Wednesday, 7 June 2017

Cake part 1

For audio click here 
Appletiser and cake, not exactly the breakfast of champions, but beggars can't be choosers. A splodge of cream plopped onto the counter as he scooped the cake into his mouth with his fingers. He glugged down the drink straight from the bottle, leaving a creamy mark around the rim. After a loud belch, he took another long chug at the bottle. When he'd finished his feast, he checked the cupboards for something he could take with him. Tins of soup and dried pasta were not much help, so he slid a bar of cooking chocolate into his pocket, rinsed out the Appletiser bottle and filled it with water and then clicked the kettle on. The drawers were even less helpful. He'd hoped to find some money or something he could sell, but there was just bills, letters from school and out of date discount coupons. The water bubbled in the kettle, he made himself a cup of tea. 
The living room was the kind of place where you had to put mugs on a coaster and food and shoes were strictly forbidden. He put his mug down on the bare wooden coffee table. 
“Bingo,” he said and plucked the twenty-pound note from the sideboard and slipped it into his pocket. “Very nice,” he said to himself. 
 The sun peeped through the clouds throwing a sunbeam across the room. It was a nice place, He could imagine living here, with a beautiful trophy wife who insisted on ironing his shirts and cooking his meals no matter how much he protested. 
It's a woman's job, she'd say, smiling a smile that would promise a treasure trove of naughtiness later in the day. 
Bowels! He found the downstairs toilet and sat down. Wow, Andrex double quilted, such luxury. He flushed, washed his hands and face and unlocked the bathroom door.
“Who's there?” The voice was weak, female, the trophy wife. 
He knew he should run. Get out of there, but he stood in the hall waiting. 
“Who's there?”
He heard the stairs creak. 
“I've called the police!” 
Another creak. 
“They're on their way”. 
He still didn't run. There was something about that voice, something kept him glued to the spot.
“I've got a gun,” she said. 
Two more stairs creaked and then she appeared, tall, bleach-blonde hair, bottle-tanned body, a pistol in her hand. She was the trophy wife he'd dreamed of, literally.
“Chloe?” he said.
She looked at him, her eyes peeling off the layers of grime and facial hair and gradually recognising her intruder. 
“James? What the hell happened to you?” 
“Long story,” he said. He regretted putting his mug down without a coaster now. “You look great.” She looked older, but she would always look great in his eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just getting some breakfast? Can you put that down?” 
“Don't worry, it's a toy,” she laid the gun on the telephone table. “How did you know it was my place?”
“I didn't, it was random.” 
“Wow,” she stared at him, “it's been, what?”
“Fifteen years,” James said a little too quickly.
“Fifteen years, I thought you were dead.”
“I am, officially.” 
A car pulled up outside. 
“The police,” Chloe said. “Go, out the back, quick.” 
She led him to the back door. 
“Thanks,” James said. 
“Come back tomorrow, we’ll chat.” the doorbell rang. “I'll fix you some eggs.”

For part two click here and part three click here