by Ian Edwards
‘It was two years ago,’ Amy told him. ‘And I bet you can’t even remember what you did.’
‘Actually, you’re wrong,’ James said adamantly. ‘I used one of the machines.’
‘Which one?’
James smiled. ‘It was the one that distributed chocolate and crisps. It was so good I used it twice.’
Amy aimed a playful punch on her husband’s shoulder. ‘Be serious will you. You can’t take chances with your health. Not at your age.’
‘So I’m fat and old now?’ James teased.
‘You know what I mean. Just start looking after yourself.’
‘OK, OK,’ James raised his hands in mock surrender. ’I’ll get some exercise, lose a bit of weight.’ He patted his stomach. ‘What’s for dinner?’
*
James looked disappointedly at the now empty plate in front of him. The measly amount of food was hardly worth him coming in from the garden. If Amy’s new imposed health drive was going to leave him this hungry he’d have to go back to the gym and to that chocolate machine he’d liked so much on his last visit. Even Amy had hardly touched her own meal, preferring instead to pore over her phone, dabbing away at the screen and frowning.
‘Are you going to eat that?’ James pointed at the chicken and broccoli on her plate.
Oblivious to her husband’s plea for more food, Amy frowned at the phone and tapped away at the screen.
‘I’m just popping out for a burger and fries, can I get you anything?’ James said in a louder than normal voice.
‘What? Sorry I was miles away,’ Amy said, snapping back into the real world.
‘I was wondering if I could have your dinner,’ James asked. ‘Only you don’t seem very interested in it.’
‘Go on then,’ Amy sighed, sliding the plate over to him.
‘What’s up?’ James asked while working his way through her leftovers.
‘The Amazing Armado has dropped out.’
‘Oh… Right,’ James said through a mouthful of chicken.
‘I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do now.’
James said nothing, concentrating only on removing all particles of food from his plate.
‘What would you do if the Amazing Armado dropped out on you?’ Amy asked.
‘Wear tighter underpants.’
‘You have no idea what I’m talking about do you?’
Realising that an angry Amy would almost certainly mean a lifetime of bland low fat meals, James decided to come clean. He shook his head.
Amy sighed. ‘I did tell you.’
‘Yes, but I’ve been busy with Jury Service and all the exam invigilating.’ James offered, rather lamely.
‘I had arranged for the Amazing Armado to present the prizes to the children at the school prize giving day.’ Seeing James’s blank face, Amy continued. ‘He was going to entertain the children and then present the prizes.
‘I see,’ James said, not seeing at all.
‘Stretton’s going to be furious. Organising the prize day was my chance to get back in his good books.’
James knew all too well that Stretton La Mon, Amy’s headmaster, had grown frustrated with her erratic behaviour over the last year.
‘Can’t you just find another entertainer?’ He suggested. ‘It can’t be that difficult.’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do for the last hour,’ Amy gestured at her phone. ‘There’s no one available. They’re all booked up. It’s that time of year.’
‘I’m surprised. I mean I would have thought finding someone to make kids laugh would be a piece of cake. Have you seen kids TV? Just fall over a couple of times, ideally in something mucky and they’ll laugh themselves stupid. You’d think that any idiot could do th…’
‘What’s the matter?’ Amy said. ‘Why the strange face?’
‘Amy, ‘James smiled. ‘If I came up with a brilliant idea which I could guarantee would solve your prize giving problems, could I have pizza for a week?’
‘James. In the incredibly unlikely event that you came up with an idea that actually worked I would buy you pizza for a week.’
James grinned. ‘Well Mrs Cook, I suggest that you get out your debit card and prepare to spend, spend, spend.’
With very little expectation Amy said. ‘Go on.’
‘Ladies and Gentlemen. Boys and girls. I give you Harry Hodges and Old Man Ernie.’
‘Harry?’
‘Yes. Harry. Come on, you know he’ll be great. The kids will love him and Old Man Ernie will go down a storm.’
Amy thought about Harry and his macabre grinning ventriloquist’s doll. ‘OK, it might just work,’ she reluctantly agreed. ‘Do you have his number?’
