Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  It’s like a coffee shop you’d find in Hobbiton.

  I half expect to walk up to the counter and be greeted by Frodo Baggins, asking me if I’d like a latte or a cappuccino.

  As it goes, however, it’s not Frodo who greets me, but a pretty, black-haired barista wearing an apron with the café’s simple logo on it, and a winning smile on her face. This is fine by me, as hairy exposed feet are not hygienic in a café setting.

  ‘Morning,’ I say to her. ‘Is it OK to sit anywhere?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ she replies, maintaining that bright smile. ‘Just grab a table, and I’ll come over with a couple of menus.’ As she’s talking, I can see the light of recognition dawn in her eyes.

  This is a look I’ve seen a fair bit of since Fergus’s story went into the paper. It appears I have stumbled across someone else who has read the article about my detox.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I say to her, and turn away before she has the chance to question me about it. I’m already feeling nervous about meeting with Henrietta; I’m not sure a chat about my new-found local infamy would help me out right now.

  I select a table in one of the bay windows that looks out on to the village square.

  Longfield seems like a very nice place to live – if you can afford it. There’s no actual sign of the long field itself, but I’m sure it’s knocking around here somewhere.

  The black-haired barista brings over a couple of menus and places them on the table.

  As she does this, her eyes narrow. ‘I’m sorry, but do I know you? You look awfully familiar.’

  I smile a bit awkwardly. ‘Um. Do you read the Daily Local News?’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Oh yes! You’re him, aren’t you? The guy who’s doing the detox!’

  ‘Yep. That’s me.’

  ‘I read all about you on the paper’s website about a week ago. I was searching for information about detoxing and stumbled across it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s . . . that’s great.’

  The bright smile is gone from her face, and she actually looks a little anguished now. ‘Could I ask you how it’s going? Only, I—’

  At that moment, the café doorbell chimes, indicating that another customer has walked in. And not just any customer, either. This must be Henrietta!

  The woman is a tall brunette, wearing a long, flowing mauve dress and a black tailored jacket. She also has a large leather handbag strapped across her chest. Henrietta is pretty much exactly as she described herself in her advert and the phone call we shared.

  She’s also quite beautiful.

  Score!

  The black-haired barista turns to her, seemingly forgetting about what she was saying to me. That anguished look on her face is gone, and she’s all smiles again. ‘Good morning!’ she says to my blind date.

  ‘Hello there,’ Henrietta replies – and I know it’s her from the rich, upper-class accent. ‘I’m here to meet someone.’ She sees me sitting there in the bay window and inclines her head in my direction. ‘That gentleman there, I believe.’

  I rise from my seat and smile. ‘Henrietta? I’m Andy. And I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  Henrietta comes over to me and takes my hand, shaking it gently.

  I can see now that she is a little taller than me, which is a first.

  In fact, Henrietta is not the kind of woman who has historically been my type. But, my word, am I pleased she agreed to meet me today. I may have to alter what my type is after this.

  ‘It’s good to meet you too, Andy,’ she replies. ‘I frankly wasn’t expecting anyone to respond to that silly advert. Not in this day and age.’ She smiles, lighting up her aquiline features. ‘Lucky for me there’s at least one man around who doesn’t live his life online either.’ She cocks her head. ‘Temporarily, anyway.’

  I nod my head and laugh. ‘Yep. That’s me.’

  This reminds me of the interrupted conversation I was having with the barista, who I see is now walking back over to the counter, probably to grab some menus. I can’t help but feel a little bad she didn’t get to say more. That look of anguish in her eyes troubled me.

  But . . . there’s nothing more I can do about that, and I really should turn my undivided attention to the tall, attractive, posh woman who has deigned to meet me for a coffee.

  I wonder what her legs look like under that dress?

  Henrietta and I sit down at the table, and thus begins the blind date proper.

