Daft Wee Stories Page 8

  That’s my dream. But of course, that won’t happen unless I give you my idea. So, as much as I’ve still got my reservations about giving it away, here it is.

  Here is my idea.

  Imagine the day came that we here on planet Earth were to look through our telescopes and see, to our horror, that we were about to be invaded by a giant cat.

  Don’t send up missiles or fighter pilots in spaceships.

  Use orange peels.

  Know where all the satellites are? Just cover all that bit in orange peels.

  Cats hate orange peels.

  THE BILL

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the call-centre guy on the other end of the phone. ‘My name’s Mark, how can I help you today?’

  ‘Finally,’ said Sean. It takes a fucking eternity to get through to somebody these days. It’s the menus. Those fucking menus. Press one for this, press two for that. Sounds simple enough. All he wanted was to tell somebody that he was looking to pay his bill but he didn’t have his account number handy. He pressed one to pay a bill, but what was the first thing it asked for? His account number. He just sat there doing nothing, waiting for the computer at the other end to realise the number wasn’t coming, in the hope that it would pass him on to a human. But no, the computer just sat there at the other end, got itself comfy and waited it out. Eventually Sean just started pressing numbers on the phone, any old numbers just to move things on. The computer apologised and said that it didn’t recognise that account number, and asked him to try again. No other option, no option to press another button to take him out of this, he had to rattle in another made-up account number, then again, until it finally washed its hands of him and put him through a living, breathing person.

  ‘Finally,’ said Sean again.

  ‘Sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,’ said Mark. ‘How can I help you today?’

  ‘Hello, just phoning to pay my bill.’

  ‘OK, can I have your account number please?’

  ‘Well,’ said Sean, ‘that’s the problem. I don’t have it. Telling you, mate, see trying to get through those menus without your account number? Is this being recorded? Will they take a note of my feedback and get rid of those menus?’

  ‘This isn’t being recorded,’ said Mark, ‘but I understand, and I’ll pass your feedback on. Do you know where to find your account number? It’ll be on your latest bill, on the top right of the first page. Do you have that around?’

  ‘Well, that’s the other problem. Her. That’s the main problem. I don’t know where she’s put it.’

  Mark gave a polite laugh. ‘I see. Well, if you ask her and then call back, we’ll be able to get that bill paid for you, OK?’

  ‘No, I don’t want to go through those menus again, just gimme a minute and I’ll have a look,’ said Sean. ‘Women, eh?’

  Mark let out another polite laugh.

  ‘Know what I mean?’ laughed Sean.

  Mark said nothing, and after a moment’s silence, he could hear Sean open and close drawers and rustle about. A minute later, Sean returned. ‘Nope,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t find a bill?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Nope. Not one. No idea where she puts them, mate, no idea at all.’

  ‘And she isn’t in the house, I take it?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Sean. ‘So I’ve got no idea. No idea where they are. I know where I put them, I remember where I put them, but then she goes and moves them to some other drawer, know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, sounds familiar,’ said Mark, and they had a chuckle. ‘Hold on a moment, I might not need your account number, I’ll just ask my supervisor.’

  ‘Brain damage, aren’t they?’ asked Sean.

  Mark said nothing.

  ‘Brain damage, aren’t they, mate?’ asked Sean again, before realising Mark was probably away from the desk to talk to his supervisor. A minute later, Mark came back.

  ‘Hi there, sorry about that,’ said Mark.

  ‘Brain damage, aren’t they?’ asked Sean, but Mark didn’t catch it.

  ‘What we can do is, do you have the phone you usually use to pay the bill? Your number’s currently coming up as withheld.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Sean. ‘My wife usually phones from her mobile, and I don’t have her mobile, she does, so …’

  Mark let out a wee tut.

  ‘I know, mate,’ said Sean. ‘I know. Brain damage.’

