“At the next aisle, turn left. Baked Beans are on your right side. Scanned: baked beans, Tesco ‘Value’, tin 400 grams, pack of four, discount applied. Continue along this aisle. Cream of Chicken soups are on your left side. Scanned: Cream of Chicken soup, Tesco ‘Regulars’, tin 440 grams, one. Scanned: Oxtail soup, Tesco ‘Like It Used To Be’, tin 360 grams, one, discount applied. Continue along this aisle. Bovrils are on your left side. Scanned: Bovril, ‘brand product’, jar 250 grams, one.”
Philip Rumbelowe drives his scooter around the Tesco Superstore, following the instructions from his phone – ‘On Yer Trolley, the shopping app for all of us who hate shopping’.
Rice pudding, Rich Tea biscuits, three white sliced loaves (he’ll put two in the freezer when he gets home), uht milk, a tin of ham, paracetamol, anti-constipation pills… he goes through the whole list, as recommended by the app based on previous shopping trips and what is on discount, without having to think. And that suits Philip Rumbelowe. Food shopping, to him, is the same as paying a gas bill.
Once, he stops to wipe the sweat from under his baseball cap. But the air-conditioned supermarket is a cool oasis in the heat of the mid-afternoon.
“Do you require shopping bags, sir?”
“Yes.”
“How many would you like, sir?”
“How much are they?”
“20 pence for each regular bag, 50 pence for…”
“Any value bags?”
“No, I’m afraid not sir. Just regular, extra strong and…”
“Four regular.”
“Right you are, sir. That’ll be 80 pence. I’ll add that to your account.”
“Bloody rip off.”
“I’m sorry, sir. They are as cheap if not cheaper than…”
“Shut up, stupid machine.”
Four blue and white carrier bags are dispatched from beneath the scanner. Philip Rumbelowe fills them up, loads them into his basket, presses his phone against the payment pad at the security gate, and trundles out of the shop, grumbling to himself about a time when bags were free.
The sprawling car park is half empty. Plenty of people have heeded the official warning about staying out of the worst of the heat. A large digital display, visible from the nearby ring-road, on the side of the supermarket reads: ‘3.47 pm. 41 c.’
Philip Rumbelowe steers his scooter through the gaps between the parked cars, in a direct as possible line to the exit of the retail park. He turns into a short tunnel, beneath the ring road, and stops. He removes his baseball cap with one hand and wipes his brow with a red handkerchief. He then wipes his arms, all the way from his armpits to his hands, and wrings out the handkerchief. And, with his eyes and hands clear of sweat for the time-being, trundles on.
Ahead of him, out of sight for now, are four boys, topless in shorts and running shoes, racing shopping trolleys along the cycle path on the bank above the ring road. They operate in pairs – one boy gets into a trolley and the other pushes. The boys run as hard as they can along the flat, straight path until they get to the bend and dip beneath the Barns Road bridge, where they give the trolleys one last shove and let them go. The boys inside the trolleys lean to one side, half their bodies hanging out, to steer them round the bend and as far up the other side of the dip as they can go.
If they don’t turn sharply enough then they will go careering down the bank to a wire fence, the only thing between them and the ring road. They both make it round the bend safely but one of them leans out of the trolley so far that they topple over. He crashes to the cracked and crumbling asphalt path.
“Wonky wheels,” claims the losing boy, brushing himself down and looking back down the path exclaims, “fat man’s coming!”
He rights the overturned trolley and wheels it to block part of the path, where the supporting wall of the bridge has ‘dev SQUAD outreach’ sprayed in purple paint across its streaked grey concrete.
One of the other boys starts strolling, hands in trackie bottom pockets, towards Philip Rumbelowe’s oncoming scooter, before gleefully sticking two fingers up at him and running back towards the bridge. Meanwhile the other two boys wait, round the corner and up the other side of the dip, ready to push their trolley.
Philip Rumbelowe sees the boy’s two fingered salute and accelerates as hard as he can towards him, “bad move you little cunt, I’ll learn you now!”
The boy runs, his skinny arms like pistons, his legs a whir of motion, along the path and down the bank towards the fence, which he jumps into, grabbing the wire mesh and half-climbing, half-leaping over onto a narrow grass verge by the ring road.
