Dan Taylor Is Giving Up on Women

by Neal Doran

  Now it was just a matter of waiting for news that she was going to be all right, and that she was going to get home OK.

  She said she’d been cured of all that childhood health stuff, I told myself. I shouldn’t feel guilty.

  But of course, I did. It had been an accident, but I could have prevented it. Just because I’d been vaguely patronised by an alternative health nut wasn’t really justification for trying to kill her, was it? All right, murder might be overstating it, but what had I been thinking? There were people in this world who could do revenge, but I wasn’t one of them.

  My heart rate went through the roof as an alarm somewhere started beeping, and a horde of nurses, speed-walking in squeaky Crocs™, raced across the casualty department in the direction of Rachel’s bed. Peering around the corner after them, I saw them disperse irritably — false alarm. They headed back to their other duties while the smallest and fiercest-looking of them gave the drunk homeless guy a stern talking-to for miming playing ping-pong with the paddles of vital cardio equipment. Feeling sorry for myself, I turned back from the chastised drunk to the main waiting room and figured that this date really couldn’t get any worse.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, could I have a word?’

  I jumped about six inches out of my chair as I saw a body-armoured policeman standing over me smiling pleasantly.

  ‘A word? Of course, Officer, a word. How can I help? What do you need to know? Anything at all.’

  Meeting the police, it turned out, made me babble. Maybe it was because he was a bit older, and looked all world-weary, as if he’d been doing the job so long he could see right into the darkness of people’s souls and was no longer surprised by what he saw there. If I hadn’t stopped talking I think I would have confessed to accidentally forgetting to pay for a pack of sweets from the corner shop when I was eight, and once knowingly taking change for a twenty when I’d given the cashier a tenner in Sainsbury’s.

  ‘Come with me, and we’ll go somewhere private.’

  The PC led me through the waiting room to one of the private examination rooms, and I felt the eyes of the crowd watching me as I went, a little local drama more interesting than the round-up of today’s athletics highlights on the news. Mothers leaned in a bit closer to their angrily crying car seats as we walked past, a cocky young sports injury gave me an exaggerated shake of the head and tut as we crossed paths, and the old drunk used the diversion to cheerfully wee in the plastic pot plant. Terrified as I was, I thought about joining him, before I wet myself.

  The office I was led to was packed with shelves of box files and health leaflets. Any available wall space was covered in health promotion posters with scary pictures of diseased organs and sad children. The policeman, PC Hawkins, took the doctor’s seat, while I perched on the edge of the patient’s spot and wondered if the blood-pressure pump could be used as an impromptu lie detector. For the second time in one evening my palms started getting sweaty with anxiety, and I wished I were at home tucked up with a P G Wodehouse.

  ‘So,’ said the cop, putting a notebook and pen on the desk next to his crackling and beeping radio, ‘would you like to tell me how Miss Evans got here?’

  What should I say? I wondered as the lump of breathless tension throbbed bigger and bigger in my chest. Everything that crossed my mind felt like something that guilty people on the TV said that got the good guys riled up and even more determined to nail them — I couldn’t ask if I was under arrest or demand my solicitor before I said anything. And I hadn’t got a solicitor anyway. I could probably get the number of the bloke who did my brother’s conveyancing, but the cut-throat world of criminal defence probably wouldn’t suit a retiree who did it as a favour for my dad. I decided I had to press on on my own, and if he started getting tough, just turn on the waterworks.

  ‘It’s just like the nurses would have told you—’ I started.

  ‘I’d rather you just told me yourself, Mr Taylor,’ he cut in, just as I was getting warmed up.

  I was going to tell you! I’m trying to be a good boy! I squealed inside. I took a deep breath and said to myself, He’s just used to people not being co-operative. He’s not trying to unsettle me. I just need to let him know everything I can think of. Don’t panic. Start from the beginning.

  It was around then I started a strange out-of-body experience. I was watching myself talking and unable to stop. Observing myself from afar, all I could do was wonder if there was a kind of verbal Imodium® you could buy in chemists for the dose of talking squits I was suffering.