  ‘No, sorry, I didn’t mean that,’ laughed Mark. ‘I was tutting at the situation, not your wife. I do apologise.’ Mark laughed again. ‘Thank God this isn’t recorded. No, I do apologise.’

  ‘It’s cool, mate,’ said Sean, laughing along. ‘Seriously. It’s her that caused the situation, know what I mean? I bet yours has caused a situation or two, eh? No offence, but you said it sounded familiar, did you not?’

  ‘Yeah, a few situations. But I’ve caused a fair share myself.’ Mark straightened up and got back to business. ‘OK, let me think. How urgent is it that you pay the bill? Is it overdue?’

  ‘What kind of situations?’ asked Sean.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your wife,’ said Sean. ‘What kind of situations has she caused? Sorry to pry, but I could do with a laugh. I need it after today!’

  ‘Oh, um, you know,’ said Mark, half laughing. ‘Just things like what you said, the same as yourself, moving things around, moving my keys, that kind of thing.’

  ‘The keys! I know, mate, what’s the script with that? It’s like they get a buzz out of fucking with your head, isn’t it?’ asked Sean. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘You could be right,’ laughed Mark, before clearing his throat. ‘OK, well, if your bill isn’t that urgent, what you could do is—’

  ‘Listen, mate,’ said Sean. ‘Listen.’

  It was time to cut to the chase.

  ‘You listening?’ asked Sean.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mark.

  ‘They’re brain damage.’

  ‘Yeah. But, if your bill isn’t that urgent, you can wait until she—’

  ‘Mate. It’s cool,’ said Sean quietly. ‘I get it. I know what you’re going through.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Mark.

  ‘Me and you. Me and you … are the same.’

  There was a long silence from Mark’s end. Sean continued, bringing his voice down to a whisper.

  ‘They’d never make the connection. The police, I mean. They wouldn’t have any records, my number’s withheld. And this isn’t being recorded, remember?’

  Silence.

  ‘There’s nothing to connect yours to mine or mine to yours. They’d never think somebody would travel hundreds of miles just to do that. You’re down south I take it, aye?’

  Silence.

  ‘Just think of the insurance. Has yours got insurance?’ asked Sean. ‘Life insurance? Get insurance. I know it’s not about the money, but for all the shite we’ve had to go through we’re entitled to some compensation, d’you not think?’

  Silence.

  ‘By the way, I’m not just some nutter.’

  The line went dead.

  Sean exhaled a big, long, fed-up breath, and looked down to his Yellow Pages. He drew a line through the company name and number and moved down to the next. He was almost at the bottom. It was taking fucking ages, this.

  It’s the menus, you see.

  Those fucking menus.

  THE JACKET

  She stopped at the shop window for the third time that week. And how could she not? That jacket. Dark grey cashmere with a sumptuous silk lining, sparkling with an all-over sequin embellishment. It was divine. Oh, she hadn’t worn anything like that in years, nor parted with that kind of money. £1,950, said the price. She shook her head. She could afford it, but then she wouldn’t be able to afford much else. She had her priorities straight. Ha! Changed days.

  She caught her reflection in the window. Yes, a lot had changed, both inside and out. There once was a day when all these things mattered, things like this jacket in the wind
ow, things like what she was pictured wearing, who she was pictured with and where. There once was a day when she cared more about those things than her own flesh and blood. When she gave up her son. Her baby.

  But now her time in the spotlight was over, while her friends bathed in the love of their children and grandchildren. And here she stood alone at a shop window. On the outside looking in. She looked at her reflection once more and wondered if she had left it too late. Where was he now? Her boy. Did he have the same name, the one that she gave him? Did he have children of his own? Did they ask after their grandmother? Did he miss her?

  She found out.

  It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t as simple as typing his name into a computer and up came his address. Things were different back then. Back then, if you gave up your child, you gave them up, that was it. They were gone. It was what made them so easy to let go, and so hard to get back. So it cost her. Private investigators, the type of people she thought you’d only find in films. She hired one, who failed, then another, who also failed, until the third one managed to track him down.