  We both order a drink. Me, my usual flat white, and Henrietta asks for a soy latte with a twist of vanilla, as she takes off the handbag and pops it down by her feet.

  When the barista brings the coffees over, I’m amazed to discover that she has actually made me a flat white. This simply does not happen. Not in quaint English cafés, anyway.

  I’ll definitely be coming back here again.

  The first few minutes of the date go by in a relatively run-of-the-mill fashion. Henrietta and I chat briefly about how nice the coffee shop is, and how good our drinks are. We then talk a bit about the weather (as you do) and how warm it’s been. All very bland and inoffensive, which is par for the course on a first date.

  All of the real conversation is being conducted non-verbally, and I think things are going quite well on that level. I’m getting the impression that Henrietta is warming to me as we chat, and I feel much the same way. If nothing else, I find that accent of hers very attractive to listen to. It’s like I’m holding a conversation with the nicer parts of the Home Counties.

  We talk about what we both do for a living. She’s interested in my job as a graphics designer, and I’m quite intrigued that she runs her antiques business out of her home.

  ‘That must take up a lot of space,’ I say with a chuckle.

  ‘Oh, yes. It does. My double garage is bursting with all manner of things.’ She arches an eyebrow and grins. ‘You should come by and have a look sometime.’

  OK, OK. That’s good. That sounds promising.

  All going very well so far.

  ‘How’s business?’ I ask, trying hard not to blush.

  ‘Not so bad. The antiques game tends to be largely resistant to the vagaries of the economy. I always have customers.’

  ‘Good to know. I suppose things are much the same for me. Companies always need designs to sell their products.’

  ‘That’s great, Andy,’ Henrietta says, and then arches an eyebrow. ‘How do you think we’re doing? Is the small talk small enough for you?’

  I smile. ‘I think so. It may have got a bit too in-depth there for a moment when we mentioned the economy, but I think we’re fine otherwise.’

  Henrietta laughs a rich, full-throated laugh, and I join in.

  We really are getting on very, very well.

  Then I look up as the bell above the coffee shop door goes ding. Two police officers walk in, chatting to one other and wearing the relieved looks of on-duty coppers who have found they have enough time in their shift to get a cup of coffee and enjoy a sit-down.

  I don’t pay much attention to them as they walk in.

  The same, however, cannot be said for Henrietta.

  That full-throated laugh is immediately stifled with a strange strangled noise as she spots the coppers. Henrietta’s eyes narrow and her brow closes in over them like a fresh thunderstorm.

  ‘Um,’ I say, slightly taken aback by this change of demeanour. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine,’ Henrietta tells me, though she’s now started shifting around on her chair uncomfortably – in a way that Herbert Bilch could probably relate to, thanks to his shenanigans in my Volvo’s passenger seat.

  What is it with me and making people shifty since I started this detox?

  I never used to make people shifty.

  But now it seems like I can’t hold more than five minutes of conversation with someone without them pretending that an earthquake measuring six on the Richter scale has just struck.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘Because if I’ve said or don
e anything—’

  ‘You’ve done nothing!’ she reassures me, in a deeply non-reassuring tone of voice.

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  And yet, my date still looks like the San Andreas Fault has just let go, so something is definitely going on.

  Then Henrietta starts throwing tentative glances over at the two coppers, who have just given their orders to the barista and are now leaning against the counter chatting with her.

  Hmmmm.

  Someone becoming instantly tense and out of sorts the second they see a police officer is always a sign of good things, isn’t it?

  Henrietta then makes a huge play of looking out of the window, into the quaint village street beyond. She plants an elbow on the table and covers the side of her head with her hand.

  ‘Are they watching?’ she says in a stage whisper.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Are they watching?

  ‘Watching what?’

  ‘Us!’

  I look over at the two coppers again, who are now clearly contemplating the purchase of muffins. Nothing about their demeanour suggests they give two hoots about what Henrietta and I are up to.

  ‘No, I don’t think they—’

  She’s fucking gone.

