Man of Ruin Read online

  I stood up and joined her there. She pointed vaguely out towards the hills.

  “If you go all the way to the back of the lawn, you’ll find a little path to the right of the bushes. Just go down there and you’ll reach an overgrown field. I don’t mind where you go, but please just be careful of the dogs. They like to run out there sometimes.”

  “Okay, I’ll watch out.”

  “Good.”

  She turned and looked at me seriously now.

  “I want you to just relax here, okay? You’ve got a lot to think about. We both have. Watch TV if you like and help yourself to anything you want. I don’t bite and neither do Ian and Botham. Not unless you give us a reason to, anyway.”

  With that she turned and left the room, dogs in tow.

  “Sure thing, Doc,” I said under my breath.

  *****

  Funny, me being there on my own. It was a big old house, no mistake about that. I don’t think I’d ever been inside such a cavernous place. Just the living room on its own was worth two of every room in my little box flat, maybe more. So I didn’t know quite what to do with myself. Settling in and being all natural and relaxed didn’t seem right somehow. My chilling-out routine normally involved munching and drinking soda pop, but despite what she said, I felt a bit hesitant to rummage through the food and things.

  I flicked on the TV. A whopper of a screen it was too, filling an entire wall and hanging there all pristine like some kind of precious painting. And she had Sky. Awesome. I clicked up and down through the channels, searching for anything with lots of blasting, punching and swearing.

  I found a Van Damme flick. It passed the time okay, I suppose, but I just couldn’t settle. The sofa was too huge and comfy, the decor of the place too fancy and expensive-looking. It just wasn’t very welcoming, despite all the money that had evidently been spent on decorations. It felt like a showroom, not really a gaff where real people could chill in their jammies, let it all hang out, have a bit of a chinwag, if you know what I mean.

  I took to pottering about since relaxing didn’t appear to be on the cards. I inspected the ornaments, artwork and pictures daintily on display throughout the abode—crystal swans and painted porcelain dogs, a chest of shiny trophies, signed sports photos hanging on one wall, mostly cricketers, I think; I didn’t recognise any of the faces. There was a piano in one corner, all clean and shiny, and a large painting of a yacht in some kind of sunny harbour.

  One coffee table did have what looked like a small collection of family pics, and I spent a few minutes examining them. There was one of the doc and her hubby. She was sort of smiling, but not quite. That seemed to be her way. The hubby had a big smile though. A middle-aged guy with a dusty brown crown of hair laid like a bush around his shiny bald head and wearing a very nice suit. His smile looked completely fake to me, like he was putting on a show or a dinner party for guests he hated. There were one or two pics with all four of them, the two parents with their two grown-up kids around about my age. The boy and girl both looked very smart, the boy in a posh dark suit and the girl in some kind of frilly white dress. They had the same fake smile as their dad too. Perhaps it was just a photo-posing thing, I guessed. I wouldn’t know; we never did such things in my family.

  The dogs left me alone while I was snooping around. One of them had gone up with the doctor while the other had settled down for a nap on one of the sofas, where there appeared to be a special blanket for him. I could have sworn he was watching me, but every time I looked at him his eyes were closed.

  I went for a piss in the garden as instructed. Down the lawn, it was getting chilly now, a bit of icy wind in the air. I slipped down the path to the back of the lawn and found the opening at the side of the bushes there. I walked through it. The bushes were overgrown and tall, so it was like entering a little forest, the branches and leaves around me on all sides, like sneaking through to another world. Then, all of a sudden, the big field appeared before me, frost hovering over the tall grass, all crooked and wild, and a big fat red autumn sun sinking on the hills behind. Kind of cool.

  I pushed myself a bit of the ways into that field, stomping out a path through the mess of greenery. When I reached a certain point, I felt ready to go, so I just came to a stop.