  Australia.

  She wrote a letter, the old-fashioned way. He wrote back, and then they decided to meet. She bought a ticket, got on a plane, and off she went.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said when he opened the door. ‘It’s Mum.’ She spread her arms and welcomed his embrace. It must have been an unremarkable sight to any passers-by, a mum visiting her son, but it was the dream of saying those words that had kept her going when she felt like giving up.

  She sat at his dining-room table as he handed her a cup of tea and a biscuit with a smile. They had some small talk. They chatted about the weather, the weather Down Under, the weather back home. They chatted about her journey over and the films she watched during the flight. And he apologised for not being able to pick her up from the airport, due to work stuff getting in the way.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  Apologising for his career coming before his own flesh and blood.

  ‘No,’ she said, reaching across the table to hold his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He laughed warm-heartedly and squeezed her hand back. He knew what she meant, but he told her it was fine. He knew that things were different in those days, there were fewer choices, there were expectations that women were required to meet. He understood, and it was fine, honestly.

  But she apologised again. She apologised for depriving him of a mother, a mother to love and to receive love from. She regretted causing the pain he must have felt, the longing, but she hoped that today could be the start of making up for everything that was lost between them.

  He wiped a tear from his eye. He assured her that he was never deprived of a mother’s love. He had been blessed with a wonderful adoptive mum and dad who loved him as their own. He’d been very lucky.

  She put her other hand over his, and gave it another squeeze, to tell him that she was here now. Mum’s here.

  He smiled, and said that everything had worked out in the end. In a way, it was better. Now he had two mums.

  She pulled her hands away slowly.

  He watched her hands leave, and asked if everything was all right. Did he say the wrong thing? She said she was just going to pick up her biscuit, that’s all. He laughed.

  She didn’t.

  Then he picked up his iPad and pulled his seat next to hers. ‘So,’ he said. ‘How d’you fancy seeing your grandkids?’

  She took a bite of her biscuit and nodded with a shrug.

  He swiped through pictures of her grandchildren, pictures of them when they were babies, then when they grew into toddlers, then into teenagers.

  She thought about how much it had cost for the plane tickets.

  And the cost of the private investigators, including the ones that failed. And then there was the cost of the taxi from the airport because her son refused to pick her up.

  Add them together and you’re easily talking about £2,000.

  About the same price as that jacket.

  I HAVE SOME PICTURES

  Hiya.

  How are you enjoying the book so far? Thanks for getting it, I really appreciate it. In return, I’d like to do something for you. A favour.

  You see, I have some pictures. Some rather compromising pictures that have come into my possession. Pictures of an adult, taken secretly and without consent, with the sole intention of causing the person embarrassment.

  Pictures of you.

  Now, I won’t say what’s in these pictures, I don’t want to cause you any further discomfort, but I think you know what. Without spelling it out, it’s that thing you sometimes do. OK, I’ll leave it there, I think you know what I mean. I just want to move on to what comes next and how we can tackle this.

  As I said, the pictures have come into my possession; I was not the person who took them. But I know the person who did. He is a disturbed and very damaged individual, but he’s a professional. In short, this is what he does to pay the rent. All he wants out of this is cash. A lot.

  Fortunately for you, me and this guy go back. We’re by no means friends, but we do go back, and this person owes me. So I managed to cut you a deal.

  He’s asking for £100.

  It’s a fraction of what you would have to pay if I wasn’t here, but I understand if it’s still a bit steep. Which is why I’m going to pay most of it myself, to thank you for getting my book.

  So all I need from you now is a tenner.

  A tenner and this guy is gone.

  Just hand it to me if you see me out and about, you’ll recognise me from the picture on the cover sleeve. No need to stop and chat.

  Anyway, enjoy the rest of the book, and I hope to see you soon.