  Henrietta has disappeared.

  Vanished into thin air.

  One second she’s there . . . the next she’s clearly not.

  Has she been taken up?

  Is the Rapture upon us?

  Have aliens beamed her up to their ship for some probing?

  Has Henrietta been discorporated by some evil entit—

  . . . Oh no. She’s just under the table.

  I suppose I’d better find out why.

  I do hope she’s not suffered some kind of event.

  I lean down, flip up the long tablecloth and stick my head under the table as well, in order to find out what afflicts her. ‘Um . . . are you OK, Henrietta? What are you doing?’

  ‘Hiding!’

  ‘Hiding?’

  ‘Yes! Hiding from them!’

  She stabs a finger over at where the two police officers have apparently decided that the muffins are a go, and are making their selections in a very considered manner.

  ‘You’re hiding from the police?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I am!’

  Oh, bloody hell. I’m on a date with a criminal.

  A crook. A lag. A felon. A villain. A delinquent of the highest order.

  ‘Why?’ I venture, now acutely aware that to everyone else in the coffee shop, I appear to be holding a conversation with the underside of an oak coffee table.

  ‘Because they are part of it, Andy!’

  ‘Part of what?’

  ‘The organisation! ’ There’s a hectic excitement in Henrietta’s voice now as she continues to stare out at the coppers like a hunting dog on point.

  ‘What? The police force?’ I hazard.

  ‘That’s just part of it! The organisation is everywhere!

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes! And it has many names!’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes! The Illuminati!’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘The Great Ones!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The deep state!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The low men in yellow coats!’

  ‘Pretty sure that one’s a Stephen King book.’

  ‘They’re everywhere, Andy!’ Henrietta continues, wild-eyed – and obviously very keen to impress upon me the importance of all of this. ‘And they control the Internet! Everything on it!’

  ‘Even Crossy Road?’ I suggest . . . for some reason. The game did give Ham not of Bog piles, so anything’s possible.

  ‘Of course!’ Henrietta grabs my ankle. ‘Everything is controlled by them!’

  OK . . . so I’m not having coffee with a hardened criminal, it appears, just someone who’s clearly a conspiracy theorist of the highest order.

  Joy of Illuminati joys.

  ‘That’s why it was so nice to hear from someone who doesn’t use their Internet too!’ Henrietta whispers at me as she peeks out from behind the long tablecloth to see what the coppers are up to.

  One has chosen blueberry, the other chocolate – if you’re at all interested.

  ‘You mean me?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course I mean you! You must know they’re out there, watching us! You must see that there’s no escape from the deep state! Why else would you have stopped using all that technology?’

  ‘I couldn’t have a proper poo,’ I say, by way of explanation. ‘And my neck hurts.’

  ‘You’re my type of man, Andy!’ Henrietta exclaims, ignoring this. ‘I thought that as soon as I heard from you! Just the right kind of guy to run away with me!’

  ‘Run away with you?!’ I reply in shock.

  ‘Yes! And run away from them! Get away from their cameras and their spying technology!’ Henrietta grabs my other ankle. I’m slightly worried she’s about to yank me off my chair and under the table with her. ‘We could live off-grid together!’ she exclaims. ‘It could be so good! Run away with me, Andy!’

  Yes, well . . .

  I think we can safely say that the only running away I’ll be doing when it comes to Henrietta is from her.

  ‘Oh God! They’re coming over!’ Henrietta squeals, looking back over at the coppers. ‘Look normal!’ she orders.

  ‘Look normal?’

  ‘Yes! Look normal!’

  ‘I’m not sure I can do that with my head under the table,’ I point out.

  ‘Then sit up! Sit up and look like you don’t care about them!’

  Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult – I really don’t care about them.

  I do quite fancy a chocolate muffin now, though, if I’m being honest. They look scrumptious.

  It’s probably best I do stop talking to the underside of the table. I think I’ve started to draw some funny glances.

