The Airport

Corrie hated travelling with Jeff but their jobs meant that more often than not they’d be sent to the same international office at the same time, meaning that they’d be expected to take the same train to the airport and do all the airport things together. Why? thought Corrie. Why did convention say they had to travel together? Well this time she’d put her foot down and said she’d see him at the gate.

It wasn’t that Corrie disliked Jeff, quite the opposite, they got on really well most of the time. But when it came to travelling they were like chalk and cheese. Corrie liked to get to the airport early, have a look round the shops, get a nice latte and settle down at the gate with time to spare. Jeff on the other hand was a 'last minuter', he liked to cut it so fine that he’d never get to the gate before final boarding was called. He’d never missed a flight but that was more by luck than judgement. But it wasn’t just the timing issue that Corrie disliked, it was the disorganisation, the where’s my passport panics and the water bottle in the bag at security scenes. Corrie smiled to herself as she checked the screen and then opened her kindle; a book and coffee would help kill the 30 minutes till boarding. If Jeff didn’t get there on time, she’d go without him.

Jeff pushed his way through the crowds to get off the train first. He daren’t look at his watch. He leapt up the stairs three at a time and then ran down the labyrinth of tunnels towards his terminal. Sweat formed and fell from his brow as he slalomed through the dawdling crowds of holiday-makers.

He’d checked-in online so all he needed to do was bag drop but it was his face that dropped when he saw the queue. What’s the effing point of checking in online if there was still such a queue for bag drop? Fuck it he thought and walked straight to the front ignoring the stuffy tuts as he did so. Bag dropped, he hit security, he managed to talk the girl into letting him go through the VIP lane but in his rush he forgot his liquids. Surely one little bottle of water didn’t mean his whole bloody bag needed to be emptied, he tried to tell the guy he was going to miss the plane but the guy was only doing his job sir.

Jeff ran to the gate hearing his name as he did so, his shirt was now soaked with sweat and he was decidedly out of breath. As he got to the gate the woman was just telling the world that if he didn’t get there soon he’d be offloaded from the flight. He patted his pockets looking for his passport finding it eventually in the pocket of his bag and then ran on to the plane.

He expected to see the disapproving eyes of Corrie as he walked down the aisle but there was no sign of her. He sat down and got out his phone.

‘Where are you?’ He texted as surreptitiously as he could.

‘Where am I? in the lounge of course? Where are you more like?’

Jeff couldn’t believe his eyes?

He quickly typed another message pressing send just as the cabin attendant  approached.

‘Sir, we are taxiing, you have to turn that phone off now!’

Corrie looked at her phone and then looked around her. There was no one. Just an empty gate.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. No way no fucking way!’

How on earth had she done that? She’d been sitting at the gate for 30 minutes. How the hell had she missed the plane from there? 

A Steve Rant: Church Bells

Steve sat down with a bump and dried off his hands on his trousers before trying and failing to stifle a yawn.

‘I’m so bloody tired,’ said Steve through the end of the yawn.

Johnny caught the yawn and through the end of it asked, ‘Not sleeping well?’

‘Oh I’m sleeping well enough just not long enough, that bloody church opposite me chimes its bells at some ungodly time every morning.’

‘Sounds like it is a very godly time to me.’ Johnny replied.

‘Ha ha, very funny, said Steve, ‘but it’s no laughing matter you know.’

Oh dear here we go thought Johnny to himself.

‘Every bloody morning, at 7am, not even a pretty tune, no variety of notes, just a monotonous chime, bong, bong, bong.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘What gives them the right to do that? If it was anything else, it would be noise pollution. Imagine if I played music that loud at that time of day, the police would be round in a jiffy.’

‘I suppose it’s the divine right of rings.’ Johnny sat back proud of his pun but history was not Steve’s forte and the humour went over his head.

‘Why do churchgoers need to be reminded? It is not like my rugby team ring a bell to remind me to go or your French evening class. It’s crazy.’

‘I suppose the benefit of living a stone’s throw away from a church is that you can throw stones at it when the bells start to toll.’ Again Johnny’s humour was lost on Steve.

‘It makes no sense, how many people go to church, yet the church is allowed to act in an anti-social way. I bet them who sit in the pews would be the first to call the police if there was drunking singing at 2 am.’

‘Talking of drunken singing, are you ready for another.’ Experience told Johnny the best way to shut his mate up was to go to buy another round.

‘Aye go on then’ said Steve and Johnny headed to the bar looking forward to a change of subject. 

The Visit (part 2)

This is part 2 of the Visit, for part 1 click here.

I tell you I wasn’t expecting that, I stepped out of the gates into the fresh air and saw him standing there leaning against the wall, wearing the same suit as before, his hands sunk in its pockets. I knew the missus wouldn’t be here to meet me but I certainly didn’t imagine seeing my victim.

As soon as he saw me he stepped out to incept my path. This guy really needs to move on with his life, I thought to myself. It had been 6 months since we’d met last time, over 9 since out first encounter, surely time enough to build a bridge and get over it.

He smiled and said hello. There was nothing I could do to avoid him so I nodded a reply.

‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asked.

‘You buying?’

‘Yeah why not?’

I had nothing better to do and a free coffee is a free coffee, I’d see if I could get a bacon sandwich out of it too.

We walked in silence for a few minutes, it soon became clear his idea of a coffee and mine were on different planets. I’d envisaged a nice greasy café but he was a Starbucks man, I wasn't going to get a bacon sandwich in there.

