Part 24 (2/2)
No. It really really dies. dies.
It quite literally does nothing nothing. It's like it has suddenly refused to accept electricity into any of its circuits any longer.
”Polly!”
I am so p.i.s.sed off, so knackered, so unable to even consider consider writing the whole thing out again from memory, that I grab Polly's laptop, open up my email page, hit reply to Webster's original message and simply type this: writing the whole thing out again from memory, that I grab Polly's laptop, open up my email page, hit reply to Webster's original message and simply type this:
From: CLIVE BERESFORD ([email protected]) CLIVE BERESFORD ([email protected]) Sent: 3 June 2007 20:02:31 3 June 2007 20:02:31 To: [email protected] Subject: (no subject) (no subject)
Dear Lance Dear LanceI'll gladly help you bury the past as long as you tell me everything about the night of 12 August 1995. I think you owe me.Clivep.s. sorry I lied to you I add my mobile number to the bottom of the email, hit send and watch the little dial go round and round in the corner of the screen, counting down the milliseconds I have to stop the thing from leaving. I exhale as the confirmation page appears, shut the machine down and join Polly in the kitchen for a large Pimms. The email vacates my head for the rest of the evening, not returning until I'm halfway to work next morning, at which point I chuckle heartily at life, with all the funny twists and turns that propel one to send abrupt emails to ex-pop stars on random Sunday evenings in June. But the even funnier thing is-it works.
SUGGESTED LISTENING: Pop Will Eat Itself, This Is the Day, This Is the Hour, This Is This This Is the Day, This Is the Hour, This Is This (RCA, 1989) (RCA, 1989) It's my life, so I've never found any of it particularly enthralling It happens on a Thursday morning.
Thankfully, as it turns out. For several reasons.
But we'll get to that.
It's the usually underwhelming arrival of a text message that kicks it all off, while I'm engaged in that n.o.blest of activities: taking my recycling to the recycling bank (I say ”my” and not ”our” because Polly decided some months back it was all claptrap and now throws everything rather ostentatiously into the council litter bins). I ping the last of the green bottles through the black plastic brush thingies, wipe the remnants of stale beer on the back of my suit trousers and stride over to the bus stop feeling rather pleased with myself. Then the phone bleeps and my world, frankly, stops.
Ok you little s.h.i.+t you win. I'm at Heathrow terminal 3 for the next 4 hours, after that I won't be in the country for a very long time. Come and get it. L Not acquainted with anyone else whose name begins with L and who'd send me something like this, my heart starts thumping and I frantically review my options. There aren't any. I make a breathless phone call to my office (despite being a c.r.a.p liar I am the world heavyweight champion at pulling sickies) and race over to the other bus stop, the one that goes to the tube station. I'm still panting with antic.i.p.ation, pinching myself and, more cynically, congratulating Webster on abandoning this ”Geoff” nonsense (though that is is his real name, the poor man), when the karma comes hurtling back at me and my phone bleeps again. his real name, the poor man), when the karma comes hurtling back at me and my phone bleeps again.
P.S. I'm beyond security so you'll have to buy a ticket somewhere ”Buy a ticket somewhere? What the f.u.c.k do you mean, 'buy a ticket somewhere'? Are you f.u.c.king out of your mind? mind? Where? Where does terminal three Where? Where does terminal three go? go? Do you think I actually have Do you think I actually have money?” money?”
I'm so incensed, all of the above is said out loud to the a.s.sorted bods gathered around the stop. With beer on my suit and profanities on my tongue, I'm one can of Carlsberg Special Brew away from the kind of nutter everyone moves away from. Lacking further bright ideas, I hurry off in the direction of home.
”I don't understand,” ponders Polly five minutes later, in between drags of her cigarette. ”Why would he be on the other side of security?”
”G.o.d knows! He's f.u.c.king with me!”
”Mmm ... maybe he's on a ma.s.sive stopover?”
”From where?”
”I dunno,” she frowns. ”Like he's flying from Mexico City to ... um, Warsaw?”
”Ah, yes. That commonly travelled route.”
”Well, anywhere you have to change in London, really.”
”Why would he be doing that? He's from He's from London.” London.”
”Clive, I really don't know. Sometimes people make odd trips. Might be work-related.”
”But he'd be able to leave leave security ... wouldn't he? I mean, he's British.” security ... wouldn't he? I mean, he's British.”
”I don't suppose you fancy texting back to ask why?”
I consider this for a second, but any of the phrases I might use (”Is there any particular reason you can't meet me in the public area?”) sound pretty pathetic in the face of what he's offering me. Polly pulls her dressing gown around her and exhales elegantly, producing a plume of smoke that hovers above our kitchen table for almost half a minute. We both stare, as if it's about to morph into a genie. Which would be quite useful, in fact. Instead, Polly bangs her coffee cup down on the fridge and strides off to fetch the next best thing: her laptop. She plonks it on the table and starts looking at the Heathrow website.
”What are you doing?”
”You've expended too much energy on this bilge to b.u.g.g.e.r it up now,” she mutters.
”And?”
”So I'm finding out where terminal three goes, and we're going to get you in there.”
”But Polly, I haven't got any-”
”Clive, be silent. I've had quite enough of this c.o.c.king about.”
”But you can't seriously be suggesting we buy a whole airline ticket just to get me the other side of-”
”Shus.h.!.+ Here we go. Terminal three. Canada. China. Air India. American Airlines. Mauritius.”
”Nice of him to pick the budget one.”
”New Zealand, Emirates, Egypt, j.a.pan ...”
”Maybe we could just do it over the phone?”
”b.a.l.l.s,” Polly counters. ”Malaysia ... lots of Middle Eastern places ... Korea ... ah, here you are ... Turkey ... Scandinavia. That's better.”
But the day-of-travel ticket prices are all astronomical. A couple of one-way tickets to Stockholm and Copenhagen for seventy-ish look promising, until we notice they go at ten o'clock (just over ninety minutes away and I'm still at the wrong end of the Piccadilly line). Later this afternoon the fares shoot up to two sixty.
”This is f.u.c.king ridiculous,” Polly yells at her machine. ”Why isn't there a flight to Guernsey or somewhere?”
Time is racing on and I'm pacing up and down the kitchen; the best bet seems to be Stavanger in Norway for two twenty-five, but then Polly has a brainwave.
”Air India fly to JFK,” she remembers, hammering on her keyboard. ”I bet they're ... yes! Look! Two hundred!”
”You mean New York?”
”What other f.u.c.king JFKs do you know?” she snaps, pulling her purse from her handbag.
”Um ... New York's a bit far, isn't it?”
”You're not b.l.o.o.d.y going going there, Clive, you moron. There you go, two hundred including everything. Not bad. Who'd have thought?” there, Clive, you moron. There you go, two hundred including everything. Not bad. Who'd have thought?”
”Okay,” I sigh. ”Let's do it.”
Polly whips out her credit card and a few moments later I am heading back out the door. I turn round and give her a smile. She's a mad old fish but she has her moments. On Thursday she works from home, you see. At least, that's what she tells her employers.
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