Burnt
“Thank you, Michael. I’d like that.”
I smiled, unable to mask my delight.
“Hi, Anna. I thought I might have missed you.”
I turned and stared at a tall man with a mop of fair hair, who seemed unaffected by the steady flow of people trying to pass him on either side.
Anna gave him a smile that I hadn’t seen until that moment.
“Hello, darling,” she said. “This is Michael Whitaker. You’re lucky — he bought your ticket, and if you hadn’t turned up I was just about to accept his kind invitation to dinner. Michael, this is my husband, Jonathan — the one who was held up at the hospital. As you can see, he’s now escaped.”
I couldn’t think of a suitable reply.
Jonathan shook me warmly by the hand. “Thank you for keeping my wife company,” he said. “Won’t you join us for dinner?”
“That’s very kind of you,” I replied, “but I’ve just remembered that I’m meant to be somewhere else right now. I’d better run.”
“That’s a pity,” said Anna. “I was rather looking forward to finding out all about the restaurant business. Perhaps we’ll meet again sometime, whenever my husband next leaves me in the lurch. Goodbye, Michael.”
“Goodbye, Anna.”
I watched them climb into the back of a taxi together, and wished Jonathan would drop dead in front of me. He didn’t, so I began to retrace my steps back to the spot where I had abandoned my car. “You’re a lucky man, Jonathan Townsend,” was the only observation I made. But no one was listening.
The next word that came to my lips was “Damn!” I repeated it several times, as there was a distressingly large space where I was certain I’d left my car.
I walked up and down the street in case I’d forgotten where I’d parked it, cursed again, then marched off in search of a phone box, unsure if my car had been stolen or towed away. There was a pay phone just around the corner in Kingsway. I picked up the handset and jabbed three nines into it.
“Which service do you require? Fire, Police or Ambulance,” a voice asked.
“Police,” I said, and was immediately put through to another voice.
“Charing Cross Police Station. What is the nature of your enquiry?”
“I think my car has been stolen.”
“Can you tell me the make, colour and registration number please, sir.”
“It’s a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV.”
There was a long pause, during which I could hear other voices talking in the background.
“No, it hasn’t been stolen, sir,” said the officer when he came back on the line. “The car was illegally parked on a double yellow line. It’s been removed and taken to the Vauxhall Bridge Pound.”
“Can I pick it up now?” I asked sulkily.
“Certainly, sir. How will you be getting there?”
“I’ll take a taxi.”
“Then just ask the driver for the Vauxhall Bridge Pound. Once you get there, you’ll need some form of identification, and a cheque for ?105 with a banker’s card — that is if you don’t have the full amount in cash.”
“One hundred and five pounds?” I repeated in disbelief.
“That’s correct, sir.”
I slammed the phone down just as it started to rain. I scurried back to the corner of the Aldwych in search of a taxi, only to find that they were all being commandeered by the hordes of people still hanging around outside the theatre.
I put my collar up and nipped across the road, dodging between the slow-moving traffic. Once I had reached the far side, I continued running until I found an overhanging ledge broad enough to shield me from the blustery rain.
I shivered, and sneezed several times before an empty cab eventually came to my rescue.
“Vauxhall Bridge Pound,” I told the driver as I jumped in.
“Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie. “You’re my second this evening.”
I frowned.
As the taxi manoeuvred its way slowly through the rainswept post-theatre traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became ever more gloomy.
When we reached the car pound I passed him a ten-pound note and waited in the rain for my change. Then I dashed off in the direction of a little Portakabin, where I was faced by my second queue that evening. This one was considerably longer than the first, and I knew that when I eventually reached the front of it and paid for my ticket, I wouldn’t be rewarded with any memorable entertainment. When my turn finally came, a burly policeman pointed to a form Scotch-taped to the counter.
I followed its instructions to the letter, first producing my driving license, then writing out a cheque for ?105, payable to the Metropolitan Police. I handed them both over, with my cheque card, to the policeman, who towered over me. The man’s sheer bulk was the only reason I didn’t suggest that perhaps he ought to have more important things to do with his time, like catching drug dealers. Or even car thieves.
“Your vehicle is in the far corner,” said the officer, pointing into the distance, over row upon row of cars.
“Of course it is,” I replied. I stepped out of the Portakabin and back into the rain, dodging puddles as I ran between the lines of cars. I didn’t stop until I reached the farthest corner of the pound. It still took me several more minutes to locate my red Ford Fiesta — one disadvantage, I thought, of owning the most popular car in Britain.
I unlocked the door, squelched down onto the front seat, and sneezed again. I turned the key in the ignition, but the engine barely turned over, letting out only the occasional splutter before giving up altogether. Then I remembered I hadn’t switched the sidelights off when I made my unscheduled dash for the theatre. I uttered a string of expletives that only partly expressed my true feelings.
I watched as another figure came running across the pound towards a Range Rover parked in the row in front of me. I quickly wound down my window, but he had driven off before I could shout the magic words “jumper cables”. I got out and retrieved my jumper cables from the trunk, walked to the front of the car, raised the hood, and attached them to the battery. I began to shiver once again as I settled down for another wait.
I couldn’t get Anna out of my mind, but accepted that the only thing I’d succeeded in picking up that evening was the flu.
In the following forty rain-drenched minutes, three people passed by before a young black man asked, “So what’s the trouble, man?” Once I had explained my problem he manoeuvred his old van alongside my car, then raised his bonnet and attached the jumper cables to his battery. When he switched on his ignition, my engine began to turn over.
“Thanks,” I shouted, rather inadequately, once I’d revved the engine several times.
“My pleasure, man,” he replied, and disappeared into the night.
As I drove out of the car pound I switched on my radio, to hear Big Ben striking twelve. It reminded me that I hadn’t turned up for work that night. The first thing I needed to do, if I wanted to keep my job, was to come up with a good excuse. I sneezed again, and decided on the flu. Although they’d probably taken the last orders by now, Gerald wouldn’t have closed the kitchens yet.
I peered through the rain, searching the pavements for a pay phone, and eventually spotted a row of three outside a post office. I stopped the car and jumped out, but a cursory inspection revealed that they’d all been vandalized. I climbed back into the car and continued my search. After dashing in and out of the rain several times, I finally spotted a single phone box on the corner of Warwick Way that looked as if it might just be in working order.
I dialled the restaurant, and waited a long time for someone to answer.
