Buying Llamas Off the Internet

by Ian Edwards

  Graham began leafing through the papers in front of him, he disregarded the first few before something caught his attention.

  ‘Ah, yes. You voted for Archibald Morris two months ago,’ he said, reading from the form in front of him. ‘You say here that he had improved morale in the Department and this had a positive effect on his colleagues.’

  ‘Yes sir, that’s correct,’ Alan said.

  Graham read over the form for a second time and then flicked through several other sheets of paper before he found what he was looking for.

  ‘According to HR, Archibald Morris has been on long term sick leave for three months.’

  ‘Yes sir, that’s correct. I’ve not had to put up with his constant moaning since he had the common decency to be hospitalised with a septic boil.’

  ‘I’m not following you. Why would you vote for someone who wasn’t at work?’

  ‘It’s because he wasn’t in the office. Without him moping about the place, everyone was happy and we got more work done. I’m sure that’s all that matters to todays’ modern manager. Thank you Archie and thank you the NHS.’

  Graham made a great deal of shuffling the papers on his desk.

  ‘I see little point in continuing this conversation. You either don’t understand or you refuse to understand how the system works. Either way I’m going to recommend to HR that you are suspended from the nomination process until you have attended one of their focus groups.’

  ‘Please sir,’ Alan protested with as much sincerity as he could manage, ‘Can I just place a vote for next month? I have a very special and deserving person I’d like to nominate.’

  Graham laughed. ‘No doubt you’ve got in mind some inept, small minded, pedantic mental defective with stains on their tie who makes you feel good about yourself.’

  Alan looked Graham, and in particular the stained yellow tie he wore.

  ‘That’s very perceptive of you sir,’ he stated.

  ‘Alright then, who were you going to vote for? Which member of staff was going to receive the Alan Rose nod of approval?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Oh come on Alan, who’s going to join the ranks of the short skirts and very annoying?’

  ‘Well actually sir, I was going to vote for you.’

  Chapter 14.

  Amy threw three quick punches, right, left, right, into the punch bag suspended from the ceiling. Her personal trainer, Geoff, held the bag from behind as he kept a watchful eye on her.

  ‘Another three jabs. Left only,’ he barked.

  Amy bounced on her toes and fired three explosive jabs into the punch bag.

  Geoff poked his head round the side of the punch bag and said. ‘OK Amy, last twenty seconds. Give it everything, no let up. Let’s punch all that stress away.’

  Amy steadied herself and launched a flurry of punches into the bag, every punch finding the centre with a reassuring smack. She focused harder, throwing rights and lefts with equal venom. The harder Amy worked, the more her mind drifted to Clive Oneway. Her focus slipped for one moment as she launched a ferocious right which missed the bag entirely, but found purchase on her personal trainer’s left cheek. Geoff’s eyes rolled back into his head as his six foot five frame collapsed onto the floor.

  ‘Shit,’ Amy shouted as she crouched down over her personal trainer. ‘Geoff…are you OK?’ She asked the clearly unconscious trainer.

  Unsurprisingly, Geoff said nothing.

  Amy lifted his left hand and checked for a pulse.

  ‘He’s alive,’ she told the crowd that was forming around them.

  One of the crowd, a well-toned man in his twenties, gently prodded Geoff with his foot. ‘Shouldn’t we put him in the recovery position?’ he asked.

  Amy rolled Geoff onto his side, and seeing that he remained unconscious, she called out, ‘could somebody please call an ambulance?’

  *

  James drove around the front of the hospital and pulled into the designated collection and pick–up point where Amy stood waiting, looking down at her phone. She looked up as the cerise SUV pulled alongside her. She opened the passenger door and climbed in, throwing her gym bag onto the back seat.

  ‘Do you have to pay extra to knock your trainer out?’ James grinned.

  ‘Don’t start,’ Amy snapped. ‘It wasn’t my fault. He got in the way. He was supposed to be behind the punch bag.’

  ‘But still,’ James said, ‘getting knocked out by a woman. That’s not going look good on his CV. I thought you said he was ex-army?’

