Remember Remember (8 page)

The train departed from Platform twelve and a first class upgrade ticket ensured he had a good seat and dear old Richard Branson’s hospitality would even ensure free food and the odd bottle of wine. He found a forward facing seat and deposited paper and jacket on the opposite seat to guard the new territory against too many invaders and to ensure sufficient leg room for the journey home.

The train left on time and the inevitable last minute passengers who boarded at the rear traipsed past through the First Class carriages puffing, panting and pulling cases.

Tea and coffee and the Evening Standard arrived and he settled back with the holiday brochures, awaiting the arrival of the drinks trolley which could be heard clunking its way down the carriage.

“Would you like a drink from the trolley sir?”

“Yes, a red wine please, I see we’re still on the Spanish stuff.”

“Yes sir, is that OK?”

“Yes, fine.”

A bottle was opened and deposited on the table, a second bottle opened and half the contents poured into a wineglass. ”I’ll start you off with two sir, if that’s OK?”

“Thank you very much, will you please roll me off at Stockport,” quipped Alan.

“Have a good journey,” was heard as the trolley clunked off. He now relaxed and thought Virgin trains had got at least some of their services in good order. A sip of wine and a request for a ticket soon followed and as he presented the two large airline style tickets he thought about those tickets and the cheap upgrades available on the web, “I suppose they could trace those transactions but there could be no link to Shan and why the travel was needed. No link, no suspicion, just like thousands of tickets sold each day. Safe.”

A second trolley approached as the train thundered through Milton Keynes. This was the food trolley which today had a Spanish theme offering good olives and Spanish omelette to complement the wine. As he ate the train flashed past Rugby and with the first stop being Wilmslow, this was a good fast service when it worked. The Evening Standard was scrutinised for news and the personal column and holiday brochures were read. By the time the train arrived at Stockport the decision had been made. The holiday for two would be at Sun City in Olu Deniz, evidently the most beautiful and photographed beach in Turkey.

He decided to take the short walk through Stockport precinct toward the Brown Cow and as he walked he looked around and thought, “Why is everything so dirty in England, a new precinct but full of ‘yoof’, cigarette ends, chewing gum and litter.”

He walked on through the precinct to the A6 which took some negotiating, he crossed the roundabout, walked up the steps toward the police station, turned left then right and up the three steps to perhaps one of the best pubs in England. The Brown Cow.

“Hello Jacky, a pint of bitter, please.”

“Hi Alan, are you just back from the big city?”

“Yep, bloody awful place, makes you appreciate the wonders of the Brown Cow and its gorgeous barmaids, he quipped as he offered Jacky a ten pound note and said, “get one yourself. Is Dave or John in?”

“No, it’s been very quiet tonight, just the usual lot in the snug.”

He drank a healthy slug from the pint pot and looked around. The design of the pub, put together he was told by Arthur, an ex landlord, was one of olde worlde charm with exposed beams, stone floors and fire places, with real red formica on the bar. Strange as it sounds the red formica actually didn’t look out of place. The beer was good, it was local brewed Robinson’s bitter and with the pub being just 100 yards from the brewery and frequented by the directors; Donald the landlord had motivation to keep his beers as good as a good landlord should. The Brown Cow had no one-armed bandits, no fruit machines, no juke box, no pool table, no darts board and nobody underage; in fact the general clientele all looked very much of an age. It was a beautiful pub with great beer, a good crowd and staff who could shout at you. A cursory nod to people whose faces were known; regulars but not in the same crowd and the smell of food mingled with the beer to create the atmosphere that only the good British pub had. This combined with the low buzz of noise from the people around the bar and the design of the main room, a bit like “Cheers” on the telly; a square 3 sided bar with a pit and extra lounge, made this place unique. “They don’t build ‘em like this any more,” he thought and knew he must be getting old.

He caught Jacky’s eye, “Another pint please Jacky and take one for yourself,” he said before changing the subject, “you look tired, you need a holiday.”