  ‘Yes, well, I, um, found Rachel on the Internet and we were meeting for a drink for the first time…’

  ‘Found her on the Internet?’

  ‘Well, my friends found her for me, really. You see, I’ve been single for a long time, and they’ve been trying to help me out.’

  ‘Help you out?’

  ‘Lord, that makes her sound like some kind of prostitute or Internet bride, which you know might be a good idea the way things are going for me. Except of course they wouldn’t at all be a good idea, and illegal so I wouldn’t do them at all. Hahaha! Just joking. Not that I think this is a laughing matter. Are mail-order brides illegal? Not that I’m considering it, just I’m assuming.’

  ‘Making a false statement in relation to a marriage and conspiracy to assist unlawful immigration are very serious offences. Were you planning to marry Miss Evans?’

  ‘We only just met and didn’t really hit it off. She’s from Surrey, anyway, so is probably OK for a passport. We were on a blind date, but she’s into expanding her spiritual horizons and I’m into CSI, so it wasn’t going to work out. Are you into that? CSI, not spirituality, although that would be fine too. I imagine it must be a bit annoying if you know all the bits that are unrealistic. Anyway, she was going to leave but I dropped something in her drink.’

  Hawkins sat up in his seat a bit when I said that, and started making notes for the first time.

  ‘Are you telling me that this woman your “friends” picked out for you on the Internet, that you spiked her drink? What was the plan? You didn’t want her to go? Planning to get her in a taxi back to yours? Will the blood test come back with traces of Rohypnol?’

  ‘No, no! It was an accident. It was just a nut. They were complimentary. Who was to know it wasn’t a harmless bar snack? Aside from the wee on it, that is.’

  ‘You urinated on a peanut, Mr Taylor?’

  ‘I mean, that’s just what they say, isn’t it? You know, with the peanuts in bars and the seven different types of wee? From not washing your hands after going to the toilet and then sticking them in a communally used bowl.’

  ‘You don’t wash your hands after going to the lavatory?’

  ‘Me, I do, all the time. OK, maybe it’s just a swipe under the tap and a burst under the hand dryer for appearances’ sake when I’m in a hurry, but definitely properly if I splash a bit. I use soap and everything. Haven’t warm-air hand dryers come on a lot in the last few years? Like jet engines, some of them. Although I still prefer paper towels if I’m honest.’

  PC Hawkins shifted about, rocking thoughtfully in his creaking chair, and made a couple of notes in his pad, before giving me a very long, very inquisitive look. Under the pressure of his gaze I came very close to confessing to occasionally speeding when I borrowed my dad’s car, downloading a pirate copy of a cheesy album I was too embarrassed to buy, looking at a photo of a dwarf and a donkey that Thomson in Year 9 had that I was pretty sure must have been illegal in most countries, and asking for several other offences to be taken into consideration.

  Instead I just gave him a big friendly smile, before deciding that this might not be the time to be looking happy, so tried to look serious and a bit glum instead. Then I decided I didn’t want to look guilty, so tried again for a more understanding thoughtful look, with a hint of a smile, and a number of other variations on the idea, bouncing between these two extremes but never quite settling on a look.

  ‘Well, I’m going
to go and see Miss Evans now,’ he finally said. ‘The nurses said the swelling on her face should be down a bit now. Do you need to go to the toilet?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you, went earlier. Washed up thoroughly after.’

  ‘It’s just the way your face is… Anyway, never mind. I’m going to see her, and check out this account of yours. Just stay here till I get back.’

  ‘Certainly, Officer, no problem at all, Officer. I’ll be right here, not trying to do a runner through the Gents window or anything. I know you’d be able to catch me. Send Rachel my best wishes. But not if that sounds like a coded message to try and intimidate a witness or anything like that.’

