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| Lotus Eating | |
| By SammoR | ||||||||||||||||
| 11 June 2006 | ||||||||||||||||
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Had posted this on another website before I joined this one..... Keith has just got his pay rise, and bought his dream car. His attractive female co-worker seems to be eating out of his hand. Can anything possibly go wrong? Oh yes it can....... Driving over Vauxhall Bridge that morning, everything looked different. A drive I’d done for a year, normally a pain, was now a real blast. The Elise handled like a dream. Okay, so it wasn’t the Esprit that I fell in love with watching that Bond movie as a kid, but it would do. It was autumn, but the weather wasn’t bad. The roof was down and the wind was in my hair. At work, I waved to the commissionaire as I headed for the lift, the car keys still in my hand. “Lotus, Keith?” he said. “What next, a Roller?” I came out of the lift, keys still in my left hand, like I’d forgotten they were there. I walked across the open-plan office, greeting people I passed. Lots of them hardly knew me, but I could hear gasps from some who spotted the keys. Minutes later I was in Marketing. My team sit in a corner, along an L-shaped desk. I was the last to arrive, but the others were still at the tea-drinking, paper-reading, bollock-scratching stage. “Morning, guys. Another Monday morning, eh?” I chucked my car keys on the desk. They gathered round --Kirsty, twenty, with her long flaming hair; paunchy, middle-aged George, and Dexter, who’s about thirty and wears diamond stud earrings. Only Carl stayed at his desk. “You said you’d get a Lotus soon as they made you permanent,” said George. “Didn’t think you meant it though…” “What else could I do with my pay rise?” I asked. “I’m single, no kids, …” “You could’ve put down a deposit on a house,” Carl spoke up. We all turned and looked at him. He’s twenty-seven like me, but not so you’d know. He’s going bald in front, and his glasses are Robert Mugabe-meets-Elton John (yeah, I know, that would be some meeting). I’m sure his clothes are rejects from that church project for the homeless he helps out with. “Yeah, right,” I chuckled. “You’d have blown it on a tambourine and some second-hand sandals!” Everybody laughed, and Carl turned back to his computer. He mumbled something, it sounded like “A sports car’s all very well but you can’t eat it!” The stupid bugger wants to lighten up. Was he born middle-aged or what? The others love me because I stop him from taking things too seriously. I was on a high. Just before lunch, I saw Ella from Facilities yakking with Kirsty by the water-cooler. When I passed they both clammed up, and looked at me. Ella’s blonde, tall, with legs to die for, but I wasn’t interested. Kirsty had been in Marketing for two months and hadn’t shown any interest in me. If Ella was sniffing round, then Kirsty might just notice what a catch I’d be. That afternoon, I invited everyone in the office for drinks after work at the pub. It looked like it’d be a good turnout for a Monday evening. Even Carl was coming --we all had a good laugh about whether All Bar One did ginger beer. “…then he finds himself in the car park. There’s a sign saying, ‘Congratulations! You’ve been screwed by the Sisters of Mercy!’” I finished a joke, and everyone laughed. We’d been in the pub about two hours - me, my teammates, and some guys from IT and Human Resources. Carl hadn’t stayed long. Kirsty had seemed to be having a good time, but was looking a bit restless now. I got all my stuff together and finished my drink, so I’d be in poll position to offer her a lift when the time came. Kirsty rose. “Must be going, see you all tomorrow.” “Me, too,” I said. I got up as well, leaving some money behind the bar. We left the pub together. I could feel everyone’s eyes on us as we left, but I didn’t care. If I’d just been looking for another notch on my bedpost, I wouldn’t dream of going for Kirsty -- a dog doesn’t shit where it eats. But Kirsty -- she was different; she was worth going for in the long term. “Where’re you going?” I asked, as we passed through the glass doors. “Home…I’m knackered.” “Where’s home?” “Herne Hill.” “Stratford, me. Want a lift?” I asked. She nodded. We walked round the corner to where I’d parked the car. As I stepped towards it, Kirsty said, “Er--I don’t think we’re going anywhere just yet, Keith.” Then I saw the sodding clamp. I looked at the sign at the end of the road…no parking here after seven. “It’s only half past,” I muttered. “Bastards… I called the council clamping office on my mobile, but I got put on hold. Kirsty looked at her watch. “Good luck,” she said. “I’ll get the bus. Sorry I can’t wait.” I didn’t get the car back that night --so I got a minicab home. I was late at work next morning, after going to the clampers’ office to get the car back. Kirsty was great -- she came up to me and asked if I’d got it sorted. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll have to be more careful next time, I suppose.” It was a slack morning. The boss was in a meeting on the top floor, so we were all messing around. Even Carl was surfing some born-again website. “Another chick-flick,” Dexter sneered, reading the Metro film page. George looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, with that loser Hugh Grant in it again,” he added. “Bet lots of poor sods get dragged along to see it.” “They’re not ALL crap,” I got in quickly to score some brownie points with Kirsty. “Makes a change from action or horror, eh?” George and Dexter rolled their eyes and looked away -- they must have guessed what I was up to. Kirsty turned to me. “You, watch a romantic comedy? You’re having a laugh!” “I’m serious.” I tried to sound like I meant it. “I’m thinking of seeing this one Saturday afternoon.” “Yeah, right….who with?” “No-one. Hey, I’m single, and do you think I get blokes to go to a film like this?” “Which cinema?” “The Apollo, in the West End.” “We could go together,” Kirsty said. “You can pick me up on your way there…” Saturday afternoon saw me driving up to Kirsty’s flat. Minutes later, I was driving us on our way to the cinema. Kirsty turned to me with a smile. “How was Saturday footie?” I winced. I came across a typical lad at work, and I knew Kirsty was looking for Mr Sensitive. “I gave it a miss this morning,” I lied. “I went collecting from my neighbours, for the Oxfam shop.” (Liar liar, I thought, that’s what Mum does!) Her eyes widened. “What did the others say when you told them you couldn’t make the game?” “Oh, they took the piss,” I said. “But if you believe in something you’ve just got to do it, whatever anyone says.” I could tell she was well impressed. She was quiet for a few minutes, then she said, “I’ve still not sure where to go next summer. Tunisia’s got a great culture, but it’s getting really touristy. I’m thinking of Goa; what about you?” I thought for a bit, trying to remember those crap travel programmes I’d seen when I couldn’t be arsed to change channels. “Probably Kathmandu for me this time,” I turned to her with a straight face. “They say it’s really spiritual.” (Pants on fire, I thought. I know damn well it’ll be Magaluf or Ayia Napa!) She was hanging on every word. Bullshit baffles brains, like Granddad used to say. We got to the West End. I weaved in and out of traffic, then parked across the road from the cinema. We went in to watch the film. I don’t remember much about it, though. I struggled to stay awake and go “Awwwww!” at the right places. As we came out of the cinema, Kirsty was talking about the film, as women do. “The bit when she fell down in the lift,” she giggled. “And then when he picked her up--what a scream!” “Yeah…brilliant,” I hesitated. I’d almost definitely slept through that scene, so I had to move things on. “Let’s grab a bite. I know a great Chinese near here.” “Okay,” Kirsty replied. We walked to the car. Whoever said, “lightning never strikes twice” was full of crap. Next to the Elise, there was a Council clamping van with one officer in it and another by my nearside front wheel putting the clamp on. I’d parked in a bloody disabled space. “Come on guys, give me a break,” I pleaded. “The clamp’s not on yet, and I’m just about to move.” “No can do….we’ve started, you see,” said the guy fixing the clamp, looking up. “The rules say once we’ve started, the clamp doesn’t come off till you’ve paid up at the office.” He was only a little fellow, in his mid–forties, with extra badges on his shoulders--must’ve been the guy in charge. “Sodding jobsworth!” I bent down, sticking my face in his. “Don’t you cut anyone any slack?” “Sometimes…but not a rich git like you.” I reached for his lapel. Then the guy in the van came down -- he was a big bloke. Kirsty took my arm. “Don’t, Keith. Come on, you’ll get it sorted, like the last time.” “That’s right, that’s right, do what she says,” the guy in charge mocked. “If I get you on your own, you’re dead,” I said as I turned to leave. We walked away, Kirsty clasping my hand firmly. “That Chinese isn’t far …” I mumbled. “N-no -- I-I’ll get the bus back.” We walked in silence to the bus stop. As we got there, a car pulled up, and someone said, “Hi--need a lift?” It was Giulio, from IT at the office. He was driving one of the poncy new Beetles – in lime-green, no less. “Yeah, I’m going to Herne Hill,” Kirsty gushed. “Step right in,” Giulio said. As Kirsty got in, he asked “You coming too, Keith?” “If you can get me to Stratford…” “Sorry, not going that way.” I watched them as they vanished into the traffic. I had to get a cab home--again. Monday morning at work, I said hi to Kirsty as usual. She smiled back, but I sensed that we’d never be an item. She’d seen a side of me she hadn’t known was there--a side of me even I hadn’t known about. Things got worse over the next few weeks. I got two parking tickets and was clamped again. It always happened in the West End or near work. I was getting well pissed off. It seemed clear to me--the jobsworth guy must’ve got me blacklisted. All because I’d stood up to him. Looking back I suppose it could’ve been because I never really went anywhere with my old Escort, except work, whilst now I took the Elise everywhere. One morning, I was pulling into the office car park when I saw Giulio parking not far away. Kirsty was in his car, wearing the same clothes she’d worn the day before. She leaned across and gave him a long, lingering kiss. I felt sick. Losing her I could take -- but losing her to a wuss driving a girlie car, that was a smack in the mouth. I told myself she’d soon tire of him, and then I’d pick her up on the rebound. But I wasn’t holding my breath… All this wasn’t doing my temper any good. Next day at work, I was bollocking an advertiser over the phone. Carl tried to calm me down -- saying something about turning the other cheek. I snapped “Yeah, the meek shall inherit the earth -- by getting their bloody faces rubbed in it!” On my way home from work that evening, a clamper van pulled up next to me at a set of lights along Farringdon Road. The jobsworth guy was in the passenger seat. He gave me a Benny Hill salute and a dopey grin. I turned away and looked straight ahead, fighting the urge to give him the finger. All the anger and hurt came