“A holiday on six pound an hour, where, bloody Blackpool for a day?” she hissed.

“Don’t rush in Alan, slowly, slowly, he thought, then replied, “I’ve got a little treat coming up, fourteen days in Turkey for two at the Sun City resort, as much as you can eat and drink and it’s all free.”

“Alright for some, who’s the lucky girl this time?”

“Hardly girls these days, more like mothers.”

“I’m a mother, can I come?” she responded.

“What if I said yes, you’d be frightened to death.”

“Not me, I’d jump at it like a shot, but you’d have to be gentle with me, gentle like in the next room,” she giggled.

“I don’t think couples usually stay in separate rooms but we could have separate beds and sufficient free lager and red wine will probably keep us both incapable of performing even if we were inclined. So what do you say?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah I am and it’s all paid for. I need to meet some business people in Turkey. They will pay for flights and accommodation for two and I’ll throw in some spends for a good companion. What do you think?”

“People will talk.”

“Great, let them.”

“People really will talk.”

“How old are we? Do you really give a toss?”

“I’ll go, I don’t know what you’re up to but I think I can cope,” she teased.

“Thanks for that Jacky. I’ll see you tomorrow. Can you call me a taxi?” A cab was duly called and ten minutes later he downed his pint and turned to leave.

“Good night holiday boy and bring some money for my waxing,” she shouted after him.

“Good night love, see you tomorrow,” he responded.

The evening air was cooler as he left the pub and climbed into the taxi. The driver asked directions after scrutinising his customer for too much ale, smoking or other foul habits before setting off as instructed to Bramhall.

Alan sat in the back of the cab and pondered to himself, thinking of the fond memories of a different time, “A relationship gone, Jesus, she might have come to live here with me if they hadn’t killed her. Hate can be a powerful force and it’s time to get your own back even if hundreds of thousands might die. But thousands are dying all the time so there’s no change there and you have to play your part. You have to deliver or die, or both,” he thought.

“Ten pounds please,” the voice from the front of the cab brought Alan back to reality.

“Sorry driver, can you take me round to the Oriental Flavour? A Chinese takeaway seems good.”

He dined alone on prawns in batter, Peking duck and vermicelli, all washed down with Foster’s lager, before retiring to bed at midnight.

At 07.30 he awoke, shaved, showered and dressed; then ate a poached egg on toast with no butter, knowing it was good for the cholesterol and weight but thought, “why bother.” He shook his head then argued with himself to concentrate on the day ahead, “I must place the ad in the Manchester Evening News, perhaps I’m paranoid about these things but it must be cash at their offices. I’ll use the small one in Oxford Street, no cameras there,” he thought.

“The message will take some time to code, bloody codes, but your idea, yes I know”, he argued to himself, “God you’re lonely, you spend all this time talking to yourself, why not talk to others. Because, because,” he thought .

He placed the advert in the Manchester Evening News for the next day. In brief it informed a person to go to London to place another advert in the London Evening Standard. That advert would be in the Love and Relationships column and would read:

“Gentleman under 30 seeks female companion for holiday at Sun City, Olu Deniz, Turkey, departing on 21
st
July, due to current 22 month relationship terminating. Nice, affable young man just wants companionship from 25 to 30 year old woman. Call 0121 326 4928.”

July 03, Noon, The Brown Cow, Middle Hillgate, Stockport.

The bar and kitchen staff were ready, menus had been chalked on the slate and placed on each table, everything was clean and with few customers, it was an opportunity for the staff to chat together to tell the tale.

Alan drove his truck up a very narrow drive to the rear of the pub, which was the car park now, but was once designed for horses. He pushed the pubs rear door which creaked open, entered and walked around the bar to the snug, where two high chairs were placed facing the bar, deposited some money onto the bar and sat down on one of the chairs.