  ‘That’s what he told me,’ Amy said, looking out of the window at the passing hospital buildings.

  ‘He probably meant he was ex- Salvation Army,’ James said. ‘Did he rattle a tin at you and break into renditions of Onward Christian Soldiers?’

  ‘Not funny,’ Amy frowned while James grinned.

  ‘Has he regained consciousness?’ James asked while negotiating the hospital’s one way system.

  ‘He was coming round as I left,’ Amy answered. ‘His wife is with him now.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’ James asked. ‘I bet he said “where am I?” People who have been knocked out always say “where am I” when they come round.’

  ‘No he just asked if I was still on for next week’s session.’

  James laughed and drove out of the hospital grounds.

  *

  Amy sat on the sofa, still wearing her gym kit, a glass of wine in one hand and her mobile phone in the other.

  ‘They’re going to keep Geoff in for observation, he’s just sent me a text.’

  James put aside his bagpipes and replied, ‘I suppose they’re waiting for the shame to subside before letting him out.’

  ‘I don’t know what your problem is with Geoff. He’s a really good trainer. It wouldn’t do you any harm to have a few sessions with him,’ she said, poking James in his belly.

  James sighed. ‘I don’t have a problem with him at all. I just think it’s funny you knocked him out, that’s all.’

  Amy pouted. ‘Why, because I’m a girl?’

  ‘No of course not. I’m just amazed that you were sober enough to knock someone out. Were you seeing three Geoffs and you just aimed at the middle one?’

  James sensed the atmosphere in the room change. Amy glared at him and drained her glass of wine, the irony not being lost on him.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Well you have been putting it away recently.’

  Amy put her glass of wine back on the table. ‘I’ve drunk no more than normal,’ she protested.

  ‘Come on Ames,’ James said. ‘You’ve been smashed practically every night for weeks. Look,’ he pointed at the bottle of wine in front of her, ‘that bottle’s half empty. You only opened it an hour ago.’

  Amy turned her back on him and sighed.

  James took Amy’s silence as a sign the conversation was at an end so he stood and left the room. His efforts to mark his departure with an element of gravitas ruined by the sound of the bagpipes deflating as he put them under his arm.

  Amy sat on the sofa, pulled her legs under herself and pouted. That was typical of James she thought. As far as he was concerned the bottle was half empty, whereas she knew it was half full, and as if to emphasise the point she filled her glass.

  Deep down she knew that she had been drinking more than was good for her, but right now it was the best way to keep the dreams away.

  *

  The radio switched on as the clock turned to 6.30am.

  A man with an unnecessarily cheery voice for that time of the morning announced that it was time for the news, which was read by a man with an equally cheery voice for anytime of the day.

  James reached out, hit the snooze button and turned over. Amy’s side of the bed was empty. This wasn’t unusual. She was normally the first to get up, blaming the overly cheerful news reader for being so irritatingly cheerful that she couldn’t stay in bed a moment longer.


  James dragged himself out of bed and padded down the stairs looking for his wife. Finding the kitchen empty, he wandered through to the living room and found her laying on the sofa.

  ‘Have you been there all night?’ he said to the prone figure.

  Amy groaned and peered at him through bleary eyes.

  ‘You’re going to be late for work,’ James said.

  Amy shifted on the sofa. She looked up at James. ‘I feel dreadful. What time is it?’

  ‘Time you got ready for work. And I’m not surprised you feel rough. James pointed to an empty bottle of wine standing on the table and another laid on the floor next to the sofa. He shook his head. ‘Amy, Amy, Amy what have you done?’

  Amy buried her head in a cushion and groaned again. ‘I needed a drink, you were so mean to me,’ a muffled voice said.

  James leant over and picked the empty bottle off of the floor. ‘Well I was obviously wrong and I apologise. There’s clearly no problem with your drinking. You’ve managed to put away the best part of two bottles of wine without any problems whatsoever.’

  With both empty bottles and a glass in his hands, James headed toward the kitchen when Amy called him back.

