A Book In A Month - Chapter 11

Clara's night out had ended with the ever traditional kebab bought from a stall near the nightclub where she had danced the night away. The grease and chilli sauce oozed down her chin and and along her fingers. The others laughed as she removed the hot, meaty package from her mouth.

“You look like you've been hit in the gob” roared a very drunk Lauren. “You'd better clean up before the police get here and arrest us for trying to kill you”.

Clara looked at her slippery, red stained hands and then down her front, where the offending liquid was sliming it's way slowly south. “Oh my God. I look a mess. Quick grab a serviette for me. No. Make that a hand full.” She stood, gently swaying, her arms down, hands held away from her clothes in a litle girls stance. The Kebab dripped its contents onto the pavement as Keith grabbed at the pile of cheap tissues on the counter. Never one to miss an opportunity, Keith homed in on Clara's over exposed chest. “Here, let me take care of this little problem for you my dear.” He winked at her as he approached at speed. She winced and took a small, unsteady step backwards.

“No. No,” Kebab juice spattered madly as Clara swung up her hand to emphasise the point. Keith grabbed it, thinking she was about to stumble over. “Let go you oaf. I'm quite capable of wiping my own chest.” The others, laughed. “What? WHAT? What's so funny?”

“This is,” Jane said, still bubbling with laughter, and she held out her her mobile showing a picture of Clara in her indignity. “Here, have a butchers at that.”

“Oh my God! Get me home.” Clara looked devastated. It was not the liberal dressing of chilli sauce that upset her. It was her blotchy, drunken face and sagging body, and the sight of Keith hanging on for dear life. She really did look as if she was about to fall over. The large piece of green salad stuck to her left cheek simply added to the effect. She grabbed at it, sweeping it away, she could feel the tears welling as she did so.

*

John had also gone to bed in the small hours, about four AM he thought. Although, he had to admit he had lost track of time. He had managed to record about a dozen of Simons' journeys on his map. The map now looked as if a toddler had scribbled all over it. It was clear to John that the log of Simons' journeys for work and the locations of bird sightings tallied closely. He awoke a worried man. It was a feeling he couldn't shake off. What were the chances of picking up a book that had been owned by his father in law? Almost nil, that was the the strange thing. Almost nil. He had no relatives in the area, apart from Clara, of course, so where did the box come from? Simon had lived and died in India. He had not returned to England in over fifty years. The fact is that John had no relatives, apart from Clara. Having this family treasure fall into his lap implied that out there, somewhere, was a person who had a link to him. Where was the mystery person and who were they? What would they think if they knew that the box they had put up for auction had fallen into the hands of Simons' family by dint of mere chance? Was the previous owner of the box at the auction and, if they were, did they see John as he placed the winning bid?

John shuffled out of bed about midday and got himself sorted for a quick walk to the climbing shop and, perhaps a coffee. He wanted a new map and deep down, he wanted to see Clara and her friends again. He wondered if he might come across that old dragon and have an opportunity to annoy her. Now that would make his day. Perhaps it would take away the feeling of foreboding that was creeping throughout his body, slowing him down.

*

Clara awoke in a bed. Well, she thought it was a bed at first, until she tried to roll over and sit up. The mattress sank under the weight of her supporting elbow, and rose up under her hip. It was as if she was on water. After a struggle she plopped off the side of her bed and lifted the lower sheet to peep underneath. She hoped no one would see her doing this. Her head pounded as she dropped it down so that she would be better able to inspect this unstable object. It was an airbed. She held her head as the nausea, fizzing and rippling every tissue it touched, swam up from her ankles. She rushed out of the room and stood, transfixed, hand over mouth, heaving as the vomit reached it's nemesis. Where was she? Not at Keiths. No. Panic. Toilet. Now! Clara swung around violently, pressing her hand hard across her mouth; pushing the sick back in. Desperation in her bulging eyes. The sick gaining pressure. Forcing a path through her fingers. Clara lunged at the nearest door. The room was full of her friends. The sick fought it's way through her fingers and dashed down the front of her pyjamas. The room rose as one and dashed to her. Jane caught hold of Clara, swooped her around and swept her to the bathroom. The sick dripped from her fingers, elbows and bosom to the floor, leaving a trail of lumps to marked her path of shame.

*

John had his new map and a book on the Hindu Kush. It was a walking book, with sumptuous photographs of the area and suggestions of routes and stop overs. He had no intention of going there, but for eight pounds, in the sale basket, it had been a bargain. It was the seating in the out doors shop that did it. After the fairly long walk into town, it had been good to sit down and browse the shelves. The assistant had been very helpful. John had not needed to move from his seat at all. He had a pile of books on the low table in front of him and had looked through each one. He would still be there if they had served him some coffee, but they did not, so he was not. John had to decamp from his comfortable seat, surrounded by maps and books dodder to the the coffee shop. Once there he had managed to grab a window seat, and was awaiting his super mocha latte froth grande with its free biscuit. It was a long name for a cup of coffee. He hoped it was worth the five pounds it had cost him. That's a pound for every word in the name of the drink, he thought. “Bloody rip off,” he muttered under his breath, “They can have it back if it tastes like shit.”

“Oh, not you again,” came a remark from behind him.

Johns' blood ran cold. It's that old witch, he thought, but he said, “Hello, my dear, so nice to hear your dulcet tones,” in the sweetest one he could muster.

“Don't you my dear me. I am not your dear,” the woman was vitriolic in her response.

“Wo there, old stick. I think we may have got off on the wrong foot,” John began shuffling his seat in order to face his adversery.

“ stop it, you idiot. You've put your chair leg on my hand bag,” The old woman pushed against the seat in a vain attempt to stop it from moving. “Why sre you following me like this. You're a thorough nuisance.”

“Me? Follow you? Are you bloody mad woman? I'd no more follow you than wade through the settlement tanks at a sewage works.” John retorted, as he flicked his chair free of her feeble grip. His chair was facing her now. Somehow he had managed to get free of her bag in the process. He turned away from her scowling countenance and reached behind himself for his cup. The contents slopped over as he manoeuvred the cup to it's new location, splashing across her pale beige handbag and the carpet it rested on.

“Be careful. Oh look what you've done, it's every where,” she picked up her bag with one hand and a napkin with the other and began swabbing away the coffee marks. “What do you want any way?” She snapped at him as she shot him a fiery glance.

Suddenly John liked this feisty lady. She had made it clear she thought he was too lower class for her. Now she was to find out how wrong she was. “I don't want a thing from you my old love.” She made a rather too flamboyant gesture at being called this. “But, we might as well introduce ourselves, because we can't keep meeting like this. One of us is going to suffer a coronary at this rate.”

“Why on Earth do you think I would want to know the likes of you?”

“Because I'm an interesting person. And, there aren't that many handsome, virile old men left at our age.” He decided to be as flamboyant as she and winked overtly at her, clipping his elbow on to hers as he did so. “You could do worse.”

The woman gaped at him, got up, picked up her bag and her coffee and looked around for an empty table. There was none. John was thrilled, “Looks like it's you and me together my lovely.” She looked down at him sighed and sat back into her seat. “Now let's introduce ourselves,” Said John smugly, “I'm John and I live in Pleasure Heights Retirement Apartments. You know the ones, they're the new ones put up by Hellman Brick Co, or as we residents like to call them, Hellhole Co.” he gave her his most winning smile; it made his dentures clatter in his head.

Despite Johns attempts to chat amiably, she was making it hard for him to make the best of a bleak situation. He was trying to make her like him. Every fibre in her body gave out the signal that she detested him. He gave up his chatter and drank his coffee in silence. Her name was Dilys.