  I unzipped and let it rip. There was nothing to fear here. No people, nothing to damage or be damaged by. I enjoyed the moment, I can tell you. Yes, the colour of it was still freaky and the grass did all burn away. Yes, there was a strange smell, this time sort of like a bonfire. Yes, I left my mark on that field, a roughly circular space where all plant life had been obliterated, leaving just a smooth and wide brown hole of dead and polluted earth. A bird above might have noticed it, but that was it. This was a big field out in the middle of nowhere, and it would take a hell of a lot of pissing to ruin the whole thing. It was bliss, to be honest, just being able to pee again, free from worry.

  I zipped up and had a little thought that gave me a chuckle. Perhaps the doc wanted her field cleared. Perhaps that’s why she’d asked me here—to do some bothersome gardening for her. Perhaps I could have myself a new role in life. Dave, human weed killer?

  CHAPTER 10

  HAVING HAD THE FIRST UNEVENTFUL PEE of the day, I walked back to the house, all smothered in a nice sticky sense of peace and harmony. Things seemed just about tolerable—even a mite better than tolerable.

  The doc had woken up again when I entered the kitchen, and she seemed content to play some kind of a mother routine with me now.

  “So what would you like to eat, David?” she said, all smiles.

  She had changed and was now wearing just the kind of comfy garb I liked to chill in, sort of a furry tracksuit, albeit it with a middle-aged-feminine sort of a vibe, brown and beige colours and whatnot.

  “Oh, I don’t mind, Doc,” I said. “Whatever you’ve got.”

  “Hmmm . . .” she said, opening the fridge. “Got some leftover veggie lasagne. And a lentil curry.” She stuck her head right in there, it being a vault of a fridge and all. “And some smoked mackerel too.”

  I didn’t want to be rude, but none of those options appealed to me in the slightest. I was very much a fast food man. High carb, high-energy intake was my order of the day, each and every day. I ran a very strict diet for myself. Never any of that vegetarian nonsense on my menu, and fish was only to be consumed deep-fried and with mountains of thick-cut chips.

  She looked at me and I think she sort of got where I was coming from.

  “Well,” she said, crossing her arms. “Since you’re here and Chris is away”—I guessed Chris to be her hubby—“why don’t we just order in a pizza?”

  “Oh yeah, pizza,” I said, trying not to sound too relieved, both about the pizza and the husband. “Can’t go wrong with a pizza.”

  “Fine,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I do love pizza myself, actually. Only Chris is on this big health kick. Strictly low carbs and fresh fish and veggies. Do you know I don’t think we’ve had pizza in over a year?”

  She seemed to go off into a little waking dream.

  I didn’t care. Takeaway pizza. She was an angel. A true lady. And this Chris . . . Well, the less said about him the better.

  *****

  It was a strange little nugget of an evening, make no mistake.

  She called for that pizza—a medium thin and crispy Hawaiian for her, an extra-large thick-cut Meat Feast with cheese-filled crusts for me—and shot me a look when I gave her my selection, what I’d call good-humoured disbelief tinged with disgust. And then it was straight to the fridge, in and out and back to the tabletop with a chilled, half-drunk bottle of French white.

  “Excuse me if I have a drink,” she said, pulling out some glasses from a nearby cabinet. “It’s been a bit of a day. Would you like one?”

  “Probably shouldn’t,” I said. “But that’s never stopped me before. Go on then. I haven’t had the easiest of days myself.”

  “No, you most certainly haven’t,” she sa
id, pouring the wine.

  We both took our glasses. She raised hers and I felt a bit awkward again because I wasn’t used to drinking in such a civilised fashion. She looked at me and smiled and sort of burst into a little giggle, the likes of which I never would’ve expected to see from her.

  “For God’s sake, relax,” she said, clinking her glass onto mine and taking a large sip.

  I shrugged my shoulders and took a decent pelt myself. It was nice, proper wine. Cool to the tongue and bursting with fruity grapes. I could almost picture those grapes being picked from the vines, being handled by the dainty fingers of buxom farm maidens riding white swans to their French villas in the sunshine.

  “Ah . . .” I let out my traditional exhalation of appreciation. “Good stuff, this.”