James nodded. ‘And can I have the one with the egg in the middle?’
Amy passed her bank card across the table and sighed. ‘Go on then.’
‘Trust me, Harry will be perfect for your prize giving day. Stretton will be impressed and he’ll probably promote you to deputy head.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
James smiled at his wife. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’
Chapter 11
Alan smiled as Sarah placed a cup of coffee on the table.
‘Thanks,’ he said, tearing open a sachet of sugar. ‘Why are we meeting here?’ He asked, before Sarah took her seat.
‘Don’t you like it?’ Sarah stirred her own drink.
Alan sighed. ‘Every Thursday since I left my job…’ Alan checked his watch. ‘At about this time, I’ve dropped into your office for a chat. We have a coffee and talk about random nonsense. Sometimes Harry turns up, but that’s mainly ‘cos he likes the chocolate biscuits you hide in your drawer. But not today. Today we’re meeting here. Why?’
‘I thought we would have a change of scenery. Why, don’t you like it?’ She asked again.
Alan looked around the half empty café. ‘It’s alright I suppose. It’s just a bog standard greasy spoon.’ He looked out of the window at the hoardings surrounding the Merton Palace Theatre and smiled. ‘Now I get it. You wanted to show me how the renovations are going,’ he said.
Sarah raised her hands in mock surrender. ‘It’s a fair cop. I just thought we could try somewhere different and you’d get a chance to see how things are going over there.’
‘All I can see are massive plywood hoardings around the building.’ Alan watched as Sarah blew on her coffee before taking a cautious sip. ‘Do I get to see inside?’
‘Maybe,’ she said and looked over at the door. ‘Where’s Harry?’ She asked, changing the subject.
‘He’s probably lost on a bus somewhere. You know how he is with buses. All this change of routine it’s not good for him…He’s probably half way to Birmingham by now.’
‘Or is it Girgingam?’ Sarah imitated Harry’s ventriloquist routine. ‘Are you sure it’s Harry who doesn’t like his routine being changed?’ she asked with a smile.
Alan slumped back in his chair, cradling his cup.
‘Here he is,’ Sarah said, looking over at the door as Harry entered the café.
‘Morning Sarah, Alan,’ he said as he pulled out a chair and joined them at the table.
Sarah slipped away from the table and went to get Harry a cup of tea.
‘Why are we meeting here?’ Harry asked Alan. ‘Has Sarah been sacked?’
Alan shook his head. ‘No, she’s far too happy for that. She wants us to see the theatre renovations.’
‘Isn’t that the theatre that you saved last year?’ Harry looked out of the window. Any further questions were interrupted as Sarah placed a cup of tea in front of him. ‘Alan was just telling me you’re going to show us the theatre renovations,’ Harry said. ‘Do we get to see inside?’
‘Maybe. We’ll see.’
The three friends sank into an unusual silence as they stirred and added sugar to their drinks. Sarah stared as Alan added several spoonfuls to his own coffee.
‘We have chocolate biscuits when we’re in you
r office,’ Alan said, catching Sarah’s frown.
Sarah sighed. ‘OK, I’ll get you some biscuits.’
Alan and Harry grinned as Sarah made her way over to the counter.
‘Have you seen inside the theatre since they started the work?’ Harry asked.
Alan shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t been anywhere near it since last year. I doubt there’s much to see, just a few blokes cutting wood and painting walls.’
‘I think there’s more to a renovation project than simply cutting up bits of wood and painting walls,’ Harry pointed out.
‘It’s just decorating Harry, just decorating.’
Sarah leaned against the counter and waited in line. She looked around the café, half expecting it to be full of workman from the theatre tucking into full English breakfasts. But there were only a couple of other people dotted around the café, none of whom appeared to be workmen. Her decision to meet Alan and Harry in the café was primarily so she could see for herself how the theatre renovations were going. Sadly, there appeared to be no more activity now than the last time she visited.