  The policeman started to say something, but thought better of it, and I heard him let out a heavy sigh as he stepped out of the room. Once the door shut behind him, I crashed my head down on the table in front of me, certain I was just waiting to be charged with grievously pissing off a long-suffering police officer, and babbling like an idiot in a built-up area. Inside my coat pocket my mobile beeped and vibrated. A text message from Rob. I figured I was in enough trouble already and ignoring the signs saying not to use my mobile in a hospital couldn’t make things any worse. Tthis was probably the thinking that took troubled youths down the path from shoplifting a Mars bar to a life as a career criminal.

  Still not home yet? Your night must have picked up…

  I don’t like to be over-dramatic, but thought if there was a time when I was entitled to be, it’d probably be now.

  I’ve been rushed to A and E in an ambulance, and now being interrogated by the police on possible attempted manslaughter charges. So no, not really picked up.

  I’d barely sent the text when the phone started ringing.

  ‘Hey, sport, you OK? Was there an accident? Have you been hurt?’

  The absence of a sarcastic tone in Rob’s voice made me feel guilty.

  ‘Relax, I’m fine. It wasn’t me. It was Rachel.’

  ‘Is she all right? Seriously hurt?’

  ‘No, the doctors said she should be fine now.’

  ‘Are you under arrest for something?’

  ‘No, well, not yet. The police are asking me some questions.’

  ‘So you’re not hurt, she’s going to be OK, and you haven’t been nicked. You better tell me what’s going on, and make it interesting, buddy-boy. You’ve nearly given me a heart attack.’

  I filled Rob in with the details of what had happened since we last spoke when my evening looked no worse than a missed opportunity to be at home watching repeats of Sarah Beeny. As I talked to him my feelings kept swinging from boredom and frustration at being stuck hanging around, to hyperventilating panic that I was going to be carted off to a cell and get the chance to find out if all those jokes about the showers in prison really were based on truth.

  ‘Well, you don’t do simple bad dates, I’ll give you that,’ Rob said when I’d brought him fully up to speed. ‘I’ll come and pick you up now. If you do get hauled off to Paddington nick in the meantime, let me know, and I’ll pretend to be your lawyer.’

  As I put the phone down PC Hawkins materialised in the room once again.

  ‘It’s your lucky day,’ he said, ‘or rather, my lucky day. What Miss Evans says seems to corroborate what you have to say, and more to the point she doesn’t want to press charges, as apparently it would impact on her karma. But she also said I’d have a better coloured aura if I could incorporate more mauve into my uniform, so she may not be quite in her right mind at the moment. I’ll be keeping your details in case she changes her mind.’

  ‘What do I need to do? Should I call you if I’m not going to be at home? Do I need to report to the station? Should I give you my passport? Will I get an ankle tag?’

  ‘Are you taking the mick?’

  ‘Christ, no! I mean no — sorry for swearing — just wasn’t sure of the protocol. First time I’ve nearly been arrested, want to make certain I’m doing it properly. Wasn’t sure if you’d need some of those sideways photos,’ I said, offering him a view of my profile.

  ‘Just pick up the phone if we try and get in touch. Now I think you should clear off. Docs have said she can go home soon, and I don’t think she’ll be wanting to see you again.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Officer,’ I said, before adding as we headed back to the waiting room, ‘and hey, be careful out there.’

  I got another of those looks as the constable weighed up whether I really was taking the piss this time, or just genuinely as big a moron as I appeared.

  ‘Goodnight, sir,’ he said as he walked, shaking his head, towards the hospital canteen.

  ‘Danny, it’s me. Are you all right, hun?’

  I picked up the phone call from Hannah as I stepped outside and passed the smokers’ PVC shelter, empty except for a heavily pregnant woman and a couple of doctors still in their surgery scrubs.

  ‘I was in bed. Rob just said you’d nearly killed your date but that everything was fine now and he was headed out to get you.’

  ‘That’s about it,’ I said glumly. ‘So much for SuperDan, eh?’

  ‘You were there at the scene of a desperate medical emergency and helped to save the day? Sounds pretty super to me.’