flooding back. I thought of Guilio driving off with Kirsty, then of the two of them kissing. A voice went through my head, “If I get you on your own, you’re dead.” I hung back in traffic, and followed the van to the clampers’ office, parking a safe distance away. I guessed that their shift was almost over. I waited and waited, and then the guys came out, including the jobsworth. Most of the others had changed but he still wore his uniform -- the loser. He drove off in an F-reg Astra. Typical, I thought - people who drive pieces of crap take it out on guys with proper cars. I made sure there were some cars between us, then pulled out and followed him. He parked in a lock-up garage in a grotty part of Hackney, walked to an end-of-terrace house nearby, and let himself in. Having watched him from the kerb not far off, I parked around the corner. I made sure I was parked properly this time, then got out and looked around. There was an alley near the lock-up, which I could use to get away. It led to a quiet side street. I walked around for twenty minutes, planning a good escape route away from main roads. Hardly anyone was around, just some dossers chilling outside a Salvation Army hostel. I could hear Turkish dance music from a block of flats some way off. That Saturday, I bought a reversible windcheater -- green outside, blue inside. Then I bought some old clothes and a balaclava from different charity shops. Twice the week after, I went to the area near the lock-up, in the evening. I watched from a hiding place, and got an idea of when the jobsworth would arrive. He was very regular, like most sad gits are who don’t have a life. As winter got closer, the evenings were getting darker. Almost always there’d be nobody around when he came. I thought making the plans would be enough -- that it would be some kind of therapy, that I’d never follow them through. Then one morning two months later yet another parking ticket came to me in the post. And there was worse on the way. I got to the office late that morning. Lots of people-- mostly women -- were standing round Kirsty. It was all “That’s soooo sweet”, and “I’m green with envy.” “What’ve I missed?” I asked. “Giulio and me are taking a year out,” Kirsty said. “We’re off travelling next week. We’ll start with a month in Peru, and then see where the wind takes us….” “Th-that’s great,” I replied, my voice trembling. I pictured the jobsworth making silly faces at me from the van, and I heard my voice saying “If I get you on your own, you’re dead.” I left work early, went home, and wore the old clothes. I put the windcheater on, green side out, and put the balaclava away. Then I took a bus to Hackney--so the Elise wouldn’t be caught on CCTV. It was dark already, and the street lighting in the area was piss-poor. I got off the bus and walked to the area of the lock-up. The bugger would be there in about half an hour. I hid in the alley, waiting. About twenty minutes later, I heard footsteps. I looked round the corner and saw someone coming, in a coat, still wearing the blue cap with a red band. He was getting closer. I put on the balaclava, reached out, grabbed him, and pulled him into the alley. Before he could say a word I swung at his head. He raised his hands to protect his face. I punched him in the stomach, over and over. He was going “Stop, please, stop!” Like a baby. That gave me a real buzz. My turn to be in control, his turn to take it. He bent double, and fell over. “This is what you deserve-- you bastard -- I wish I could do the whole sodding lot of you…” I gasped and stood back. He took his hands away from his eyes to feel his stomach. In the half-light I saw his face. “Shit!” I shouted. I turned and ran, whipping the balaclava off. I found myself in a main road. Must’ve taken a wrong turning. Worse, I’d forgotten to change the bloody jacket round. I kept on running. I just couldn’t stop. There were lots of passers-by. And they were turning and looking at me. After what seemed like ages I got to the bus stop. Just over a week later, the police came to my flat and nicked me. I’d expected it really. “Keith Saunders, you have been found guilty of assault. You attacked a Salvation Army officer, shouting abuse at him indicating that you hated him and his whole denomination. Your pathetic defence was that you had suffered at the hands of traffic wardens and clampers, wanted revenge on them, that you snapped, and that you mistook your victim for such a person.” There’s more. You think you’re the life and soul of the bloody office, think everyone likes you, eh? Wait for it... “However, the prosecution presented evidence of your hostility towards Christians. Your former colleagues gave evidence that you persistently bullied a Christian workmate, and told so-called jokes ridiculing that faith. It cannot have been easy for them to testify against you. I commend Mr George Barnes, Mr Carl Fleming and Mr Dexter Wilkins who gave evidence--reluctantly, I sensed, but out of a sense of duty. The guilty verdict was unanimous. You will go to prison for eight months.” Then the bastard hits me where it really hurt. “While your victim was not seriously hurt, the assault has caused him to suffer from agoraphobia. He cannot now return to the mission that defined his life. You will pay him five thousand pounds compensation. If you do not pay this in full within twenty-eight days, your goods will be sold to pay it off. Take him down.” The drive over Vauxhall Bridge looks even more different from inside a van going to Brixton Prison. All I can think of is that my Elise is going to be sold…
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