  “Isn’t bad, is it?” she said. “We have a dealer in Provence. Chris gets him to send us a case now and again.”

  “Really?” I said, trying to sound interested. “That’s . . . cool.”

  “I suppose,” she said.

  She was giving me a searching look now, sort of a frown, but a friendly one that I took to mean she seriously expected me to relax now and not to treat her like a distant relative at a wedding.

  “Can’t just pick up a bottle in Tesco’s then, I guess,” I said.

  “No!” she said, bursting into laughter. “Look, it’s just wine. You drink it like any other.”

  “It is good stuff.”

  “Whatever,” she said. “Now, since you are here, please just do me a favour and relax, okay? Do you want to watch the TV? We’ve got Sky Movies. You can choose. Anything you want.”

  “Alright,” I said, following her to the sofas.

  We sat down. She curled into a corner of one of the giant sofas, and I spread myself into one of the armchairs. She threw me the remote and I switched on the big screen and chugged through the channels. There were plenty of decent flicks to watch, loads that I imagined she would be into—period dramas and the like—and a whole different bunch that were more up my street—action flicks and gory sci-fi thrillers and whatnot. I hovered at one or two such gems but found myself reluctant to choose.

  “Oh, you are a one,” she said. “I told you I don’t care.”

  She stood up, came over and took the remote from me. Standing there, she flicked through and eventually arrived at what I considered the least likely film she could have chosen.

  “Sharknado?” I said. “Seriously?”

  “Why not?” she said, heading back to her corner of that sofa. “Change it if you want . . .”

  “No, that’s fine,” I said, so confused by her I can’t even describe. “It’s a classic.”

  *****

  So we watched Sharknado. A belter of a film, that’s for sure. Maybe not Oscar material, but the doc was loving it, sipping her wine and laughing her head off at all the right moments. I was in awe of her, I can tell you.

  When we got to the bit when this guy with a chainsaw slices this flying shark in half, the doorbell rang.

  “Pizza!” cried the doc, all excited.

  She got up in a flash and went to the door. I was about ready to murder that pizza, imagining all that bubbling thick cheese and those plump mega-juicy morsels of meat dolloped all over it, all nice and evenly distributed. I heard the door close and stood up to help the doctor lay out our eats, and I was surprised when she came back empty-handed, instead accompanied by a smart young man in a pinstripe suit and pulling a small travel case on wheels.

  We eyed each other suspiciously—well, him more suspiciously, I think, since I had already clocked him from the pictures. It was her son. He looked from me to the TV, wincing at the sound of screams and the throttling of a chainsaw.

  “Who’s this?” He turned to the doc.

  “Well, Daryl,” she said, “I was just about to tell you, but you came straight in. This is David. One of my patients.”

  “Hello, mate,” I said, forcing what I am certain was a horribly weak smile.

  “Bringing your patients home with you now?” he said, ignoring me.

  “Daryl . . .” his mum growled.

  He left his bag where it was and came over to me, putting out a hand, obviously finding my overweight frame, slouchy clothes and general laddish decorum not to his taste.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, holding my hand as floppily as humanly possible.

  “And you too, mate,” I said. “Call me Dave,” I added for some reason, thinking that would ease the situation.

  He raised an eyebrow and wrinkled his spindly nose as if a nasty smell had just materialised inside his nostrils.

  “What’s this?” said the doc, looking at me. “Dave straight away, is it? There I was calling you David all day long. Who’s buying the pizza, hey? Me or him?”

  I was genuinely unsure how to respond.

  “Mum, please,” said Daryl. “Pizza?”

  He went back to pick up his bag.

  “And what is this godawful film you’re watching?” He gestured with an arm to the TV.

  I could see she was about to answer, but then the doorbell rang again.

  “That’ll be the pizza man now,” she said brightly.

  Daryl sighed. I held my breath, fearful of more unexpected guests.

  But I was in luck, for it was the pizza man, and Daryl buggered off somewhere. At this point, I didn’t care. The snooty sod could bugger off wherever he wanted to, as long as I got my pizza.

