Logging Off
Page 18
It is an impressive ring. Clearly pure gold, with a red ruby set into it.
A blood-red ruby.
Right, we need to get out of here.
‘Do you know where their shop was?’ I hastily ask, moving my head back a bit, away from that cadaverous hand.
‘Why of course!’ he tells me, lowering the hand and offering me a smile that starts off warm and comforting, but descends into blood-curdling when it stays on his face a nanosecond too long. ‘You simply turn right out of this shop, truculate down the passage until you reach the main road. Turn left until you see Old Bond Street on your right, across the road. About thirty paces along you will find that which you seek – a terracement building with the most wonderful blue window frames and white facade.’ He looks sad. ‘Though I fear the jeweller’s itself is long gone. I believe it was turned into a restaurant, offering delictationaries from the Mediterranean, some years ago.’ Quimby looks wistful. ‘I had Mr Hackett and Mr Mostrum to dinner when they had to close their wonderful shop down. It was the last time I saw them.’
Yeah, I bet it was. Right before you swooped back to your coffin for a snooze to digest their giblets.
‘Thank you so much,’ Grace tells the old man, and again shakes his hand. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
Bath Dracula smiles at her in a way that could be described as pleasant, but could equally be described as predatory.
‘Yeah, cheers,’ I add, starting to hustle Grace towards the door.
If I can just get it open, we might be safe. If he makes a lunge at us, I might be able to throw one of the Asian tourists in his path and make our escape. We should be able to get away, no problem.
I can’t move for ages after I’ve had a Chinese – I’m assuming the same is true for the undead.
‘Not a problem at all!’ Quimby responds. ‘And if you feel the desire to purchase a new domicile in the wonderful encumbrances of the Bath region, then do let me know!’
‘Yeah, will do!’ I tell him, eyeing up which person looks small enough for me to pick up without doing my back in.
Once we’re in the street, and safely back past the sightseers, Grace turns and gives me a horrified look. ‘That was a bit rude, Andy!’
‘No, it bloody wasn’t. I just saved your life.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He was clearly a vampire. Haven’t you seen any Hammer horror movies?’
‘That’s a horrible thing to say! He was just a helpful old man.’
‘A helpful old lightning-fast man, who talked about having old friends for dinner. Clearly Nosferatu. No doubt about it.’
Grace rolls her eyes and gives me a look. ‘You’re not that good with people, are you?’
I look back at her with disbelief. ‘Well, of course I’m not. I’ve spent most of my life talking to a computer screen. People terrify me, Grace. Especially the ancient ones who can only be destroyed by a stake through the heart . . . or possibly a light bit of decapitation.’
Grace doesn’t say another word. She just slowly takes my hand, in the manner of someone trying to help one of the enfeebled. ‘Let’s go and find this jeweller’s – or whatever it is now,’ she says.
I nod. ‘That’s probably for the best.’
And in fact, it only takes us a few more minutes to find where Hackett & Mostrum once proudly stood. Mr Quimby’s directions prove to be very accurate. But then, if you’d been alive for several centuries, you’d probably have a good handle on your whereabouts as well, wouldn’t you?
‘He wasn’t a vampire, Andy, stop it,’ Grace says, looking at the expression on my face.
‘I wasn’t thinking about that.’
‘Yes, you were.’
Quite disconcerting that this woman can read my mind so easily.
. . . And is also quite lovely.
‘Looks like we’ve found the right building,’ I note, trying to change the subject from creatures of the night who run estate agencies in their spare time. ‘There are the blue window frames he spoke about, and it’s definitely white.’
So white, in fact, it rather pops out from the rest of the terraced shops it sits among. Most of them have a more subdued grey or beige colour scheme, and their bay windows are nowhere near as noticeable as the terrace we’ve been directed towards.
‘It’s a Greek restaurant,’ Grace says as we halt in front of it. She sounds a little disappointed. I trust this is because there’s no evidence that this in fact was the jeweller’s in question – rather than that she has something against souvlaki.
‘Looks like it,’ I agree. ‘I’ve never eaten Greek food before.’
This is not a particularly helpful thing to say, given Grace’s obvious disappointment. There is literally nothing about the frontage of Christos’ Greek Taverna that suggests it was once a place where one could buy a nice silver necklace or gold locket.
‘Ah well, that’s that then, I suppose,’ Grace says in a small voice.
I look from her sad face back to the restaurant, and back to her face again.
She’s probably right.
What else can we do?
It’s not like we can jump on the Internet and find anything more out about the place. That would at least have made the trip seem more worthwhile.
Just go inside.
What?
Go inside, you dolt. Ask a few questions. See if anyone knows anything.
I stand there and blink a few times.
Of course. That’s exactly what I should do, isn’t it?
No matter how scary that still feels.
If today has shown me anything, it’s that I have been sorely deprived of decent, interesting human interaction in the past few years thanks to my addiction. OK, I’ve nearly been bitten by a rabid, tiny dog and had my blood sucked by what was clearly a vampire (no matter what Grace says), but I’ve shared more words with complete strangers today than I have in a very long time.