  ‘When you’re being super I don’t think you’re supposed to be the cause of the crisis, nor are you supposed to nearly faint when you see someone’s head doubling in size. And after all your hard work on the Internet, I’m afraid she’s not going to be calling again.’

  ‘She sounds like she was as mad as a box of hatters. You don’t want to end up with some madwoman. Not one who’s mad from the start anyway. It’s more fun when it takes years to uncover the layers of insanity.’

  We went quiet for a moment.

  ‘Was she very pretty?’ asked Hannah softly.

  ‘Way out of my league.’

  ‘Now don’t be thinking like that. Nobody’s out of your league — you’re a giant killer. Were you wearing the powder-blue shirt tucked into those new charcoal trousers?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And had you shaved the night before so you had a little bit of tidy stubble by the evening?’

  ‘A new blade last night, going with the grain, just like they say in the magazines and makeover shows.’

  ‘You would have looked very handsome, then.’

  ‘She mainly seemed to notice I went beetroot red whenever I tried talking to her. It’s caused by my emotionally immature fondness for processed snacks harshing my vibes, apparently.’

  ‘Pah. Blue-eyed, brown haired,dressed like an architect? You’d’ve looked gorgeous.’

  ‘Listen to you,’ I said, smiling a bit for the first time in ages, ‘a married woman on the phone asking some poor innocent boy what he’s wearing. Shocking.’

  ‘If you want to be shocked you should ask me the question back. The answer would have you scandalised.’

  I gave a small, slightly strangled laugh.

  ‘You’re blushing right now, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’ll be the Dairylea cheese slice I had for lunch, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, put your mind at rest. I’m in my cosiest winceyette pyjamas and bed socks, cuddling a fluffy hot-water bottle. It’s all glamour here. But come on, tell me everything that happened. What was it like riding in an ambulance? Did anyone say “stat!”? And how’d you hold up under police interrogation? I need all the details.’

  I regaled Hannah with a dramatic retelling of the night, getting big laughs out of the humiliations I’d inflicted upon myself, and ego boosts when I needed them. Talking it through with her, and getting that sympathy, made me feel a lot better while I sat on a cold wall next to the smokers. It made me feel good to make someone laugh as she had, and when she hung up there’d been a tenderness when she said goodnight that I’d missed for a long time.

  I stopped myself. What kind of thinking was that?

  I stood up and started pacing about, pretending the plumes of condensed breath in front of me were smoke as
I did when I was a kid. I was lucky to have friends like Hannah and Rob, I told myself. That was all there was to it. And after all these years it was good to be getting to know Hannah in her own right, instead of as part of a double act. When this experiment came to an end, I’d have got that out of it, if nothing else.

  A new friend. A friend. Just a friend.

  ‘Taxi for Crippen. Dr Hawley Crippen?’

  While I sat lost in thought Rob had pulled up, and gave a toot of the horn in his knocked-about old Audi.

  ‘Get in, kid, I’ve got some puppies I’ll show you,’ he said in a loud raspy voice that had the pregnant smoker looking over disapprovingly.

  ‘You don’t think I should tell them I’m leaving, do you?’ I asked, leaning into the car. ‘Say goodbye, or sorry?’

  ‘Sneaking out while the broad’s still in bed is one of the core principles of the one-night stand, so I don’t think it’s necessary. And they say not to return to the scene of a crime either. Now get in.’

  I slid into the passenger seat, and Rob gave me a couple of light punches on the arm while I did up my seat belt.

  ‘You all right, buddy?’

  ‘Remind me again why I was wrong to give up all hope of trying to find a woman?’

  ‘Because this is fun! You’re living. Now come on, I’m starving. Let’s get you home and you can buy me a pizza.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Look at that, sport. Doesn’t it just make your heart glad?’

  ‘Who? Where? I missed her.’

  We were driving along the Thames, Nelson Riddle era Sinatra on the stereo. I’d assumed that I must have missed out on seeing another group of girls in short skirts and high heels, the effects of several fruity vodka cocktails their only protection against the biting cold as they headed for a disco on a boat. It was usually something like that that got Rob philosophical.