As she gazed out of the window toward the theatre, she noticed the door in the hoardings fly open as four men emerged on to the pavement. Three of the men wore paint splattered overalls and carried toolboxes. The fourth man she recognised as Hander, the site Manager.
Hander held his hands aloft and appeared to be trying to reason with the three workmen, however the three men paid him little attention as they got into a car parked on the pavement and drove away into the mid-morning traffic.
Alan and Harry were deep in discussion when Sarah placed a packet of biscuits on the table in front of them. ‘I’m just popping over to the theatre for a few minutes,’ she said.
‘Just checking we can get in?’ Harry asked.
‘Something like that. Don’t eat the whole packet, save some for me,’ she tapped the biscuits. ‘Anyway, you don’t want to spoil your appetites before lunch.’
Alan watched Sarah weave her way past the empty tables and out of the café. ‘So, Rosie tells me you’re seeing someone.’
Harry opened the packet of biscuits, took two out and passed the rest to Alan. ‘It’s true, I am,’ he said. ‘Its early days so I don’t want to say too much.’
‘What’s her name?’ Alan asked, doubling up two chocolate biscuits and dipping them in his coffee.
‘Sorry Alan, I really don’t want to talk about it right now,’ Harry explained. ‘I’ll tell you all about her when the time’s right.’
‘You old dog, you,’ Alan smiled at his friend, his smile turning to a grimace as half of his double biscuit dropped into his coffee.
Harry smirked at Alan’s coffee-biscuit predicament. ‘Amy has asked me to present the prizes at her school’s prize day,’ he said, changing the subject as Alan attempted to spoon out the sodden biscuit.
‘Good luck with that,’ Alan replied, peering at the mushy contents of his spoon. ‘Make sure you take a bodyguard.’
‘It’s a primary school, I don’t imagine they’re that bad.’
‘Kids have changed since your day Harry. When did you go to school?’
‘Chiswick Grammar School. In the swinging Sixties.’
Alan laughed. ‘It’s nothing like it was even back in my day. There’s no tuck shops and midnight feasts in the dorm after lights out. These days the kids are rabid, wild and out of control.’
Harry stared at Alan, unsure if he was joking.
‘It would take a braver man than me to stand up in front of those kids. Give me a stag night in Magaluf any day.’
Harry chewed his bottom lip. ‘Crikey. What would you suggest? How would you play it?’
Alan took a bite out of new biscuit. ‘That school’s like a jungle. You have to be top dog, number one. The main man.’
‘And how do I that?’ Harry asked almost whispering.
‘Treat it like the worst venue you’ve ever played…’ Alan paused for a moment. ‘Remember that gig you did for the rugby club?’
Harry shuddered at the memory. ‘Oh God, I remember it like it was yesterday. It was terrifying.’
‘Well, it’ll be worse than that.’
‘Why?’ Harry asked, the emotional scars of the rugby club gig not having properly healed.
‘You can’t throw the bottles back when it’s kids lobbing them at you in the first place. The parents frown on that sort of thing. You can’t lob a two litre bottle of supermarket own brand cider back at little Sebastian, even if he did throw it at you in the first place.’
‘What do you suggest then?’ Harry asked nervously.
‘Take out the ring leader early. Put him in his place.’
‘You think that will work?’
‘Absolutely Harry. Absolutely,’ Alan said, taking another biscuit from the packet.
*
Sarah stood by the theatre hoardings and banged three times on the wooden door with a clenched fist. She stepped back and waited for a response.
The instructions ‘Works Entrance Please Knock’ had been painted above the door, confirming to Sarah she was in the right place. She sighed, checked her watch and banged another three times on the door, impatience getting the better of her.
After what seemed like an eternity waiting for the door to open, Sarah took a step back on the pavement and looked for another doorway. When no obvious openings showed themselves, she huffed and made her way back to the café wondering if there were any chocolate biscuits left.
*
Fingers placed a cup of tea on the desk in front of Hander, spilling half the contents in the process. He braced himself for the usual barrage of criticism from his boss, but Hander barely acknowledged the mishap and appeared oblivious to the now sodden sheath of papers in front of him.