I’m suddenly struck by a huge sadness, thinking about all the people I may have missed out on over the years. All the friends I might have missed out on making. All the dogs I may have missed out on patting. All the vampires I might have missed out on turning me into an immortal creature of great power, with huge amounts of sexual attractiveness.
‘Let’s go in,’ I tell Grace, in a determined fashion. ‘Maybe they can tell us something about the old jeweller’s.’
‘Do you think they’d know?’
‘I have no idea, but there’s only one way to find out.’ I cock my head to one side. ‘And even if they don’t, I’m hungry. How about you?’
Grace nods. ‘I am quite peckish.’
‘Good.’
I take Grace’s hand again, which is shaking a little. It shouldn’t feel like a brave thing to do – walking into a restaurant to ask a few questions and maybe grab a bite to eat – but for us, it is.
This entire day has been an exercise in facing the unknown.
Hell, that’s what the last few weeks of my life have been about.
And I think I’m starting to get better at it.
Inside Christos’ Greek Taverna – which is virtually empty, as it’s only just opened for the late-afternoon business – the decor is much what you’d expect if you’ve ever been to Greece. The colour scheme is universally blue and white. The walls are whitewashed, with arched ceilings that have been tastefully covered in what look like old fishing nets and crab pots.
The place screams rustic Greek charm.
We are approached by a barrel-chested gentleman who is as short and healthy-looking as Quimby was tall and emaciated. This man is obviously not a vampire. I doubt they grow many vampires in Greece. Too sunny, and probably too full of recipes that require a lot of garlic.
‘Hello,’ he says in a friendly tone, with a slight Greek lilt to his accent. ‘Table for two, is it?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘We’ll probably eat in a minute, but just have something we’d like to ask you.’
The man immedia
tely looks a little terrified. ‘Are you from the council? Only we had our hygiene rating done only last month.’
‘We’re not from the council,’ Grace tells him.
This doesn’t make him look any calmer. ‘Oh no! You’re from the Bath Gazette, aren’t you?’ He holds up his hands. ‘The thing with the tortoise happened a long time ago, and we had nothing to do with it!’
OK, now I desperately need to know what the thing with the tortoise was.
‘We’re not from the Bath Gazette either,’ Grace says.
The man relaxes a little. ‘Oh. What do you want to ask, then?’
Ask about the tortoise. Ask about the tortoise.
‘We wanted to ask you if you knew anything about the jeweller’s that used to be here,’ Grace says. I try not to look disappointed. This is what we’re here for, after all.
‘Ah, yes. It was a jeweller’s before my father bought the place,’ the man replies. ‘Why do you want to know about it?’
Grace delves into her shirt and pulls out her locket. ‘This was made here. It’s very important to me, and I wanted to see where it was fashioned. I was hoping there might be something left of the jeweller’s, but it looks like it’s all gone.’
The man beams. ‘Not quite, miss. Not quite.’
The restaurant owner – who identifies himself as Christos – leads us out the back and past the kitchen. ‘We don’t normally let people back here, of course. So please don’t tell anybody!’
‘Of course we won’t!’ Grace promises.
I’m not so sure. Maybe I can blackmail him with it, so he tells me about the bloody tortoise.
Christos then leads us up a set of narrow stairs at the back of the building to a second floor. There, he pulls out an old set of stepladders from what looks like the airing cupboard, and carries them over to a place just underneath a wooden loft hatch in the ceiling.
‘My father put everything that was left from the old shop up here. I have been meaning to clear it out for storage, but never got around to it. Lucky for you!’
It takes him a few moments to get the loft hatch open, and he disappears up into the darkened space, flicking on a light switch somewhere to provide enough illumination.
‘Come on up! But please be careful!’
Now, if it were Quimby the estate agent beckoning me up into his loft space, I’d run a mile, but Christos seems a lot more trustworthy – and part of the human race.
I let Grace go up first, and as I follow her, I hear her gasp in surprise.
And no wonder.
Just look at this lot, would you?
The loft is full of antique furniture. I feel like I’ve stepped on to the set of a Charles Dickens movie – one that’s unfortunately been caught up in an earthquake.
Several desks, stools, chairs, sideboards and glass-fronted cabinets are piled up around the small loft space – all in remarkably good condition, considering. Yes, they’re covered in about a ton of dust, but other than that, they look in good nick. Hackett & Mostrum obviously knew how to buy quality furniture for their business.
‘I keep meaning to take this lot to the antique dealer’s, but never get the chance,’ Christos confides. ‘Look in the drawers.’
He pulls one open next to him. Inside is a pile of small, delicate-looking tools, made from wood and metal. Grace picks up what looks like a set of thin, exquisitely made pliers. The smooth dark wood handles each have a tiny metal stamp laid into them that reads ‘Hackett & Mostrum – Fine Jewellers’.
‘Wow,’ Grace remarks, turning the pliers over in her hand. ‘These are amazing.’
‘They could have been used to make your locket,’ I reply.
Grace doesn’t say anything, but there are tears forming at the corners of her eyes. The notion that she could be holding a tool that helped make her most valuable possession has obviously struck her hard.