Philip Rumbelowe only just swerves the stationary trolley and doesn’t have time to react to the second one, which is speeding down the slope. His mobility scooter crashes into it just as he presses the brake with all his strength. The collision knocks the scooter off the path and down the grass bank into the fence.
As it comes to a sudden halt, Philip Rumbelowe is thrown half out of his seat, his face pressed hard into the fence, one leg dangling over the side, the other caught, still in a bent sitting position, under the dashboard.
He feels a sharp, agonising pain in his left eye. And his back feels like it is tearing apart.
He can’t move. Time stops. And goes backwards. He can see the boy’s face as he stops to taunt him before running off next to the ring road. He will remember that face, he will hold onto it. The cars and lorries hiss by. Unseeing, unknowing, uncaring. Everything turns to a red fog.
—
“I am in an especially good mood this afternoon. So to celebrate, let’sss… play Dry or Dare!” declares Tudor, rattling a striped carrier bag half filled with cans of lager and cider, “you want a drink? Then you must accept a dare from a fellow competitor.”
Hank, Maureen and Matchbox are all lying on their backs, soaking in the sun, on a patch of grass next to a busy bus stop on Cowley Road.
No one responds to Tudor.
“Come along now, lady and gentlemen. There are prizes to be won. A choice selection of premium beer from…” Tudor pulls a can out of his bag and inspects it, “…all the way from the fine nation of Lithuania. With your names on it, just waiting to be claimed.”
“You’re full of shit Tudes,” opines Matchbox.
“Bad shititude!” joins in Hank.
“No,” says Tudor quietly and then raises his voice in increments, building to a climax, “I’m full… full to the brim… I’m full of generosity! And more importantly, I have a bag of lovely drinks to share with my dear friends.”
“Alright then,” challenges Matchbox, “show me the cider with my name on it.”
“Ah, dear Matchbox,” Tudor shakes his head, “dare first. Then cider.”
“What’s the dare?” shrugs Matchbox resignedly.
“My dear Madame Mo,” Tudor turns to Maureen, “what dare do you give our good friend Matchbox?”
Maureen glares at Tudor. She was dozing in the sun and now feels grumpy and a little fuddled at being woken.
Tudor turns to Hank instead, “Hank the Man! Do you have a dare for our friend Matchbox?”
“Yes!”
“And what is the dare, pray tell?”
“Dunno.”
“Oh for God’s sake Hank,” winces Maureen, “just say something to make him shut up.”
“Er,” Hank looks towards the bus stop for inspiration and sees a man, wearing a loose white shirt, canvas trousers and a small backpack, standing by himself, bored and too hot, “hug that man.”
“Thank you Hank,” gushes Tudor, causing Maureen to wince some more, “‘hug a stranger’, a classic of the genre. Matchbox, do you accept the dare? Or are you prepared to stay dry whilst others drink?”
Matchbox jumps to his feet and marches over to the bus stop, followed by Tudor, rattling his bag of cans.
“Do I have your consent?” Matchbox asks the man.
“What?” A look of concern, verging on panic, crosses the man’s face.
“For a hug,” explains Matchbox, “I want to give you a hug. Do I have your consent?”
“Oh,” the man laughs, slightly relieved but still nervous, “um, well, that’s a bit…”
“It’s quite alright sir,” Tudor assures the man, “he is most certainly a foolish knave but a completely harmless one also.”
“Just a quick hug,” promises Matchbox.
“Oh, alright then I suppose.”
Matchbox puts both arms around the man, who tentatively places his hands on Matchbox’s shoulders. They both hold their position, the front of their stomachs touching but otherwise with a gap between their bodies, for a second before the man pulls his arms away and steps back.
“Thank you sir,” grins Matchbox, “you’re my favourite random stranger today. Maybe ever!”
The man smiles back weakly and turns his face away to scrutinize the display screen for the time of the next bus.
Tudor whoops, hands Matchbox a can of cider and opens a lager for himself. They swagger back to Hank and Maureen, swigging from the cans as they go.