Fingers mumbled an apology and attempted to mop the contents up with a grubby tea towel. Despite his efforts, Fingers managed to make an even bigger mess than the one he had attempted to clear up, so he gave it up as a bad idea and sat down opposite his boss.
Hander sighed. ‘We’ve got a few problems, Fingers.’
‘What’s that then boss?’ Fingers asked suspiciously. Past experience told him to be cautious when his employer referred to them as we.
‘No one wants to work here, and those that do only last a few days.’ Hander looked at a tool box which had been left in the corner of the room. ‘Some are so desperate to get out that they leave their tools behind.’ He made a mental note to move the tool box before Fingers tripped over it. ‘Tell it to me straight, Fingers. Is it really such a bad place to work?’
‘Yes boss it really is,’ Fingers nodded. ‘They don’t like it when the weird things happen.’
Hander waved a hand dismissively. ‘It’s an old building. There’s going to be the occasional odd noise as the building settles.’ He tapped his chin with a forefinger. ‘I’ll give the agency a call, ask them to send round a couple of electricians and a chippie with a full set of fingers. No offence...’
Fingers shrugged that none was taken.
‘…and can you take that…’ Hander gestured at the toolbox, ‘down to the cellar. If they want it back, they’ll have to come and get it.’
*
Fingers stood at the top of the staircase leading down to the cellar, a sense of unease prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Temporary lighting hung precariously from the ceiling, illuminating the staircase. He took a deep breath, told himself there was nothing to worry about and slowly made his way down the stairs, ears attuned to the slightest noise.
As he reached the turn in the staircase the temporary lights flickered twice and blinked off, plunging the stair case into darkness.
He froze mid-step and gulped, straining to hear through the darkness, fearful of the smallest of sound. There was no way he was going any further down in darkness, but equally he was terrified of turning his back on what may be below. Placing the toolbox blindly on a step, Fingers dug his phone out of his pocket. He turned on the tor
ch function and illuminated his immediate surroundings.
‘OK,’ he said out loud. ‘Nothing to be afraid of I’ll…’ He stopped talking, the sound of a bouncing ball cutting through his thoughts. He shone the torch into the dark of the stairs and listened as the bouncing grow louder, more distinctive. A small ball bounced up onto the turn in the stair case, rolled forward and gently came to a stop, softly touching his foot.
Fingers heard a scream and fell back onto the stairs. He took one look at the ball, realised the scream had been his own, turned and ran back up the stairs, the light from his phone shaking sporadic lighting all the way.
Chapter 12
Alan wrestled with the garden chair, pulling and pushing the frame until a combination of swearing and brute force clicked it into place. He put the chair down on the patio, sighed and picked up another one.
As he unfolded the chair he felt a cold breeze blow across his neck.
‘Afternoon,’ Frankie said cheerfully, and sat down on the chair that Alan had just unfolded. ‘What’s all this then?’ He said gesturing at the large garden table and stack of chairs.
Alan clicked the chair into place and put it next to Frankie. ‘Rosie has decided…’ He perched on the edge of the table, ‘That we should take advantage of the good weather and have a barbecue.’
‘I take it by the look on your face you’re not a fan of barbecues?’ Frankie asked.
‘No, I’m not.’ Alan confirmed. ‘I don’t know where this obsession came from. I mean, we have about six days of summer a year and we have to waste it roasting dead animals. What’s wrong with cooking food in the kitchen? It’s what kitchens are for.’
Frankie leaned back in the chair, put his hands behind his head and waited for his friend to continue.
‘I mean,’ Alan warmed to his theme, ‘we don’t start having a bath in the garden just because it’s summer, so why do we have to cook our dinner in it?’
‘I like the idea of a barbecue,’ Frankie interrupted. ‘We didn’t have them much when I was alive.’
Alan gave him a look and continued. ‘I say cook our dinner, what I actually mean is burn it into oblivion on the outside while leaving it raw on the inside, guaranteeing a good dose of the runs for days afterwards.’