  *****

  The doc and I settled in for our pizza and movie, the evening getting more and more surreal as it went on. With delicious wine and tasty pizza, and with sharks flying and screams and gore flowing and no Daryl to poo on our parade, what wasn’t to like? The doc herself was chilling right out, getting downright silly with all the alcohol she insisted on quaffing. I wasn’t sure if this was normal for her or was due to the stress of the situation, but who was I to argue? After all, I’m never one to refuse a drink or seven.

  “You know,” she eventually said, finally broaching the unspoken subject. “I still can’t believe what I saw today. Was that real?”

  “Well I’m here, aren’t I?” I said. “Can’t see you inviting a random like me round for pizza otherwise.”

  “Good point.” She laughed.

  I nodded.

  “It must be terribly difficult for you, honestly,” she said. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Yeah, you’re not wrong.”

  The film was coming to an end now. The doctor looked at me.

  “You mustn’t mind Daryl, by the way,” she said. “He’s been through a lot lately.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said, happy not to focus on my predicament.

  “Yes,” she said, shaking her head. “It seems his company isn’t doing terribly well. And he and his girlfriend are having a bit of a thing.”

  “A thing, eh?” I said.

  “So he’s just come back here to clear his head, get some space, you know.”

  “Makes sense.”

  I ummed and ahhed like I knew what she meant, but really those sorts of things were quite alien to me, since I had spent the vast majority of my life single.

  “Do you have a girlfriend, Dave?” she said a bit out of the blue.

  “No,” I said. “Not at the minute.”

  Not ever, I meant.

  “Well don’t ever let that get you down,” she said.

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “There’s always time for that,” she said, ignoring me. “Somewhere, somehow, it’ll happen. You’ll be over the moon and stuck for the rest of your life. It’s best to enjoy your time alone as much as you can. Just use that time to really be you, you know.”

  “Yup,” I said, thinking of all the wonderful, sad days I spent in my underpants on the sofa, scoffing Mackie D’s or whatever, doing whatever the hell I wanted. “That’s what I do.”

  “Well good for you,” she said.

  I nodded and raised my glass to her, and we clinked them together, taking another sw
ig. We were definitely a little bit sloshed.

  She looked at her watch. “I wonder if he’s just going to stay up there all night,” she said, indicating with her head to the floor above.

  I shook my head as if to say I had no idea, though what I really meant was that I didn’t care.

  “Perhaps it was a shock for him to see you here,” she said. “God knows what he thought.”

  She giggled a little.

  “He probably just thought, ‘Who’s that fat bastard in my living room?’”

  She laughed, covering her mouth with a hand.

  “Dave!” she said, giving me a playful slap on the arm. “You may be a bit overweight, but I wouldn’t call you fat.”

  “No?”

  “No,” she said. “But that’s just because I’m a doctor. As a rule, I don’t call anyone fat!”

  She laughed again, and I did too.

  Then we sat in comfortable silence, sipping the wine.

  *****

  The next piss wasn’t as breezy as the last. Being drunk and it now being evening and pitch dark out there in the middle of nowhere, it was hard to find the bushes at the end of the lawn, let alone locate and navigate through the scraggly opening in them. The doc had put on the lights at the back of the house, but they only illuminated the garden so far. So I tramped out there, and when I realised I was stuck without a bit more in the way of light, I fished into my pocket for my phone, thinking to use the torch function to guide my way.

  The battery was drained.

  “Bugger,” I muttered to myself.

  One reason it had been such a pleasant evening was the lack of random, scary phone calls. I had hardly stopped to consider this might be due to a lack of battery power and thought little of it now, although I was annoyed to have to go back and ask for a torch.

  When I slid the French doors open, Daryl had come downstairs. He was sitting at the same table the doc and I had been sharing a pleasant drink at moments before. He looked up at me, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

  “Hello, Dave,” he said, sounding about as bored and as down as I think I’ve ever heard anyone sound.

  “Hi, Daryl,” I said.