I glance around the dimly lit car park. The pillars are wide and high and, again, a fantastic hiding place. Maybe I do just have a stalker, a nutcase who is playing with my mind? Thinking back to my little chat with Simon, Jack the Ripper would have a fantastic time in this place. The relief that nobody appears to be lurking is replaced with disappointment that I seem to be on my own. This is supposed to be a coffee date for two, not one; after all, that is why I hold a coffee in both hands. I curse my stupidity. My compulsive ideas are not always thought through properly. Erica loves my spontaneity, whether it comes to something or not; sometimes, though, I let it spill into the rest of my life. Why would he be here? He doesn't work twenty-four hours a day, does he? I have no idea what hours he works. I don't know him at all. It is just that I only ever envisage him here, that is all.
Ah well. In the grand scheme of things, it is no big deal. It is not the end of the world. Not yet. I consider that I will just have to find a bench and drink both coffees. Why not? That might be sweet. Or maybe I could still rescue one of the coffees, give it to some lost soul walking the streets with nowhere to go? After all, that could be me one day. It has already been me on a previous day.
Then I spot him, heading down the slope and into the car park, coming from the direction of the supermarket.
"Ken," I say, holding out one of the cups.
I have an active imagination and (until recently, when I've increasingly come to believe that a notorious serial killer is planning to murder me) it is unrealistically positive, bordering on the fantastical. In my idle daydream, as I walked from the coffee shop and through the underpass, I imagined Ken graciously thanking me for the wonderfully thoughtful gift with warm, open arms, excitedly telling me that the only thing missing in his life was a (now lukewarm, despite my best efforts) cup of coffee. In reality, Ken stares at me with narrow, accusing eyes. I try to read the blankness of his hollows, the horizontal lines in his cheeks. I sense he is irritated that I have dared to disturb him from his job.
"What is it?" Ken mumbles, his eyes moving from me to the coffee and then back to me again.
I consider telling him what coffee is, maybe some trivia about its origins but, as is often the case, decide against it. "I was just passing and I thought you might fancy a cup of coffee, Ken. Don't worry; I have a couple of sugars in my pocket because I don't know how you take it."
Still, the coffee remains in my hand. I take a sip from my own cup, possibly from nerves, potentially to show that it is not poisoned. Appreciatively, I nod my head, despite thinking that it could really do with thirty seconds in the microwave. My mind is so scrambled that I'm not sure what I'm thinking. I'm a nervous student on one of my workshops.
"You were just passing with two cups of coffee?"
I realise that this is a reasonable question. It does feel, however, that I'm unnecessarily justifying dipping my hands into my pockets and purchasing him a coffee. The money is not the issue here; I have more money than I know what to do with, though I don't tell anybody that. It is the principle. It is not like I'm trying to sell him life insurance. "Sometimes one just isn't enough, you know? So, I bought a second, just in case. Today, though, one is definitely enough and so, as I just happened to be passing, this one is for you..."
Ken growls. "You have more money than sense," he says. His face flickers with a smile. "Ta. Kind of you. I've just come from my break, though. I'll have to drink it quick, before they think I'm taking the piss."
Ken takes a sip of coffee and then nods his head. He taps his toes on the tarmac. I don't think he is used to standing around chewing the fat. Bending over, he picks up a packet of crisps and a coke can from the floor and pulls out a white polythene bag from his pocket. I'm just glad that he is wearing gloves.
"Don't they give you equipment to pick up the litter, Ken? At your age, you'll get a bad back."
He glances at me as if to say that I'm no spring chicken, either, you cheeky git. "They don't, because it isn't my job to pick up the mess people leave. I do it because I like to keep the place looking nice. This gaff is my second home, isn't it, and I clean up my home, don't I? My job is to collect the trolleys, but this is my place, and I like it to look nice."
I nod my head. I get that. It is surprising, though, because Ken doesn't look too clean and tidy himself. He is lucky, because he still has thick dark
