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Great Writing - Home > Extended > Barry Castor: Driving Instructor (Parts 3 & 4)
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Extended Work
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| Barry Castor: Driving Instructor (Parts 3 & 4) | |
| 23 April 2006 | ||||||
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Here we go then a little bit more. Someone once told me I have a style similar to Douglas Adams. If I ever write something that's a fraction as good as anything by Douglas Adams I'll be very pleased indeed. I'll stress again that this is first draft work, but it's going to be a while before I start making revsions and I'm keen to let people read some of the story. Barry was cold. He was also seriously doubting his own sanity, which was a first considering the number of people who had done it for him over the years. But it was the cold that was bothering him more, especially as he was wearing a coat rather thicker than he would normally have expected to wear at this time of year. Further feelings of inadequacy resulted from the fact that most of the people standing around him weren’t even wearing a coat, never mind a thick one. And as if to add insult to injury, none of them were taking any notice of him. Not even the courtesy of an ‘Alright, Grandad.’ It just didn’t feel right if people had no objection to him being there. Nightclubs, it may be easy to predict, were not venues frequented by Barry Castor. For a start, the coffee they serve is not proper coffee, in the sense that it is not coffee Barry would drink. And he had heard enough music on his failing car stereo to know that the thumping sound filling his head right now was not going to be to his aural tastes. A bouncer, whose bald head reflected the light from the pink neon sign above him in a way not yet discovered by modern physics, had his eyes trained on Barry, thus speeding up Barry’s decision to spend £8 on being let into somewhere he wasn’t going to enjoy. “Thank you,” he said to the lapels of a black leather jacket when he reached the front of the short queue he had been forced to join. The bouncer now appeared only slightly offended by Barry’s mere presence and turned his attention to someone further down the queue, whose crime against humanity (or what passes for it in the town centre on a Friday night) was to be wearing brown shoes. It took Barry’s senses a few moments to adjust to what can only be described as the haze inside the ‘Heaven & Hell’ nightclub. A woman smoking a cigarette longer than her hair, and who appeared to be standing behind a counter more for public safety than anything else, offered to take Barry’s coat off him. He thought about making a joke, perhaps declining because he didn’t want his flak jacket to be visible, then thought better of it and said, “No,” instead. Which, in retrospect, probably came across as curt and abrupt. A couple of guys in their early twenties, full of youthful energy and enthusiasm (and cocaine as well, in all likelihood) pushed past Barry as he made his way down a poorly lit flight of stairs to what was fancifully described as ‘The Gates of St. Peter’. “Heaven or Hell, sir?” asked a young woman whose skirt almost reached the top of her legs. This second foyer area had the benefit of a whole three lightbulbs, making it easier to see clearly but without you becoming suspicious about anything. “What would you recommend?” asked Barry, causing somebody waiting behind him to sigh loudly. The woman, who Barry assumed to be in fancy dress of some description, scowled at him. “It’s an entirely personal choice,” she said, disguising her annoyance well. She pointed to Barry’s right, at a staircase that was bathed in a mixture of tranquil blue and white light. “Heaven…” and then pointing to Barry’s left, at a staircase winding down to the storey below, almost perfectly black but for the dull, wall mounted red spotlights, “…or Hell. Take your pick.” It was at this moment Barry noticed how he happened to be standing in a puddle of something, and this aided his decision making process immeasurably. “Heaven,” he blurted out, not sounding like he either meant it or expected it. He couldn’t help but notice through a glazed panel the large dance floor she hadn’t given him as an option and hoped that it wasn’t the place he needed to be. He trudged up the ‘Stairway to Heaven’, still with his thick coat zipped right up to his chin and still wondering if he wouldn’t have been better staying at home watching ‘Location, Location, Location’. He emerged into a corridor, which led down into the bar area, and then through various doors until finally reaching the dance floor. When these numerous passageways weren’t littered by people either with roll-ups or other people’s tongues in their