. Their eyes met. She smiled. He smiled back. Then recognition hit him. His eyes widened as the penny dropped.

  The woman returned. As she sat down TrimJim shrugged towards Hester and held his arms out as if to say, “What can I do!”

  She took her phone from her lap, tapped out Save me! and pressed Send. She heard it ping from across the room. TrimJim glanced down at his phone, tapped in a reply, closed it down, put it in his pocket and absorbed himself in getting to know Sally.

  When his message arrived, it said: That’s the way the cookie crumbles.

  Hester felt her cheeks reddening. She knocked back her drink and said: “Dave, I have no doubt you’re a very nice man, but I’m afraid you’re not the one for me.”

  “Uh? Are you leaving?”

  “I am. No need for you to as well, stay if you want.” She stood up, put her coat on and picked up her bag. “And for your information, if you hadn’t worked it out for yourself, I am not the woman you expected to meet tonight.”

  “Uh?”

  Hester pointed. “She’s over there.”

  Dave’s head turned obediently until he noticed the auburn-haired woman sitting with TrimJim. “Sally!” he exclaimed.

  Hester walked across the room, her attention focused firmly on the door, passing unnecessarily close to TrimJim and brushing against him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him glance up at her, a look of momentary anxiety on his face, as if worried she was going to make a scene. Hester reached the door and as she closed it behind her, she saw Dave approaching their table and heard him say, with a hint of hard done by in his voice: “Sally, it’s me… I’m Dave!”

  Standing just outside, Hester took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from her bag and lit up. The smoke felt good; reassuring and comforting the way only a few drags of a B & H can be. It was still cold and she shivered.

  She turned around and looked through the pub door. In clear view, Dave could be seen leaning provocatively over TrimJim, making a point forcefully. Sally sat impassively, sipping wine and glancing from one to the other, saying nothing. Hester could only imagine what was being said.

  TrimJim stood up and pointed a finger at Dave, remonstrating with him. Dave looked at Sally and back at TrimJim. Hester could lip read Dave’s words which were slow and monosyllabic: “SHE’S… MY… DATE!” TrimJim shook his head. Whatever his reply, Dave did not take to it kindly in the slightest. He pulled back an arm and aimed a fist at his dating rival.

  As it turned out, TrimJim was indeed very trim. He raised a forearm to parry the blow, hooked a foot behind Dave’s leg and pushed his body weight into his attacker. To Hester’s astonishment, Dave, bulky as he was, went down like a nine pin and sprawled across the floor. But he wasn’t down for long and, once back on his feet, made a lunge at TrimJim, sending them both flying and crashing into a table that toppled sideways.

  Hester had seen all she wanted to see. The last thing that stuck in her memory as she turned away was Sally, still seated calmly, checking her phone, as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time.

  Two hours later, Hester was snuggled up cosily on her sofa with her feet up, a mug of cocoa in her hands, watching Strictly on catch up. She was wearing the onesy that no other living person had ever seen her in and probably never would.

  Her mobile pinged. A text from TrimJim.

  Hester, my love, so sorry about the mix up. I’m in A & E. Broken nose.

  She looked at the message for a while, impassively, and wondered if Sally and Dave had ended up together after all. Sh
e had no feelings either way.

  Hester casually tapped out a one-word reply – Good – pressed Send then blocked his number.

  Road Rage

  Mary bleated: “I think my waters have broken,” her voiced loaded with anxiety. There was some relief too. If they’d broken it wasn’t a false alarm this time, and there had been several.

  Len glanced across at his wife in the passenger seat. “Are you sure you ain’t just pissed yourself, princess?” He grinned. “Don’t you go making a mess on that seat. Get a towel or something under you.”

  She attempted a smile. Tugging a towel from her grab bag she tried to lift herself up off the seat. “I can’t do it,” she said pathetically. “There’s no room.”

  “Undo your belt then.”

  Mary tried but even without the restrictions of a seat belt it was no good. “I can’t!” She started to cry.