We drank our lattes and made awkward idle chatter. I was trying to read him, what did he want, was he really such a do-gooder that he would meet his attacker from prison? It made no sense to me. Maybe he was lonely and he needed friends but why choose a scoundrel like me. He certainly seemed to take an age over his coffee. I was desperate to get away but I felt as he was paying I should hang around till he had finished.

Finally he spooned the last dregs of froth into his mouth and made the move to go.

‘We should do this again.’ he said as he opened the door to let me out of the coffee shop.

It was then I discovered his motivation. I felt the blade puncture my skin, felt the stinging pain and the warmth  as my blood spread across my shirt. I dropped to my knees and watched him walk away.

Prison’s not so bad. I’m in one of these new places, so I’ve got a cell to myself, no prison’s not so bad it’s the bloody do-gooders that annoy me. I smiled as ‘my victim’ entered the room. He looked like he belonged here more than I did. I sat and appraised him waiting for the obvious question. 

The Warren

The effect of the third Jager was just kicking in, the room was just beginning to tilt a little from side to side and the faces of the people around me were losing their sharpness. My thoughts were hazy but that didn’t stop my mouth from trying to vocalise them; blurred thoughts producing slurred words. In my drunken mind I was some kind of raconteur perched on a bar stool holding court  and waxing lyrical to this ramshackle group of strangers.  In reality I was a pale shadow of a man, mumbling inaudibly to fellow shadows, too drunk to notice that they couldn’t understand.  

The room was a reddish orange blur of artificial lights and cigarette smoke, I looked around for Daniela but couldn’t see her, no bother I thought, I’m fine, she’s probably in the toilet or something. But when, 20 minutes later I still couldn’t see the only person who knew where my hotel was, I began to get a little worried. The little part of my brain that I keep sober for exactly this type of emergency  woke from its hibernation and started thinking.

‘Where’s Daniela.’ My clearer thoughts leading to clearer voice.

‘Daniela? she went off with Ted.’ said one of the drunks in front of me whose name I might have known briefly back in less boozy times.

It took a while for the news to sink in. I was in a bar that was in one of the many side streets in the warren known as Kadikoy.  My hotel was in another side street somewhere on the Asian side of Istanbul but god knows where. We’d walked, up and down and round and round on the way here, me following Daniela like a sheep. She was the only person who knew for sure where the hotel was and she was gone.

‘Does anyone no where Hotel Gila is?’ I asked hopefully, but the ensemble who had seemed so rapt by my words just moments ago had lost interest.

I was a little bit panicky now and very drunk, even that sober part of my brain was a little tipsy. The thought of not having a bed to sleep in was making my bed seem even more inviting. I had to fight off this growing panic attack and focus. Maybe if I saw the streets that small tipsy part of my brain would sober up and help me retrace my steps. I staggered off the stool and headed for the street outside.

I vaguely remembered we came down the hill to the pub so I trudged my weary body up the incline, and then turned left sure that we had come from that particular side street. The relatively fresher air was making my mind clearer now, I recognised a shop, a restaurant a car park, yes I was on the right track, a left and then a right and I definitely recognised this street. Down to the end and then … and then what? Left or right? I screwed my eyes tight shut trying to visual the journey there but it was no use, I’d reached the end of my memory.

I plumped for left, and staggered up another 20 metres or so. And there to my utter relief was a sign, 'Hotel Gila', my hotel. Somehow my homing device had worked and I had dragged my tired body towards its bed.  But something else looked familiar about this street. I peered up the road through my drunken eyes and sure enough there it was, 3 doors up the very bar I had tumbled out of 15 minutes earlier. 

The Visit (part 1)

Prison’s not so bad. I’m in one of these new places, so I’ve got a cell to myself, 3 meals a day, a TV and even a little ensuite toilet facility, to be honest I’ve stayed in worse budget hotels. Okay budget hotels don’t lock you in and insist on lights out at 10 but you have to take the rough with the smooth. I’m only here for a year, 6 months if I keep my nose clean, no prison’s not so bad it’s the bloody do-gooders that annoy me.

Two days ago I got called in to see the governor or the deputy governor who whoever she was, who told me that my victim had requested a meeting. I’d pulled a face that had made it pretty damn clear that I had no intention of meeting some bleeding heart liberal who wanted to understand me so he could better understand my crime. But the guvnor suggested that the parole board would look kindly on me agreeing to see this man.  So of course I agreed, I mean I know I said prison is okay, but if you get a chance to get out early then you take it.

So there I sat looking at this man in front of me wondering what he wanted. What did he think, that I am going to apologise, or that somehow we’ll become friends, does he think that somehow he’ll save me become my benefactor in some kind of modern day Henry Higgins?

I stared at him, silently appraising him, waiting for him to utter the first word.

He looked a little shocked, out of his comfort zone. He looked as out of place as I am sure he felt; his suit not being nice enough for a lawyer or expensive enough for a criminal. He took his time before asking the obvious question. I’d prepared my answer and laid it on thick, sure that was what he wanted to hear, a tale of desperation, deprivation and degradation, of no hope, no future. It was bullshit of course, I’d thumped him and stolen his phone and wallet because I could, because he was an easy target if I hadn’t done it someone else would have, I would never have got caught if it wasn’t for that damn cctv camera.

I wonder what he got out of his little visit. I wonder if he got his peace of mind or his closure or whatever he was looking for. Maybe he just wanted a story for his friends or the feeling that his experience was just a way to donate to charity, a redistribution of wealth. Whatever he got, I know that he’s helped me get out of here a few days early, that’s a few days when I can commit more crimes. 

This story was inspired by seeing this headline on the bbc webssite. 
'Getting my Mugger to Explain Why'
I must admit I didn't read the article until after I'd written the story. 
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-24022774

There is a part two to this story here