  I sit up, just in time to see the two coppers take their delicious-looking muffins over to a table in the bay on the other side of the main door, right beside the window. They both sit in seats that look out on to the street, their coffee and muffins on the table in front of them.

  They haven’t noticed that I’ve had my head stuck under the tablecloth for the past few minutes . . . but an elderly couple about ten feet away from me have, and therefore have very uncertain looks on their faces.

  I offer them a friendly smile and take a sip of my rapidly cooling flat white.

  As I do this, I am rather horrified to see Henrietta appear from under the tablecloth on all fours – making her way across the floor, towards the back of the coffee shop at a speed that must be playing havoc with her kneecaps. She deliberately keeps at least two tables between her and the police officers as she goes.

  The elderly couple watch her do this for a moment, and then look back at me, as if I have some sort of explanation.

  I don’t, of course. But I feel as if I should say something.

  ‘We’re on a blind date,’ I tell them. ‘I answered a personal ad in the paper,’ I add, as if this in any way clarifies what the hell is going on here.

  The old man looks deeply confused, but his wife actually nods slowly and grimaces slightly.

  I suppose at this point I should get up and follow Henrietta to make sure she’s OK.

  Or I could just disappear out of the front door and leave her to it, but I did agree to come on this date with her, so I feel some sense of responsibility about what’s going on here.

  Rising from my seat, I see that Henrietta has made it to the coffee shop counter, where the barista is watching her, a mixture of befuddlement and amazement on her face.

  ‘Toilet?!’ Henrietta snaps at her.

  The barista slowly raises one hand, indicating down the hallway just to the left of the counter, and Henrietta takes off down it, all the time throwing looks back at where the two police officers are. Both seem completely oblivious to what’s going on behind the
m. Those muffins must be bloody fantastic.

  I hurry over, in time to see Henrietta disappear into the toilet at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Is your . . . your friend all right?’ the barista asks me.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I reply truthfully. ‘We’re on a blind date.’

  ‘Going well, is it?’ she asks. Somewhat unnecessarily, I feel. Any date in which one participant tries to escape on their hands and knees cannot be considered to be going well.

  ‘Not really, no,’ I tell her. ‘She thinks . . . she thinks those coppers are after her.’

  The barista goes wide-eyed. ‘Why?’

  I look over at them, and then back to her. ‘Um . . . I’m not sure. Possibly something to do with Crossy Road and Stephen King; I can’t quite figure it all out.’

  ‘Oh . . . right. Should I . . . maybe go and check on her?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah. If you would. That might be an exceptionally good idea.’

  OK, I’m passing the buck mightily here, but if the coppers haven’t noticed what’s going on so far, they will certainly have to respond if I go clattering into the toilet while a woman is in there on her own.

  Better to let the barista sort this out, while I attempt to lean nonchalantly on the counter and look at the muffins.

  The barista hurries away in pursuit of Henrietta.

  A few moments go by.

  I think I’ve decided I’m going to have a white chocolate and raspberry muffin. They look particularly tasty.

  ‘Hey!’ the barista calls to me from the corridor. ‘I need your help here!’

  I rush off down the corridor towards her, casting the muffins from my mind for the moment.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I enquire.

  ‘She’s stuck!’ the barista hisses.

  ‘She’s what?’

  ‘Stuck! In the window!’

  ‘Stuck in the window?’

  ‘Yes! Come and look!’

  The barista grabs me by the arm and pulls me towards the toilet.

  When she pushes the door open, I am greeted by the sight of Henrietta’s bottom, halfway up the wall, above the small toilet cistern. Somehow, her dress has ridden up around her waist and I can see her knickers.

  They are large, pink, covered in pictures of Hello Kitty, and THERE ARE COPPERS OUTSIDE. I REALLY SHOULDN’T BE HERE. THIS IS PROBABLY A SEX CRIME.