mouth, Barry found himself stumbling over inconveniently placed ramps and pointless individual steps. But he made it eventually, only to find that smart-arse design features were the least of his problems. The room into which this (admittedly linear) maze led was struggling under the weight of people. Given that a large proportion of the people there couldn’t have weighed more than about seven stone, you get some kind of idea as to the numbers involved. If you’d asked him, and if he’d been honest about it, Barry would have told you that he’d never seen so much of other people’s bodies on display (apart, maybe, from the time he was sent porn as a joke). All of the bodies in the room were moving slowly but rhythmically to the most mesmerising music Barry had ever heard. It crossed his mind that he might have walked into some kind of brainwashing ceremony, but most of the cults had left town long ago when they realised that most of the residents didn’t really give them a lot to work with. The walls were still bright white; or, to be more precise, magnolia. Much of the blue light had been dispensed with, creating what Barry could only imagine was supposed to feel like enlightenment (in the post-modern, drug fuelled sense of the word). Somebody might have said, “Feel the music, man!” but he wasn’t really listening. His tired, failing eyes were scanning the room, but the chances of him finding who he wanted to find were slim, simply due to everyone being dressed almost identically. He could only assume these sort of clothes were comfortable for dancing (or ‘dancing’, as Barry preferred), in much the same way that Victorian children never went to the workhouse in a dinner suit. Realising that he might be starting to look odd, and wanting to get this ordeal over with, Barry moved away from the edge of the room toward the centre of the dance floor. People he assumed to be working there, dressed as they were in annoying tinsel halos and all-white clothing, stared at him. To try and make them feel more ay ease, Barry smiled politely, but this only seemed to make matters worse (especially when the member of staff in question was male). Undeterred, Barry continued to plod around the dance floor; everyone else might have been a slave to the music, but Barry was a slave to his own lack of rhythm. How much time passed it was impossible to tell. The same song was still playing, but that didn’t seem to be any gauge of relativity. Eventually though, Barry found who he was looking for. “Laura,” he said, raising his voice nowhere near an adequate amount to be heard over the chant. She continued dancing with a group of people Barry guessed were her friends. Oh, if only he were twenty-five years old again… they probably would still take no notice of him. He decided to stop wasting time and resorted to basic physical contact: he tapped her on the shoulder. The look on Laura’s face as she whipped round was one Barry had never seen before. It was as if she had been woken from a deep, peaceful sleep by having a bucket of ice thrown over her. The shock changed quickly to anger, then surprise, relief and finally to disappointment; an impressive range of emotions to display in less than five seconds. She leant towards him to ensure there was no chance he wouldn’t hear her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Barry?” “I had something to say. I wanted a chat.” “And you thought this would be a good place to do it? It couldn’t wait until my next lesson?” Barry looked around and came to his senses. “You make a good point,” he said sheepishly. “I take it there’s no chance of talking now, then?” “Only if you can summarise what you wanted to say in one short sentence.” Barry smiled. “I’ve had an idea.” If time could be measured in caterpillars then Barry Castor was a few Cabbage Whites short of a Red Admiral. The major difference, of course, was that should Barry beat his metaphorical wing, he was unlikely to cause a hurricane in Chile. It was with pessimistic thoughts such as these filling his mind that he spoke to a bored-looking kid in a burgundy T-shirt. “Coffee, please,” he said. “Err, this is a coffee house. What sort do you want?” “Oh right, sorry. Black coffee. Two sugars.” The coffee shop wasn’t especially busy, in the sense that Barry was one of only half a dozen customers. The bright light streaming through only helped to make the room seem even emptier and forced Barry to squint as he looked outside at his car. Ordinarily, the bodywork would shine brightly and reflect the sunlight in such a way as to be the green car paint equivalent of a diamond. Sadly, dirt does not have the same properties, so Barry just had to imagine. He could, however, see Laura in the driver’s seat, and she wasn’t smiling. Barry hadn’t yet worked out if she was upset about having her lesson interrupted