  ‘I can’t go into work today. I feel too rough,’ she groaned. ‘Can you call them and tell them I’m ill?’

  ‘You’re not ill, you’re hung over,’ James replied, somewhat uncharitably.

  Amy pouted at him. ‘Please…’

  James sighed and left the room.

  *

  James sat at his desk staring impassively at his class. The situation with Amy had played on his mind all day and left him in a bad mood. On top of that, the assessment that he had marked was probably the worst he had ever seen.

  ‘Right then,’ he said, addressing the class. ‘I’ve had the opportunity of marking your assessments,’ he gestured at the pile of papers on the desk. ‘And I’d like to congratulate you on producing some of the poorest work that I have ever seen in my entire teaching career. The negligible effort that appears to have gone into completing this work is worthy of mention, as is the total inability to grasp even the slightest idea of what I have been trying to teach you over the last few weeks.’

  James took the first few sheets off of the pile. ‘For the record, a Honda Accord is not a seven stringed Japanese musical instrument. Neither is a Honda Civic, and if you tried to get a tune out of a Nissan Qashqai you’d likely get crushed to death.’

  James let a smile cross his lips when he read another answer. ‘Spencer, just so you know, Shinji Okazaki is a professional footballer and not a famous Japanese composer. Unless of course he moonlights for the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra.’

  He continued to flick through another sheaf of papers. ‘Reynolds, stand up please,’ he asked politely.

  An overweight child with curly fair hair nervously stood up.

  ‘Reynolds you scored 16%,’ James told him.

  The pupil nervously chewed his lip. ‘Yes sir,’ he said.

  ‘Top of the class,’ James added.

  Reynolds’ worried look was replaced with a big beaming smile and James made a mental note to add the sentence; “Worryingly low level of satisfaction” to his next school report.

  ‘Congratulations, Reynolds. You are the class Beethoven. The rest of you are One Direction. Now get out.’

  James watched as the class filtered out past his desk. Dealing with even the least gifted of children was a welcome distraction from mulling over his concern for Amy and her mounting drink problem. He doodled aimlessly on a pad in front of him. The situation with Amy needed to be sorted out, both for his own good and hers. He resolved to speak to someone about her, someone who knew both of them and would give an honest adult mature view on the situation. Someone whose advice he valued. Unfortunately he didn’t know anyone like that so he would have to speak to Alan.

  Chapter 15.

  ‘Sorry,’ Alan said into his mobile. ‘Do you want to repeat that?’

  He pulled a face at Frankie who was sitting opposite him at the kitchen table.

  ‘What’s that about?’ Frankie asked.

  Alan put his finger to his lips, gesturing silence so he could listen to the phone call.

  ‘OK. I thought that’s what you said.’

  Frankie watched as Alan reached across the table for a pen and scribbled something onto a note pad.

  ‘Leave it with me, I’ll sort it out.’ Alan said and ended the call.

  ‘What was that about?’ Frankie asked again.

  ‘That was Sarah, she’s had a call from Harry. He seems to have got himself locked in a box and needs to be let out.’

  ‘I see…’ Frankie said, as if this was an everyday occurrence. ‘Why do you have to go?’

  Alan shrugged. ‘She said she was busy and couldn’t get away.’

  ‘Where are we going then?’

  Alan slid the notepad with Harry’s address scribbled on it across the table.

  ‘So we’re going to Fulham. Excellent. I like Fulham.’ Frankie paused for a moment. ‘Hang on. Aren’t you supposed to be taking Rosie out for a meal tonight?’

  ‘Ah…’ Alan nodded. Frankie was right. He had arranged to take Rosie out for a romantic meal to make up for the lack of time they had recently spent together. He looked at his watch. There was no way he could get over to Fulham and back in time.

  ‘This could be awkward,’ Alan said. ‘Any ideas?’

  Frankie chewed his lip. ‘What time were you going out?’

  ‘I booked a table for eight.’

  ‘That’s daft, there’s only the two of you.’

  Alan frowned. ‘Very good. But not now, I have to think.’