Christos smiles and gestures to her. ‘You keep them, eh?’
Grace gives him a startled look. ‘Oh no! I couldn’t. They’re yours!’
Christos shakes his head. ‘No. You should have them. I have enough here anyway. You keep them. Maybe your boyfriend is right . . . maybe they did make your locket with them!’
Boyfriend.
Oh my.
I’ve suddenly gone a bit light-headed again.
‘Thank you so much, Christos!’ Grace says, and gives him a hug. Not an easy thing to do, given our cramped confines.
You’ll notice she doesn’t correct him by telling him I’m not her boyfriend.
Seriously, I feel really light-headed now.
I need to get down from this loft – and I probably need something to eat.
‘Er . . . table for two then, Christos?’ I ask him, once Grace has let him go.
He beams again. ‘Certainly, Mr Bellows! You must try our dolmadakia!’
Must I?
OK.
But I’d better find out what it is first . . .
And so, we come to the last challenge, in a day that’s been full of them.
To be exact: deciding what to eat in a restaurant that has food you’re completely unfamiliar with, when you have no access to Google to fill you in.
I should be terrified. There are things on this menu I’ve never heard of. I should just order a Greek salad and have done with it – instead of taking a jump into the unknown and ordering something that might come battered and full of wobbly stuff.
But I’m not terrified. I’m excited.
My day out in Bath has proved that if you just let life come at you every now and again, you might be pleasantly surprised – and you might find you enjoy yourself a lot more.
If you don’t get eaten by a vampire, that is.
If we’d have had Google, we would probably have just looked up the old shop on the Internet and been satisfied with that. Maybe there would have been a few pictures, and even a Wikipedia entry – and we would have thought that was good enough.
But then we wouldn’t have met Christos, Grace wouldn’t be the proud new owner of a pair of exquisitely wrought jeweller’s pliers with a long history, and I wouldn’t currently be tucking into my battered octopus . . . which is absolutely delicious.
‘How do you feel?’ Grace asks me as she takes a sip of retsina.
I think for a moment.
‘Free,’ I tell her, simply.
She smiles. ‘Me too. I think today has been a great success, don’t you?’
I nod. ‘If nothing else, I’ve discovered the joys of battered octopus,’ I say as I cram another ball of the golden food in my mouth.
‘Thank you for coming with me, Andy,’ Grace says, reaching out a hand to take mine.
There’s been a lot of hand-holding done today, but this time it feels different.
It feels . . . more.
‘It was my pleasure,’ I say, in a voice that I’d like to think is thick with emotion, but is probably just thick with battered mollusc.
‘It’s not really so hard, is it?’
‘No. It’s actually quite soft,’ I say, around a mouthful of food. ‘A bit chewy though.’
Grace gives me a look. ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’
I do know it . . . I’m just trying to avoid talking about it.
Because it is hard.
One day in Bath doesn’t necessarily change that.
Feeling free does not also stop you from feeling lost. The two emotions can sit beside each other quite comfortably, it turns out. After all, you could describe a man lost in the desert as also being free, couldn’t you? He may not appreciate it, and would rather you just gave him a bottle of water, but you could do it.
If anything, today’s jaunt around the sandstone city has made things more difficult. Because now I know that without all that digital claptrap, I can live a more spontaneous, interesting life.
Before today, I’d have struggled to tell you what real-world advantages there are to a digital detox . . . but now I know.
That doesn�
��t stop me yearning for the opportunity to look at what’s happening in the world on Facebook, though. It’s just not that simple.
Grace is looking into my eyes, searching them for what I’m feeling. I hope she has a better handle on it than I do.
After a few moments’ pause she squeezes my hand. ‘One day at a time,’ she says in a quiet voice. ‘There’s nothing about this that’s easy.’
A much better handle, as it turns out. One with a slip-free rubber grip.
One day at a time.
That’s a fine piece of advice, isn’t it?
And a way of living that’s never really occurred to me before.
Why would it? Being online means you can pretty much plan every facet of your life, months in advance.
One day at a time.
One hour at a time.
One minute at a time.
Blimey.
That sounds as wonderful as it does scary.
‘One day at a time,’ I repeat, and squeeze Grace’s hand right back.
Chapter Nine
THE FOLLOWING
‘One day at a time, eh?’ Fergus says in an amused voice, from over the flat white Grace has just prepared for him.
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t think of anyone I’ve ever met who is less suited to that philosophy, my friend.’
I sneer at him. ‘Well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? This digital detox is meant to change me for the better. Maybe this is one of those positive changes.’
‘Like coming here instead of Costa,’ Fergus says, looking around Heirloom Coffee.
‘Yep. The coffee is much better.’
Fergus nods in the direction of Grace, who is currently serving a couple at the counter. ‘And the service too, eh?’
I blush. ‘Yes.’
Fergus grins the grin of a man who has been in a solid relationship for many years and knows nothing of the horrors of new romance. ‘So, things going well with her then?’
‘How do you mean?’
Fergus rolls his eyes. ‘Are you dating her, Andy?’