Man of Ruin Read online

  I stood in the doorway, pensive. The doc was preparing some food for her son, and I had to figure out a way of asking her about a torch without letting Mr Mopey Head here into the picture.

  “Out for a stroll, is it?” said Daryl. “Pretty dark out there.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just getting some fresh air.”

  He nodded, thinking nothing of it, thank God.

  “Well,” he said, “close the door now, would you? It’s getting chilly in here.”

  I slid the door shut behind me. Shit, this could be a pain.

  “Here you go, Daryl,” said the doc, bringing her son a disgusting-looking plate of what must have been the lentil curry.

  “Thanks, Mum,” he said, giving her one of those flash-in-the-pan smiles that some people can switch on and off at will. Then he returned to his melancholy frowning straight away as he tucked into his food.

  “You alright, Dave?” said the doc, looking at me questioningly.

  “Yeah . . .” I said. “But . . .”

  “But?” she replied, clearly with no clue at all.

  I sighed. She looked at me blankly. I tried indicating silently in the direction of the garden with the nodding of my head.

  “What is it, Dave?” she said, frustrated.

  The stupid woman. Had she forgotten everything I was dealing with?

  “Alright,” said Daryl, who had put his spoon and fork down and was now watching the pair of us. “What’s going on? Mum?”

  She was about to say something, but I beat her to it.

  “Can we talk please, Doc? In private, like?”

  “Of course, Dave,” she said.

  “Please excuse us, Daryl.”

  “Mum?” he said, almost whining.

  “Look, Daryl, it’s not up to me to tell you anything, alright? I’m sure you’re aware of the concept of patient confidentiality.”

  He grunted and went back to his food, looking at me with suspicion.

  *****

  She took me down the corridor and into another room, a study. There was a large dark wooden desk with a big comfy leather chair and lots of shelves with books and files and things. Also, hanging all over the walls were loads of framed photographs of her husband receiving awards and shaking hands with important-looking people.

  “Wow,” I said. “Your hubby really is a big cheese, isn’t he?”

  She let out a dismissive exhalation and waved her hand.

  “So,” she said, sitting herself on the edge of his desk. “What is it?”

  “Nothing really,” I said. “It’s just dark outside. Too dark. I can’t see my way to that field again.”

  “Oh!” She laughed.

  “I guess it is funny in a pathetic sort of a way,” I said. “But really, Doc, I just need to pee. Have you got a torch or something you can give me?”

  “Of course!” she said, immediately getting off the desk and walking to the other side and rummaging in the drawers. “I know he has one here somewhere.”

  “I wouldn’t want any more accidents,” I said. “Especially in this lovely mansion of yours.”

  “Here,” she said, handing me a torch.

  “Tar.” I winked at her.

  She blushed, and I felt a sudden pang of regret tinged with utter stupidity. She was old enough to be my mother and probably the only woman I’d made blush since that time I’d fingered Alice down at the Moka Club. But that was years ago. We were teenage idiots, and Alice had been drunker than a rum barrel full of drunken monkeys. What’s more, talking of monkeys, so far, my adult sex life had been cold enough to freeze the balls off one.

  *****

  Unfortunately, after that, everything just sort of seemed shit again. It was the wine mostly, I knew. It does that to me. Too cultured. Beer and burps is much more my thing.

  I passed Daryl as I ventured outside for the second time. I could sense him watching me but was grumpy as hell myself, so I blanked him.

  That makes two moody bastards, I thought.

  After doing my business, I spent a minute or two to appreciate the misty after-effects, the fog of chemical destruction rising slowly into moonlight above the frosty field.

  It was time for bed, I decided. Enough nonsense for one day.

  By the time I returned, Daryl had already wolfed his food and returned to his cave. I told the doc I was tired, and she showed me to my room. We all went our separate ways, to dreamy-dream lands far and wide.

  I flopped onto the bed in my clothes and was just about to nod off when the dreadful thing I’d been putting off all day finally reared its ugly head and would not be refused. That thing I had been secretly crossing fingers and praying about, keeping hidden well away in as dark a corner of my mind as I could find.

  The need for a number two.

  My plan now was simple, and I had come to terms with it. I could not envision a world where I could no longer take my number twos in a civilised way. Weeing outside was one thing—I could handle that—but I could not accept the same fate for the other one. That would cross all boundaries. It would be the end of me.

  I took a final prayer, kneeling down on the floor and everything, whispering to God, the universe or whatever higher powers existed out there.

  “Please keep this one thing for me. Keep this sacred,” I said.

  Then I went into the toilet and took my chances.

  And, thankfully, I can report it was a thumbs-up. My mutation, or whatever it was, kept some limits of decency.

  I slept surprisingly well after that. I guess that whole silly evening pushed all thoughts of the day’s horrors away from immediate attention.

  Alas, it was to be the last decent kip I got for a long while.

  CHAPTER 11

  IT’S THE LITTLEST PROBLEMS that I find the most annoying. Not having somewhere you can safely pee might seem trivial, but it almost made me feel like a toddler again, needing to pee in inconvenient places, tugging mummy’s hand, hearing her scold me again.

  “Why didn’t you go before?!”