so he could purchase a dose of caffeine, or still angry about the other night. He figured the easiest thing to do was ignore it, so he turned his attention back to the coffee. There was a notable lack of noise from any of the overly elaborate machines decorating the back wall, and Barry was rather disappointed to see the disinterested worker filling the cardboard container with coffee straight out of a plain jug. “Don’t I get it out of one of them?” he asked, pointing at a contraption that could have been mistaken for a fridge. “No. That’s three seventy five.” Barry cast a few loose coins onto the counter, grumbled about something and turned to leave. Unfortunately, he got the ‘push’ and ‘pull’ of the door the wrong way round and nearly broke his nose. “Sorry about that,” he said when he got back into the car. “All my coffee at home is out of date. I shouldn’t buy six months worth of coffee in one go.” Laura sighed. “For pity’s sake, Barry. Would you get a grip?” She started the engine, pulled away and got as far as round the next corner, where she pulled up again. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t carry on with all this. You’re driving me up the wall.” Barry wanted to make a joke about it being her driving him around, but it didn’t really seem appropriate. “And then to turn up in a nightclub and pester me like that…” “I think I can see where you’re going with this.” “It’s the end, Barry. It’s been tremendous fun, kind of, but I need to be taught by someone who doesn’t have a popular hot drink running through their veins.” Laura sounded genuinely apologetic. Barry went to take a drink from his cup (which seemed to be in the primary stages of falling apart), but thought better of it and just let the fumes enter his nasal passages instead. “I don’t quite know what to say. Obviously, it’s been a pleasure.” Laura handed him the money for what had turned out to be her last lesson. They shook hands and she exited the car. “Bye then,” said Barry, and then wondered what to do next. Laura couldn’t think of anything better to do than go to the coffee shop. “Tea, please,” she said at the counter. The kid rolled his eyes and shuffled his way over to wherever they kept the tea. She looked around for a sofa that didn’t look too stained, but it was difficult to make out any blemishes on so much red cloth. Handing over a twenty just to be difficult, she picked a seat. Tucking her handbag down to the side of her and resting her head back, Laura sighed. In doing so, she became vaguely aware of a shadow very near to her. Attempting to be discreet, she tried to open her eyes just enough to be able to see, but failed and found herself staring at a man wearing a long coat. She considered closing her eyes again and pretending it hadn’t happened, but when he said, “Hello,” Laura realised the chances of her getting away with it were slim. “Err, hello.” “You are Laura.” Laura frowned. He didn’t seem to be asking a question. “Yes… I am.” “Excellent.” The man’s face, which had an air of familiarity and up until this point had showed little emotion, continued to do so, apart from what might have been the faintest glimmer of a smile. “You are about to consider an offer I am going to make.” For someone who talked in such a peculiar manner, he looked really quite normal and was dressed far more smartly than it might be reasonable to expect, for the coat seemed to be concealing a suit. “Okay,” Laura said, thinking it might be easier to let him get on with whatever he was there for. “I am a driving instructor. You are learning to drive, but currently have no one to teach you. I am offering to teach you, and am willing to do so for a discounted rate.” He paused, as if he was trying to see into Laura’s soul. “You are finding this offer tempting.” “How did you…? Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but this all seems to be happening quite suddenly.” She disliked the way you could talk about meeting new driving instructors in the same way as new boyfriends. “I only just split up from my ex… sorry, previous instructor.” The man, who had remained standing and appeared to behave in much the same way physically as he did verbally, allowed himself a chuckle. “The world of driving instruction is a small one. The only thing we care about is passing on the skills we have to other people so that they may make safe drivers, and when we see someone in need we do not hesitate to offer a helping hand.” “That’s very noble,” said Laura. “If you don’t mind my asking, what sort of discount are we talking about here? Naturally, I’d be keen to make new arrangements as soon as possible, Mr…?” “My name is Dennis Weedon, from Weedon Wheels School of Motoring. And in terms of the discount I mentioned, 60% is not impossible.”
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