  Len pulled over at the side of the lane, put the hazards on, walked round to the passenger side and opened the door. “It’s okay, my darling, let me help. Jeez, you’ve made a right mess. Put your arm round my shoulder.” He took her weight, lifted her off the seat and slid the towel underneath her. “There, that’ll have to do until we get to the hospital. Now put your belt back on as best you can with that lump.” He kissed her on the forehead and got back into the driver’s seat.

  Mary tried to relax. She grimaced. Pain was beginning to kick in.

  “Don’t worry, angel, I’ll have you there in no time.”

  Poor Len, thought Mary. He was tired, and hungry. She’d had him halfway to the hospital during the night before realising it wasn’t anything, and he was short of sleep. Now here they were again, off before breakfast. At least this time it was the real thing. He could get something to eat when they arrived.

  They were driving out of Charlwood, once a sleepy Surrey village until the equally sleepy hamlet of Gatwick next door took on a whole new life after the war. Miraculously Charlwood had managed to retain some of its rural charm, although a whole lot noisier these days, whereas Gatwick village had ceased to exist. They were on a lane that snaked its way past long-term car parks towards a large roundabout at Hookwood where the A217 and A23 converged. A right turn took you towards the M23 and the airport; straight on was Horley and a couple of miles further along their destination – East Surrey Hospital.

  Len was speeding. He always did. Sticking to the speed limit was for wimps. Mind you, speeding wasn’t difficult in a Mitsubishi Barbarian 4x4 with its 2.5 litre engine. His White Beast Len called it. He believed if they didn’t mean you to speed they wouldn’t build cars that went so fast. He reached the roundabout and barely slowed down. The lights had just turned green and he thrust forward into the flow of traffic that was still making its way round from the right. A motorbike was last in line. Len cut in front of it forcing the rider to brake heavily. The bike skidded and lost control for a second. The rider hooted and shook his head.

  Len wound his window down. “Fuck off!” he shouted and stuck a finger up to the rear-view mirror.

  Mary winced. She hated it when Len got behind the wheel and turned into Mr Hyde. He was so loving and kind and thoughtful at all other times; nor did he use foul language, apart from when there was football on the telly. But driving brought out the worst in him, all his aggression seemed to boil over, and he felt he really did own the road. The law didn’t apply to him. Every other road user was a moron. She had learned to grin and bear it, and not to comment, because if she did his hostility would be directed at her too.

  They took the exit off the roundabout onto the A23 towards Horley. Len’s eyes were now as much on his rear-view mirror as the road ahead. The motorcyclist was right behind him, close, and looking to overtake. Len had other ideas. He slammed on his brakes and took great pleasure in seeing the rider struggle to keep control again as he braked hard to avoid a collision.

  “Serve yer right,” shouted Len. “Observe stopping distance, bastard!” He drove off again at speed to catch up with the line of traffic ahead. The road was wide enough now for the bike rider to overtake. As he did so, he pulled up level with Len and shouted something. Even with the window wound down it was impossible to hear what he was saying through the helmet and visor. He sounded angry, but from the passenger seat Mary couldn’t make out any swear words.

  “Fuck off and die!” yelled Len. The motorbike sped up and pulled in front of them. Len hooted; his horn was considerably louder than the bike’s. The rider’s head turned and he shrugged. “Shithead,” Len added.

  Mary moaned from her passenger seat as a reminder that there were more important things to worry about, but Len was oblivious to her. The red mist was upon him; she was forgotten. All that mattered was getting one over on the man on the bike. They were approaching some traffic lights, the Wacky Warehouse on one side of the road, the Air Balloon pub on the other. The bike was immediately in front of them and as it reached the lights they turned from green to amber. The bike slowed to a halt.

  Len hooted again. “Yer could of got through easy. Wanker!” He pulled up behind the bike and stopped for a few seconds, then edged forwards until he nudged the rear wheel.

  The rider climbed off his bike and inspected the back. He looked at Len. “What did you do that for?”