  ‘OK, look,’ Frankie said, ‘You could leave Harry in the box, take Rosie out and go over to Fulham afterwards. Rosie would never know.’

  ‘No that’s not going to work. Harry’s old, and old people can’t go more than half an hour between toilet breaks and I don’t want to get over there gone midnight and find he’s drowned in a box of his own wee.’

  ‘Oi!’ Frankie blurted out, ‘He’s pretty much the same age as me.’

  ‘That’s why I always get you to sit on the rubber sheeting.’

  ‘OK funny man,’ Frankie said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well actually yes. I was hoping that after a romantic meal for two, Rosie might want to let the romance continue once we get home.’

  Frankie stared back.

  ‘What?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Do you mean …’ Frankie winked.

  ‘Exactly. I can pretty much guarantee that one sure way to spoil the mood would be for me to say ‘ “Excuse me Rosie, can you give me a couple of hours while I go off and get an old man out of a box.”’

  ‘I’ve never heard it called that before,’ Frankie grinned.

  Alan’s stony look told Frankie that he had moved beyond jokes.

  ‘So what are you going to do, disappoint Rosie or potentially let an old man drown in a box of his own wee?’ he asked.

  Alan sat back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll tell Rosie about Harry and suggest that after we set him free we can go to a restaurant in Fulham.’

  ‘Are there any restaurants in Fulham?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘There’s loads, Indian, Italian, French, Thai. Even Tapas. We’ll be spoilt for choice.’

  ‘Are you sure? It was pretty rubbish for restaurants when I was alive.’

  ‘It’s pretty rubbish now. It’s just posh rubbish. Fulham’s very cosmopolitan now.’ Alan explained.

  ‘You do know that you’ll end up in a taxi drivers café eating a baked potato out of a plastic tray with one of those little forks,’ Frankie said helpfully, ‘and if that’s the case, Harry will be the only old man you’ll be getting out of a box tonight.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Alan reassured him. ‘I’ll call Rosie and tell her there’s been a small change of plan.’

>   *

  Sarah put her mobile back in her handbag and picked up her glass of wine.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, ‘it’s all sorted now. Alan’s going to go over and let him out.’

  Giles gave Sarah one of his cheesiest grins. ‘I don’t know why you bothered. Leave the idiot in the box. While he’s in there he’s not performing his embarrassing ventriloquist act.’

  ‘Giles!’ Sarah said, shocked. ‘It must be awful for him. What if you were stuck in a dark box for hours, wouldn’t you want me to let you out?’

  Putting down his desert spoon Giles smiled and said. ‘I’m sure you would let me out when you were ready.’

  *

  Rosie’s Audi sped through the streets of South West London heading towards Fulham. Fortunately for Alan, Rosie had met and liked Harry and was quite happy with Alan’s change of plan, and in particular the promise of a choice of restaurants.

  ‘So we have choice of restaurants?’ Rosie asked as she drove them across Putney Bridge.

  ‘Oh yeah, definitely,’ Alan confirmed. ‘Chinese, Indian, Thai and Italian.’

  ‘Don’t forget the baked potato.’ Frankie said helpfully from the back seat. ‘Do you like baked potato Rosie?’

  Oblivious to her ghostly passenger, Rosie continued, ‘I hope Harry’s going to be OK. Do you have any idea how long he’s been in the box?’

  ‘Sarah didn’t say.’ Alan looked at the clock on the dashboard. ‘I’d say at least an hour, though.’

  ‘They’ll probably find a bit of grated cheese for the top of your potato…’ the voice from the back said again.

  Alan turned round gave Frankie a warning stare.

  ‘Thanks again for this.’ Alan said. ‘I can’t believe the silly old sod sometimes.’

  ‘That’s OK, I like Harry. He’s sweet.’ Rosie said.

  ‘I think there’s a taxi drivers’ hut the other side of Wandsworth Bridge,’ Frankie announced.

  Alan turned round and again shot a look at Frankie.

  ‘Will you please stop fidgeting,’ Rosie said in response to Alan’s continued shifting in his seat.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t seem to get comfortable.’ Alan replied.