  Well, I woke up in that lovely bed in the spare room of the doc’s lovely big house and had more problems than just that. They seemed to multiply suddenly, like a fuse being lit.

  It started with the shower. I hadn’t had one for two days now and knew by the pong of my hairy armpits that it was high time. Luckily, the doc had provided both towel and dressing gown in the spare room, and what’s more, there was a pristine white-tiled en suite with a shower, which I eagerly jumped straight into. Blasting hot water. Bliss.

  Problem number one.

  The sound of water pattering on tiles is a sure-fire signal to my bladder that it’s time for it to let out its own stores of liquid accrued overnight. Normally, I’d just let it rip right there and then, but I stopped myself from doing so. Quite some effort that took too. The first of the day, I needed to pee, and badly.

  So I cut short my usual long and lazy shower sojourn, jumped straight back out and rubbed myself furiously with the towel so as to get dry. This wasn’t as easy as you might think, since I was quite frankly a blubbering fat hulk. But get dry I did, and then came problem number two.

  Clothes.

  The morning before, I had taken no shower and thrown on whatever was to hand. Now these garments wreaked from all the running, sweating, worrying, pub-smell and also pizza-smell I’d been putting them through. I couldn’t wear those again unless I really wanted to send the doc and her pompous son right off me. I’m not stupid; I knew this house was a godsend, and I didn’t want to jeopardize it just yet, since I still had not the faintest clue what I would do or where I would go otherwise.

  But needing to pee trumps all other needs. I decided that it was still early and I could probably get away with a quick hump to the field in my dressing gown.

  So I patted down the lovely carpeted stairs, almost sliding over on the wood of the hallway below. The downstairs seemed to be silent, so I threw all caution to the wind and made a dash for the French doors. I slid them open and l
egged it down the length of the lawn and straight to the field behind the bushes, where I immediately and very satisfyingly let all my troubles wash away. Greenish-grey smoke rose as the grass was incinerated, and I felt almost used to the awful smell.

  I trotted back to the house, much more relaxed, yet I realised that all was not well, for Daryl was closing the French doors with a frown and immediately saw me walking there.

  He opened them again and watched me suspiciously as I approached.

  “Good morning, Dave,” he said.

  “Oh, morning, Daryl.” I waved casually, walking past him and through the opened door.

  “Another stroll?”

  “Yeah.” I turned to him, pretending that my being outside in a dressing gown first thing in the morning was a completely normal thing to be doing. “The air is freshest in the morning, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” he said, closing the doors.

  I ignored him and just went back upstairs.

  Luckily, the doctor had by now gotten dressed and was just leaving her bedroom.

  “Good morning, Dave,” she said, looking down the corridor at me. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, Doc. Lovely kip. Thanks.”

  “Good,” she said. “Come down when you’ve got dressed. I’ll make breakfast.”

  “Right,” I said with a sigh.

  Rather than going to my bedroom, I just stood there for a moment, considering my words.

  “Are you alright?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just . . . Well, I haven’t got a change of clothes. Was wearing those ones all day yesterday and . . . lots of running about and that. Could really do with a change, you know.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, a little too sparky for my liking, given the subject matter and the fact that it was first thing in the morning. She looked me up and down. “Well, you’re not far off from Chris in build. Why don’t I lend you some of his?”

  “If he doesn’t mind,” I said meekly.

  “Well, he won’t know . . .”

  “Great,” I said. “Thanks.”

  She was still looking me up and down.

  “No, I’m sure you’ll be able to squeeze into them. Perhaps some of his older ones, from before he went on the diet.”

  *****

  Clothes that fit and an awkward first piss of the day were minor problems compared to what came next.

  The doc soon found some suitable items for me from the wardrobe of Mr Middle-Aged Dad: an awful pair of beige Gant Chinos, a plain white T-shirt (Gant too) and a knitted grey V-neck sweater, another horrible Gant item. Oh, and though it felt slightly wrong, I even had a pair of his boxers and some socks too. Lovely items they were, I must say. Top-quality cotton, and yes, you’ve guessed it: Gant.

  I headed downstairs to breakfast with the doc and her moody son and we sat together at the table in the light of the morning, the sound of birds chirping pleasantly from outside. Only now Daryl wasn’t taking no for an answer in terms of information about me and my reason for lodging at his wonderful family home.

  “So, Dave,” he said, almost as soon as I’d sat down. “Are you feeling better today?”

  I could sense he now considered it his duty as a son to know how and why this strange, overweight yob had been taken in by his poor, gullible mother.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Not too bad.”

  “I hope you like the clothes too—”

  “Daryl.” His mum came to my rescue again. “Leave Dave alone.”

  “I’m sorry, Daryl,” I said. “I know it must be strange for you. I really owe a lot to your mum right now.”

  He grunted and she smiled at me.

  Wanting to change the subject, I remembered that my phone had run out of battery. For some reason, it had slipped my mind the night before.

  “Doc,” I called to her.

  “Oh please, Dave,” she said, frying eggs. “Do call me Lucy.”

  “Lucy,” I said awkwardly, not liking the familiar sound of it and noticing that Daryl, glaring at me, felt the same way. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare phone charger, would you?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Daryl, you know where they are.”