  “I’ve done nothing. You rolled back into me.”

  “I did nothing of the sort.”

  “Bloody did… you calling me a liar?”

  The rider shook his head again and remounted his bike. A pedestrian waiting to cross at the lights said something to him, then looked back at Len and made a wanking gesture towards him. The rider shrugged.

  “Bastards are laughing at me!”

  “No they’re not, Len,” said Mary, against her better judgement.

  “So you’re siding with them are you?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just saying.”

  “Well keep out of it!”

  Mary was close to tears again. Her husband’s rebuke on top of the pain was too much.

  The lights had changed and the bike pulled away, the four-by-four right behind it. But the bike wasn’t going fast enough for Len’s liking; deliberately, provocatively slow in his mind. “Now what’s the shithead doing!”

  “Observing the speed limit.” Mary bit her lip. That too was a mistake.

  “Shut your mouth!” screamed Len. “Speed limit? A fucking motorbike observing the speed limit? Don’t make me laugh. He’s doing it on purpose to piss me off.” Mary burst out crying, deep sobs that welled up from her core. “See, he’s upset my wife now. I’ll sort the fucker out once and for all.”

  Len drove up as close as he could to the bike without hitting it and sat on the horn. It was really loud. Pedestrians turned to stare, other motorists slowed to work out where it was coming from. The bike rider didn’t react at all and continued along the centre of the road at exactly thirty miles per hour. By now Len was incandescent with rage. The blood was pounding through him and his face had turned purple.

  They were approaching a Tesco Express, in front of which was a short-stay pull-in area for customers. Len saw it was empty. He sped up until he was parallel with the bike and twisted the steering wheel sharply to the left. The rider had no time to take evasive action and the White Beast ploughed into his side, sending him and his bike toppling sideways into the pull-in area. The rider was spread-eagled on the ground next to his machine.

  Len pulled to a halt in front of them, and left the engine running. He opened his door. As he did he fumbled in the side pocket and pulled out something long and thin and metallic.

  “Len!” cried Mary. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting even.” He shut the door and walked out of Mary’s sight. She tried to turn around to see where he was going but was too restricted. Moments later he returned. He got in the car, put the metallic object back in the door pocket, selected first gear and drove off.
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br />   “All sorted, princess,” he said. “Now let’s get you to the hospital, shall we?”

  Mary’s sobs had subsided into sniffles; gradually they died away too. For a while she sat in silence, wanting to say something but scared to speak. Eventually she plucked up the courage. “What have you done?”

  Len seemed calm and composed. Hyde had gone and Jekyll had taken his place. In a measured tone, he said: “Taught him a lesson.”

  “Have you hurt him?”

  “That was the general idea.”

  “Did you kill him?” No reply. “Did you kill him?”

  Len shrugged. “Look, we’ve just passed McDonald’s which means we ain’t far from the hospital now… be there in a couple of minutes. How’s the pain?”

  In truth, the pain had been pushed onto the back burner by events with the motorcyclist. With its mention, a tsunami of pain seemed to return on cue and envelop Mary. She was close to fainting from a combination of anxiety and agony. She put her hand down between her legs and felt more wetness. When she brought it back up it was covered in blood.

  “I’m bleeding.”

  “Not long now.”

  Len had phoned ahead to say they were on their way and as they pulled up outside A & E, next to an ambulance, a midwife and a porter with a wheelchair were waiting for them. Len opened the passenger door and between them they helped Mary out and eased her gently into the wheelchair. The porter wheeled her through the entrance. Len got back in the White Beast and drove off to park, moaning to himself about having to pay to park when the NHS was supposed to be free. As he did so, he noticed the ambulance setting off towards the main road, lights flashing, siren blaring.

  When he returned, he was directed towards maternity reception and invited to sit down in the waiting area.

  “I want to see my wife,” he demanded.

  “She’s being assessed,” replied the receptionist. “If you’d like to wait over there it shouldn’t be long.”

  “Where is she? I want to see her now.”