“A pint of bitter please; Jacky and one for yourself,” he requested.

“Did you mean what you said last night because I didn’t know if you were joking or not,” whispered Jacky as she pulled his pint.

“I meant it, the tickets are on their way and I’ve even been to the bank to get you some money to buy your gear,” he said as he passed her an envelope, “there’s £500 in there and I don’t need any change. Make sure you’ve got a current passport,” he smiled then continued, “you haven’t done anything stupid in your past in Turkey have you?”

She grabbed the envelope and thrust it in her handbag.

“No, I’ve never done anything stupid anywhere and I’ve never been to Turkey because I never had the time or the money.”

“You have some now at least for a short time eh,” then changing the subject he asked; “what’s the special today?”

“Lamb chops.”

“Good, I’ll have that with another beer please, tell Donald I’ll leave my car at the back today and taxi home. I feel like a few pints. Oh, make the lamb chops pink, don’t overcook them, and I’ll have them with new potatoes and veg.”

“I’ll need to ask Donald for the time off, he might not like me taking fourteen days in one go.”

“Surely you’re entitled, nowadays everybody gets at least three weeks.”

“Yeah, but it is short notice. What date do we fly?”

“The twenty first of July, in three weeks time, surely that’s enough notice for the old fool, do you want me to have a word with him?”

She walked over to a couple who had strolled into the bar, took their order and proceeded to pull a pint and half of lager. Turning to Alan she shook her head and said, “Don’t you ask him, I don’t think he’s totally on your side and if he knows too soon that you’re taking me he may get bloody awkward. I’ll need this job when I get back won’t I, or will you support me forever?”

“Not likely love is it?”

Cyril shuffled in, at over eighty getting slow in movement, but still very able when quaffing Robinson’s mild and it seemed that as his body and mind grew older his taste for beer and talking grew stronger.

A van was noisily manoeuvred into the back yard, a five point turn ensuring it faced forward for exit down the narrow passage. John the driver entered and strode round to the snug rubbing his hands and stroking his beard, his ruddy complexion foretelling the beers he had consumed over the years.

Alan ordered their beers and with this began an amiable chat between friends, about all the goings on in the world. Pink lamb chops were eaten and more pints were consumed; Robinsons bitter really did go down well when on form and sometime later the deal was done; with Donald the landlord being in glum agreement that Jacky could go to Turkey with Alan.

She was happy with the outcome but in no doubt that her leaving with Alan on this trip would be all the gossip in the pub. She knew there would be knowing smiles, innuendos and generally disgusting discussion about the two of them, between the regulars.

July 21
st
, Terminal Two, Manchester Airport.

“What a dirty filthy place terminal two is and the colour scheme is so depressing,” thought Alan, “who could have decided on lilac and blue”. The seat arms and metal chairs were covered in filth, there were crisps, cigarette ends, sweets, empty crisp packets and discarded newspapers strewn about. No cleaners were seen and there were no waste bins either. He supposed, “It’s because of the terrorist threat, an excuse the British use for many of their dirt strewn public places. Still, the queue to the check in wasn’t too bad, only four or five people were in front.”

He paid extra for two legroom seats and the three cases were deposited onto the conveyor. Then came what he thought was a charade as various questions were asked about the luggage and who packed it.

Eventually though they were allocated their boarding passes and they moved away from the check-in desks toward the next obstacle, passport control and as they strolled along Jacky linked arms with him and asked, “Why do they bother with all those silly questions, I mean a terrorist isn’t going to say, “yes, I have packed the Semtex disguised to look like a tube of toothpaste; which took some expertise and time to make, but because you’ve asked I’ll tell you.” she smirked then continued, “What I did was fit the Semtex into the tube in the correct conditions and then covered it with the correct spray which makes it very difficult to detect when in an SR toothpaste tube. But having done all that my nerve will go when politely asked silly questions by a twenty year old working for the airline, I mean that wouldn’t happen would it.”