“He was so sweaty,” laughs Matchbox, “but kinda sweet. Like a big pink blob of bubblegum.”
Maureen glares at Matchbox, “I think you were very rude to disturb that poor man and now you’re being very rude again.”
“Sorry, your Mau-jesty,” giggles Matchbox whilst bowing with mock deference.
Tudor sits down, cross-legged, on the grass hands a can each to Maureen and Hank. They glug their drinks down.
Hank wipes his mouth, “where’s Robbie Bobs?”
Matchbox takes a sip of cider and shrugs, “dunno, maybe he’s got a job on.”
“Joining us later then?” asks Hank.
“Guess so,” Matchbox shrugs again, “I hope he is working. He needs the cash for when Rumbelowe gets out of hospital.”
Hank grimaces, “not dead then?”
“‘Fraid not,” confirms Tudor.
“And do we know where Petra is?” enquires Maureen, “do you know where she is Matchbox?”
“Nope. No idea.”
“Are you not worried?”
“Why?”
“Oh come on now Matchbox,” Maureen laughs, “you still have a weakness for the girl, so you do.”
“No I don’t,” says Matchbox dismissively, “ancient history.”
“Talking of which,” interjects Tudor, “I believe Professor Petranella is at Rose Hill Cemetery.”
Maureen furrows her brow ostentatiously, “whatever’s she doing there?”
“Taking rubbings of gravestones, I believe,” explains Tudor, “using charcoal and paper. I saw her there when I was walking down. She said it was a hobby of hers.”
“Hobby horse!” shouts Hank and chuckles to himself.
“Shut yer daft trap, Hank!” Maureen shuffles sideways on her bottom, away from Hank and next to Tudor, “you’re a man of the world, the real world, or so you keep saying. What the hell is the matter with that woman? I tell you, that’s the kind of thing weird wee boys and bedwetters get up to.”
Tudor purses his lips and sucks through his teeth, “well Madame Mo, that’s a question and a half. What is the issue with Professor Petrenella? Autistic perhaps? Genius maybe? A seeker of certainty in a world of half-truths?”
Matchbox interrupts assertively, “it helps her. It calms her down.”
“Calms her down?” laughs Maureen, “If she calms down any further she’ll be the one lying in the ground!”
“She gets excited…”
“Oh aye!” Maureen raises one eyebrow and smiles.
“Not like that!” protests Matchbox, “More like really fussed. She starts talking fast, too fast to follow. She don’t want to be like that, she just wants to be normal and have a laugh. But sometimes she’s better just going off on her own.”
Matchbox finishes his cider in one long gulp and slams the can down on the ground. He glares at Maureen who fiddles awkwardly with her sleeves.
—
He can feel a heavy cell door holding him in. He can hear his father’s footsteps beating out a rhythm: ‘this’ll learn ya, this’ll learn ya’, chasing him down the street. Across the big road. Running through lanes of traffic, car horns blaring at him, sirens accusing him. He can feel hands grabbing at his clothes, pulling him backwards, hands around his throat and across his mouth. Rubber gloves shoved in his face. He breathes them in, his head swimming with warm, thick fumes. A machine sends out its tentacles and hauls him towards its mouth, its flashing lights dance around a cavernous hole.
He is riding his bike now but the wheels are just spinning round and round as he falls through space. Down but not crashing, just falling down. Down and no one to catch him. Down, down into the cavernous and dazzling hole…
“He needs immediate treatment,” insists a machine monster.
“We need to speak to him right away,” argues another monster.
“No, he is in immediate danger, that takes priority.”
“You don’t know who he is, do you?”
“That’s of no concern…”
“Drug dealer. Loan shark. Pervert.”
“You can question him once he’s been treated. At the hospital!”
Philip Rumbelowe wakes suddenly and, without pause for breath nor to clear his throat, hisses to the paramedic, “it’s alright young man, let the oinkers do me here. With all the cars going past. All the rubberneckers enjoying the view. How’s it going look? Old sick man dying at the hands of the dirty oinkers? Mmm, fucking delicious way to go.”