  All the best,

  Limmy

  WHY I DON’T COME HERE

  Romy fancied some lunch, she was starving. She stood on the pavement, looking at the cafe across the road, before looking up the hill to her left. She wasn’t sure where to go. The place she usually went to was a fifteen-minute walk up the hill, but she really couldn’t be fucked with that, she wanted something now. But the cafe across the road, she didn’t fancy that either. It was an all-right-looking place, but there was something about it she didn’t like. It’s not like she’d had a bad experience in there, she was pretty sure she’d never been in, but maybe that was it: it was unfamiliar. She stood for almost a minute, looking between the cafe and the hill, the hill and the cafe. Eventually she sighed and crossed the road to the cafe. She didn’t want to, but she really was starving.

  When she got in, she realised the place wasn’t that unfamiliar at all. It was quite familiar, in fact. It had a homely feel to it, with its worn-down wooden tables and wine-bottle candlestick holders. She liked that look, but she didn’t like it here for some reason, she just did not like this place. Had she been here before? Or did the decor remind her of somewhere else that she didn’t like? She wasn’t sure.

  ‘Hi, what can I get you?’ asked the guy behind the counter. Even he looked familiar, with his floppy hair and studenty way to him, but she couldn’t say for certain if she’d seen him before or if, like the cafe itself, he just had a familiar look. A floppy-haired student. Ten a penny.

  She turned around to look at the blackboard to see what was on offer, and noticed that she somehow knew instinctively where on the wall the blackboard was. Maybe she saw it on the way in. ‘Can I have a cheese and ham toastie please?’ she asked. ‘And a tea?’

  ‘No bother,’ he said. ‘Just take a seat and I’ll bring it over.’ So she sat down.

  Her eyes wandered around the cafe, to the furniture, to the walls, to the counter, to the general shape of the place. And there was that funny feeling again. She had a feeling that she didn’t want a cheese toastie after all. She had an urge to tell the guy to just leave it, that she’d changed her mind because she had to go and catch the train or something.

  But why?

  She tried to remember. What was it about this place? Did something happen? She couldn
’t remember the food being crap, or being shocked at the price, or the guy behind the counter being rude or moody. She wondered again if maybe she’d had a bad experience in another place that looked similar to here, but no, it was here. Whatever it was, it happened here.

  Maybe, she thought, maybe the problem wasn’t with the cafe, but with her. Did she do something the last time she was in that made her feel that she could never come back again? Did she come in here drunk one night and make an arse of herself? She started to feel ashamed, until she realised places like this shut about 6 p.m. No, she’d never been in here drunk, she’d never made an arse of herself in here at all. But she had been in here, she was sure of it, and something was telling her to leave.

  She forced herself to forget it, to not even try to remember, her memory was shite. She looked around at the pictures on the wall to help her let it go. There were photos, paintings and drawings of Glasgow, just the usual stuff she’d seen in dozens of cafes about here, nothing out of the ordinary. Except …

  One of them caught her eye.

  It was an old black-and-white photo, of this very cafe, taken from across the road. She didn’t know how old it was, but it was old enough for there to be a cobbled street outside. Every man on the street was wearing a hat. Every woman had a long, flowing skirt that came down to their feet. It was that old. Could it be …?

  She heard the guy behind the counter approach her, but she didn’t turn to look. She couldn’t take her eyes off the photo. She thought she knew why. But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? She didn’t believe in any of that.

  She remembered seeing a hypnotist do it one night. A hypnotist came to her local and did a show, the standard routine of making people bark like dogs or making them believe their seats were on fire. But at the end of the night, he said he’d like to show another side of hypnosis: the ability for hypnosis to help delve deep into forgotten memories, not just from this life, but from past lives that have gone before. She watched as her mate sat on a seat in front of the pub, her eyes closed, talking conversationally about her life in Ancient Egypt. It was amazing to watch, but did she believe it? No. Of course not. Now, though, she wasn’t so sure.