  Daryl grunted, got up and opened a drawer.

  “What kind of phone you got, Dave?” he said.

  “Samsung,” I said.

  He plugged a charger into the wall above the kitchen counter for me and sat back down, and I stood up and plugged my phone in.

  “That reminds me,” said the doc/Lucy—coming over to me and whispering. “Have you called the police yet, as we discussed?”

  Now problem number three hit me like a ton of bricks.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “You really must, Dave,” she said, her eyes widening with concern. “If there is any damage at all, it really is in your interests to let the police know what happened as soon as possible.”

  I wanted to tell her about the homeless guy, about how scared shitless I was of anyone finding out everything that had happened, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  “I will, Doc,” I said. “As soon as my phone is charged, okay? I was all out of battery yesterday, and what with everything, it just slipped my mind.”

  “Yes, mine too,” she said with a guilty look.

  Knowing full well that calling the police would create an utter shitstorm, I had no intention of taking such drastic action straight away. No, at this point I hoped I could fob her off for a bit whilst I thought things through again, not that I expected to get anywhere new with that thinking, but it was worth a try.

  “Alright,” she said, that professional hardness returning to her eyes. “Remember what I said though. If you don’t, I will. It has to be today, Dave, okay? Promise?”

  “I promise,” I said.

  Then I went and sat down again at the table with Daryl. He looked at me, resting his chin on a fist.

  “Alright, Daryl?” I said.

  “I’m fine,” he said, still looking at me.

  “Thanks for the phone charger,” I said, trying to sneak every ounce of belligerence into the words that I could.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, almost managing to do the same.

  But not quite. I’m the King of Belligerence when I want to be. Even in a Gant sweater.

  Still, I could be as belligerent and deceitful as I wanted, but I couldn’t escape the fact that the doc had meant what she said. Breakfast was a tense affair, with none of the easy-going, wine-fuelled banter of the night before. Both of them kept giving me looks, as if to say they were watching me, although admittedly for very different reasons.

  As I ate the last spoonful of eggs, I sorely wished I had the balls to ask the doc for further helpings. I also made what I considered to be something of a ballsy decision. I would say my thanks to her, to them both even (I could be generous too, when I wanted), and then I would leave that house and never come back. I’d disappear. It was a Sunday, so I had no job to turn up to, to chase me, and in any case, that didn’t matter because I would quit. There was no way I could hold down that job anymore. The office was slap bang in the town centre, with the nearest park some miles away. It just wouldn’t work. So I’d call them on Monday, hand in my resignation. I’d sneak back into my flat, pack my bags and hit the road. I had a fair amount of dosh saved up, having never gone travelling or bought a car or anything like that. Now was my chance. I’d empty my account, get myself a load of traveller’s cheques and take the first flight to Asia and be done with it.

  Of course, then it occurred to me that long-haul flights were probably not the best idea, given my condition. Alright, I said to myself. I’ll take a train to Europe. Well, no actually, same problem. Oh, for God’s sake, why were things so difficult? Okay, I thought. I’ll buy a car or hitch-hike or something. I’d go wherever the wind took me, follow the path of least resistance. Something like that.

  Daryl cleared away the breakfast plates to the sink and did the washing up wh
ile the doctor silently took her mug of coffee to the living room and switched on the TV.

  I stood up, glancing at my phone on the kitchen counter. It was at fifty per cent battery now. Technically, I could switch it on and call anyone I wanted to. I was certain this loomed large in the doc’s mind. She was giving me the silent treatment and would do so till I did what she wanted. Today was a Sunday, which meant, I assumed, that she would not be going back to the surgery. So I could expect a full day’s worth of such joy if I stayed around in this house.

  No. It was time to go. The time was now—

  “Bloody hell!”

  It was the doc, shouting to herself from the living room.

  “Dave!” she shouted. “Come here! Now!”

  She sounded both concerned and annoyed, the way a parent often does. I had a sinking feeling, as if my life was about to end.

  I wasn’t far off either, because as soon as I made my way over, I saw my own stupid pudgy face blasted up to huge proportions on the TV.

  “It’s me!” I blurted.

  Rosy cheeks, smiling, pint in hand. They’d taken my Facebook profile pic.

  “Yes!” she cried.

  “What is it?” Daryl had joined us now.

  We all watched in silence as the newsreader told the torrid tale. My torrid tale, I should say.

  “A local man is wanted by the police in connection with a series of bizarre acts of acid-related vandalism, grievous bodily harm and possibly murder. This morning, Sussex police are calling for witnesses and anyone who can help to ascertain the whereabouts of call-centre worker David Smith. A spate of vandal attacks causing serious damage to a local pub and in several local parks as well as in Crawley Hospital were last night connected to an unprovoked acid attack on a homeless man outside the Marlborough pub. The man, named by police as Philip Pence, is said to be in a critical condition, with injuries that doctors say are life-threatening. Several witnesses at the scene identified David Smith to the police, who also have testimony from witnesses at other scenes of vandalism throughout Crawley.”

  It was me who turned the bloody thing off.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Dave? What the hell?” said Daryl, nostrils flaring.