“Okay, okay, take him to the fucking JR,” concedes the policeman, “we’ll interrogate him there. But then we’ll withdraw and leave him. Your problem. Looks like Mr Miles’ dev squad have been busy here. If the first teamers come calling, there’ll be more blood than usual on your ward tonight.”
“Ah, an oinker with an heart. How very touching. Mr Miles must think the world of you,” Rumbelowe’s voice is scratchy, barely a whisper, but defiant, “and I won’t just remember you, officer, I will cherish your sweet loving memory for ever and ever.”
—
“Right then!” announces Tudor, “time for another dare or dry. Hank the Man, you’re good at this. What dare will you give Madame Mo?”
“Er, dunno”.
“Something quite simple that she’d rather not do.”
“Piss from up a tree.”
Maureen looks around, “I can’t do that, can I. There aren’t any trees, you fool.”
“Well now Mo, you have a point there,” acknowledges Tudor, “but do you accept Hank’s dare on the basis that it is impossible but were it possible you would carry it out? Or do you decline and force yourself to watch us drink these still quite cold beers whilst you have none?”
“Oh speak normal English man,” snaps Maureen, “can’t I just have a drink?
Tudor puts on a mock French accent, “non madame, unless you accept monsieur Hank’s dare.”
“For God’s sake man, I’m rasping. How can I piss out a tree? I don’t need to go and there’s no tree anyhow.”
“Ah, but Madame, there’s no necessite to have, as you say, a pi-ss. Just parlez vous, ‘you would if you could, yes you would’.”
Maureen looks to the sky, scrunching her eyes tight against the sun, “oh God you are such a pain in the arse Tudor Jones. Right so, okay, whatever, yes. I would if I could. Now give me a beer.”
As the group of four sit drinking, a pair of mallards – one male, one female – lands on the ground a few yards away. They proceed to shuffle about, checking the grass with their bills and gently quacking to one another.
“Romeo and Juliet!” exclaims Hank.
“I’m sorry, who?” laughs Tudor incredulously.
“The ducks,” explains Maureen patiently, “there’s a pair that come here often. Hank calls them Romeo and Juliet. Don’t ask why.”
“Why?” asks Matchbox.
“Fuck off Matchbox,” says Maureen calmly.
Hanks stands up to get a better view of the ducks and says grandly with a sweep of his arm, “I dare you to give Juliet a kiss”.
“But it’s your turn Hank,” points out Matchbox.
“Tudor’s turn,” replies Hank.
Tudor now stands up, “I am the gamesmaster. I don’t have a turn. It is your turn, Hank.”
Hank steps slowly, on tip-toe, towards the mallards. They don’t seem to notice him until he gets to within a couple of feet at which point they start shuffling away from him. He quickens his step and they quicken their shuffle. He launches himself at them, rugby tackle style, but misses. They run onto the pavement and take off, quacking loudly, and only just clear a car driving down Cowley Road. Hank lies face down on the grass, sweating and wheezing.
“Okay, dare completed to the best of your ability. I’ll accept that,” declares Tudor, distributing cans from his bag, “so beers and ciders for all. But I really do believe we should move to somewhere with a bit more shade, maybe some trees…”
Hank rolls over and wheezes up at the sky, “so Mo can piss from a tree!”
“No, absolutely not!” retorts Maureen.
“What about Florence Park?” suggests Matchbox.
Hank scrambles to his feet and screams, “Fox! Fucking fox!”
“Hank, what’s up?” Matchbox looks around, “Where’s the fox?”
“Florence Park,” explains Maureen with a sigh, “Hank once got himself locked in overnight and then got bitten by a fox climbing over the fence. Gives him nightmares.”
“I see. Let us not proceed to Florence Park,” declares Tudor gravely, “tis a most uncivilised place where they lock up innocent men and set wild beasts upon them.”
Matchbox makes another suggestion, “how about a churchyard some place?”
“Ah, somewhere the lady professor would like,” smiles Maureen.
Tudor starts striding towards the pavement, “follow me troops! To the fair parish of Cowley. Which, as it so happens, is a short stroll from Rose Hill Cemetery. Let us go now and meet the gifted Professor Petranella.”
Matchbox half-runs to keep up, and Hank excitedly takes Maureen by the arm and leads her in skipping along behind